Quintus Oakes: A Detective Story — 24 Across The Bridge

Someone broke the awful spell--it was Oakes, crying out: "He is going for the pond and the bridge."

And next instant he and Hallen were out of the front door, the men following in a rushing, compact body.

_CHAPTER XXIV_

_Across the Bridge_ As I staggered behind the pursuers I saw the tall, erect figure of Quintus glide rapidly across the road and disappear down the decline.

In the briefest space we were at the crest by the road, looking down upon the pond.

I saw Moore and O'Brien by my side--the latter swearing like a trooper.

"Who is that Mr. Clark, anyway?

How did he know who I was?

Since Hallen's men found me at the farm-house this man Clark--this agent--has had a lot to say."

"He is a man by the name of Oakes," I said.

O'Brien, or rather Larkin, looked at me a moment.

"Quintus Oakes?"

"The same."

"The deuce you say!

No disgrace to me then.

I understand things now.

But I should have suspected."

The murderer reached the bridge and, hesitating, stooped suddenly at its near side.

He had evidently picked up something from under one of the logs that formed the span.

He straightened up and, turning, suddenly fired at Oakes, who was rapidly approaching.

The deep tones of a heavy revolver were unmistakable.

Maloney had secured his murderous weapon when he stooped; he had had it in hiding under the log.

He was armed now with a weapon of terrible possibilities.

In another instant he was across and mounting the green sunlit slope beyond.

A hundred feet behind was Quintus, untouched by the bullet that had been sent his way.

A few steps, and he reached the other side, but as he struck the ground, the bridge--frail thing that it was--loosened from its centre support and went crashing into the pond, leaving Hallen, who was close behind Oakes, on this side of the bridge with the rest of us.

Oakes was alone, pursuing the murderer up the slope of the hill on the other side of the water, facing us.

We saw him turn, as the bridge fell, and look at us;

then he made a sweeping gesture toward the north and south, and turned again after the murderer, who was just half-way up the slope now; his body dotting the surface of the ground with a shadow at his side--a shadow of himself--company in the race for freedom.

We all simultaneously interpreted the gestures made by Oakes, and Hallen dashed to the north end of the pond to skirt it, while Martin and Moore dashed for the southern end, leaving Elliott, Larkin and myself standing where we commanded full view of what was coming.

We were conscious of several other figures dashing by us, and we knew that his men were straining every nerve and muscle to reach Oakes in his dangerous position.

It was a long run to skirt either end of the pond, and to swing around the opposite shore, and thence up the sloping sides to Quintus's aid.

We three remaining behind were anxious beyond expression.

I leaned heavily on Elliott, and really prevented him from joining in the chase, where he would have been useless; the others were so much fleeter of foot.

"God--that man Oakes is alone with the murderer!"

cried Larkin.

"He is too good a man to lose his life in the fight that is coming.

Look!"

We saw Maloney halt and face about.

Then came a slight flash, followed by the heavy report of the revolver in his hand.

Quintus was running slowly up toward him and was perhaps one hundred feet away.

At the report he staggered, and dropped upon the green, slippery sward.

"He is wounded," cried Elliott.

I felt sick at heart and weak, and sat down, Larkin by my side; we two were powerless, being only convalescent.

"An elegant shot!

That Maloney is a crack one," cried the detective.

"Yes," said Elliott; "it was determined before that Mark's murderer was a good shot."

Then came another report, and we saw that again the murderer had fired.

Oakes remained quiet.

His body showed sprawled on the hill-side.

"Damnation!"

cried Elliott.

"Is Oakes dead?

He does not answer with his revolver."

"No," cried Larkin.

"I saw him move, and see--he is braced to prevent himself slipping down the hill.

He knows he is a poor target, and is not anxious to move lest he slide into the pond.

That grass is frosty and very slippery."

Then came the delayed crack of Quintus's weapon, and Maloney sprang into the air as he ran.

He now went slowly and painfully, lurching forward along the crest of the hill.

"Slightly wounded, thank Fate--but Oakes could have killed him had he wished," cried Larkin.

We saw Quintus rise and follow Maloney, then drop to his chest again, as the latter wheeled and fired three shots rapidly at him in delirious excitement.

Oakes remained quiet and huddled, and despite the fact that Maloney was now an excellent target, he did not fire.

"Oakes is hit badly," exclaimed Elliott.

Then the speaker did an unexpected thing.

Seizing his revolver, he discharged the weapon again and again in the direction of Maloney.

"A long shot," he muttered, "but I'll keep him guessing."

We could see the bullets hit somewhere near the fugitive, for he seemed disconcerted and turned toward the northern end of the pond, to run in that direction; he was now outlined on the crest of the hill.

We heard another shot ring out--a shot sharp, staccato it was; and we then emitted a yell, for we knew by it that Oakes was alive.

Maloney fired again, and again Elliott, by our side, tried two more long shots with his revolver.

We heard Oakes's voice, clear and firm it came, wafted across the pond.

"Don't shoot again.

He has no more ammunition.

I will get him."

And Elliott, in suppressed excitement, exclaimed: "He was drawing Maloney's fire all the time.

He was not wounded."

"Yes, he knew Maloney had the old six-shooter, and he knows it is empty now."

"That Oakes keeps everything in mind," said Larkin.

"He is a good one."

Then we saw the figures of the runners skirting the northern end of the pond.

Hallen was leading.

He fired at Maloney, evidently not having understood Oakes's word, and again came that clear voice across the pond.

"Don't fire, Hallen; remember, he is a lunatic and he can't get away now."

We saw Oakes rush to close in on Maloney, but the latter met his attack, and the detective was borne to the ground heavily.

"Shoot, Oakes, shoot!"

I yelled, as did Hallen; but Quintus responded not.

