Dave Porter and His Double: or, The Disapperarance of the Basswood Fortune

Dave hated to give up the chase, so he continued his way along the bridge, making sure, however, of every step and jump he took. Roger remained where he was, too shaken up to proceed farther when he knew that each step would prove more hazardous than the last.

At last Ward Porton gained a point where one of the foundations of the bridge rested on comparatively solid ground, with the river behind and a wide stretch of marshland ahead. Here there was a long ladder used by the workmen, and down this the rascal went as fast as his feet could carry him. By the time Dave reached the top of the ladder, Porton was well on his way over the solid ground. Soon the gathering darkness hid him from view.

Knowing that it would be next to useless to attempt to follow the rascal now that he had left the vicinity of the bridge, Dave returned to where he had left Roger. Then the pair started slowly back to the end of the bridge from which they had come.

“I can’t understand what brought Ward Porton here,” remarked Roger, when the chums had once more gained the swimming-place. “Do you suppose he knew you were in this vicinity, Dave?”

“Possibly, Roger. But at the same time, I don’t think that would explain his presence here. He wouldn’t dare to impersonate me around this camp. He’d be sure to be caught at it sooner or later.”

“Well, I don’t understand it at all.”

“Neither do I. I am sorry that we didn’t catch the rascal,” returned Dave, soberly.

When they went back into camp they informed Frank Andrews, and also Mr. Obray, of what had occurred. These men had already heard some of the particulars regarding Dave’s double and the disappearance of the Basswood fortune.

“Too bad you didn’t get him,” said Frank Andrews. “But you be careful how you run over that unfinished bridge, unless you want to have a nasty fall and either get killed or else crippled for life.”

Several days went by, including Sunday, and nothing more was seen or heard of Ward Porton although the lads made a thorough search for him. Dave sent letters home and to Ben Basswood, telling the folks in Crumville of what had happened.

“A little greaser to see you, Dave,” remarked one of the civil engineers as Dave was coming from an unusually difficult afternoon’s work.

He walked to where his fellow worker had pointed, and there saw a dirty, unkempt Mexican lad standing with a letter in his hand. The communication was addressed to Dave, and, opening it, he read the following:

“I have broken with Tim Crapsey and have the Basswood miniatures here with me safely in Mexico. If the Basswoods will pay me ten thousand dollars in cash they can have the pictures back. Otherwise I am going to destroy them. I will give them two weeks in which to make good.

“As you are so close at hand, maybe you can transact the business for Mr. Basswood. When you are ready to open negotiations, send a letter to the Bilassa camp, across the border, and I will get it.

    “Ward Porton.”

CHAPTER XXVII

ACROSS THE RIO GRANDE

Dave read the note from Ward Porton with intense interest, and then passed it over to Roger.

“What do you know about that!” exclaimed the senator’s son, after he had perused the communication. “Do you think Porton tells the truth?”

“I don’t know what to think, Roger. If he does tell the truth, then it is quite likely that Tim Crapsey was trying to play a double game so far as the Basswoods were concerned.”

“It’s pretty clever on Porton’s part,” said Roger, speculatively. “He knows it would be very difficult for us to get hold of him while he is in Mexico, with this revolution going on. And at the same time he is close enough to keep in touch with you, knowing that you can easily transact this business for the Basswoods–providing, of course, that Mr. Basswood is willing.”

Dave did not answer to this, for he was looking around for the Mexican youth who had delivered the note. But the boy had slipped away, and a search of the camp failed to reveal what had become of him.

“I guess he was instructed to sneak away without being seen,” was our hero’s comment. “Porton knew that I wouldn’t be in a position to answer him at once, and he didn’t want me to follow that boy.”

Dave read the note again, and then went off to consult with Frank Andrews and Mr. Obray.

“It’s too bad you didn’t capture that little greaser,” observed the head of the civil engineers. “We might have been able to get some information from him. However, if he’s gone that’s the end of it. I think the best thing you can do, Porter, is to send a night message to this Mr. Basswood, telling him how the note was received and repeating it word for word. Then the responsibility for what may follow will not rest on your shoulders.”

