_ CHAPTER XI. IN THE QUICKSAND
"Halt, or you're a dead man!"
It was a stern command, in a rough voice.
The Bradys paused near some rocks and saw two rifle barrels aimed over the top of them, in the hands of two masked men.
Hearing the voice, Johnson had come to a sudden stop and glanced around.
Just as the detectives were about to reach for the revolvers they carried, the same rough voice sang out, quickly:
"Hands up!"
The sharp click of the rifle hammers followed.
It would have been sheer folly to disobey that command, for the masked men had a bead drawn on the officers.
In that lonely place no one would know they got killed.
They felt chagrined over the careless way in which they walked right into the ambuscade, and raised their hands.
"Goldurn yer!" cried Old King Brady. "What on airth dew yer mean by holdin' up a feller citizen this way?"
One of the masked men emerged from behind the rocks.
He was nicely clad, wore a big felt hat, had long hair hanging down on his shoulders and a brown mustache on his upper lip.
This man looked like a southern planter.
A hideous half mask of black hid the upper half of his face and the Winchester he carried was aimed at the officers.
He intently studied Old King Brady's face a few moments, then asked:
"What were you skulking along after that negro for?"
The moment the officers heard his voice they recognized him, despite his disguise, as Ronald Mason.
Affecting an indignant air, Old King Brady growled:
"Goldurn it, who wuz afollerin' that nigger?"
"You were."
"No, we wuzn't!"
"I'll find out about that! Hey, Sim!"
"Am dat yo', Massa Ronald?" cried the coon, running back.
"Yes, and here are two fellows sneaking along on your trail."
"Wha' fo'?" demanded the darky.
"Hanged if I know. Look at them."
"Fo' de Lawd sakes, dey was on de train wif me, sah."
"They were, hey? That's suspicious."
"Oh, go 'long!" said Old King Brady. "Can't a man walk along here without bein' held up like a burglar by you chaps? Gosh durn it, if it's robbery yer up ter, it's mighty little money you'll find on me."
"We ain't thieves."
"Wall, I'm blamed if yer don't look like it."
"Sim, take a good look at those gents and if you happen to find any guns about their clothes just relieve them of them."
"Yassah," said the coon.
He got so close to Old King Brady that he suddenly detected the fact that the detective was wearing a wig and false beard.
The cunning negro did not let on what he had seen.
But he suddenly grabbed them and pulled them off the old detective.
It effected a startling change in Old King Brady's appearance, and Mason recognized him at once, and roared furiously:
"I'll be blest if it ain't those cussed detectives again!"
"Lawd amassy!" groaned Sim, all his courage departing, and he made a sudden dash for the swamp and rushed away, spattering up showers of mud and water.
The Bradys swiftly drew their pistols.
It was clear that a fight was imminent.
The man with the rifle pulled the trigger, intending to shoot the old detective, but his weapon missed fire.
"Run!" yelled his companion behind the rocks, and he shot at Harry just as Mason made a dash for shelter.
A bullet whistled by dangerously close to Young King Brady's cheek, and he discharged a shot at the running man.
It carried off his hat.
The next moment the three rascals vanished.
Harry and his partner made an effort to find them, but failed.
All hands had gone plunging among the weeds and shrubbery, and in an instant were swallowed up by the verdure.
"A warm welcome, Harry," said Old King Brady, when they met on the railroad track five minutes later.
"I'm sorry Mason caught us shadowing the valet."
"It gave our presence here away, and will put them on their guard."
"Can't be helped. We know Mason is really here, however. He's desperate now, and won't hesitate to murder us if he can, to avoid arrest."
"Who was the other masked man, I wonder?"
"Must be the party who helped him to get the box off the train, and carry the body of Mr. Dalton to the house in the swamp."
"Oh, Mason hadn't a hand in stealing the box from the baggage car. He got off before the cars reached this point of the swamp, I'm sure."
"Then that fellow must have had other helpers, as he could not very well have done the job unaided," said Harry.
"Let us get around to the board walk, and try to reach the hut. If they are heading for that building, we can meet them there."
"Here's a quicker way," said the boy, pointing at a boat.
It was a crude affair, half hidden in the reeds.
They embarked, and rowed out through the lagoons.
The water was mostly quite shallow, but there were places where the detectives could not see bottom.
In a short time they reached the island in the swamp, and, leaping ashore, they ran over to the hut.
One glance inside was enough for them.
"The place is deserted," was Harry's comment.
"Wait for them. We may have headed off the rascals."
"If they saw us coming here, they will shun the place."
"There was no way to conceal our movements."
An hour went by quietly enough.
Not a soul ventured near the place, and Harry grew restless.
He made a circuit of the island, scanning every section of the swamp, and finally returned to his partner, and said:
"We've had our labor for our pains."
"No sign of them, eh?"
"No. Could they have gone to the Dalton residence?"
"More than likely. As Mason is skulking about this neighborhood, he, of course, must be living in the big house."
"Come on over there then."
"Get in the boat. It will save us making a detour of the swamp."
They saw numerous channels by following which they could reach the mainland quite close to the big house.
Gliding slowly over the water, the boat finally touched the shore, and the two detectives debarked and pulled the punt up on the bank.
There were rocks, trees and bushes all around.
As they stood looking for a path, a voice reached their ears, saying:
"Sim, where are you?"
Then the negro answered:
"Near de sho', Massa Ronald."
Old King Brady held up his finger warningly.
"There they are!" he whispered.
Just then Mason's voice was heard again:
"Keep on shouting, Sim, so I can locate you."
"Dis way! Dis way!" cried the darky.
The detectives glided in the direction of the voice, and, passing through the shrubbery, they parted the bushes, and entered a clearing.
A little brook was gushing from the midst of the verdure, and emptied its waters into a shallow pool, the bottom of which was composed of pure white sand.
Pausing on the brink of this pool, the detectives glanced searchingly around, and heard the negro laughing amid the shrubbery.
"He's over there!" said Harry, pointing across the pool.
"Watch a moment, and we may locate him," Old King Brady whispered.
Standing stock still, they listened intently.
In fact, they were so absorbed in looking for the negro that they did not see two men crouching in the bushes close behind them.
They were the two masked fellows who first assailed them.
As stealthily as tigers, they crept from their covert.
When but a few feet separated them from the Bradys, they made a combined rush, with their hands outstretched.
The alert detectives heard them coming, and glanced around.
Before they could defend themselves, however, the on-comers struck them heavily, and knocked the detectives into the pool.
Too late the Bradys realized that the negro had been decoying them purposely to that dangerous place.
For, the moment they fell into the pool, they sank in the sand.
Trying to scramble to their feet, the Bradys found their legs going down in the treacherous sand rapidly.
Then the truth flashed across their minds, and Harry cried:
"By Heavens, they've thrown us into a bed of quick-sand!"
"Try to reach the shore--quick!" panted Old King Brady.
They made the most desperate efforts, but only floundered around helplessly, and each moment got caught more firmly in the deadly sand. _