the door they had forced, no doubt seeking to delay the discovery of their thievery.
Holmes swung Mystique to his left.
'Take my horse's tail in your hand, Watson, and let us be as silent as possible.'
With some reservations, I secured the end of Mystique's tail in my right hand and, leaning low in the saddle, let Holmes choose our route through the trees. The arrangement was efficient since Holmes had uncanny night vision, which served him well on this occasion as it had many times in the past. My position was an uncomfortable one, but it saved me from being brushed from my saddle by tree branches on at least two occasions.
After a period of swerving round trunks, Holmes drew to a stop. I heard a cautionary 'shush' from him, and then he was out of his saddle. Passing Mystique's reins to me, he was gone into Stygian darkness, for the trees blocked out the high-flying moon. My heart was pounding, half in reaction to what had been and half in anticipation of what was to come, and I cannot say how long he was gone. Suddenly I was conscious of another presence and felt Holmes retrieve his horse's bridle. I could make out his form dimly now, and he patted Mystique encouragingly on the muzzle, then took Fandango by the bit and led both animals in what I assumed was the general direction of Litchfleld, though my directional sense was nonexistent at this point.
After another short period, we came out of the woods. Standing by Fandango's forequarters, my friend posed a question.
'Is this the lane you referred to?'
In the added light of the clearing, I looked up and down the country road and nodded. 'That path would be . . .'
I suddenly regained my confidence. A little light and visibility does have that effect on one.
'Here, I'll show you.'
I urged Fandango forward as Holmes remounted and followed. Hopeful of recognizing landmarks I had noted previously, I kept a sharp eye and even then passed my objective. But the gleam of railroad tracks from the bluff reoriented me and I backtracked to the opening by the roadside and the narrow trail that my mount and I had traversed before. Holmes's hawk-like eyes had been sizing up the situation.
'I may call you 'pathfinder' in the future, Watson.'
Forced by the trail to ride single file, I was unable to dazzle him with a retort, but then I could not think of one either. We had our hands full negotiating our passage, much more treacherous by night, I soon realized.
At last we reached level ground, and the shadows of freight cars dotted the scene. But there was sound as well. A stationary locomotive puffed in readiness, and there was movement and sporadic conversation. I realized that a train was being built up, probably carrying agricultural produce for early morning delivery to the hungry metropolis. Holmes kept us in the shadows, and since we had come from a heavily wooded hillside by a thin and tortuous trail, I had no doubt that our presence was unsuspected. The locomotive suddenly sprang to life, moving backwards, and there was a clang of metal as other freight cars were hooked onto a growing line.
'What is our next move, Holmes?'
'We've gained considerable time, which is fortunate. The Chinese had a delivery wagon on the roadway. With their cargo they are making for here by the branch road you mentioned, and the Sacred Sword will ride into London on the early morning freight whilst they return via the Follonsbee Road. It will mean that Gilligan and Styles are following a dead trail, but no matter.'
Holmes's voice dwindled away and I shot him a quick glance, noting that his brow was furrowed. Then the lines disappeared and he was looking at me with that boyish half-smile.
'Merely anticipating, Watson. Do keep an eye cocked for the delivery wagon, like a good chap.'
Again he dropped from the saddle and glided swiftly across the open ground towards the small building that seemed the nerve center of the junction. His movements reminded me of descriptive passages I had read regarding the American Indians' amazing ability to flit from one object to another when engaged in a stealthy approach.
Fandango gave indications of a whinny and I reached quickly forward, placing the palm of my hand over her nose. Really, that horse was most intelligent, and she curbed her desire to communicate. Then I saw, vaguely, a wagon coming round a bend in the distance. I hastily dismounted, holding both our steeds by their bits in an attempt to keep them silent. Suddenly, Holmes was at my side.
'If you ever wish to incriminate me, Watson, you have me dead to rights, for I have just stolen an object from the Great Eastern Railroad. I note our Chinese are on the scene, so let's get in the saddle once more.'
He was displaying a piece of marking chalk as he spoke, standard equipment with freight handlers. I forestalled Holmes's move towards Mystique.
'Look here, I've been leaping on and off for half the night, Holmes, or so it seems. Would you be kind enough to give me a leg up?'
'Certainly,' he replied, intertwining his long fingers. With one toe in his hand-cradle and his shoulder as a fulcrum, I managed to get astride of Fandango once more. As my friend swung upwards with a grace that was revolting, I saw the moon glisten on his white teeth and realized that he was laughing at me, but his words brought me up short.
'I've said before, Watson, that you occasionally display a pawky humor. I'm not fooled, you know, being convinced you are descended from Attila the Hun himself.' So it is that reputations are born.
With Holmes leading the way, we progressed a distance away from the junction but parallel to the rails that were the feeder to the main line.
'The Chinese have arranged to have their crate placed in one of the freight cars, of that I am sure. This train is carrying naught but foodstuffs, so when the object is removed, it should be readily spotted. However, we shall facilitate the process.'
Holmes had reined to a stop now and was looking back at the junction, and my eyes followed his. The wagon had drawn adjacent to one of the freight cars. Here in the valley the moonlight was quite bright, and I noted that an object about four feet in length was passed from the wagon to one of the railway roustabouts, who took it towards the line of freight cars. I looked at Holmes and realized that he was counting from the engine back.
'The twelfth freight car, Watson,' he said happily.
Of course he was enjoying the whole thing, as he always did. Especially when he managed to keep one step ahead of the opposition.
Now he reined round again and we traveled further towards the main line. Drawing to a halt in the shadow of a clump of small trees, we waited, and then came the methodical and lugubrious chug of the locomotive as it slowly gained momentum with the cars behind it jerking into motion like reluctant children making for school in single file. Every thrust of the steam-driven pistons increased the speed of the metal serpentine, and it was proceeding at a good rate when it passed our place of concealment.
'Hold fast, good Watson,' said Holmes as he broke from the trees, gigging Mystique to a fast gallop. I saw now that he had chosen the location carefully, for it was a stretch where the roadbed was level with the adjacent ground. Without realizing it I was counting cars, and then Holmes swerved his mount in close to the swiftly moving train and, leaning forward and out, he reached with one long arm to chalk an 'X' on the twelfth freight car. Then he guided his mount away from the train and raced for the shelter of the trees.
As the train disappeared round a bend, I rejoined Holmes to find him patting Mystique with all the affection of a highland horseman for his bonny steed.
'Now that the pace of our nocturnal adventures has diminished, you might explain to me what is going on,' I suggested.
'Things are going swimmingly, and now we shall make our way to Litchfield. This freight makes frequent stops along the line. We can catch the one o'clock flyer from Litchfield and reach London before it. I assume we can follow the rails to the rural hamlet.'
'I've done so.'
'Capital! Upon arrival, you make for the station and secure tickets. I will roust the cable-office attendant, for a message must precede us to London. A message to Deets will not be amiss if only to locate his horses for him.'
Not long thereafter, I lowered myself gingerly into the seat of our compartment on the morning flyer with a deep sigh of relief. Stretching my aching legs, I mentally forced strained and knotted muscles to relax. There was the familiar click of wheel on rail and trestle. At last we were headed back to London, far more suitable surroundings for two staid, middle-aged bachelors, one of whom was intent on a steaming tub positively alive with Epsom Salts. Holmes had been right, of course, about the schedule of the flyer now hurtling through a countryside