We saw that the fight was furious, but were unable at first to distinguish the figures as they remained on the ground.

They were locked in one another's embrace in a deadly, awe-inspiring struggle.

Then across one man's neck we saw a forearm--the cuff was shining in the sunlight--and Elliott cried out: "That is Oakes."

The two rose to their feet, powerful black objects, and by the outline we recognized the tall figure of our friend as they swayed and surged, gradually slipping and sliding down the incline, toward the deep waters of the pond below.

"Oakes has got him," cried Larkin, "choking him.

Look at them!"

We saw the murderer's body arch sideways and backward, with Oakes's hands around his neck.

As Maloney's body came down, down to the ground again, Larkin and Elliott by my side shouted in admiration at the power and skill displayed.

Suddenly like a flash the maniac turned, twisted, and next moment encircled Oakes's body with both his arms, and rolled toward the water with him.

"He is going to drown Oakes--see!"

The words came in a hurried gasp from Elliott, who was throwing off his coat and his shoes in a movement quick as the thought that had come to him.

"He's too good a man," he cried, and with a sudden rush Elliott was at the water's edge and into the pond--swimming with strong overhanded strokes, head low and sideways, toward the opposite shore.

Larkin and I could scarcely believe our eyes.

The man was apparently gifted with great powers, for he cut through the water steadily, surely, with a rapidity that was amazing.

Over opposite, the fight was furious, always nearing the edge of the pond.

Help for Oakes was no nearer than Hallen, who, we could see, was dashing around the northern end of the pond in a desperate race to save him.

On the other end, moving like the wind, but farther away from the fighting men, I distinguished young Martin leading several others in the race for life.

And down beneath us, quarter way across the pond was the solitary swimmer, lifting his shoulders well out of the water each time his stroke reached its limit--each moment advancing steadily, surely.

I saw at a glance that Oakes was doomed--Elliott could not reach him, neither could Hallen.

Larkin by my side supported me, for my head was reeling with weakness.

Suddenly he shouted across the pond--"Fight him!

--fight him!

Oakes, strangle him."

I could see now that, somehow, Oakes's arm was around the maniac's neck, and that they were on their feet again.

Neither had a weapon--they had long since been lost in the hand-to-hand fight.

"Oakes can't do it.

Why, in the devil's name, did he try to capture him alive?

Why did he not shoot to kill instead of to wound simply?"

cried my companion.

Now Maloney was surging, dragging Oakes close to the water's edge--closer, ever closer.

Suddenly Oakes weakened and half stepped, half retreated, to the water's edge; then as suddenly the two figures swayed up the hill a few feet again, and with a quick, cat-like movement Oakes was free.

It was his one supreme effort, a masterly, wonderfully executed, vigorous shove and side-step.

It was evident Maloney was dazed.

Oakes's strangle-hold had told at last.

We heard a mighty shout from Hallen, and another from the swimmer now rapidly approaching the bank.

Maloney faced Oakes a moment; his chest heaved once or twice as his breath returned; he crouched, then sidled into position for a spring and launched himself toward Oakes, who, pale as death, stood swaying, his arms by his side, apparently all but done for.

Then we all witnessed that which thrilled us to the heart--the sudden, wonderful mastery of science, aided by strength, over sheer brute force.

Maloney came toward Oakes in a fearful rush that was to take both together out into the pond to death.

Instantly Oakes's swaying body tightened and steadied.

I knew then, as did Larkin, that Oakes had been deceiving Maloney--that the detective was still master of himself.

As the heavy body closed upon him, Oakes stepped suddenly forward.

His left arm shot upward with a vicious, swinging motion, and as his fist reached the jaw, his body lurched forward and sideways, in a terrible muscular effort, carrying fearful impetus to the blow.

Then instantly, as Maloney staggered, Oakes swung himself half around, and the right arm shot upward and across to the mark, with fearful speed and certainty.

The on-rushing maniac was half stopped and twisted in his course.

His head swung sideways and outward with the last impact upon the jaw; his legs failed to lift, and with a wabbling, shuddering tremor the body sank to the water's edge.

The next instant Hallen came tumbling on to the murderer.

I heard the click of handcuffs; I saw the white shirt and black trousers of Elliott squirm up the bank, and next moment the vigorous swimmer, the aristocratic, great-hearted club-man, caught Oakes in his arms as the detective lurched forward and fell, momentarily overcome by his last supreme effort.

A great, rousing cheer reverberated from bank to bank.

We took it up, and sent it back in lessened volume, but undiminished spirit.

They now came back from the other side of the pond by the way of the north end, the men assisting Oakes carefully up the incline to us, and bringing also Maloney.

His eyes were bloodshot--his features squirming in horrible movements;

and through it all he talked and talked; his brain was working with great rapidity; he was shouting, declaiming, laughing, and all the while his sentences were without significance, without lucidity.

Oakes pointed to the maniac.

"I regret extremely," he said, "that I was forced to wound him slightly.

I could not let him escape with that weapon in his hand."

An approving murmur rose from the men, but Oakes checked them, frowning his displeasure.

Then he turned to Martin: "Look at his left arm, boys."

Hallen and Martin ripped off the sleeve, and Dowd, after peering at the arm, excitedly exclaimed: "The blue cross!

Quintus Oakes, you are right."

Yes, surely, there on the left arm, just below the shoulder, was a cross done by some skilled tattooer's hand in days long past--a cross of indigo.

* * * * * Then in the road a team appeared from the Mansion, and Dowd jumped in and waved his hand as he started.

"Where are you going?"

cried Hallen.

"To Mona to get out an extra--to tell how Clark, Mr. Clark of the Mansion, has captured the murderer, aided by Hallen of Mona."

As the team started, Dowd yelled back again: "And I am going to tell Mona that Clark is QUINTUS OAKES."