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  "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 convinced 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 effectively.

  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 description 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 question. "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 rescuer.

  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 people."

  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?"

  There was a philosophical acceptance in his eyes along with a tinge of sadness. "Ledger's d
ead and I'm alive."

  Holmes had strolled in the direction of the rock-clogged entrance to the abandoned mine. I surmised that the pseudo-soldier appreciated the absence of further questions regarding his, shall we say, colorful background. He now posed a question of his own.

  "What were they doing here, Mr. Holmes?" He gestured toward the hilltop, and I winced at the thought of the three corpses growing cold in the afternoon sun.

  "They were sent to remove evidence," replied the sleuth. "We'd best get started on the job at hand, for we can do some of it at least."

  Holmes leaned the Beals rifle against a rock and began to remove his coat. I judged what he was about and started to do the same, as did our companion, but Holmes had another thought.

  "Sir," he said, "and for want of another name, I must call you that; in a short time there will be others present. It might be expedient if you are not here."

  The imposter could not suppress an exclamation of surprise. "You're letting me go? What of the gold robbery?"

  "You were no part of that," said Holmes. "Though it is my thought that you might put some distance between yourself and England."

  Holmes overrode a half-formed interruption of mine. "Not that I'll be after you, but it is possible that someone else knows of your masquerade. Had the robbery gone amiss, you would have made a splendid cat's-paw and might still serve as a red herring in the matter."

  The gunfighter was nodding in agreement with Holmes' words, as was I.

  "What about the bodies?" persisted the man.

  This time he did not gesture toward the hill, which was throwing a first shadow on the three of us.

  "The idea of a trade suggests itself," replied the detective, and despite the seriousness, nay grimness, of the moment, there was a flicker of humor about him. "That gun of yours Watson seems so familiar with. You might give it, with its spent cartridges, to my medical friend." His long fingers extracted the revolver he had in his ulster pocket; and Holmes extended it, butt-first, to the marksman. "This may not suit your fancy, but it is loaded. I seldom carry firearms anyway."

  Our youthful-looking companion seemed uncomfortable. "There's not many that hands me a loaded gun, Mr. Holmes."

  "I'm sure you'd feel naked without one," said my friend in a brusque tone. Then his manner was relieved by a smile. "You understand that Watson, by virtue of this arrangement, will gain considerable notoriety not really his due."

  Holmes' eyes swiveled toward me. "I picture you, good chap, as going down in history as the fastest gun on Baker Street."

  "I say now, Holmes," was all I could come up with because of a wave of pride—not prompted by the ridiculous situation that Holmes was joshing about, but for my friend. He was not always the relentless man-hunter that the journals pictured with such ghoulish glee.

  The former employee of the B & N Railroad released the bolstered gun, affixed with a clip to his belt, and passed it to me. Holmes looked at him for a long moment and then said, simply, "Goodbye."

  The sleuth turned with an abrupt movement and began to push at one of the sizeable rocks blocking the entrance to the mine. I stepped closer to the American, lowering my voice. Possibly Holmes did not hear me.

  "Goodbye, McCarty."

  For the first time since our paths had crossed, there was genuine humor on the man's face. "I had a mind you knew." He clasped my outstretched hand, and I was surprised. He had spent his life in the outdoors and riding back trails at that, yet his palm and the inside of his fingers were as soft as a baby's or a safecracker's. "Thank you, Doctor."

  Retrieving the Beals rifle, he strode into the surrounding woods without a backward glance. His shoulders might have been slightly bent from the thought of the twisted trail behind him and the rocky road ahead. He can make it, I thought, if he but gets free. A legend does not die with ease.

  Tossing my topcoat on the ground, I joined Holmes in pushing and tugging at obstructing rocks.

  Chapter 16

  All Fools Together

  NOT LONG thereafter we heard the sound of Dandy Jack's four-wheeler. Holmes flicked perspiration from his brow, for we had made a fair start at the job. Retrieving his coat and donning it, he indicated for me to do the same. When the bay horse drew up in the clearing, there was no obvious indication as to what we had been about.

  Dandy Jack's eyebrows were raised and he threw a patient glance heavenward, for the poor man obviously wondered if he was working for a circus. Burlington Bertie hopped from the carriage with a welcoming smile on his lips and a wise look in his eyes. He was a wedge of a man and brawny, but destined to be recorded in the eyes of an observer as nondescript in size, for with him was his younger brother. Tiny's broad face had a childlike serenity about it, with wide and innocent eyes and an anxious smile that seemed painted on. His smallish head topped a short but massive neck that disappeared into anthropoidal shoulders and a chest that could have modeled for a sculpture of Hercules. His short legs had to be like steel girders to support his bulk, and he removed himself from the carriage with dainty grace. Tiny was forced to maneuver with care, for if he unwittingly leaned against a tree, it might become uprooted. The bay horse threw a backward glance of relief when Tiny was supported by mother earth, and it whinnied and flicked its tail as though eager to depart.

