CHAPTER III.

THE "KING'S" LIEUTENANT.

The moment was an ominous one, and no one was better aware of the fact

than Nick Carter. Everything depended now upon the perfection which his

three assistants had attained in the parts they were to play.

The sudden coming of the eight yeggmen, arriving as they had, so closely

together, could not be the result of mere chance, and Nick had no doubt

that they were in reality members of the very gang he was seeking. For

the detective had determined in the beginning that the headquarters of

the gang was somewhere in this vicinity. Everything in his first

investigations pointed to that. And if their headquarters were located

near that wood, or below the track in the swamp, it was certain that

they kept outposts stationed where the arrival of newcomers could be

reported at once.

Thus the appearance of Nick Carter on the scene, and the coming of the

others soon after his arrival, had doubtless been reported, and their

actions carefully watched from the very beginning.

The detective was intensely glad now that his own actions, and those of

his friends, had been so perfect--that is, perfect in the sense of

creating the impression in the mind of a possible observer that they

were strangers to one another. He knew perfectly well that if a watch

had been kept upon them there could be no doubt in the minds of the

watchers that the four men grouped around the fire were unknown to one

another.

But here were eight burly men grouped around them, each standing in a

position so that he could make himself extremely dangerous on the

instant should he choose to do so. And there was no telling how many

more might be concealed out there in the darkness of the woods around

them.

It is not the fashion among yeggmen to welcome an addition to their

party, no matter whether that addition is composed of one or of many.

Sullen silence is the rule at first, during which each man studies the

others. Suspicion is always the first impulse at such meetings. Their

attitudes are exactly that of strange dogs which encounter each other

for the first time, and walk round and round, with the hair on their

backs raised, and with their tails straight out, every nerve on a

tension, and every impulse prepared for mortal combat.

And people who have watched dogs while they go through with these

mannerisms know that it requires only a few moments for them to

determine whether they will be friends or foes, or if they will only

politely tolerate the presence of each other on the scene.

So Nick Carter sat silent, making no movement, save to puff vigorously

at the short pipe he was smoking; and so the others of his party did

likewise; for the forces of the newcomers were much stronger.

This tableau--if tableau it could be called, continued for five minutes,

and then one of the late arrivals cast aside the stub of a cigar he was

smoking, and broke the silence.

"Where might you hoboes be from?" he demanded, in an even tone, and

without a gesture of any kind.

Nobody made any reply whatever to this question, and after a moment he

spoke again.

"Which one of you is the leader of this outfit?" he asked.

Again nobody replied to him; the assistants kept silent because they

well knew that their chief would answer if he considered it wise to do

so; and Nick remained silent merely because he did not consider that it

was yet time to speak.

And now the spokesman of the other party addressed himself directly to

Nick Carter, as being, doubtless, the fiercest and most

villainous-looking one of the bunch.

"You heard me, didn't you?" he demanded.

"Yes; I heard you," was the calm reply.

"Hello! You can talk United States, can't you?"

"Quite as well as you, if necessary," was the cool response.

"You look like a dago."

"What I look like, and what I am, is none of your business--unless you

show some authority for questioning me."

"Ho, ho, ho, ho! Hear him, my coveys! What do you think of that?" And

then to Nick again: "What sort of authority do you expect me to show?"

Nick shrugged his shoulders, knocked out the ashes of his pipe, rose

slowly to his feet, and stood facing the other calmly, as he responded:

"There is only one kind of authority, signor, in a party like this. You

know what that is. I don't know you any more than I know these other

guns around here. It may all be a put-up job, for all I know. I don't

much care if it is. I am quite willing to fight you all, one at a time,

if necessary--and with guns, or knives, or fists, as you please. I come

here, and I get into a tree and wait. Why? Because I have been told of

this place, and that always there is somebody around here. I thought I

would see who the somebody was before somebody saw me. So I get myself

into a tree. Pish! And then not only one, but two, and three arrive on

the scene; and then eight more come. If you want to know who I am, and

are brave enough to fight me, and man enough to lick me--then you'll

know. If not--mind your own affairs, and leave me to attend to mine."

It was a long speech, and the others listened in absolute silence to

the end of it. But the instant Nick ceased speaking, the man to whom he

had addressed his remarks drew back his arm with a sudden motion, and

drove his huge fist forward with the quickness of a cat.

Any other person than Nick Carter might have felt the force of that

treacherous blow. Even he might have done so had he not been expecting

it, and, therefore, been entirely ready for it.

But the bony fist of the man struck only the empty air, for Nick

sidestepped in a manner that would have made Jim Corbett, in his

palmiest days, green with envy; and the battering-ram flew past his ear

harmlessly.

And then the man who had delivered it, before he could recover from the

effect of his own effort, found himself seized in a viselike grip,

raised from his feet, and hurled backward straight over the fire, and

beyond it, so that he sprawled at full length among the bushes.

