"I'm the 'Chicken'; they know me around Chicago, if they don't here. Maybe you've heard of me; but it don't make any difference whether you have or not. I'm the Chicken, all right; and it's Chick for short." Chick did not so much as move an eyelash while he made this retort; but his questioner was plainly affected.
"The Chicken!" he exclaimed. "The Chicken is dead. We got it straight. Shot by——"
"Shot by a cop, eh? That's the story, and it goes, all right. Only it happens that it wasn't the Chicken as was shot; cause why? The Chicken is here."
"Who was it, then?"
"It was a pal of mine. A likely gun he was, too. I jest changed hats with him when he slid under. The rest of the clothes didn't make no difference. They thought he was the Chicken—and it didn't hurt him any to have 'em think so, while it helped me a lot."
"All right, Chicken," said Handsome, extending his hand a second time. "I know about you. You're all right. Who are these other two?"
"Search me, Handsome. I reckon we're all strangers."
Handsome turned to Ten-Ichi.
"What's your handle, covey?" he growled.
Ten-Ichi's answer was a peal of demoniac laughter; and he laughed on and on interminably, slapping his thighs and flinging his arms around him after the manner of a man who is warming himself, until the faces of the others around him developed broad grins—and until the man who called himself Handsome brought him to with a sudden thrust of his arm which nearly took the breath out of the lad.
"What's eatin' you, you loon?" he demanded.
"I was laughing," replied Ten-Ichi, now as solemn as an owl.
"You don't say so! Were you? What at?"
"You. It is so funny that you should be called Handsome."
Handsome grinned with the others.
"Well," he said. "What's your name? Out with it!"
"I'm Tenstrike—Ten, for short. That's what."
"All right, Ten; you pass. You're harmless, I guess—unless you let out that laugh of yours at the wrong time. I would advise you not to do that. And you?" He turned now to Patsy, with a sudden whirl of his body. "You were the first of this bunch to get here. Who are you?"
"Sure," said Patsy, with a slow drawl, "I'm an Irishman, and me name doesn't matter to you. It's enough that they call me Pat. If ye don't happen to like it, sure you can call me Tim, or Mike, or Shamus, or any old thing that suits ye. And what am I here for, is it? Sure, I'm on a still hunt for a man I want to find. Mebby ye're after knowin' him."
"Maybe I am. Who is he?"
"Faith, I wish I knowed that. He calls himself Hobo Harry—that same!"
A dead silence followed upon this unlooked-for announcement. The boldness of it surprised Nick, startled Chick, and frightened Ten-Ichi, lest unpleasant results should come of it. But it was evident that Patsy knew his ground, and had prepared for this very moment, for he was cool and smiling, and he appeared to enjoy hugely the effect that his words had had upon the others.
It was Handsome who finally broke the silence that ensued; and he replied:
"That's a name, Pat—if that's your own handle—which isn't spoken lightly around these parts. What do you want with him?"
"By your l'ave, mister, I'll tell that to him when I find him. In the meantime, if youse be afther mindin' yere own business, it wouldn't hurrt ye any. Ye seem to be making of yerself a sort of highcockalorum elegantarium bosski. If ye tell me that ye know Hobo Harry, an' will take me to him, so's I can tell me story to him, mebby I'll answer ye; but not unless."
Again there was silence; and this time it was Nick who brought it to an end.
"Handsome," he said sharply, "who's this other bunch? What I want to know is, are they wid you?"
"They are," was the quick reply. Then he wheeled quickly to Patsy again, and added:
"Come with me—you—if you want to see the chief. I'll take you to him. The rest of you can wait where you are."
CHAPTER IV.
THE OUTLAW'S HOME.
A dead silence reigned around that camp fire for several moments after the two departed; but then the seven strangers who were left seated themselves in various attitudes, filled their pipes—or lit the stubs of half-smoked cigars, produced from their pockets; and after that, little by little, conversation was indulged in.
The night was warm and balmy. There was no reason why any of them should seek other shelter than the boughs of the trees which already covered them; but Nick knew from the manner in which Handsome had left them that he expected to return, and that there was some other place near by to which he intended to take them—if the chief should say the word. And he saw now that Patsy, by rare forethought, had prepared for that very emergency.
More than an hour had passed before Handsome made his appearance again; and then he loomed suddenly beside the camp fire, as silently and as stealthily as an Indian. Even Nick Carter, who was on the alert for his approach, did not hear him coming.
"I'll take you now!" he said briefly to Nick. "The others can wait."
Without a word more he turned away again, and Nick, leaping to his feet, followed him in silence through the darkness.
The night was almost black in there among the trees, although the moon was shining above them; but nevertheless Nick had no difficulty in following his guide.
They made directly for the railway tracks, and crossed the fence that intervened; but when they reached the top of the grade, Nick's guide halted and faced him.
"You said you are Dago John," he said slowly. "Who might Dago John be, pard?"
"They call me Dago John because I look like an Italian, I suppose, although I am not one," replied the detective. "But I try to carry out the idea. If you have worked your way through the South at all, maybe you've heard of Sheeny John. It will do as well as Dago John. A name doesn't make much difference."
"It makes a sight of difference here, my friend. What's your lay?"
"Anything that I can turn my hand to—or my brains."
"You have an education?"
"Yes."
"Can you write a good hand?"
"It's my one fault that I can—too good a one."
"Have you looked through