  The horse's wish was granted by Holmes, and his driver must have thought he was in charge of a shuttle service.

  "It is back to Brent, Dandy Jack," said Holmes. "Locate that constable you mentioned."

  "Sindelar," replied the worthy, as though life held no more surprises.

  "Tell him a hearse is needed, but there is a doctor present who will sign the death certificates."

  Dandy Jack's lethargic acceptance of all things was jostled by this, and he glanced around hastily in search of the bodies suggested by Holmes' words. He seemed relieved when he did not locate them.

  "Tell Constable Sindelar that I will explain the matter to him. Best give him my card," Holmes added, passing one to the startled driver. "Since my party will be returning to London shortly, I will inform Scotland Yard, for they have an interest in what has transpired."

  Thrusting the card into a patched pocket, Dandy Jack reined his steed around and departed with more alacrity than he had on his last return trip.

  The sleuth now indicated the mine entrance to his two associates. "We have to get inside there," he stated, and that is all he had to say.

  Tiny, with Burlington Bertie in his wake, moved toward the hill like an ocean liner, giving the impression that he might just walk through it. It occurred to me that I had never heard this goliath speak, though he certainly understood Holmes' words and had some private method of communication with his brother, who frequently interpreted his thoughts.

  If Bertie did all the talking for the twosome, the former smash-and-grabber and wharfside brawler did not have to do much work. Tiny went at the mine entrance like a construction machine, and Holmes had to step lively to avoid flying rocks as he supervised the effort. I withdrew to a safe distance, for my energies, obviously, were not needed.

  Holmes and I, without the boys from Limehouse, would have been unable to force our way into the mine; and I wondered how the bodies on the hilltop had intended to perform that task, for surely that had been their idea before our arrival. I also wondered why Holmes had been so sure that the gold in the vaults of the Bank of England had come from the treasure train, for now it was obvious, even to me, where his mind was leading him.

  A cessation of activity within the mine prompted me to rejoin the threesome. The entrance was now clear enough, and ahead yawned the dark abyss of the main shaft.

  "We've need of light on the scene," said Holmes.

  Tiny turned, gently maneuvering his bulk around me, and disappeared through the entrance. He treated a statement from Holmes like an excerpt from the graven tablets of the divine commandments. His "'Tis said, 'tis done," philosophy was certainly helpful in matters like the one we were involved in.

  Withi
n the dim mine interior I saw Holmes looking at Bertie questioningly and there was a flash of the man's teeth in response. In the distance, we all heard the rending protest of timber savagely being torn asunder. Then Tiny was at the mine entrance, his hair so blond as to be almost white. In his hand was the end of a limb, which I judged he had wrenched from a fallen and dead tree. Its butt was coated with a resinous jellylike substance.

  "Good thought, lad," exclaimed Bertie. Quickly gathering some dead leaves that had blown into the mine, he crumpled them in his hand, igniting them with a sulfur match that he flicked against a stubby and dirty thumbnail.

  Breathing on the small fire he had produced, Bertie thrust the limb into it and, in a moment the viscous sap burst into flame.

  He passed the improvisation to Holmes. "Here it be, sir, fer you're the torchbearer 'round 'ere."

  With Holmes in the lead, we cautiously worked our way into the mine, and I viewed the aged timber supports with some trepidation, I'll tell you. We did not have far to go. At the head of the side tunnel was a wagon, looking incongruous in this setting. Within, neatly stacked, were wooden boxes nailed shut. At a signal from Holmes, Tiny had one out of the wagon and on the floor of the tunnel. The sleuth held his torch high to illuminate the scene as the giant's eyes swiveled to the detective for further orders. Evidently, he received them in a glance, for one huge hand seized the top of the box, tearing the wooden cover off with a casual movement.

  Within was metal, reflecting the torchlight, though it lacked the luster of the whitish-yellow substance I had seen when viewing the golden tablet during our Egyptian adventure.

  "What's this, some hardware shipment?"

  "Isn't it the gold?" I exclaimed.

  "Naught but brass, Watson."

  Blast the man, I thought with a surge of irritation. Whereas I was astonished, Holmes gave no evidence of any surprise at all.

  "We've seen what we need to," he said. "Now I want this place sealed up again before Constable Sindelar and his people arrive."

  As we hastened from the depths of the abandoned tin mine, Holmes passed a cautionary remark to us all. "We've not even been within the mine, mind you. Nor are we interested in it. We have just been guarding three dead bodies until the authorities arrive."