Top-Notch Magazine/Volume 22/Number 2/The Fluctuating Package/Chapter 11
CHAPTER XI.
THE FAMOUS KIT
A MILE east of Dry Wash the single track crossed a bridge. It was a long bridge and spanned a river that ran between wide, deep banks. Ruthven had hoped he might overtake Weasel Morrison before the chase brought them to the bridge, but he soon saw that the hope was not to be realized. The hand car was gaining upon the lighter speeder, because of the superior strength applied to the levers. The gain, however, was slow.
When Morrison was close to the end of the bridge, Ruthven, who was lifting and bending to his work with clocklike regularity, saw him hurl the satchel from the speeder into the bushes on the river bank. This seemed a very queer move for Morrison to make, and it was only by a chance that the man behind saw anything of it. The next moment the speeder was upon the bridge, and a little later the hand car rumbled out upon it. Perhaps half a minute afterward fate played a high card and brought that flight and pursuit to an unexpected termination.
Morrison, in great excitement, suddenly applied the brakes and brought the speeder to a quick stop. In the utmost alarm he piled off the velocipede and started to run back toward the western bank of the river. A view of Ruthven, rushing down upon him, caused him to pause.
For a brief space Ruthven marveled at these weird actions of the crook. Then, as a roar and rattle dinned in his ears above the rumble of the hand car, it flashed through his mind that a train was coming from the east. The approach of the train was screened by a bluff shoulder of rock beyond the end of the bridge, but that it was dangerously close there could be no doubt.
Morrison had been nearly two-thirds of the way across when he had halted the speeder, and Ruthven, as he bore down with all his weight on the foot brake, was nearly halfway over. Morrison, following an instant of indecision, whirled to make for the eastern bank of the river. Evidently he preferred taking chances with the oncoming train than with Ruthven. He was too late in executing this change of plan, however, for he had barely started his retreat when the nose of the engine pushed into sight around the curtain of rock.
Consternation seized Ruthven. The bridge was scarcely more than a trestle, and beyond the ends of the ties on either side there was nothing but space and the waters below. At intervals beams jutted out from the bridge, each beam supporting a barrel of water for emergency in case of fire. To get out on one of those beams while the train rushed past would not have called for any unusual amount of nerve, but both the men were trapped midway between the beams, which were some fifty feet apart.
It was possible that Ruthven could have gained the nearest water barrel; yet, if he had been able to make it, he feared that the hand car, on being tossed from the track, might strike him. One expedient after another flashed through his mind while deep, wild blasts of warning came from the whistle of the locomotive.
Morrison, cool enough now that the first shock of alarm had passed, jumped to the ends of the ties and lowered himself so that he swung by his arms beneath the bridge. This was the only course to take that promised safety, and Ruthven had already decided upon it. He, too, gripped the end of a tie and dangled above the water.
The bridge was shaking under the rushing weight of the train. It was a fast freight. Two crashes in quick succession could be heard as the pilot struck the speeder and the hand car, hurling both clear of the bridge and far out into the river. The freight had almost passed when Morrison slipped from his hold and shot downward.
Ruthven could have held on, and drawn himself back to safety after the caboose had gone by. If he did this, however, he feared that Morrison might escape. Giving his body an outward swing, he let go the tie and fell.
He succeeded in turning himself in mid-air so that he made a fairly good dive into the water. Down and down he went into the churning waters, and when he came to the surface and cleared his eyes he could see Morrison swim- ming powerfully for the western bank. The other bank was so steep for a long distance that a landing there was impossible. Ruthven struck out in the wake of the crook.
The Weasel held the advantage in this that he was lightly clad. Ruthven, incumbered with all his clothes, had the harder fight. But he was the better swimmer and held his own in the race for the bank. Morrison got ashore first and dragged himself clear of the slime and ooze at the river's margin. His scanty apparel clung to his limbs, and his hair hung down over his face and eyes. He pushed back his drenched locks, gave one look over his shoulder, and began hurrying toward the railroad track.
Ruthven was nearly water-logged as he came out of the river. He had kept all his clothes but his hat, and the water squirted from his soggy shoes as he walked. "Halt, Morrison!" he yelled. "You can't get away!"
The crook flung back a shout of defiance and continued on toward the high bank leading to the bridge approach. Ruthven made after him, trailing small rivers of water as he went. His clothes may have been dampened, but his ardor for the chase was in nowise diminished.
At the bushes which covered the railroad embankment, Morrison paused. Ruthven saw him drop to his knees and draw into sight the satchel he had flung from the speeder. Opening the satchel, Morrison reached into it and jerked forth a small revolver. Springing up, he whirled and lifted the weapon.
No more than a dozen feet separated the two men. "You halt!" Morrison cried. "You've butted into my plans once too often, Ruthven. You are the only one between me and liberty, and I've sworn I shall never see the inside of the 'pen'!"
