CHAPTER XXVI.

HOW CHICK GOT HIS MAN.

The lines were on the ground, but Spark did not care for that.

The faster the horses ran away, the better he would be suited.

Anything to get him out of the vicinity of Chick.

Chick, however, was not to be shaken off so easily.

He reached the road at the precise moment Spark began lashing the team, and, by some quick work, succeeded in grabbing the end gate of the wagon as it flew past.

In a twinkling Chick was jerked off his feet and flung in the air, but he did not release his hold.

His muscular arms alone dragged him into the wagon box.

The team was now tearing down the turnpike at a furious run, and Spark, balancing himself unsteadily, turned to see what had become of his pursuer.

Chick was in the box, and crawling toward him.

Jumping over the wagon seat, Spark hurled himself upon the detective, the latter rising to meet the attack.

That is the position they were in when the wagon dashed around the bend and past the two automobiles.

Chick was far and away a better man than Spark, but skill and muscle could not count in a predicament of that kind.

Finally the two men went down on the floor of the wagon.

The end gate had already been lost, so the combatants rolled over and over, and finally tumbled into the road.

This terminated the struggle.

Spark gave vent to a groan of pain, and relaxed his hold on the detective, and the latter got up, clasping his left wrist with his right hand.

Patsy, leading his prisoner by the irons, came to the scene as rapidly as he could.

“What’s the matter, Chick?” he asked.

“Sprained my left wrist, that’s all,” answered Chick. “It hurts like the deuce, but it’s nothing serious.”

While speaking, Chick was tying a handkerchief tightly around the injured forearm, using his right hand and his teeth.

“Your man seems to have got touched up pretty bad,” went on Patsy.

“He has only himself to blame, if he has. He thought he could get away from me by using that wagon, but I guess he thinks differently now.”

Chick stepped up to Spark, and bent over him.

“Where are you hurt?” he asked.

“My right leg,” groaned the robber; “it’s broken!”

“I don’t wonder at it. That was quite a jolt we had.”

The detective made a brief examination, and found the leg to be as the robber had stated.

“We can’t do anything for you for a while,” said Chick, helping himself to Spark’s weapons. “Just as soon as Nick comes in with the leader of your push, though, we’ll take the back track and get you under the doctor’s care as soon as possible.”

“Nick who?” asked Spark, faintly.

“Nick Carter.”

“What! That man we threw into the creek! Nick Carter?” Spark demanded, forgetting his pain for the moment.

“Who did you think it was?”

Spark voiced some lurid language, then added:

“If we had dreamed that fellow was the prize package himself, we’d have put a bullet into him before we gave him his bath.”

“Even then he would have beat you out,” put in Patsy. “The grafter doesn’t live that can do up Nick Carter.”

Between them, Chick and Patsy succeeded in getting Spark onto the rear seat of the Red Spider.

He was in great pain, and it was not thought necessary to put the irons on him.

When they had made Spark as comfortable as possible, the detectives became aware that the young woman was standing beside them, in the road.

“I want my wagon an’ team,” she said, aggressively, as she caught Chick’s eye.

“All right,” said Chick, cheerfully. “I think you’ll find the team at home when you get there.”

“Maybe I’ll find the team, but I’ll bet the wagon is strung all along the road,” the girl answered. “You’ll have to pay me damages.”

“This is the fellow who will have to stand the damage,” said Chick, indicating Spark.

“What’s his name, an’ where does he put up?”

“That’s too much for me.”

“Well,” said the girl, with a snap of her jaws, “they’ve lynched people in this country for doin’ less than he done.”

With that, she marched off and never turned a backward look.

Chick laughed a little, although he admitted to himself that it was pretty tough luck.

“Here, Patsy,” he said, “run after her and give her this twenty. That will soothe her feelings, I guess.”

Patsy chased after the girl and gave her the money.

“She was tickled to death,” he said, when he got back; “the old rattletrap wasn’t worth any more than the scrap iron that was in it; so it was bargain day for her, all right. I wonder what’s keeping Nick?”

“Clancy’ll kill him,” spoke up Cricket.

“Don’t you believe it,” returned Patsy.

“While we’re waiting,” said Chick, “we’ll get things in shape for the return trip.”

He was looking at the rear, right-hand tire, which hung to the wheel as flabby as a rag.

“Nick made a dead-center shot,” said Patsy.

“It’s a bad puncture, and I doubt if we can repair it.”

