CHAPTER XXIX

BOB HEARS INTERESTING NEWS

The old man had been struck in the head with a heavy stick which lay close at hand.

“Hullo, who did this?” cried Bob, as he leaned over the old man.

“Casco, the villain!” gasped old Blake.

“Too bad!” returned the young photographer, kindly. “Let me examine the wound.”

“Catch the rascal first; he has stolen the papers,” cried the old man. “He must not get away with them.”

“Where is he?”

“He went off in that direction.”

Old Blake pointed with his long, bony finger toward one of the other islands. Then he tried to rise, but fell back in a faint in Bob’s arms. By this time Frank had arrived on the scene. He did not know Blake, but he surmised that the old man had been another of Casco’s victims.

“Tend to him, Frank, while I go after Casco,” said Bob. “I’ll whistle if I want you.”

Pistol in hand, the young photographer made his way through the willows and over the rocks until, jumping a shallow spot in the water, he landed on one of the other islands.

A noise ahead told him that Casco was not far off. But as Bob plunged on the sounds suddenly ceased, and all became profoundly silent.

“I’ll bet a hat he has taken to the water again,” said Bob to himself.

Reaching the edge of the second island the young photographer found his surmise correct. There, half-way to the north shore, was Casco in his boat, pulling with all his strength. A minute later Casco reached shore and disappeared from view.

“Gone!” groaned Bob. “And with Frank’s eighteen hundred dollars, too!”

The youth felt almost as bad as if the loss had been his own.

Frank Landes was his dearest friend, and, although the young man was rich, Bob knew the loss of the money would be a sore trial to him.

When the young photographer returned to where he had left Frank and old Blake, he found that his friend had bound up the old man’s forehead with a wet rag torn from his coat sleeve. Blake was as pale as death, and could scarcely move.

Yet he opened his eyes anxiously when Bob approached.

“Did you get ’em?” he asked feebly.

“No.”

“Didn’t you see Casco?” asked Frank.

“Yes. He escaped to the shore.”

Frank’s face fell, and Blake gave a groan.

“The papers, gone!” muttered the old man. “Gone, and Barker promised me five hundred dollars for them!”

“What’s that?” asked Bob, with sudden interest.

“Nothin’,” mumbled Blake, but he eyed the youth in a dreamy, speculative way for a long while after.

Bob and Frank now held a consultation. It was obvious that they could not leave Blake alone. The old man might die if left without somebody to nurse him.

“If you will remain, I will go after Casco,” said Frank. “As soon as I reach shore, I will get somebody to drive me over to Dartinville, and from there I will telegraph to the city for a couple of detectives. This chase has lasted long enough. I will pay a couple of hundred dollars out of my own pocket to run down Casco and his gang.”

Bob agreed to remain behind, and in a minute more Frank was off, poling for the shore as hard as his tired arms would permit.

“Are you in the habit of coming to this island?” asked Bob of Blake, when the old man was able to sit up.

“Sometimes,” was the slow response.

“Is there any sort of shelter here?”

Blake was silent for a moment.

“Why do you ask?” he questioned at length.

“Because if there was I might take you to it and make you comfortable. You are not very comfortable out here on these damp rocks.”

“There is a cave-hut just back of here. Take me to that, please.”

As Blake spoke, a dizziness seemed to come over him, and he closed his eyes. Bob waited until the spell was over, and then half carried, half dragged the old man to the place he had mentioned.

The young photographer found that a large hollow under a shelving rock had been converted into a dwelling-place by having a front of logs built up against it.

There were a door and a window, and, entering the former, Bob discovered a cot, a table, and a couple of chairs, while a number of pans and dishes lay heaped up in a corner.

The youth placed Blake on the cot and made him as comfortable as the conveniences of the cave-hut permitted. Blake pointed to a flask resting on a shelf, and when the youth handed it to him the old man took a deep draught of the liquor it contained.

It appeared to brace him up. The color came back into his face, and presently he sat up.

“So you say Casco got away with those papers?” he said slowly.

“He got away. I know nothing of any papers.”

“He ought to let me have ’em back.”

“What did the papers contain?”

“Never mind.”

“They ought to be pretty valuable if Barker offered you five hundred dollars for them.”

“Who said he did?”

“You did.”

“I was only foolin’. They ain’t worth anything to anybody but me.”

“How long have you known Barker?” went on Bob, seating himself beside the old man.

“Longer than I care to remember.”

“Did you ever know Peter Thompson?”

“Yes.”

“What do you know about my past history?”

The young photographer asked the question boldly, watching Blake intently as he did so.

He saw the old man start up and then fall back.

“Who said I knew anything about your history?” he said, sharply.

“I say so, Blake. Come, you had better tell me all. I am willing to nurse you and see you through, but I want the truth from you, and unless I get it you shall go to prison.”

“No! no!”

“I say yes.”

“But Sarah----”

“You mean your daughter?”

“Do you know her?”

“I know of her.”

“What will Sarah say?”

“I believe she has been at you to turn over a new leaf, Blake.”

“So she has,” and the old man sighed.

“Then why don’t you do it?”

For a long time Blake was silent. Bob could see that he was undergoing a severe mental struggle. At last he heaved a long sigh.

“I will tell you all I know,” he said; “but you must promise to protect me against Barker.”

“I will do that.”

“If he found I had exposed him, he might kill me.”

“It will not be long before Barker is in prison, and the others with him.”

“That’s where they ought to be.”

“But tell me what you know,” went on Bob, impatiently.

“I first met Barker about ten or twelve years ago,” began old Blake.

“Where?”

“At the house of Robert Perry, your uncle, in Buffalo.”

“Robert Perry; is he still alive?”

“No; he died shortly after Barker came there.”

“Who is my father?”

“He was Thomas Perry, Robert’s brother. He was a captain in the United States Army, and he was killed in an Indian raid in the Black Hills.”

“And my mother?”

“I don’t know anything of her. Your father met her out West and married. When he was killed, you, a mere baby, was sent to your uncle’s home. The report was that your mother was also killed by the Indians; but your uncle could never learn the exact truth of that statement.”

“Then she may be alive?”

“Yes. I believe Barker knows for certain.”