Chapter XLV: The Man of Mystery

With an apology to the man whom he could have sworn was Jack Weeden, Nick once more fought his way through the excited crowd.

He went back to see what had become of Harry Block, the farmer. The wagon and its two occupants were gone.

Nick was inclined to be angry, but after a moment laughed, and said:

“Well, the fellow saved my life, and, besides that, I can pick him up at almost any time.”

All round him was the scene of conflict.

Suddenly a bloodcurdling yell was heard. The mob, angry at being robbed of its prey, had turned on the policemen that were in the center and a terrific struggle was on.

The police were using their clubs to clear a passage that they might take the prisoner they had to the patrol wagon that was waiting for them at the corner.

The prisoner that they had was the man that had shot his wife.

The poor wretch was bleeding from a dozen different wounds that he had received at the hands of the mob. His hat had been torn from his head and his clothes were in shreds.

The man was crouching in terror by the side of the brave officers that were endeavoring to protect him from the savage onslaughts of the crowd that was intent on taking his life.

Nick saw that something must be done at once, or the policemen, as well as their prisoner, would be crushed to death under the heels of the infuriated crowd.

“Down with the police!” yelled a woman, from a point of vantage on the sidewalk. “They are protecting a murderer!”

A volley of paving stones followed this advice.

More than one brave policeman fell senseless to the ground.

Nick was enraged beyond measure when he saw one great, burly ruffian draw a revolver from his pocket and point it at the head of the officer who was nearest to him. Before Nick had a chance to dash the weapon from his hand, he had fired, and the officer fell to the ground a corpse.

The sight seemed to give Nick the strength of a dozen men.

He threw men right and left, until he reached the place where the man stood, the smoking revolver in his hand.

Nick grabbed him by the throat.

The man grew black in the face, and vainly gasped for breath.

Seeing that two other men were coming to the rescue of the man that he held, Nick raised him clear of the ground and hurled him at the oncoming men.

The men dodged, and the fellow struck, headfirst, against a pile of stones that lay on the side of the street.

His skull was fractured.

This served to awe the crowd, but only for a moment. They returned to the attack with greater fierceness than before.

It seemed as if all the officers and Nick would be ground to death under the heels of the maddened throng.

“Heavens! Cannot something be done to stop this hellish work?” cried Nick.

“Since you are so powerful, why don’t you do it yourself?” said a mocking voice at his elbow.

It was the voice of Jack Weeden.

Nick turned, and saw before him the face of Wright, the man he had taken for Jack Weeden but a short time before.

“I am not mistaken,” thought Nick. “That man is Jack Weeden, and I shall take him dead or alive.

“You dog,” he cried, “you are Jack Weeden, and you are my prisoner!”

He made a step forward and clutched at the man’s throat.

As he did so, he was struck on the head with a blackjack in the hands of a man that stood at the side of the automobile repairer.

The man who struck the blow was Billy Young, the companion of Jack Weeden.

Nick sank to the ground insensible.