“You don’t have to repair it,” put in Spark, who was thinking of getting to a doctor in the shortest possible time. “There’s an emergency tire under the front seat. Use that.”

Chick brought out the tire, and also a force pump.

The machine was then “jacked up” with a couple of stout fence rails, the old tire taken off and the new one put on and inflated.

Hardly was this bit of work accomplished, when a boy came galloping up on horseback.

He was a red-headed boy, and was laboring under so much excitement that it was all he could do to talk.

“Big fight down to the blacksmith shop!” he finally managed to articulate.

“Who was doing the fighting?” asked Chick.

“Couple o’ fellers. Geewhilikins, but you never seen anything like it!”

“Was either of the men killed?”

“Naw; but one of ’em was purty nigh. I was told tew come here an’ have yeou come right down.”

“We’ll come,” said Chick. Turning to Patsy, he added: “You get in the electric machine with your man, and I’ll run this one.”

“You bet,” returned Patsy.

In less than a minute they were all aboard and ready for the start.

“How far away is the blacksmith shop, my lad?” asked Chick.

“’Baout a mile. Say, I want to stand here an’ see yeou start them thingumbobs.”

“All right.”

When the gasoline engine began to pound and the machine to move, the horse thought it had about all it could stand.

With a snort, and a flirt of the head, the animal took down the road for home, the boy yelling “Whoa!” at every jump.

It was a quick run which the two autos made to the blacksmith shop, for both Chick and Patsy were not a little worried over the boy’s story.

But they had their worry for nothing, for when they came in sight of the crossroads and the dingy and solitary little shop which stood there, they saw Nick in front, sitting on a keg, smoking and talking with a number of bystanders.

“Where’s Clancy, Nick?” asked Chick, bringing the Red Spider to a halt.

“Inside, handcuffed to an anvil. It was hard to do anything with him without killing him—and I didn’t want to do that.”

“Did he make you much trouble?” asked Patsy.

“Some. He’s one of that Montana clique, and they never seem to know when they’re downed. Clancy is beginning to scent the situation, though, for he hasn’t made much noise during the last few minutes. He was a pal of Ramsay’s, and you know what a time we had bagging him.”

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE LAST OF THE SWINDLERS.

There was only one man in the shop at the time Clancy made his advent on the scene—one man and the red-headed boy before mentioned.

The boy was having the horse shod, and just before he went to work on the horse the smith had been heating a crowbar for the purpose of repointing it.

The crowbar was still in the fire, one end cool, but the other sizzling hot.

The blacksmith looked up as Clancy burst in.

With a quick blow, Clancy knocked him out of the way, and looked around for a weapon.

The crowbar was prominently in his view, and he caught it out of the fire.

Nick was in the door as Clancy possessed himself of the bar.

“I’ll have you!” roared the Montana man. “My second try at you won’t end like the first.”

“This is your third attempt on my life, Clancy,” returned Nick, springing forward and watching the Westerner warily.

“The third time?” repeated Clancy, resting the red-hot end of the bar for an instant on the anvil.

“My name’s Nick Carter, and——”

A torrent of invectives burst from the robber’s lips.

“I’ll have you now,” he yelled. “I’ll strike a blow for Ramsay as well as for myself!”

He jumped through the door of the shop, whirling the bar about his head in a livid circle.

Straight toward Nick he rushed, shouting his imprecations and vowing that he’d have the detective’s life.

Nick waited coolly, the rifle in his hand.

The robber struck at him, and Nick parried the blow with the gun, leaping in with the quickness of a cat and gripping Clancy about the waist.

From that moment the fight was lost to Clancy.

The Little Giant’s phenomenal strength quickly made itself felt.

He contracted his arms, the awful, viselike pressure slowly but surely driving the breath from the robber’s lungs.

Clancy began to gasp, his eyes distended, and the bar fell from his nerveless hand.

“Stop!” he whispered; “you’re killing me!”

Nick bore him into the blacksmith shop and hurled him to the ground.

Clancy struggled to avoid the handcuffs, and Nick, forcing his arms around the anvil, made the wrists fast.

“Now,” said the detective, “you can struggle all you please.”

The blacksmith was bathing his eye in a tub of water.

“Are you hurt much?” asked Nick.

“Thought for a spell I had been kicked by a mule,” answered the smith, wiping his eye on the dingy handkerchief that was tied around his neck. “Sorry I didn’t come through in time tew help ye.”

“Gee whiz!” cried the red-headed boy, “he didn’t need no help. He downed the big feller easier’n anythin’ I ever see. Gosh, mister, but you’re great!”

