Nick Carter went at once, upon arriving in the city, to the place uptown where Tambourine Jack told him Dick Denton had met Elmer Greer.
The murderer was not there, and, leaving the saloon, the detective took a position near at hand, where he could see everyone that entered.
He had been at his post but an hour when a man, wearing heavy, black whiskers and beard, brushed past him.
The man entered the saloon and Nick Carter quickly followed.
“That disguise don’t baffle me,” the detective thought. “I think I should recognize Elmer Greer if I were to see nothing of him but his eyes.”
Walking up to the bearded gentleman, Nick tapped him on the shoulder, saying:
“I would like to have a few minutes’ conversation with you.”
“I don’t know you, sir,” replied the other; “though I am a stranger in town, I am not to be taken in by any confidence man.”
The detective began to laugh at this, and there was something so familiar in this laugh that the bearded fellow became very nervous.
“I guess you and I have met before,” Nick said, playing with his mouse. “What might your name be at present?”
“None of your infernal business, you bloody cockney!”
“Elmer Greer, you are my prisoner.”
Greer reached for his pistol, but before he could draw it, Nick Carter struck him between the eyes, knocking him down.
In an instant the detective had securely handcuffed his prisoner.
“This is an outrage,” cried Elmer. “What have I done? Are all strangers who come to New York treated like this?”
“Well, no.”
The detective removed his wig and whiskers, saying:
“I guess you will remember seeing me before?”
“Nick Carter!” involuntarily exclaimed Greer.
“Or his ghost,” added Nick. “You thought I was dead.”
Elmer saw that it would be absurd to deny his identity any longer, and he removed the beard that disguised his features.
“I suppose I am good for twenty years?” he said, making a sickly attempt to smile.
“Not quite,” replied Nick; “they hang murderers in this State.”
“Murder!” ejaculated the prisoner. “I do not understand.”
“How about shooting Wilbur Field night before last? If you had but a white robe and a golden harp you might pose as an angel.”
“There is no hope for me,” muttered Greer. “But tell me, how in the name of all things infernal have you learned all this?”
“That you shall never know,” answered Nick; “but I can inform you of one thing, and that is, nothing that you have done since carrying off the banker has escaped me. I charge you with murder, and I have the proof to convict you.”
“I have money—heaps of money.”
“You lie, but if you were to make me a millionaire if I would unlock these handcuffs, they would not be unlocked until you reached a prison cell.”
“I will put you on the track of Hilton Field.”
Nick would have laughed had he not had a little compassion for the now abject and trembling wretch.
He begged, prayed and cursed by turns, but his appeals had no effect.
“Send me to prison for my other crimes,” the rascal cried, beseechingly, “but do not make the charge of murder against me. It is horrible to die.”
“No more so to you than to your victims,” said the detective. “No, I will bring you to the gallows.”
When he left the Tombs, whither he had taken Greer, Nick visited a friend of his, who had a saloon in Center Street, and from him borrowed a bloodhound that had been brought from Cuba, where it had been used in hunting down runaway slaves.
The detective had often fondled the dog, and they were very good friends.
Taking the brute with him, Nick went to Long Island City, and learned that the last train for Little Neck had left, but that he could get one to Flushing, which is about halfway.
At Flushing the detective engaged a horse and carriage, and, taking the dog in the wagon, he drove to the negro settlement near Little Neck.
He awoke the occupant of one of the cottages, and engaged him to care for the horse, since he might be absent until late the next day.
Nick Carter found Sam Cole’s cabin a smoking ruin, and by the small tongues of flame that sprang up only to die away in a second, he saw a figure sitting near the edge of the burning hut.
There was no mistaking the person.
“Tambourine!” the detective cried.
The figure leaped to its feet, and the little fellow was at his side in a moment.
“Who set it on fire?”
“Skip’s bones are in the ruins somewhere; he was dead, but poor Dell Ladley and Dick Denton were burned alive.”
“This is horrible!” exclaimed Nick Carter. “How was it you escaped?”
“I was out of the hut at the time,” answered Tambourine, “or I would have been served like the rest.”
Jack went on to tell him all he had learned of the affair from the incendiaries.
“What did you bring the dog for?” Jack asked, when he had finished his narrative.
