Complete Sherlock Holmes, Volume II (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  “They chose us because neither I nor the boy here drink,” Lawler explained. “They can count on us saying no more than we should. You must not take it amiss, but it is the orders of the County Delegate that we obey.”

  “Sure, we are all in it together,” said Scanlan, McMurdo’s mate, as the four sat together at supper.

  “That’s true enough, and we’ll talk till the cows come home of the killing of Charlie Williams or of Simon Bird, or any other job in the past. But till the work is done we say nothing.”

  “There are half a dozen about here that I have a word to say to,” said McMurdo, with an oath. “I suppose it isn’t Jack Knox of Ironhill that you are after. I’d go some way to see him get his deserts.”

  “No, it’s not him yet.”

  “Or Herman Strauss?”

  “No, nor him either.”

  “Well, if you won’t tell us we can’t make you; but I’d be glad to know.”

  Lawler smiled and shook his head. He was not to be drawn.

  In spite of the reticence of their guests, Scanlan and McMurdo were quite determined to be present at what they called “the fun.” When, therefore, at an early hour one morning McMurdo heard them creeping down the stairs he awakened Scanlan, and the two hurried on their clothes. When they were dressed they found that the others had stolen out, leaving the door open behind them. It was not yet dawn, and by the light of the lamps they could see the two men some distance down the street. They followed them warily, treading noiselessly in the deep snow.

  The boarding house was near the edge of the town, and soon they were at the crossroads which is beyond its boundary. Here three men were waiting, with whom Lawler and Andrews held a short, eager conversation. Then they all moved on together. It was clearly some notable job which needed numbers. At this point there are several trails which lead to various mines. The strangers took that which led to the Crow Hill, a huge business which was in strong hands which had been able, thanks to their energetic and fearless New England manager, Josiah H. Dunn, to keep some order and discipline during the long reign of terror.

  Day was breaking now, and a line of workmen were slowly making their way, singly and in groups, along the blackened path.

  McMurdo and Scanlan strolled on with the others, keeping in sight of the men whom they followed. A thick mist lay over them, and from the heart of it there came the sudden scream of a steam whistle. It was the ten-minute signal before the cages descended and the day’s labour began.

  When they reached the open space round the mine shaft there were a hundred miners waiting, stamping their feet and blowing on their fingers; for it was bitterly cold. The strangers stood in a little group under the shadow of the engine house. Scanlan and McMurdo climbed a heap of slag from which the whole scene lay before them. They saw the mine engineer, a great bearded Scotchman named Menzies, come out of the engine house and blow his whistle for the cages to be lowered.

  At the same instant a tall, loose-framed young man with a clean-shaved, earnest face advanced eagerly towards the pit head. As he came forward his eyes fell upon the group, silent and motionless, under the engine house. The men had drawn down their hats and turned up their collars to screen their faces. For a moment the presentiment of Death laid its cold hand upon the manager’s heart. At the next he had shaken it off and saw only his duty towards intrusive strangers.

  “Who are you?” he asked as he advanced. “What are you loitering there for?”

  There was no answer; but the lad Andrews stepped forward and shot him in the stomach. The hundred waiting miners stood as motionless and helpless as if they were paralyzed. The manager clapped his two hands to the wound and doubled himself up. Then he staggered away; but another of the assassins fired, and he went down sidewise, kicking and clawing among a heap of clinkers. Menzies, the Scotchman, gave a roar of rage at the sight and rushed with an iron spanner at the murderers; but was met by two balls in the face which dropped him dead at their very feet.

  There was a surge forward of some of the miners, and an inarticulate cry of pity and of anger; but a couple of the strangers emptied their six-shooters over the heads of the crowd, and they broke and scattered, some of them rushing wildly back to their homes in Vermissa.

  When a few of the bravest had rallied, and there was a return to the mine, the murderous gang had vanished in the mists of morning, without a single witness being able to swear to the identity of these men who in front of a hundred spectators had wrought this double crime.