Our hero thought this good advice, and, aided by his chum, he concocted what is familiarly known as a Night Letter, to be sent by telegraph to Crumville.

On the following day came a surprise for our hero in the shape of a short message from Ben Basswood which ran as follows:

“Yours regarding Porton received. Crapsey makes another offer. Pair probably enemies now. Will write or wire instructions later.”

“This is certainly getting interesting,” remarked Dave, after having read the message. He turned it over to Roger. “I guess Ben is right–Crapsey and Porton have fallen out and each is claiming to have the miniatures.”

“Well, one or the other must have them, Dave.”

“Perhaps they divided them, Roger. Thieves often do that sort of thing, you know.”

“Do you suppose Ward Porton is really around that Bilassa camp in Mexico?” went on the senator’s son.

“Probably he is hanging out somewhere in that vicinity. I don’t think he has joined General Bilassa. He thinks too much of his own neck to become a soldier in any revolution.”

Having sent his message to the Basswoods and received Ben’s reply, there seemed nothing further for our hero to do but to wait. He and Roger were very busy helping to survey the route beyond the new Catalco bridge, and in the fascination of this occupation Ward Porton was, for the next few days, almost forgotten.

“If the Basswoods expect you to do anything regarding that note you got from Porton they had better get busy before long,” remarked Roger one evening. “Otherwise Porton may do as he threatened–destroy the pictures.”

“Oh, I don’t believe he’d do anything of that sort, Roger,” answered Dave. “What would be the use? I think he would prefer to hide them somewhere, thinking that some day he would be able to make money out of them.”

Four days after this came a bulky letter from Ben Basswood which Dave and his chum read eagerly. It was as follows:

“I write to let you know that Tim Crapsey has been caught at last. He was traced to New York and then to Newark, N. J., where the police found him in a second-rate hotel. He had been drinking, and confessed that he had had a row with Ward Porton and that one night, when he was under the influence of liquor, Porton had decamped, taking all but two of the miniatures with him. The two miniatures had been sold to a fence in New York City for one hundred dollars, and the police think they can easily get them back. With the hundred dollars Crapsey had evidently gone on a spree, and it was during this that Porton sneaked away with the other miniatures. Crapsey had an idea that Porton was bound for Boston, where he would take a steamer for Europe. But we know he was mistaken.

“The case being as it is, my father, as well as your folks and Mr. Wadsworth, thinks that Porton must have the pictures with him in Mexico. That being the case, your Uncle Dunston says he will come down to Texas at once to see you, and I am to come with him. What will be done in the matter I don’t know, although my father would much rather give up ten thousand dollars than have the miniatures destroyed. If you receive any further word from Ward Porton tell him that I am coming down to negotiate with him. You had better not mention your uncle’s name.”

“Looks as if Porton told the truth after all,” announced Roger. “Probably he watched his opportunity and the first chance he got he decamped and left Crapsey to take care of himself.”

“Most likely, Roger. I don’t believe there is any honor among thieves.”

Ben had not said how soon he and Dunston Porter would arrive. But as they would probably follow the letter the two chums looked for the pair on almost every train. But two days passed, and neither put in an appearance.

“They must have been delayed by something,” was Dave’s comment.

“Maybe they are trying to get that ten thousand dollars together,” suggested Roger.

“I don’t believe my Uncle Dunston will offer Porton any such money right away,” returned our hero. “He’ll see first if he can’t work it so as to capture the rascal.”

On the following morning Roger was sent southward on an errand for Mr. Obray. When he returned he was very much excited.

“Dave, I think I saw Ward Porton again!” he exclaimed, as he rushed up to our hero.

“Where was that?” questioned Dave, quickly.

“Down on that road which leads to the Rio Grande. There was a fellow talking to a ranchman I’ve met several times, a Texan named Lawson. As soon as he saw me he took to his heels. I questioned Lawson about him and he said the fellow had come across the river at a point about a quarter of a mile below here.”

Dave listened to this explanation with interest, and immediately sought out Mr. Obray. The upshot of the talk was that our hero was given permission to leave the camp for the day, taking Roger with him.