PINNACLE BOOKS NEW YORK (31 page)

DURING
OUR train trip to Essex, Holmes had been uncommunicative. I could not
decide whether he was lost in thought regarding the robbery and
subsequent events or whether, in keeping with his frequent practice,
he had thrown his brain out of
gear and
switched his thoughts from the case on
the
theory that further cogitation would not be
advantageous.
When I had rejoined him in our sitting room prior to our departure,
he was in the
process of instructing
Billy about a cablegram, and
I deduced
that it was to Dandy Jack, our only acquaintance in Brent. Such
proved the case, since
the aged
four-wheeler and bay horse were at the
station
when we alighted, along with the familiar
driver.

"Where
to, gents?" he queried when we were
seated
in the conveyance.

"The
end of the spur line."

"I
figgers you mean by the tin mine," said the driver, gigging the
bay into motion.

"When
you've dropped us there, return to the
station,"
said Holmes. "There will be two more
men
coming, and you are to bring them to the same place."

"Few
folk come to Brent, but in case, how'll I
know
. . ."

"Oh,
you'll spot them," I said, with an inward smile. "Just look
for the widest man you've ever
seen."

Dandy
Jack merely nodded.

"Have
there been strangers in the area of late?" inquired Holmes.

"None
that I've seen." Holmes did not press the
matter,
and finally, our driver felt impelled to make
a
conversational contribution.
"I've
nosed 'round, sir, and give the matter more thought. At tavern every
night, there's palaver fer fair."

"About
how the gold was removed from the boxcar." It seemed to me that
Holmes made this
statement with a
certain satisfaction.

"Aye,
sir. If I'm any judge, every man jack in
these
parts is as puzzled as I am."

Holmes
nodded as though he had anticipated
this.
Silence fell, broken by the clip-clop of the sturdy bay and the
intermittent calls of songbirds.

When
Dandy Jack deposited us at the clearing that marked the end of the
spur line, he tipped his
battered hat
and went about his return trip in accordance with my friend's
instructions. The
clearing and its
deserted buildings seemed as they
had
been on our last trip to this place. At that time, Holmes' attention
had been much given to the end-
of-track
and the area where the boxcar had been
discovered.
Now he seemed interested in the
stretch
of ground between there and the small hill with the rock-filled
entrance to the abandoned tin
mine. But
then, he had paid scant attention to it
previously.
I doubted if he expected to come up
with
a clue at this late date, and felt that he shared
that
thought.

"There
is really little we can do until the boys get
here,
Watson, though I did want to get to the spot
as
soon as possible."

But
it was not Bertie and Tiny who arrived.
Rather,
it was another voice that called out and
succeeded
in startling me no end, for I was con
vinced
that we were alone in this deserted spot.

"Mr.
Holmes. Dr. Watson," was the cry that surprised me as we were
making our way toward
the mine entrance.

From
the woods on one side of the hill, Richard
Ledger
appeared on the run. In one hand was the
Beals
revolving rifle I had seen him use so effec
tively.

Holmes
and I came to a stop, and as Ledger
reached
us, there was an added complication.

"Very
slow, Ledger," said a strange voice. Clued
by
the direction of the sound, my eyes flashed to the
top
of the hill. Standing there was a tall and
swarthy
man with an Enfield rifle pointed directly at the three of us, as
were the guns in the hands of
the two
men standing beside him. There was no sound for a long and
nerve-racking moment, and
the whole
scene became a frozen tableau. Then
Ledger,
with a shrug that might have meant anything, reached out slowly
with the hand carrying
the Beals rifle.
He was facing Holmes and myself,
his
left side toward the hill and the menacing men
atop
it. Then he pitched the rifle some distance
from
him. A moving object attracts the eye; and I
fancy
the riflemen instinctively watched the falling
weapon,
perhaps in anticipation that it might fire
when
it hit the ground.

Ledger's
left hand, resting on the lapel of the
unbuttoned
topcoat he was wearing, moved the
garment
slightly away from his body and I saw a holster attached to his belt
in front with the handle
of a revolver
pointing toward his right side. Simultaneous with this movement, his
right hand flashed
to the exposed gun
butt, then reversed direction in
a
border draw. As the muzzle cleared the leather, it
was
already pointing in the direction of the hill. Of
a
sudden, there was a drumbeat of sound. Not
single
shots, but what seemed like a continuous roar. In a moment like this
the eye transmits the
image to the brain
with a speed akin to that of
light,
which is a good thing since it all happened at
once.