  Scanlan and McMurdo made their way back; Scanlan somewhat subdued, for it was the first murder job that he had seen with his own eyes, and it appeared less funny than he had been led to believe. The horrible screams of the dead manager’s wife pursued them as they hurried to the town. McMurdo was absorbed and silent; but he showed no sympathy for the weakening of his companion.

  “Sure, it is like a war,” he repeated. “What is it but a war between us and them, and we hit back where we best can.”

  There was high revel in the lodge room at the Union House that night, not only over the killing of the manager and engineer of the Crow Hill mine, which would bring this organization into line with the other blackmailed and terror-stricken companies of the district, but also over a distant triumph which had been wrought by the hands of the lodge itself.

  It would appear that when the County Delegate had sent over five good men to strike a blow in Vermissa, he had demanded that in return three Vermissa men should be secretly selected and sent across to kill William Hales of Stake Royal, one of the best known and most popular mine owners in the Gilmerton district, a man who was believed not to have an enemy in the world; for he was in all ways a model employer. He had insisted, however, upon efficiency in the work, and had, therefore, paid off certain drunken and idle employees who were members of the all-powerful society. Coffin notices hung outside his door had not weakened his resolution, and so in a free, civilized country he found himself condemned to death.

  The execution had now been duly carried out. Ted Baldwin, who sprawled now in the seat of honour beside the Bodymaster, had been chief of the party. His flushed face and glazed, blood-shot eyes told of sleeplessness and drink. He and his two comrades had spent the night before among the mountains. They were unkempt and weather-stained. But no heroes, returning from a forlorn hope, could have had a warmer welcome from their comrades.

  The story was told and retold amid cries of delight and shouts of laughter. They had waited for their man as he drove home at nightfall, taking their station at the top of a steep hill, where his horse must be at a walk. He was so furred to keep out the cold that he could not lay his hand on his pistol. They had pulled him out and shot him again and again. He had screamed for mercy. The screams were repeated for the amusement of the lodge.

  “Let’s hear again how he squealed,” they cried.

  None of them knew the man; but there is eternal drama in a killing, and they had shown the Scowrers of Gilmerton that the Vermissa men were to be relied upon. driven up

  There had been one contretemps; for a man and his wife had driven up while they were still emptying their revolvers into the silent body. It had been suggested that they should shoot them both; but they were harmless folk who were not connected with the mines, so they were sternly bidden to drive on and keep silent, lest a worse thing befall them. And so the blood-mottled figure had been left as a warning to all such hard-hearted employers, and the three noble avengers had hurried off into the mountains where unbroken nature comes down to the very edge of the furnaces and the slag heaps. Here they were, safe and sound, their work well done, and the plaudits of their companions in their ears.

  It had been a great day for the Scowrers. The shadow had fallen even darker over the valley. But as the wise general chooses the moment of victory in which to redouble his efforts, so that his foes may have no time to steady themselves after disaster, so Boss McGinty, looking out upon the scene of his operations with his brooding and malicious eyes, had devised
a new attack upon those who opposed him. That very night, as the half-drunken company broke up, he touched McMurdo on the arm and led him aside into that inner room where they had their first interview.

  “See here, my lad,” said he, “I’ve got a job that’s worthy of you at last. You’ll have the doing of it in your own hands.”

  “Proud I am to hear it,” McMurdo answered.

  “You can take two men with you—Manders and Reilly. They have been warned for service. We’ll never be right in this district until Chester Wilcox has been settled, and you’ll have the thanks of every lodge in the coal fields if you can down him.”

  “I’ll do my best, anyhow. Who is he, and where shall I find him?”

  McGinty took his eternal half-chewed, half-smoked cigar from the corner of his mouth, and proceeded to draw a rough diagram on a page torn from his notebook.