He leaped to his feet with a curse, and his hand flew to his hip pocket

in search of a weapon; but he did not draw it forth again, for he found

himself looking into the muzzle of an ugly-looking forty-four.

"Drop it!" Nick ordered sharply. "I didn't hurt you, when I might have

done so easily. Are you satisfied?"

The anger of the man seemed to pass as quickly as it had arisen, and he

grinned as he slowly resumed his former position beside the fire.

It was quite true that he was not hurt; it was equally true that he knew

that this stranger might have hurt him severely had he chosen to do so,

and have been entirely excusable for doing it too.

"All right, pard, you pass," he said. "What's your handle?"

"I'm called Dago John by them as know me. What's yours?"

"Hand---- The guns call me Handsome, by way of shortening it. Shake?"

"Yes," said Nick; and they clasped hands for an instant. Then Handsome

added:

"Who might these gazaboes be?"

"Search me, Handsome," growled Nick, resuming his seat, and beginning to

refill his pipe. "If they ain't a part of your outfit, they sure ain't a

part of mine."

Handsome wheeled upon Chick then.

"Who are you?" he demanded, "and where are you from?"

"I'm the 'Chicken'; they know me around Chicago, if they don't here.

Maybe you've heard of me; but it don't make any difference whether you

have or not. I'm the Chicken, all right; and it's Chick for short."

Chick did not so much as move an eyelash while he made this retort; but

his questioner was plainly affected.

"The Chicken!" he exclaimed. "The Chicken is dead. We got it straight.

Shot by----"

"Shot by a cop, eh? That's the story, and it goes, all right. Only it

happens that it wasn't the Chicken as was shot; cause why? The Chicken

is here."

"Who was it, then?"

"It was a pal of mine. A likely gun he was, too. I jest changed hats

with him when he slid under. The rest of the clothes didn't make no

difference. They thought he was the Chicken--and it didn't hurt him any

to have 'em think so, while it helped me a lot."

"All right, Chicken," said Handsome, extending his hand a second time.

"I know about you. You're all right. Who are these other two?"

"Search me, Handsome. I reckon we're all strangers."

Handsome turned to Ten-Ichi.

"What's your handle, covey?" he growled.

Ten-Ichi's answer was a peal of demoniac laughter; and he laughed on and

on interminably, slapping his thighs and flinging his arms around him

after the manner of a man who is warming himself, until the faces of the

others around him developed broad grins--and until the man who called

himself Handsome brought him to with a sudden thrust of his arm which

nearly took the breath out of the lad.

"What's eatin' you, you loon?" he demanded.

"I was laughing," replied Ten-Ichi, now as solemn as an owl.

"You don't say so! Were you? What at?"

"You. It is so funny that you should be called Handsome."

Handsome grinned with the others.

"Well," he said. "What's your name? Out with it!"

"I'm Tenstrike--Ten, for short. That's what."

"All right, Ten; you pass. You're harmless, I guess--unless you let out

that laugh of yours at the wrong time. I would advise you not to do

that. And _you_?" He turned now to Patsy, with a sudden whirl of his

body. "You were the first of this bunch to get here. Who are you?"

"Sure," said Patsy, with a slow drawl, "I'm an Irishman, and me name

doesn't matter to you. It's enough that they call me Pat. If ye don't

happen to like it, sure you can call me Tim, or Mike, or Shamus, or any

old thing that suits ye. And what am I here for, is it? Sure, I'm on a

still hunt for a man I want to find. Mebby ye're after knowin' him."

"Maybe I am. Who is he?"

"Faith, I wish I knowed that. He calls himself Hobo Harry--that same!"

A dead silence followed upon this unlooked-for announcement. The

boldness of it surprised Nick, startled Chick, and frightened Ten-Ichi,

lest unpleasant results should come of it. But it was evident that

Patsy knew his ground, and had prepared for this very moment, for he was

cool and smiling, and he appeared to enjoy hugely the effect that his

words had had upon the others.

It was Handsome who finally broke the silence that ensued; and he

replied:

"That's a name, Pat--if that's your own handle--which isn't spoken

lightly around these parts. What do you want with him?"

"By your l'ave, mister, I'll tell that to him when I find him. In the

meantime, if youse be afther mindin' yere own business, it wouldn't

hurrt ye any. Ye seem to be making of yerself a sort of highcockalorum

elegantarium bosski. If ye tell me that ye know Hobo Harry, an' will

take me to him, so's I can tell me story to him, mebby I'll answer ye;

but not unless."

Again there was silence; and this time it was Nick who brought it to an

end.

"Handsome," he said sharply, "who's this other bunch? What I want to

know is, are they wid you?"

"They are," was the quick reply. Then he wheeled quickly to Patsy again,

and added:

"Come with me--you--if you want to see the chief. I'll take you to him.

The rest of you can wait where you are."