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Updated: April 30, 2025
O'Neil shook off his mood and began to wonder idly how long it would be before Captain Johnny would be ready for his "nightcap." He always traveled with Johnny Brennan when he could manage it, for the two men were boon companions. O'Neil was wont to live in Johnny's cabin, or on the bridge, and their nightly libation to friendship had come to be a matter of some ceremony.
When he returned to the office it was after 5 o'clock he found it deserted except for Brennan and P. Q. Brennan was squatted on the city editor's desk. P. Q. was leaning back in his swivel chair, his feet perched on the desk before him. "Well, son, how did you enjoy your afternoon in society?" he asked as John handed in the typewritten sheets given him by Mrs. Randolph's secretary.
Not until that time, Captain Wayne, indeed, not until after our experience at Mountain View, did I fully realize that Major Brennan looked upon me otherwise than as a guardian upon his ward. The awakening pained me greatly, especially as I was obliged to disappoint him deeply; yet I seek to retain his friendship, for my memory of his long kindness must ever abide.
"You may talk o' gin and beer, When you're quartered safe out 'ere " he began. "That's enough of that," ordered Brennan, and Benton's chant stopped. The detective raised himself to his knees and held his head high, listening. The roar of a motor being raced as it was switched off came to their ears. "That's them," said the detective. "That was Gibson's signal.
Sergeant Taft, with a shattered arm, was carried off the field by his lieutenant. Brennan, Gray, Prindle, Lawton, Holden and Carlos Bissell lay dead. Cook lay mortally wounded. Lieutenant Banning was crippled for life. John Thompson of Ellington had a bullet hole through his jaws, incapacitating him for further service.
He saw Gibson on his back on the ground, two men kneeling at his side, tearing his shirt from his shoulder. He saw a crimson stain spreading on Gibson's shirt. A few yards away he saw "Red Mike" spilled in a heap, hemmed in by a ring of Gibson's detectives each with a sawed-off shotgun pointed down at him. "Where's that damned photographer?" Brennan demanded.
"He's not about the house; I've looked everywhere," she answered. "He might be in one of the outhouses or stables." "I never thought of that," she exclaimed. "Maybe that's where he is. Oh, the trouble of the wretched old fool! I'll pack him off back to Ireland." She went into the house and Durham turned to Brennan. "Have you ever seen him in the town?" he asked. "Oh, yes, sir.
If one of the young ladies would sit and read to him, but not converse, it would be a service. He made the request himself this morning, and I promised to repeat it. A telegram, however, announced that Sir St. Xavier Brennan would arrive the same evening, and as Sir X. was physician-in-chief to the nuns of the Bleeding Heart, there could be little doubt whose orthodoxy had chosen him.
"If they get near him, he'll shoot them as they come, and they'll destroy every sign of his tracks." "It's done now," Durham exclaimed impatiently. "We'll have to leave them; it's no use going after them now." He turned his horse's head and set off for the township with Brennan at his side and the rest trailing after him.
"We ought to be able to pick up his tracks in the morning, if he doubled back." "Yes, if those fools have not smothered them. I'll see to that. I'll be away with the dawn. Mind you, no one is to know." "You can be sure of that, sir," Brennan answered. In the grey half light which is neither night nor day, Durham saddled his horse in the station yard.
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