“To track the negro, of course,” replied Nick. “Where did you see him last?”
The little fellow led the way into the wood where Dick Denton and Skip Brodie had lost sight of Sam Cole.
At first the bloodhound was puzzled and seemed to have several false scents before, with a deep bay, he rushed away through a part of the forest thickly grown with brush.
It was with difficulty that Nick Carter and his friend made their way through the undergrowth.
The dog was lost sight of, but they were guided by his cries.
Suddenly they ceased and Nick knew the hound had reached the end of the trail.
At a clearing on the side of a steep hill they came face to face with a gigantic negro.
“That’s him,” whispered Jack.
The colored man was bleeding at the throat, where the dog had sunk his fangs, and at his feet lay the brute, dead.
“Was that your dog?” Sam Cole angrily asked, approaching the pair with a large, wooden stake in his hand.
“Yes,” replied Nick Carter, drawing his pistol; “it was.”
Sam saw the weapon glitter in the moonlight and advanced no further.
“He had like to kill me,” the negro said, “and I was obliged to kill him; I am sorry, gentlemen.”
“Look out for him,” whispered Tambourine, “he is a bad one.”
“Are you Sam Cole?”
The detective drew near the fellow as he spoke.
“That’s what they call me hereabouts,” was the answer. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Yes; show me where you have hid the old gentleman you carried away from your cabin,” said Nick.
“Guess you have struck the wrong party, mister. I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Come, now, none of that, if you wish to save yourself from going to prison,” remarked the detective; “I am Nick Carter, of New York, and I know you have this man I am in search of.”
With the hand that held the pistol, the officer threw back his coat to exhibit his badge.
As he did so, Sam Cole threw the stake with unerring aim at him.
It struck Nick full in the breast, keeling him over.
Cole was upon him, and bearing him to the ground, the giant said:
“The police officer has not yet been born who could take me.”
Nick’s pistol fell from his hand when the negro attacked him; Tambourine saw its silver mounting shining in the grass and soon possessed himself of it.
There was a pistol shot; the negro’s grasp relaxed and he rolled over, dead.
For the second time had Tambourine Jack saved his friend’s life.
“See!” cried the little fellow, when the detective arose to his feet, “there is a light yonder.”
The detective saw the light, but before going to it he caught Jack’s hand in his own, saying:
“I hope some day to square accounts as near as possible with you.”
They found that the light came from a fire built in a small cave.
Taking the revolver from Tambourine, the detective entered.
“I tell you, negro, I will pay you well.”
It was Hilton Field’s voice, and Nick Carter instantly recognized it.
In a corner of the cave, tied to a stake driven into the ground, was the banker.
Nick cut the bond and led Mr. Field into the open air.
“Nick Carter!” he exclaimed.
“Yes,” replied the detective, “I have come to take you home.”
That home-coming was joyful, indeed.
The banker clasped his daughter in his arms, weeping from pure happiness.
Still, much remained to be done to break up the gang and punish those already captured.
The work was full of difficulties and entailed many adventures, but eventually Nick succeeded in his task.
The Calhoun woman served a long term in the penitentiary.
Greer was prosecuted on the charge of murdering Wilbur Field, but the jury disagreed. On another indictment he received a long sentence.
Shortly after his return, Hilton Field settled up his affairs and, with his daughters, went to Europe.
While sailing in the Mediterranean one day, a sudden storm arose, and the yacht in which were Field and his children, was capsized. Field alone was saved.
This catastrophe seemed to have dried up the milk of human kindness in Field’s heart. He returned to America, plunged into the vortex of Wall Street, and became known as one of the shrewdest, richest and most unscrupulous operators the “Street” had ever known.
In a few years time he had become one of the richest men in America. He built a palace on Riverside Drive, one of the most beautiful neighborhoods in New York City, retired from active business, and lived in his magnificent home a life of solitary grandeur.
Of the few men who knew him as friends, Nick Carter was one, and although they saw each other infrequently, the feeling of mutual esteem increased with years.
At first, Nick believed that when the scattered members of the gang that had kidnaped him learned of the banker’s return to New York, they would annoy him.
But many years passed without a sign of revenge, and Nick’s anxiety was lulled to sleep.