  “He’s the chief foreman of the Iron Dike Company. He’s a hard citizen, an old colour sergeant of the war, all scars and grizzle. We’ve had two tries at him; but had no luck, and Jim Carnaway lost his life over it. Now it’s for you to take it over. That’s the house—all alone at the Iron Dike crossroad, same as you see here on the map—without another within earshot. It’s no good by day. He’s armed and shoots quick and straight, with no questions asked. But at night—well, there he is with his wife, three children, and a hired help. You can’t pick or choose. It’s all or none. If you could get a bag of blasting powder at the front door with a slow match to it—”

  “What’s the man done?”

  “Didn’t I tell you he shot Jim Carnaway?”

  “Why did he shoot him?”

  “What in thunder has that to do with you? Carnaway was about his house at night, and he shot him. That’s enough for me and you. You’ve got to settle the thing right.”

  “There’s these two women and the children. Do they go up too?”

  “They have to—else how can we get him?”

  “It seems hard on them; for they’ve done nothing.”

  “What sort of fool’s talk is this? Do you back out?”

  “Easy, Councillor, easy! What have I ever said or done that you should think I would be after standing back from an order of the Bodymaster of my own lodge? If it’s right or if it’s wrong, it’s for you to decide.”

  “You’ll do it, then?”

  “Of course I will do it.”

  “When?”

  “Well, you had best give me a night or two that I may see the house and make my plans. Then—”

  “Very good,” said McGinty, shaking him by the hand. “I leave it with you. It will be a great day when you bring us the news. It’s just the last stroke that will bring them all to their knees.”

  McMurdo thought long and deeply over the commission which had been so suddenly placed in his hands. The isolated house in which Chester Wilcox lived was about five miles off in an adjacent valley. That very night he started off all alone to prepare for the attempt. It was daylight before he returned from his reconnaissance. Next day he interviewed his two subordinates, Manders and Reilly, reckless youngsters who were as elated as if it were a deer-hunt.

  Two nights later they met outside the town, all three armed, and one of them carrying a sack stuffed with the powder which was used in the quarries. It was two in the morning before they came to the lonely house. The night was a windy one, with broken clouds drifting swiftly across the face of a three-quarter moon. They had been warned to be on their guard against bloodhounds; so they moved forward cautiously, with their pistols cocked in their hands. But there was no sound save the howling of the wind, and no movement but the swaying branches above them.

  McMurdo listened at the door of the lonely house; but all was still within. Then he leaned the powder bag against it, ripped a hole in it with his knife, and attached the fuse. When it was well alight he and his two companions took to their heels, and were some distance off, safe and snug in a sheltering ditch, before the shattering roar of the explosion, with the low, deep rumble of the collapsing building, told them that their work was done. No cleaner job had ever been carried out in the bloodstained annals of the society.

  But alas that work so well organized and boldly carried out should all have gone for nothing! Warned by the fate of the various victims, and knowing that he was marked down for destruction, Chester Wilcox had moved himself and his family only the day before to some safer and less known quarters, where a guard of police should watch over them. It was an empty house which had been torn down by the gunpowder, and the grim old colour sergeant of the war was still teaching discipline to the miners of Iron Dike.

  “Leave him to me, said McMurdo. ”He’s my man, and I’ll get him sure if I have to wait a year for him.“

  A vote of thanks and confidence was passed in full lodge, and so for the time the matter ended. When a few weeks later it was reported in the papers that Wilcox had been shot at from an ambuscade, it was an open secret that McMurdo was still at work upon his unfinished job.

  Such were the methods of the Society of Freemen, and such were the deeds of the Scowrers by which they spread their rule of fear over the great and rich district which was for so long a period haunted by their terrible presence. Why should these pages be stained by further crimes? Have I not said enough to show the men and their methods?

