"
"Well, I never entertained such a suspicion," was all the detective
vouchsafed in reply. Then he glanced at the man on the ground.
"See, the fellow is dying."
It was true. Sam Swart, the miserable outlaw, was swiftly passing
away. Half an hour later, when Elliston and the detective returned to
their buggy, the would-be murderer of Dyke Darrel lay cold in death
under the farmer's shed.
A serious expression pervaded the face of Dyke Darrel, and he scarcely
spoke during the drive back to town.
"Did you find your man?" queried the landlord, when our friends
returned.
"Yes."
Elliston entered into an explanation, while Dyke Darrel went up to his
room and threw himself into a chair in a thoughtful attitude. His brow
became corrugated, and it was evident that the detective was enjoying
a spell of the deepest perplexity.
"It must be that the fellow's mind wandered," mused Dyke Darrel. "Of
course I cannot accept as evidence the ragged, half-conscious
utterances of a dying man. He spoke of Nick and the boy. There may be
something in that. The boy? Who could that be but Martin Skidway? I've
suspected him; he is capable of anything in the criminal line. It may
be well for me to go to Chicago and visit Martin's Aunt Scarlet.
Pages:
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71