Shadow, the Mysterious Detective/Chapter 4

looked remarkably squally where I was concerned, when, on my exposure by the genuine tar, the inmates of the den gathered threateningly about me.

I attempted to draw my shooting-irons, but desisted as a measure of prudence when I saw that I should be killed before being allowed to do so.

It might have gone very hard with me, had it not been for the quick-wittedness of the mysterious being known as Shadow.

Several empty beer-glasses were on the table in front of him.

These he caught up, and swiftly and accurately hurled them at the lights—lamps being used in the place instead of gas.

Crash!

Crash!

Crash!

Ban-n-n-g!

One of the heavy beer-glasses had smashed the bottom of one of the lamps, the oil had ignited, and there came an explosion, followed by the burning oil being scattered in every direction.

Instantly ensued a scene of confusion and consternation.

The oil had set fire to the clothing of several persons, and they cursed and screamed and shouted, as they wildly strove to smother the flames.

Now was my opportunity.

Toward the door I made my way through the surging and excited crowd, some of whom were madly grasping at each other, thinking they were laying hold on me.

By the fluttering blaze of the burning, oil-soaked clothing of the persons on fire, I saw which way to go; and I had nearly reached the door, when some one cried:

"Be careful, boys! Look out for the door; don't let him escape!"

I made a bolt for the door, and reached it just after another person had done so.

I up with my clenched fist and toppled him over, and then dashed into the street and took to my heels, and did not halt until I was a block from the place.

This was not caused by fear, for I could easily have summoned half a dozen policemen to my assistance.

No matter how wicked a man may be, he has rights under the law as well as anybody else, and unless I knew or suspected him (for good reasons) to be guilty of some particular crime, I had no business to interfere with him.

So I did not wish to make any further move by making any arrests of the inmates of the dive.

Nor, on the contrary, did I wish to give them an opportunity of putting a surreptitious bullet in me.

And again, I had begun to consider Shadow as an ally of mine, and did not wish to run the risk of upsetting or balking any scheme he might be working up through his presence in that place.

Nevertheless, I naturally felt resentful toward the men who, for a moment, had my life in their power, and who seemed inclined to use their power. But I knew them all, and I would have my revenge when, some day—as they surely would—they fell into the strong grasp of the law.

I hung around the vicinity for an hour or more, but as I saw nothing of Shadow, I concluded to turn my steps homeward, and did so.

And Shadow?

He, too, had started toward the door, but had been too slow in his movements to reach it before it was barricaded.

Made aware that he could not pass through it, he quietly made his way back to where he had been sitting, and there sat down again, just before a lamp was hastily lighted.

By this time the ignited clothing had all been extinguished, with no more results than a few painful burns, and consequently the first thought of everybody was concerning the detective.

But he was gone.

That somebody had escaped they knew, but had clung to the hope that it was one of the tars, who had been frightened and bolted out.

But, no, the half-drunken sailors were all huddled together, gazing stupidly about them, not knowing what was to come next.

Some of them had drawn the tar's never-absent companion, their dirk-knives, and were prepared to make resistance in case all this row was but a blind to cover up an attack on them for the purpose of robbing them.

But robbing the tars was the thing furthest from the minds of that rascally crew just at that moment.

They had threatened the life of a detective, he had escaped, and they thought the consequences would be a descent on the place, as soon as enough blue-coats could be gathered for the purpose.

"Now—who fired those beer-glasses?"

The bullet-headed proprietor of the "ranch" asked this question in a gruff tone.

Instantly they began eying each other, and slowly but surely pair after pair of eyes were fastened on Shadow.

"Run out these Jacks."

Immediately the tars were told to "vamose"—"vacate"—"skip"—and the door being held open for them, they lost no time in giving the place a wide berth.

The proprietor sharply eyed those who remained.

All were friends.

Making a sign to a couple, they separated from the rest, who were then told to "skip and lay low."

Shadow made no attempt to leave with this departing crowd.

He knew that it would be useless, in addition to which it would have implied that he had heard and understood, which would not have been in keeping with his assumed character of a deaf and dumb person.

"Now, then," said the bullet-headed proprietor, when none but a trusted few were left in the place, "into that 'cubby' of ours with him!" indicating Shadow.

The latter eyed them with blank astonishment when they laid hands on him, and signed to know what it meant. And when they commenced running him across the floor, he struggled to prevent them.

But he became quiet when one of them placed the muzzle of a revolver to his temple.

He made no further resistance, but allowed them to gag him, and shove him into a little black cubby-hole or closet, whose door was a segment of the wainscoting, undiscoverable to a person unaware of its existence, save by the closest scrutiny.

The door was banged shut, and Shadow was left to his own reflections in the cramped confines of the dark and moldy-smelling closet.

He was left here until all danger of a raid was thought by the proprietor to be past.

Then he was brought out.

"What did you mean by smashing the lamps and putting them out?" was sternly demanded of him.

Shadow looked vacantly at them.

"Come, come!" and he was given a cuff alongside of his head. "Come, give us an answer, or I'll 'liven you up with something heavier than my hand."

While looking wonderingly and inquiringly at them Shadow pointed first to his mouth and then to his ear.

One of them held a revolver close to the back of his head, unseen by him, and then cocked the weapon, thinking that at the click Shadow would certainly give a start if he was not really deaf.

Not a muscle of face or body could be seen to even twitch.

"It's straight, I guess," said this fellow, as he let down the hammer of the weapon and returned it to his pocket.

They now repeated the question by writing it on a sheet of paper.

Shadow looked at it, his face brightened, and seizing the pencil, he scribbled the reply:

"I knew him for a detective! I thought you'd rush in on him in the dark and slug him!"

The villains looked at each other. There was reason in it. Darkness might easily have proved an aid to them, although, as it chanced, it had really opened the way for the detective's escape.

Then they scrutinized Shadow closely, and tried to intimidate him by saying they did not believe it. But when they wrote this on paper, Shadow only shrugged his shoulders on reading it.

Then they discussed the advisability of letting him go or putting him out of the way.

"There's no good in killing him, as I can see," one said finally. "It might easily be a bad thing, for there's no tellin' who may show up here afore the body could be got rid of," and in this view all at last concurred.

Shadow was led to the door and pointed out. He hastily gained the street—and disappeared.