A Private Chivalry by Francis Lynde

IT is conceivable that Henry Antrim clicked his "O. K. " at the close of the wire talk with Despatcher Disbrow with a lighter heart than he had carried for many a day. Truly, everything still hinged upon the capture of Gasset, but the blessed optimism of youth is always ready to make light of contingencies, and the chief clerk threw himself upon the night operator's bunk to snatch a few hours' rest, little thinking that the conclusion of the whole matter still hung in a balance whose beam would tip as his own energy and presence of mind might decide. And while he slept, the net spread so promptly by the whispering wires was already entangling the murderer.

With the criminal's instinctive distrust of small towns to narrow his choice of a refuge, Gasset had put his fate into the keeping of chance by spinning a coin: heads, to lose himself in the untabulated crowds thronging the streets and byways of Leadville; tails, to drop from the train at some lonely station in the mountains, whence he could make his way on foot to one of the more isolated camps. The chance of the spun coin sent him to Leadville; and when, on the second morning of his sojourn in the carbonate camp, he learned from the newspapers that his bad aim had disposed of an inconvenient accomplice without materially marring his plan of vengeance on Brant, he exulted openly, and from that on went his way without concealment, believing that he had safely outrun his evil hour.

For this cause it came about that the Leadville reduplication of the telegram offering a reward for his arrest was scarcely an hour old when a police officer interrupted a quiet game of cards in a den in lower State Street, laid hands upon the winner, a big-boned man in an ill-fitting suit of dusty black, searched him, and took from him a big revolver with the name "J. Harding" scratched on the butt.

Gasset surrendered at discretion, not suspecting the nature of the charge against him, and, having a due regard for the possibilities of escape, made no resistance which should warrant the use of the handcuffs. So all went amicably until the officer, who was less discreet than his prisoner, told Gasset for what he was wanted. At the naming of the thing the ex-house-breaker caught his breath, set his teeth upon a fiercely growled oath, smote his captor skilfully upon the point of the jaw, and made a wild dash for liberty.

The policeman gave chase courageously, ignoring the broken jaw and firing ever and anon at the dodging fugitive. But Gasset made good his escape, threading the intricacies of alleys and streets in the lower town until, by the time the hue and cry was properly raised, he was free of the houses and skirting the slope of the mountain which overlooks California Gulch. Here he might have rested, but the terror of it was too new upon him. So he pushed on and always on over the bleak mountain side, doubling and twisting on his course, and cursing the snow which at day dawn would point a sure trail for his pursuers to follow. And thus running and stumbling and cursing, he came out finally in the stunted pine _chapparal_ opposite the railway station at Malta.

From this point three ways were open to him. He might turn his face northward toward the new camps beyond Tennessee Pass, avoiding the railroad and trusting to the hospitality of the mountains for succour of bread and meat on the way. He might push westward over one of the passes to the sparsely settled gulches beyond the main range, but this was a still more precarious bread-and-meat hazard. Or, lastly, he might follow the railroad to the eastward, putting the chance of better speed and fewer privations against the greater risk of discovery and capture.

He knew well enough that either of the foot flights would be safer than the alternative; but it was late in the season, and the early snows promised hardships a-plenty. While he was yet weighing these hardships against the perils of the easier route, an east-bound freight train crawling slowly through the Malta yards turned the scale, and dashing swiftly across the tracks he climbed catlike into an empty box car what time the train was gathering headway for the rush down the valley.

At the moment of decision he had no plan more definite than the putting of as great a distance as possible between himself and the scene of his late encounter with the Leadville officer; but by the time the morning sun was gilding the snow-capped peaks of Princeton and Harvard he had hit upon a strategic series of moves which was not less ingenious than it was daring. Knowing that he could not hope to remain undiscovered in the box car after daybreak, he determined to leave the freight train at the first stop, to wait for and board the early east-bound passenger, to ride thereon openly until his identity and ostensible intention were discovered, and then to take the chance of out-witting everybody by doubling back to the westward from the meeting point of the two day trains.

It was a hazardous game to play, with the noose of the hangman at the end of it as a penalty for unsuccess; but he could think of no better. The chief hazards were two: If his identification should come too soon, he would be obliged to leave the east-bound train before it should reach the meeting point, and there would be the desperate risk of waiting at some small station until the west-bound train should arrive. And if it should be delayed until the moment of doubling, he would lose all upon the single throw. But, on the other hand, if the stratagem succeeded, if he should be lucky enough to send the hunt eastward on a false scent, much precious time would be gained and present safety would be fairly well assured.