A Double Barrelled Detective Story

“Do you mean to insinuate that the child hasn’t been here? I tell you the child has been here! Now if you want to get yourself into as tidy a little fuss as—”

“All right!” sang out Stillman. “Come, everybody, and look at this! It was right under our noses all the time, and we didn’t see it.”

There was a general plunge for the ground at the place where the child was alleged to have rested, and many eyes tried hard and hopefully to see the thing that Archy’s finger was resting upon. There was a pause, then a several-barrelled sigh of disappointment. Pat Riley and Ham Sandwich said, in the one breath,

“What is it, Archy? There’s nothing here.”

“Nothing? Do you call that nothing?” and he swiftly traced upon the ground a form with his finger. “There – don’t you recognize it now? It’s Injun Billy’s track. He’s got the child.”

“God be praised!” from the mother.

“Take away the lantern. I’ve got the direction. Follow!”

He started on a run, racing in and out among the sage-bushes a matter of three hundred yards, and disappeared over a sand-wave; the others struggled after him, caught him up, and found him waiting. Ten steps away was a little wickieup, a dim and formless shelter of rags and old horse-blankets, a dull light showing through its chinks.

“You lead, Mrs. Hogan,” said the lad. “It’s your privilege to be first.”

All followed the sprint she made for the wickieup, and saw, with her, the picture its interior afforded. Injun Billy was sitting on the ground; the child was asleep beside him. The mother hugged it with a wild embrace, which included Archy Stillman, the grateful tears running down her face, and in a choked and broken voice she poured out a golden stream of that wealth of worshiping endearments which has its home in full richness nowhere but in the Irish heart.

“I find her bymeby it is ten o’clock,” Billy explained. “She ’sleep out yonder, ve’y tired – face wet, been cryin’, ’spose; fetch her home, feed her, she heap much hungry – go ’sleep ’gin.”

In her limitless gratitude the happy mother waived rank and hugged him too, calling him “the angel of God in disguise.” And he probably was in disguise if he was that kind of an official. He was dressed for the character.

At half past one in the morning the procession burst into the village singing, “When Johnny Comes Marching Home,” waving its lanterns, and swallowing the drinks that were brought out all along its course. It concentrated at the tavern, and made a night of what was left of the morning.

PART II

I

The next afternoon the village was electrified with an immense sensation. A grave and dignified foreigner of distinguished bearing and appearance had arrived at the tavern, and entered this formidable name upon the register:

Sherlock Holmes.

The news buzzed from cabin to cabin, from claim to claim; tools were dropped, and the town swarmed toward the center of interest. A man passing out at the northern end of the village shouted it to Pat Riley, whose claim was the next one to Flint Buckner’s. At that time Fetlock Jones seemed to turn sick. He muttered to himself,

“Uncle Sherlock! The mean luck of it! – that he should come just when….” He dropped into a reverie, and presently said to himself: “But what’s the use of being afraid of him? Anybody that knows him the way I do knows he can’t detect a crime except where he plans it all out beforehand and arranges the clues and hires some fellow to commit it according to instructions…. Now there ain’t going to be any clues this time – so, what show has he got? None at all. No, sir; everything’s ready. If I was to risk putting it off…. No, I won’t run any risk like that. Flint Buckner goes out of this world to-night, for sure.” Then another trouble presented itself. “Uncle Sherlock ’ll be wanting to talk home matters with me this evening, and how am I going to get rid of him? for I’ve got to be at my cabin a minute or two about eight o’clock.” This was an awkward matter, and cost him much thought. But he found a way to beat the difficulty. “We’ll go for a walk, and I’ll leave him in the road a minute, so that he won’t see what it is I do: the best way to throw a detective off the track, anyway, is to have him along when you are preparing the thing. Yes, that’s the safest – I’ll take him with me.”

Meantime the road in front of the tavern was blocked with villagers waiting and hoping for a glimpse of the great man. But he kept his room, and did not appear. None but Ferguson, Jake Parker the blacksmith, and Ham Sandwich had any luck. These enthusiastic admirers of the great scientific detective hired the tavern’s detained-baggage lockup, which looked into the detective’s room across a little alleyway ten or twelve feet wide, ambushed themselves in it, and cut some peep-holes in the window-blind. Mr. Holmes’s blinds were down; but by-and-by he raised them. It gave the spies a hair-lifting but pleasurable thrill to find themselves face to face with the Extraordinary Man who had filled the world with the fame of his more than human ingenuities. There he sat – not a myth, not a shadow, but real, alive, compact of substance, and almost within touching distance with the hand.

