big, old-fashioned place—built away back in the old times.”
“With a wide hearth and a hearty old landlord, whose father and grandfather owned the house before him.”
“Well, I guess that’s how it ought to be, to be in the picture; but it happens that this landlord has been here for only about six months.”
Scanlon heard the hickory stick slashing at a clump of dried brush; then the crime specialist spoke:
“How far away is it?”
“A couple of miles.”
“Maybe it’d be as well if we went there and bespoke a bed, if they’ll take us in,” said Ashton-Kirk.
Scanlon seemed surprised.
“I guess they’ve got room,” said he. “But I had it in my mind you were going to Schwartzberg.”
“I will pay it a visit, if I’m permitted, when I’ve had a chance to see something of its surroundings. Your story, you see, shows plainly that, whatever the nature of Campe’s danger, it comes from the outside.”
Scanlon seemed struck by this; then he nodded and said:
“I guess that’s right. But don’t you think a good chance to shake Campe down for some inside information would be better than anything else?”
“In its proper place, perhaps. But I want to look over the outside, uninfluenced. Five minutes’ talk with a man in Campe’s state of mind might color one’s thoughts to such an extent that it would be difficult to see anything except with his eyes.”
“That sounds like wise talk,” agreed Bat. “And if there’s anything in the world you don’t want to get doing, it’s seeing things as he sees them.”
They followed the narrow road for some distance, and then the big man turned off into a path which led through a stretch of farm land.
“This is a short cut,” said he. “I followed it frequently when I was out with the gun. It’ll bring us to a road a bit beyond this timber; and the road leads on to the inn.”
A hundred yards further on they topped the crest of a hill; before them loomed a dense growth of trees which covered the slopes round about.
“It’s a fine kind of a place in summer, I guess,” said Scanlon, as they halted. “But of an autumn night when the air gets thin, the stars look far away, and there’s a pretty well settled belief that some queer things are doing, it’s got its weak side. When I was located in Canyon City, I swore in as a deputy one night and started out into the hills with the sheriff to look for two lads who’d fussed up a whole train load of Easterners, and got away with a bag full of dough. That country was some wilder than this, and was further away from anywhere; but,” with a look at the gloomy wooded slopes, “believe me, it had nothing on it for that uncertain feeling.”
As they stood gazing about, Ashton-Kirk’s head suddenly went up. He bent forward in the attitude of listening. .
“What is it?” asked the big man.
“Hark!”
Far away, among the hills to the north, came a deep muttering. Scanlon clutched the crime specialist’s arm.
“That’s it!” he cried. “Listen to it lift. It’s the thing I heard roaring in the night.”
Low, growling, ominous at first, the sound grew in volume. Then it pealed like a mighty voice, rolling and echoing from hill to hill, finally subsiding and dying in the muttering with which it began.
“According to the dope,” spoke Scanlon, in an uneasy tone, “Campe is now due to take his gun in hand and dash for the gate. And, if he does, they’ll do more than slash him. I’ve got a hunch they’ll get him for the count, on the second try.”
As he uttered the last word, a shaft of brilliant light shot from the tower of Schwartzberg, and flashed to and fro across the countryside.
Then came the quick, far-off pulsation of a rifle; in the widening beam of white light they saw a woman crouching down as though in fear; and then they caught the figure of a man, running as though for his life.
CHAPTER IV
TELLS SOMETHING OF THE MAN IN THE ROLLING CHAIR
“Campe!” cried Bat Scanlon, his eyes upon the fleeing man, and his hand going, with the instinctive movement of an old gun fighter, to his hip. “And giving his little performance outside once more.”
But the keen eyes of the crime specialist had picked up details which the other had missed. He shook his head.
“No,” said he. “Campe is a young man, you say. This one is past middle life. And also he seems sadly out of condition, and does not run at all like a man who once took middle distance honors.”
The searching column of light still clung to the running man; again and again came the light shocks of the distant rifle.
“The woman has faded out of the lime-light,” observed Scanlon.
“And the man is trying his best to duplicate the feat. Look—there he goes!”
With a wild side leap, the fugitive vanished into a shallow ravine, out of range of both the ray and the rifle. At this the search-light was snapped off and darkness once more settled over the hills.
“Your German sergeant-major is no surprising shot,” commented Ashton-Kirk. “He had his man in full view and missed him repeatedly.”
Scanlon shook his head.
“It must have been the light,” said he. “Kretz can shoot. I’ve seen him at it.”
They stood in silence for a few moments; the country road about seemed heavier with shadows than it had been before the appearance of the shifting beam of light; the stars looked fainter.
“That’s the second time I’ve seen that girl out here in the night,” continued the big man. “And each time the noise came, and things started doing. I wonder what’s the idea?”
“I fancy it’s a trifle early to venture an opinion upon anything having to do with this most interesting affair,” said his companion. “But,” quietly, “we may stumble upon an explanation as we go further into it.”
“I hope so,” said Scanlon, fervently. Then, in the tone of a man who had placed himself unreservedly in the hands of another, “What next?”
“I think we’d better go on to the inn.”
If the other thought the crime specialist’s desire would have been to take up their course in the direction of the recently enacted drama, he did not say. He led the way along the narrow path, and through the gloomy growth of wood. They emerged after a space into a well-kept road, and holding to this, approached a rambling, many gabled old house which twinkled with lighted windows and gave out an atmosphere of cheer. A huge porch ran all around it; an immense barn stood upon one side; and a half dozen giant sycamores towered above all.
“There it is,” said Scanlon. “And it looks as though it had been there for some time, eh?”
“A fine, cheery old place,” commented Ashton-Kirk, his eyes upon the erratic gables, the twinkling windows and the welcoming porch. "Many a red fire has burned upon its snug hearths of a winter night; and many a savory dish has come out of its kitchen. Traveling in the old days was not nearly so comfortable as now; but it had its recompenses.”
Their feet crunched upon the gravel walk, and then sounded hollowly in the empty spaces of the porch. Scanlon pushed open a heavy door which admitted them to a great room with a low ceiling, beamed massively, and colored as with smoke. The floor was sanded; a fire of pine logs roared up