The youngster looked at Nick with admiring eyes, and the latter brought out a half-dollar, which he had in his pocket, and which had somehow escaped Clancy’s search and the consequent bath in the river.

“Do you want to earn this, my lad?” Nick asked.

“Can a duck swim?” the boy chirped.

“Then get on that horse and ride up the road. You won’t have to go far before you find a couple of automobiles——”

“What’s them?”

“You’ll know when you see them—you won’t make any mistake. If there is any one with the machines say that I want them brought here. Understand?”

“Like a house afire!”

“Then catch!”

Nick flipped the coin toward the boy, who grabbed it out of the air and stowed it away in his pocket.

A minute later he was galloping up the road.

Several men, hearing the commotion at the blacksmith shop, had come in from the neighboring fields, and they were standing around, looking from Clancy to Nick, and trying to get the true inwardness of the affair from the blacksmith.

“Come outside,” said Nick, amiably, “and I’ll tell you all about it.”

And that’s what he was doing when Chick and Patsy bore down on him—smoking and enlightening the natives.

A few hurried words of explanation were exchanged by the detectives.

“Are all the grips belonging to the prisoners still in the Red Spider?” asked Nick.

“There are three here,” said Chick; “they’re big ones, and heavy as lead.”

“It was the heft that kept the grafters from lugging the grips along when they made their break for the timber,” put in Patsy.

“Open one of the satchels, Chick,” said Nick, “and see what’s inside. I’m a little anxious to know.”

Chick complied.

“Whew!” he exclaimed, his amazed eyes fixed on the contents of the satchel he had opened.

“Gold, silver and bank notes?” queried Nick.

“I should say so!”

“It’s the bank money. I’ll travel in the Red Spider with you, Chick, and Clancy and the man with the broken leg will ride with us. Patsy, you and your man can hum along in the other machine.”

It was necessary to rope Clancy’s legs before he could be put into the automobile; but he was finally stowed away and all was made ready for the return journey.

Nick, before climbing into the Spider beside Clancy, turned to the blacksmith, who was standing near.

“How far is it to the Canadian line from here?” he asked.

“See that pile o’ rocks?” the smith returned, indicating a heap of stones about a hundred feet to the rear of the shop.

“Yes.”

“Well, Canady lays on t’other side o’ that monniment.”

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Patsy; “you wasn’t very much to the good, Nick, after all.”

“It was close, mighty close,” added Chick.

“A miss is as good as a mile,” said Nick, jumping into the auto. “Let her go, Chick.”

* * * * * * *

That evening, at about nine o’clock, the two automobiles drew up in front of police headquarters, in the city of Latimer.

The chief was not in evidence, but he was quickly summoned from home by telephone.

“By Jupiter!” he cried; “you’ve done it, Carter—done it, and with ground to spare.”

“A hundred feet of ground,” grinned Patsy.

“Are you sure they’re the right men?” asked the chief.

“That’s the only kind we capture,” said Chick.

“I believe you,” returned the chief, and shook hands heartily with the New York men and tendered his congratulations.

Cricket and Clancy were taken to their cells, and Spark was conveyed to the Memorial Hospital.

Nick went to the place to which he had taken Clancy in the automobile the night before the start north, and found that, as he surmised, Five Points was there.

Spark and Cricket had also stayed at this boarding house after the robbery, and when they left a nurse had been hired by Clancy to look after their wounded pal.

Five Points’ wound, which was at first not believed to be serious, took a turn for the worse and ultimately caused his death.

Before he died he made a statement, telling how he and Spark and Cricket had joined Clancy, had captured the automobile and made prisoners of the Chicago men, and had confined them in a house occupied by Cricket’s father—a worse criminal than Cricket ever dared to be.

Nick was on the point of proceeding to the place where the Chicago men were imprisoned and releasing them, when they saved him the trouble by releasing themselves and coming on to Latimer—the newspapers having informed them that the Red Spider was at that point.

Aside from their jarred feelings, the Chicago party was none the worse for its little experience.

The bank’s funds were found intact in the satchels, including the twenty thousand dollars paid over to Clancy on his certificate of deposit.

The ownership of that twenty thousand is still being debated in the courts.

Clancy, Spark and Cricket were sent to the penitentiary for life, not on a robbery, but on a murder charge.

By the capture of “the Montana man,” Nick Carter closed his experience with a gang of Western crooks, all of whom had proved desperate to a degree, and as courageous and clever as they were desperate.

THE END.

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