“What did you do then? Gee, you must have been a wizard to follow me that far!”
“I spent the rest of the day sweeping the Flatstone valley for traces of you; I knew that if you had passed this way somebody must have seen you. When I got no news, I came back over this side and the old farmer—his name’s Jacob Woods, and he’s a friend of mine; I brought a group of bikers over here last year—he offered to let me stay here to-night and to go back into the mountain with me in the morning to look for you. He was telling me tales of lost hunters and mysterious accidents back in these hills until I almost went out to look for you with a lantern. It was just a crazy coincidence that your hobo friends decided to pick this house for their midnight robbery—but I’m glad I was the one that hopped on you in the dark; somebody else might have been rough.”
Blackie had been drinking in every word. “Say, Wally,” he said, “those tramps are awful quiet. I wonder if they’re up to anything?”
“We’ll see.” Wally, with his gun held at ready, circled about the little stone building warily, and was just in time to see Lew, the weak-chinned younger tramp, sticking his head through an aperture he had made by removing a stone where the overflow from the spring found its way out. “Get back there, you!” shouted Wally. He pretended to aim a kick, and the startled hobo, who had counted on tearing away the stones and escaping by the back way, withdrew his head so speedily that he bumped it. Wally closed the opening with several rocks.
The sound of an auto horn from the road made Blackie jump. “That must be the sheriff!” cried Wally. “Hi! Over this way, Mr. Manders! Over here in the orchard!”
Three men came tramping across through the grass, two of them carrying rifles. The taller of them Blackie recognized as the man who had been conferring with the Chief on that fateful rainy Tuesday when he had fought with Chink and smoked with Gallegher. It was Sheriff Manders, and he pulled out two pairs of handcuffs while Wally was explaining things to him. Another man he introduced as his deputy, a rugged farmer with red chin-whiskers showing in the light of the lantern he carried. The third, garbed in a pair of overalls hastily donned over his night-clothing, proved to be Mr. Woods, owner of the farm, who since telephoning had been watching at the roadside to direct the officers of the law as soon as they arrived.
The sheriff heard Wally to the end, and then turned to Blackie. “You’re a real smart boy, if what Mr. Rawn says is true. I’ll be over to your camp-ground later and get your affidavit on all you’ve told him; and likely you’ll be wanted at the trial.”
He stamped over to the door and knocked upon it loudly. “In the name of the law, I call upon you to submit to arrest!”
When the door was flung open, two cowed and shaken vagabonds shambled out to face the weapons of Wally and the officers. Their short imprisonment had broken what spirit of bravado they possessed, and under the watchful eyes of the law they appeared as a brace of craven and revolting blackguards caught in the midst of crime. They submitted to being handcuffed, and were bundled off toward the car in short order.
“I’ll go with you and see these fellows safe in jail,” volunteered Wally. “No—you won’t be needed, Blackie; you’ve done more than your share this night. You just trot off to bed with Mr. Woods here, and forget all about everything.”