In
but a fraction more than one second, five shots
burst
from Ledger's gun. The first shattered the
rifle
in the hands of the swarthy man. The second caught his right-hand
companion in the forehead, passing out through the top of his head.
The third one found the last of the trio in the vicinity of his left
breast pocket. The fourth caught the swarthy man in his mouth and
plowed into his brain, while
the fifth
blew its way between his eyes, making an obscene hole going in and a
much larger one going
out.

It
was unbelievable, but there were three dead
men
on top of that hill before the first body hit the
ground.

An
unreal silence claimed the clearing and the
hill
on one side of it. There was the smell of cordite
that
wrinkled my nostrils. Then, from a silver
beech
on top of the hill, a bird trilled questioningly,
as
though to inquire what was going on.
You'll
never understand, little
feathered friend
, I thought.
You'll
also be quite surprised if you flit to the
ground,
for the green of the turf is being stained a
darkish
red.

Ledger
blew on the muzzle of his gun and began
to
slide it back into its holster when I found my
voice.

"Pardon
me," I said, in a higher tone than is customary for me. I
gestured toward the revolver.
"May
I?"

As
he handed me the weapon, from the corner of
my
eye I noted Holmes regarding me strangely.

"Double-action
Colt Lightning," I said.

".41
caliber," replied the gunfighter. He was matter-of-fact about
it, and his manner, after this moment of awesome violence, was
unperturbed,
like a workman who has
performed a familiar task.

His
eyes, said to be the gateway to the soul,
reflected
no flame of exhilaration or dancing sparks
of
triumph. Just twin pools, unruffled and unrevealing
,
though the color might have been an even
lighter
blue than I had noted previously. From a
dim
recess of my mind, two words stumbled forth.
Killer
eyes.
Perhaps the title of some
ha'-penny
dreadful subconsciously noted
on a bookstore
stand. Perhaps words out
of context from a descrip
tion of a
bird or beast of prey. I felt I understood
them
better now.

I
indicated the butt of the gun questioningly.

"Parrot-beak
handle," the man said. "I fancy it."

I
swallowed. "Five shots in one and one-fifth
seconds.
I read somewhere that it had been done."
^*

^*
Watson
was right, for the time has been recorded, and with the same
double-action
model he was holding in his hand.

Holmes
was looking towards the hilltop.
"They've
had it," said Ledger as I returned his
gun
to him.

"I
can certainly believe that," replied Holmes.

The
sleuth walked over and retrieved the rifle with which Ledger had
distracted the three strangers. Silently, I commended him for
this action.
Though
the immediate peril was removed, the
situation
was still tense and I fingered the Smith-
Webley
in my pocket nervously.

Gesturing
toward the hill, Holmes posed a ques
tion.
"You didn't come with them, I take it?"

"After
them. Your mention of that Michael fellow
is
what got me on their trail. The tall man was Jack
Trask,
who was on the Wellington Club team.
Served
in Egypt and later with the Legion in Africa.
Surly
chap with a shady background, but that's not
unusual
for a Legionnaire. The other two I don't know. Couldn't figure out
why they came here
either."

"That,
I know," replied Holmes.

"Guess
you know about me, too," said our res
cuer.

As
Holmes nodded I felt impelled to offer a
remark,
which drew another strange look from the
sleuth.
"Not everything. It
may not be necessary that we
do.
You are not Ledger, of course."

"He
died in my arms. We were on the same side,
you
see, and we lost. I'd grown to know him well.
He
had no kin, and there were too many wishing for
me
to join Ledger, so I took his papers and got
away."

"It
was you who worked for the Kimberly peo
ple."

The
man confirmed Holmes' statement with a
nod.
"They didn't know Ledger, and as soon as they
put
a gun in my hands, they accepted my identity
without
question."

An
unrelated thought came to mind and forced
its
way to my lips. "Was your friend Ledger as good
as
you?"