Between Little Neck and Great Neck, Long Island, is a small settlement of negroes, who make a living by fishing and doing occasional work for neighboring farmers.
At this point Long Island Sound is widest.
This was the place where Skip Brodie and Dick Denton took their captive.
Dick was well acquainted in this section, having been raised on the north side of the island.
“I am afraid to trust those niggers,” said Brodie, when they reached their boat.
“The fellow I intend to go to is all right,” replied Dick; “and there is no danger of others seeing us, because he lives in the woods, half a mile back of the settlement. I will go and bring him here.”
Denton had not been gone long when he returned with a gigantic colored man, whom he introduced to his pal as Sam Cole.
It was dark, and Skip could not make out the fellow’s features.
Sam led them, by a roundabout way, to his hut, a miserable affair, not suitable for cattle, much less for human beings.
Hilton Field followed in silence; indeed, he had not once opened his mouth to speak since leaving the house of his inhuman son.
“You are hungry, I suppose?” the negro said, stirring up the fire. “I can give you some eels; how will they do?”
“Anything will do, Sam,” replied Denton. “Got anything to drink?”
Cole answered by placing a large, black bottle and several glasses on a rickety table that occupied nearly half the cabin.
Dick filled out a glass for the prisoner, and Mr. Field, who was chilled to the marrow, drank the stuff, although it was of the vilest.
After supper Denton and the negro went outside, and when they returned Sam carried a small ladder, which he placed at an opening in the ceiling.
“Climb up, old man,” said Dick, pushing the banker toward the ladder.
Hilton Field did not resist; he was as obedient as a child now that his courage had forsaken him.
When the captive reached the garret, Sam removed the ladder.
“You know,” remarked Skip, “or, at least, I suppose Dick has told you, that this business must be kept secret.”
“This coon don’t blab when he is treated right. Mister Denton knows what I am. It wasn’t to-day or yesterday that we became acquainted.”
“You may depend upon him, Skip!” said Denton, as he took a five-dollar bill from his pocket and threw it upon the table; “Sam, go and get a couple of bottles of whisky.”
When the negro had left, the precious pair had a long conference, which ended in the adoption of a plan.
Dick Denton was to go to New York the next day and see Elmer, and if he did not give the money he had promised, they determined to open negotiations with the banker’s family.
They felt sure the reward would be paid, but it would be dangerous for them to make approaches openly.
The negro brought nearly a gallon of liquor, and, when the three men retired, they were intoxicated. Dick was up at daybreak, and, after awakening his pal, started for New York.
In the morning paper, which he purchased on the cars, he read of the murder of Smith in the Tombs and of the killing of Wilbur at the “Cat and Kittens.”
It was to that place he intended to go to look for Greer, but he was afraid to go near the saloon now, knowing that detectives would be watching it.
He knew of another place where Elmer frequently visited, in Commerce Street, and he made his way thither, going zigzag across town through quiet streets.
Dick was in luck.
He met Greer going into the place, and they went in together.
“I suppose you know what I want?” said Denton.
“Money, I should say.”
“Yes, you have hit the mark,” remarked Dick. “Skip told me not to come back without it.”
“Nice fellow, Skip!”
“What do you mean?”
“That you and he may get out for all I care,” replied Greer; “I have no money for you.”
“Skip told me to say,” added Denton, “that if you didn’t pony up we would do a little business with the banker’s family.”
“Better go and see that member of it who is lying dead at the ‘Cat and Kittens.’ Perhaps you could make an arrangement with him.”
“This is not a joke, Skip, and I mean it.”
“I am very sorry, deuced sorry; I am also sorry that I won’t have the pleasure of your charming society for some little while.”
“Are you going away?” Denton asked.
“Yes; for the good of my health.”
Elmer made a significant gesture, that of slipping a noose about his neck.
“Then it was you that finished Wilbur?”
“He would have ended me if I didn’t,” replied Greer, “and as one of us had to die, I preferred it should be him.”
“Well, you leave us in a nice hole.”
“Climb out of it. I can’t help you; everything has gone to smash, but not through any fault of mine.”
“I wish I never had had anything to do with the business,” said Denton. “Look what we have gone through and for what, five hundred dollars a piece—Skip without getting anything. I would advise you to keep out of his way.”
