A Woman at Bay; Or, A Fiend in Skirts. Carter Nicholas
enough to fight me, and man enough to lick me—then you'll know. If not—mind your own affairs, and leave me to attend to mine."
It was a long speech, and the others listened in absolute silence to the end of it. But the instant Nick ceased speaking, the man to whom he had addressed his remarks drew back his arm with a sudden motion, and drove his huge fist forward with the quickness of a cat.
Any other person than Nick Carter might have felt the force of that treacherous blow. Even he might have done so had he not been expecting it, and, therefore, been entirely ready for it.
But the bony fist of the man struck only the empty air, for Nick sidestepped in a manner that would have made Jim Corbett, in his palmiest days, green with envy; and the battering-ram flew past his ear harmlessly.
And then the man who had delivered it, before he could recover from the effect of his own effort, found himself seized in a viselike grip, raised from his feet, and hurled backward straight over the fire, and beyond it, so that he sprawled at full length among the bushes.
He leaped to his feet with a curse, and his hand flew to his hip pocket in search of a weapon; but he did not draw it forth again, for he found himself looking into the muzzle of an ugly-looking forty-four.
"Drop it!" Nick ordered sharply. "I didn't hurt you, when I might have done so easily. Are you satisfied?"
The anger of the man seemed to pass as quickly as it had arisen, and he grinned as he slowly resumed his former position beside the fire.
It was quite true that he was not hurt; it was equally true that he knew that this stranger might have hurt him severely had he chosen to do so, and have been entirely excusable for doing it too.
"All right, pard, you pass," he said. "What's your handle?"
"I'm called Dago John by them as know me. What's yours?"
"Hand—— The guns call me Handsome, by way of shortening it. Shake?"
"Yes," said Nick; and they clasped hands for an instant. Then Handsome added:
"Who might these gazaboes be?"
"Search me, Handsome," growled Nick, resuming his seat, and beginning to refill his pipe. "If they ain't a part of your outfit, they sure ain't a part of mine."
Handsome wheeled upon Chick then.
"Who are you?" he demanded, "and where are you from?"
"I'm the 'Chicken'; they know me around Chicago, if they don't here. Maybe you've heard of me; but it don't make any difference whether you have or not. I'm the Chicken, all right; and it's Chick for short." Chick did not so much as move an eyelash while he made this retort; but his questioner was plainly affected.
"The Chicken!" he exclaimed. "The Chicken is dead. We got it straight. Shot by——"
"Shot by a cop, eh? That's the story, and it goes, all right. Only it happens that it wasn't the Chicken as was shot; cause why? The Chicken is here."
"Who was it, then?"
"It was a pal of mine. A likely gun he was, too. I jest changed hats with him when he slid under. The rest of the clothes didn't make no difference. They thought he was the Chicken—and it didn't hurt him any to have 'em think so, while it helped me a lot."
"All right, Chicken," said Handsome, extending his hand a second time. "I know about you. You're all right. Who are these other two?"
"Search me, Handsome. I reckon we're all strangers."
Handsome turned to Ten-Ichi.
"What's your handle, covey?" he growled.
Ten-Ichi's answer was a peal of demoniac laughter; and he laughed on and on interminably, slapping his thighs and flinging his arms around him after the manner of a man who is warming himself, until the faces of the others around him developed broad grins—and until the man who called himself Handsome brought him to with a sudden thrust of his arm which nearly took the breath out of the lad.
"What's eatin' you, you loon?" he demanded.
"I was laughing," replied Ten-Ichi, now as solemn as an owl.
"You don't say so! Were you? What at?"
"You. It is so funny that you should be called Handsome."
Handsome grinned with the others.
"Well," he said. "What's your name? Out with it!"
"I'm Tenstrike—Ten, for short. That's what."
"All right, Ten; you pass. You're harmless, I guess—unless you let out that laugh of yours at the wrong time. I would advise you not to do that. And you?" He turned now to Patsy, with a sudden whirl of his body. "You were the first of this bunch to get here. Who are you?"
"Sure," said Patsy, with a slow drawl, "I'm an Irishman, and me name doesn't matter to you. It's enough that they call me Pat. If ye don't happen to like it, sure you can call me Tim, or Mike, or Shamus, or any old thing that suits ye. And what am I here for, is it? Sure, I'm on a still hunt for a man I want to find. Mebby ye're after knowin' him."
"Maybe I am. Who is he?"
"Faith, I wish I knowed that. He calls himself Hobo Harry—that same!"
A dead silence followed upon this unlooked-for announcement. The boldness of it surprised Nick, startled Chick, and frightened Ten-Ichi, lest unpleasant results should come of it. But it was evident that Patsy knew his ground, and had prepared for this very moment, for he was cool and smiling, and he appeared to enjoy hugely the effect that his words had had upon the others.
It was Handsome who finally broke the silence that ensued; and he replied:
"That's a name, Pat—if that's your own handle—which isn't spoken lightly around these parts. What do you want with him?"
"By your l'ave, mister, I'll tell that to him when I find him. In the meantime, if youse be afther mindin' yere own business, it wouldn't hurrt ye any. Ye seem to be making of yerself a sort of highcockalorum elegantarium bosski. If ye tell me that ye know Hobo Harry, an' will take me to him, so's I can tell me story to him, mebby I'll answer ye; but not unless."
Again there was silence; and this time it was Nick who brought it to an end.
"Handsome," he said sharply, "who's this other bunch? What I want to know is, are they wid you?"
"They are," was the quick reply. Then he wheeled quickly to Patsy again, and added:
"Come with me—you—if you want to see the chief. I'll take you to him. The rest of you can wait where you are."
CHAPTER IV.
THE OUTLAW'S HOME.
A dead silence reigned around that camp fire for several moments after the two departed; but then the seven strangers who were left seated themselves in various attitudes, filled their pipes—or lit the stubs of half-smoked cigars, produced from their pockets; and after that, little by little, conversation was indulged in.
The night was warm and balmy. There was no reason why any of them should seek other shelter than the boughs of the trees which already covered them; but Nick knew from the manner in which Handsome had left them that he expected to return, and that there was some other place near by to which he intended to take them—if the chief should say the word. And he saw now that Patsy, by rare forethought, had prepared for that very emergency.
More than an hour had passed before Handsome made his appearance again; and then he loomed suddenly