“Look at that head!” said Ferguson, in an awed voice. “By gracious! that’s a head!”

“You bet!” said the blacksmith, with deep reverence. “Look at his nose! look at his eyes! Intellect? Just a battery of it!”

“And that paleness,” said Ham Sandwich. “Comes from thought – that’s what it comes from. Hell! duffers like us don’t know what real thought is.”

“No more we don’t,” said Ferguson. “What we take for thinking is just blubber-and-slush.”

“Right you are, Wells-Fargo. And look at that frown – that’s deep thinking – away down, down, forty fathom into the bowels of things. He’s on the track of something.”

“Well, he is, and don’t you forget it. Say – look at that awful gravity – look at that pallid solemness – there ain’t any corpse can lay over it.”

“No, sir, not for dollars! And it’s his’n by hereditary rights, too; he’s been dead four times a’ready, and there’s history for it. Three times natural, once by accident. I’ve heard say he smells damp and cold, like a grave. And he—”

“’Sh! Watch him! There – he’s got his thumb on the bump on the near corner of his forehead, and his forefinger on the off one. His think-works is just a-grinding now, you bet your other shirt.”

“That’s so. And now he’s gazing up toward heaven and stroking his mustache slow, and—”

“Now he has rose up standing, and is putting his clues together on his left fingers with his right finger. See? he touches the forefinger – now middle finger – now ring-finger—”

“Stuck!”

“Look at him scowl! He can’t seem to make out that clue. So he—”

“See him smile! – like a tiger – and tally off the other fingers like nothing! He’s got it, boys; he’s got it sure!”

“Well, I should say! I’d hate to be in that man’s place that he’s after.”

Mr. Holmes drew a table to the window, sat down with his back to the spies, and proceeded to write. The spies withdrew their eyes from the peep-holes, lit their pipes, and settled themselves for a comfortable smoke and talk. Ferguson said, with conviction,

“Boys, it’s no use talking, he’s a wonder! He’s got the signs of it all over him.”

“You hain’t ever said a truer word than that, Wells-Fargo,” said Jake Parker. “Say, wouldn’t it ‘a’ been nuts if he’d a-been here last night?”

“Oh, by George, but wouldn’t it!” said Ferguson. “Then we’d have seen scientific work. Intellect – just pure intellect – away up on the upper levels, dontchuknow. Archy is all right, and it don’t become anybody to belittle him, I can tell you. But his gift is only just eyesight, sharp as an owl’s, as near as I can make it out just a grand natural animal talent, no more, no less, and prime as far as it goes, but no intellect in it, and for awfulness and marvelousness no more to be compared to what this man does than – than – Why, let me tell you what he’d have done. He’d have stepped over to Hogan’s and glanced – just glanced, that’s all – at the premises, and that’s enough. See everything? Yes, sir, to the last little detail; and he’ll know more about that place than the Hogans would know in seven years. Next, he would sit down on the bunk, just as ca’m, and say to Mrs. Hogan – Say, Ham, consider that you are Mrs. Hogan. I’ll ask the questions; you answer them.”

“All right; go on.”

“’Madam, if you please – attention – do not let your mind wander. Now, then – sex of the child?’

“‘Female, your Honor.’

“‘Um – female. Very good, very good. Age?’

“‘Turned six, your Honor.’

“’Um – young, weak – two miles. Weariness will overtake it then. It will sink down and sleep. We shall find it two miles away, or less. Teeth?’

“‘Five, your Honor, and one a-coming.’

“‘Very good, very good, very good, indeed.’ You see, boys, he knows a clue when he sees it, when it wouldn’t mean a dern thing to anybody else. ‘Stockings, madam? Shoes?’

“‘Yes, your Honor – both.’

“‘Yarn, perhaps? Morocco?’

“‘Yarn, your Honor. And kip.’

“’Um – kip. This complicates the matter. However, let it go – we shall manage. Religion?’