Читать книгу Dangerous Ground: or, The Rival Detectives - Lynch Lawrence L. - Страница 10

“Richard Stanhope is my name, and I’ve got a trump here for every trick you can show me. Step up, boys, don’t be bashful!”

Momentous silence followed this announcement, while the habitues of the Thieves’ Tavern glanced into each others’ faces in consternation.

An ordinary meddler, however much his courage and skill, would have met with summary chastisement; but Dick Stanhope!

Not a man among them but knew the result of an attack upon him. Bullets swift and sure, in the brains or hearts of some; certain vengeance, sooner or later, upon all.

To avoid, on all possible occasions, an open encounter with an officer of the law, is the natural instinct of the crook. Besides, Stanhope was never off his guard; his presence, alone among them, was sure indication that they were in more danger than he.

So reasoned the astonished scoundrels, instantly, instinctively.

“Look here, boys,” Stanhope’s cool voice broke in upon their silence; “I’m here on a little private business which need not concern you, unless you make me trouble. This man,” nodding down at the prostrate ex-convict, “is my game. I’m going to take him out of this, and if you raise a hand to prevent it, or take a step to follow me, you’ll find yourselves detained for a long stretch.”

He threw back his head and gave a long, low whistle.

“Hear that, my good sirs. That’s a note of preparation. One more such will bring you into close quarters. If you are not back at those tables, every man of you, inside of two minutes, I’ll give the second call.”

Some moved with agility, some reluctantly, some sullenly; but they all obeyed him.

“Now, Pap, come out and help me lift this fellow. Are you badly hurt, my man?”

The wounded man groaned and permitted them to lift him to his feet.

“He can walk, I think,” went on Stanhope, in a brisk, business-like way. “Lean on me, my lad.” Then, turning to the bar keeper and thrusting some money into his hand: “Give these fellows another round of drinks, Pap. Boys, enjoy yourselves; ta-ta.”

And without once glancing back at them he half led, half supported, the wounded man out from the bar-room, up the dirty stone steps, and into the dirtier street.

“Boys,” said the bar keeper as he distributed the drinks at Stanhope’s expense, “you done a sensible thing when you let up on Dick Stanhope. He’s got the alley lined with peelers and don’t you forget it.”

For a little way Stanhope led his man in silence. Then the rescued ex-convict made a sudden convulsive movement, gathered himself for a mighty effort, broke from the supporting grasp of the detective, and fled away down the dark street.

Down one block and half across the next he ran manfully. Then he reeled, staggered wildly from side to side, threw up his arms, and fell heavily upon his face.

“I knew you’d bring yourself down,” said Stanhope, coming up behind him. “You should not treat a man as an enemy, sir, until he’s proven himself such.”

He lifted the prostrate man, turning him easily, and rested the fallen head upon his knee.

“Can you swallow a little?” pressing a flask of brandy to the lips of the ex-convict.

The man gasped and feebly swallowed a little of the liquor.

“There,” laying down the flask, “are your wounds bleeding?”

The wounded man groaned, and then whispered feebly:

“I’m done for – I think – are you – an officer?”

“Yes.”

“Af – after me?”

“No.”

“Do – do you – know – ”

“Do I know who you are? Not exactly, but I take you to be one of the convicts who broke jail last week.”

The man made a convulsive movement, and then, battling for breath as he spoke, wailed out:

“Listen – you want to take me back to prison – there is a reward – of course. If you only knew – when I was a boy – on the western prairies – free, free. Then here in the city – driven to beg – to steal to – . Oh! don’t take me back to die in prison! You don’t know the horror of it!”

A look of pitying tenderness lighted the face bent above the dying man.

“Poor fellow!” said Stanhope softly. “I am an officer of the law, but I am also human. If you recover, I must do my duty: if you must die, you shall not die in prison.”

“I shall die,” said the man, in a hoarse whisper; “I know I shall die – die.”

His head pressed more heavily against Stanhope’s knee; he seemed a heavier weight upon his arm. Bending still lower, the detective listened for his breathing, passed his hand over the limp fingers and clammy face. Then he gathered the form, that was more than his own weight, in his muscular arms, and bore it away through the darkness, muttering, as he went:

“That was a splendid stand-off! What would those fellows say, if they knew that Dick Stanhope, single-handed and alone, had walked their alleys in safety, and bluffed their entire gang!”