Archie glanced at him, then asked, 'Have you ever fought, sir? I mean really fought?'
'I could handle them all at school. Don't worry. I can take care of myself.'
'No doubt, sir, but the kind of fighting Tim Oats has done is not like you would do at college. It is quite different, sir.'
Dorian was irritated. Of course it was different, but at school there had been some good fighters, and their training had been of the best. What chance would a common pugilist have against one of them? He said it aloud.
'Begging your pardon, sir, a man such as Oats would whip them all in one evening and never work up a sweat. There is no comparison between an amateur and a professional. And Oats is pretty good. I have seen him fight. I saw him go forty-two rounds with the Yorkshire Swiper.'
' Forty-two rounds?'
The most he had ever done was five rounds - sparring sessions, at that. Sometimes they got pretty heated, but forty-two rounds? By London prize-ring rules a knockdown ended a round, although a fighter could be thrown down or could slip. Even so, forty-two rounds was a lot. It could scarcely be less than an hour, probably more.
Of course, there had been that fight he had with the hostler who was abusing a horse. How long did they fight? It must have been at least thirty minutes, and he had given the hostler, supposedly a tough man, a good beating.
They rode swiftly, clattering down lanes, thundering over bridges. At Elizabeth Town, only a few miles out, they made inquiries. Yes, such a girl had been aboard the stage. Five-feet-two, reddish hair, cute as a button.
The description irritated him. 'Cute' by whose standards? Harry Standish had raved about her when he came back to the table. 'If they grow them like that in the mountains,' he had said, 'I've been living in the wrong place!' But then, Harry was easily impressed.
They changed horses in Middletown and rode swiftly on. Chambersburg was not far ahead. At Chambersburg they arrived as the stage was loading. 'No, sir,' the driver said, 'I ain't seen her since we pulled in. Seemed like somebody picked up her bag by mistake, and she went chasin' after them.' He turned and pointed a finger. 'Right up thataway. They turned the corner, and she after them.'
'Who were they?'
'Little ol' lady and a burly, thickset man in a kind of checked coat. I remember he helped the ol' lady off the stage. I hadn't figured they were together until then. They rode separate.'
Archie swore softly and glanced at Dorian. 'They didn't wait no time at all, Mr. Chantry. They got her bag. They got her money, and maybe they've got her!'
'How long ago?' Dorian asked.
'Three, four hours. I called after her, but she kept a-goin'.' He pointed. 'She left that bag. She opened it, saw what was in it. Nothin' but some ol' carpet. Then she taken out like her skirts was afire!'
Angry and frightened for her, Dorian started up the street. Bounding the corner, he stopped, staring around. It was a long, narrow street with store buildings and barns empty of people. Dust swirled, then lay still.
'Let's move along slow,' Archie suggested. 'Maybe we'll find some clue. Maybe they ducked in somewhere, maybe they kept a-goin'.'
Dorian Chantry pulled up and sat his saddle, surveying the street. 'No use running after shadows,' he suggested. 'We have to think. Where were they going? Suppose they had it planned all along. By the time they got here, Miss Sackett would be tired. That's a long ride and she'd be bounced around a good deal, not much chance for rest. So she would be sleepy. I think they planned it that way.
'The old lady sitting beside Echo Sackett must have been a confederate. Oats was close to the door. He helped the old lady off the stage, taking the carpetbag from her. No doubt they hoped the switch would not be discovered.
'Suppose they figured it all out, Archie. If so, they would have to have a place to go, a place they could reach quickly and where they could stay out of sight until the stage was gone.
'Also, they may have planned what to do in the event the switch was discovered. In any case, they would need a place to hide. If she followed them, and we know she did, they knew it within a few minutes. She has not returned, so two possibilities are left. She is either still following them or she is their prisoner.'
'Or she's been killed,' Archie said. 'It would be that or go to prison. Or maybe knock her on the head and leave her somewhere.'
They walked their horses along the street. 'She might leave some sign,' Archie suggested.
'Why do that? She was alone.'
'She's a Sackett. I've heard your uncle speak of them, and how they always hang together. Seems to me if a Sackett disappeared, somebody would come to find out how. She's got that uncle she spoke of to Mr. Finian, the one named Regal. She'd leave some sign for him. From what Mr. Finian said, those folks needed that money mighty bad. So I think she would leave some sign.'
'If she could, and if she is still alive.'
It was not something he liked to consider. Dorian found himself suddenly worried, thinking of a young girl in the hands of Tim Oats. Or of Horst.
Yet what sign could she leave?
They reached the end of the street without seeing anything. Suddenly Archie pointed. 'There's been a rig standing there! Look at the hoof prints. Must've stood here for an hour or more.'
A buxom woman of perhaps fifty was sweeping the walk. Dorian walked his horse over to her.
'Ma'am?' He removed his hat. 'Have you seen a rig? A horse and buggy, perhaps? I mean during the night? Or toward morning?'
'A rig, is it? Aye, that I did.' She pointed. 'I sleep by the window there, and his stomping and the creakin' of the buggy kept me awake the night long.
'Short of daybreak, though, two people came running up the street and got in, and off they went.'
'Twopeople? You're sure there weren't three?'
'There was another one, a young lady like, but she came after, just as they were pulling away around the corner. She stopped, angry she was. She stamped her foot and said something ... most emphatic it was.'
'What then? Where did she go?'
'Yonder.' She pointed toward a barn with a still-lighted lantern over the door. 'She went yonder. It's a livery stable.
'Only a minute or two it was, and she was out of the stable and riding off after them. I don't know what was happening, but she was most upset, I can tell you that.'
'Thank you, ma'am.'
They sat their horses. 'She's gone after them, then. We'd better catch them.'
'Mister? You ask Pokey Joe at the livery. He can tell you about it. You tell him Martha Reardon sent you.' She paused. 'Is that girl going to get in trouble?'
'I'm afraid so, ma'am. I'm afraid so.'
Chapter 8
Gathering my skirts in one hand, I taken off up the street, but when I rounded the corner they were getting into a rig. This whole thing had been planned, and that team and buggy were just a-settin' there waitin' for them. As I rounded the corner, they got in and it taken off up the street.
Running after it would do no kind of good. A moment I stood there, my heart beating heavy. There went the money we so desperately needed - a mule to help with the farming, a new rifle for Regal, and some fixin's I'd had in mind for myself. All of it was gone because I'd gotten sleepy and didn't think to be suspicious of that little ol' lady.
She had gotten aboard to steal my carpetbag. That man in the houndstooth coat had seen the color of my bag when I got off the stage, so he knew what was needed to make a substitution. Had it been ladylike, I'd have done some cussin'. Then I glimpsed that lantern and the livery sign.
Luckily I'd put some of that gold in my pockets for the necessaries, so when I ran in there and asked for a horse, I slapped a gold piece in that man's hand before he had a chance to argue. Before he could say yes or no, I had me a horse out there and was slipping a bridle on him. That man caught fire and threw a saddle on him and cinched up. Saying I'd return the horse, I taken off after that carriage.