  These deeds are written in history, and there are records wherein one may read the details of them. There one may learn of the shooting of Policemen Hunt and Evans because they had ventured to arrest two members of the society—a double outrage planned at the Vermissa lodge and carried out in cold blood upon two helpless and disarmed men. There also one may read of the shooting of Mrs. Larbey when she was nursing her husband, who had been beaten almost to death by orders of Boss McGinty. The killing of the elder Jenkins, shortly followed by that of his brother, the mutilation of James Murdoch, the blowing up of the Stap- house family, and the murder of the Stendals all followed hard upon one another in the same terrible winter.

  Darkly the shadow lay upon the Valley of Fear. The spring had come with running brooks and blossoming trees. There was hope for all Nature bound so long in an iron grip; but nowhere was there any hope for the men and women who lived under the yoke of the terror. Never had the cloud above them been so dark and hopeless as in the early summer of the year 1875.

  CHAPTER 6

  Danger

  It was the height of the reign of terror. McMurdo, who had already been appointed Inner Deacon, with every prospect of some day succeeding McGinty as Bodymaster, was now so necessary to the councils of his comrades that nothing was done without his help and advice. The more popular he became, however, with the Freemen, the blacker were the scowls which greeted him as he passed along the streets of Vermissa. In spite of their terror the citizens were taking heart to band themselves together against their oppressors. Rumours had reached the lodge of secret gatherings in the Herald office and of distribution of firearms among the law-abiding people. But McGinty and his men were undisturbed by such reports. They were numerous, resolute, and well armed. Their opponents were scattered and powerless. It would all end, as it had done in the past, in aimless talk and possibly in impotent arrests. So said McGinty, McMurdo, and all the bolder spirits.

  It was a Saturday evening in May. Saturday was always the lodge night, and McMurdo was leaving his house to attend it when Morris, the weaker brother of the order, came to see him. His brow was creased with care, and his kindly face was drawn and haggard.

  “Can I speak with you freely, Mr. McMurdo?”

  “Sure.”

  “I can’t forget that I spoke my heart to you once, and that you kept it to yourself, even though the Boss himself came to ask you about it.”

  “What else could I do if you trusted me? It wasn’t that I agreed with what you said.”

  “I know that well. But you are the one that I can speak to and be safe. I’ve a secret here,” he put his hand to his breast, “and it is just burning the life out of me. I wish
it had come to any one of you but me. If I tell it, it will mean murder, for sure. If I don‘t, it may bring the end of us all. God help me, but I am near out of my wits over it!”

  McMurdo looked at the man earnestly. He was trembling in every limb. He poured some whisky into a glass and handed it to him. “That’s the physicbv for the likes of you,” said he. “Now let me hear of it.”

  Morris drank, and his white face took a tinge of colour. “I can tell it to you all in one sentence,” said he. “There’s a detective on our trail.”

  McMurdo stared at him in astonishment. “Why, man, you’re crazy,” he said. “Isn’t the place full of police and detectives, and what harm did they ever do us?”

  “No, no, it’s no man of the district. As you say, we know them, and it is little that they can do. But you’ve heard of Pinkerton’s?”10

  “I’ve read of some folk of that name.”

  “Well, you can take it from me you’ve no show when they are on your trail. It’s not a take-it-or-miss-it government concern. It’s a dead earnest business proposition that’s out for results and keeps out till by hook or crook it gets them. If a Pinkerton man is deep in this business, we are all destroyed.”

  “We must kill him.”

  “Ah, it’s the first thought that came to you! So it will be up at the lodge. Didn’t I say to you that it would end in murder?”

  “Sure, what is murder? Isn’t it common enough in these parts?”

  “It is, indeed; but it’s not for me to point out the man that is to be murdered. I’d never rest easy again. And yet it’s our own necks that may be at stake. In God’s name what shall I do?” He rocked to and fro in his agony of indecision.

  But his words had moved McMurdo deeply. It was easy to see that he shared the other’s opinion as to the danger, and the need for meeting it. He gripped Morris’s shoulder and shook him in his earnestness.