Bang! went the revolver. Ruthven stood unscathed, although the range was well-night point-blank. Bang, bang, bang! Four times Morrison pressed the trigger, and still the big half back remained erect, himself wondering why he sustained no mortal hurt.
Morrison cursed and flung aside the useless weapon. Facing about, he attempted to claw his way up the brushy bank, but Ruthven was upon him in short order. Gripped in each other's hands, the two rolled about, and then Ruthven came uppermost and held his man helpless in fingers of steel.
Just then there was a sound of voices accompanying a scramble of feet, and Ruthven looked around to see four men hastening toward them. Two of them were the detective and the deputy sheriff; the other two evidently were from the freight train.
"He's got him!" cried Hackett jubilantly. "By thunder, Ruthven has got him!"
"Pretty nifty, I call that!" exclaimed Jenkins.
"They had a blamed close call," said one of the trainmen. "I wouldn't have been in their boots a few minutes back for a cool million. They dropped into the river and swam out, eh? But how in blazes did they come to be on the bridge with that hand car and speeder?"
"It's all right," explained Jenkins. "The smaller chap is a notorious crook, and this other man here is after him. The man is Weasel Morrison, and he did that job at Monte Carlo. We had him and a pal bottled up at Jennifer's boarding house in Dry Wash, and Morrison slipped away from us. Ruthven followed him."
"Good work!" approved the conductor of the freight. "If he's the tinhorn that blew up the express car. See that he's put through for it, that's all."
"Get up, Ruthven," said the detective as he and the deputy halted beside the two on the ground. "He's ours now, and we'll take care of him. Jupiter, but you're as wet as a drowned rat! Fine business, though!"
Ruthven released Morrison and arose to his feet. Hackett bent down and pulled the prisoner's wrists together. Click, click! came a sharp staccato double note, and the crook's hands were secured with steel bracelets.
"There you are, Weasel Morrison!" chuckled Jenkins, gripping the prisoner's arms and hoisting him erect by main strength,
"Thank your old friend Ruthven for this," put in the detective. "Your pal, Toby Lane, is a prisoner, too. You might call this a clean sweep. Bolting from Jennifer's didn't do you much good, after all, eh?"
Morrison stood sullenly between the two officers, a melancholy figure in his wet garments. Ruthven picked up the revolver and was examining it.
"We heard the shots," said Jenkins. "He did it, I suppose? None of the bullets reached you?"
Ruthven laughed. "There were no bullets, Jenkins," he answered. "If there had been I'd not be here now. Two cartridges are left in the cylinder—and they are blanks."
"Blanks?" queried the detective incredulously. "In a canister belonging to Weasel Morrison?"
"Show 'em to me!" barked the prisoner in sudden wrath.
The detective took the weapon from Ruthven's hand, "broke" it, and removed one of the two remaining cartridges. These he showed to Morrison, watching his face curiously the while. The face twisted with demoniacal fury.
"Queered!" he fumed. "Queered by that" He broke off, and his voice died in a fierce muttering. "Who tipped me off, Hackett?" he demanded. The detective was silent. "I know!" the prisoner went on. "And I'll get even. It was Arlo McKenzie, of Burt City; McKenzie, the respectable and highly honored member of the Montana legislature; the junior partner in the firm of Long & McKenzie. I'll nail his hide to the barn. You hear me! I warned him what would happen if he tried to give me the dirty end of this, and now he'll get what's coming. It wasn't Ruthven who laid me by the heels; it was McKenzie."
He faced the detective. "Take me back to Monte Carlo, Hackett," he went on, "but take me by way of Burt City. I want to stop there long enough to face McKenzie. I can tell you things about McKenzie neither you nor any one else in these parts ever dreamed of. You'll want to hear it, Hackett." He swung around to get Ruthven under his venomous, flaming eyes. "You'll get to Burt City ahead of us. Go to McKenzie and tell him I'm on his trail. That's all. Warn him to pull out—to drop everything and pull out—before I get there."
"You can't hurt Arlo McKenzie," said Jenkins.
"We'll see," answered Morrison. "Come on—get me away from here. I want to get into some dry clothes."
He moved away, drawing Jenkins along with him. The detective would also have left the place had Ruthven not pointed to the bushes.
"There's a satchel in there," remarked Ruthven. "Morrison threw it off the speeder as we neared the bridge. When he got out of the river he came this way, found the satchel, and took that gun out of it. Maybe there's something else in the grip that you'll find important."
"Another one for you, Ruthven!" grunted Morrison.
Hackett went to the brush, picked up the satchel, found it was unlocked, and looked into it. Then he gave a shout of delight.
"It's the famous kit!" he exclaimed. "The patent burglar tools! Of course Morrison threw them off the speeder when there was a possibility of his being captured. Could you blame him? Finding this kit makes our morning's work complete. Not until now have these things ever been found in the Weasel's possession. It means a lot, Ruthven. In the past Morrison has been mighty clever in dodging responsibility for this criminal outfit, but here he is caught with the goods! Now let's get the train back. We're delaying these men here."