Greer laughed and said:
“We won’t meet in a hurry. Do anything you like with Hilton Field; kill him if you choose, I don’t care. If Smith had not been a fool and literally given himself to Nick Carter, all hands would be rolling in wealth. Good-day; tell Skip I was asking for him.”
Elmer turned on his heel and left the place.
“Well, if that ain’t rather cool,” muttered Dick. “If Skip was here he would serve him as he did Rusty Owens. What a herd of asses we were to be taken in by that fellow.”
Mr. Denton’s feelings quite overcame him, and as a means of soothing them he had recourse to the bottle.
He was in a state of blind intoxication when he reached the ferry at Thirty-fourth Street of the Long Island Railroad.
Dick had an hour and a half to wait for a train to Little Neck—few trains running to that point in the winter—and he strolled into a den kept by Jack Shea.
After condoling with the barmaid over the unhappy fate that had overtaken the proprietor, Denton settled himself in a chair for a nap.
“Mr. Carter!”
The detective was standing in front of police headquarters, and turning around, he saw Tambourine Jack at his elbow.
The little fellow was puffing and blowing like a steam engine; it was a cold day, but the perspiration rolled down Jack’s checks.
When he caught his breath, Tambourine said:
“Come—Dick Denton.”
“What do you mean?” asked Nick Carter, catching Tambourine by the arm, he having started to run off.
“Dick Denton is down in Shea’s place,” Tambourine replied. “I went in there and saw him asleep in a chair, and the barmaid told me he was going down on the island.”
“Sands Point, I suppose?”
“No; he told her Little Neck.”
Nick was still gotten up as a loud Englishman, and, not fearing that his disguise would be penetrated, he went boldly into Shea’s den while Tambourine Jack waited for him outside.
Denton was still there, sleeping off the effects of the liquor he had consumed.
After having a drink, and treating the barmaid, the detective went to the station and got a time-table.
Dick had missed the train he intended to take and there was but one more that day, which left at eleven o’clock in the night.
Leaving Tambourine behind him, Nick Carter crossed over to Long Island City and loafed about until it was time to take the train.
He saw Dick Denton get aboard, and he was somewhat surprised to see him accompanied by Tambourine Jack and the wonderful Crackers.
When the pair alighted at Little Neck, they took to the woods, but the detective never lost sight of them until they entered Sam Cole’s cabin.
Nick crept close to the hut, and through a chink in the side he was able to see anything that might take place inside.
Upon the floor lay Skip Brodie, tied hand and foot, cursing and roaring like a madman.
His pal cut the bonds, and, springing to his feet, Brodie dashed out of the cabin and ran through the woods like a deer, closely pressed by Denton.
What could it all mean?
Nick Carter called on them to stop, at the same time sending several bullets after them, none of which seemed to take effect.
He tried to follow, but before going a hundred yards, the detective’s head began to pain him, and he was obliged to give up the chase.
Returning to the cabin, Nick boldly entered, but he found no one there but Tambourine Jack, and the little fellow seemed to be almost as much bewildered as himself.
“This beats Banhager, and Banhager beats all,” said Jack. “If this isn’t a pretty go, call me a liar.”
“I don’t understand it,” exclaimed the detective. “Where can Hilton Field be? Surely they have not killed him?”
“He’s missing,” responded Tambourine. “Gone off with a coon.”
“Do you know anything about it?” Nick asked.
“A little, very little,” answered Jack. “This here ranch belongs to a fellow who struggles along under the name of Sam Cole; Dick told me that coming up in the cars.”
“Come down to the present; where is the banker?”
“How should I know?” said the little fellow; “one thing certain, our two friends that took themselves off in such a hurry don’t know either.”
“He certainly has not made his escape.”
“Well, I rather think not.”
“And Brodie was tied hand and foot. Did he say who did it?”
“Yes, didn’t I tell you that before?” inquired Jack; “this culled person got Skip drunk, and when he awoke, he found himself tied up like a parcel of dry goods; Mr. Cole was standing in the door, arm in arm with the ole bloke. I should have liked to be here, just to listen to Skip saying his prayers at that time. Look, there is some one at the window; ’tis a coon.”
Tambourine Jack pointed excitedly at the only window the cabin possessed.
Nick Carter saw the man’s eyes, and, drawing his pistol, he left the hut, followed by the little fellow.
They searched the clearing surrounding the cabin without catching a glimpse of the negro.
The ground seemed to have opened and swallowed him.