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Updated: June 15, 2025
Why speak of him?" "It is a good story," replied Portnoff with a laugh, "but not pleasant for Sprink to tell. It appears he was negotiating with Mr. French, suggesting a partnership in the mine, but Mr. French kicked him out. It was amusing to hear Sprink tell the tale with many oaths and curses. He loves not French any more." "Bah!" said Malkarski, "the rest of the tale I heard.
Among the first who offered their services was old Portnoff and a friend of his, an old man with ragged beard, and deep-set, piercing eyes looking out from under shaggy brows, to whom Portnoff gave the name of Malkarski. As Portnoff seemed to be a man of influence among his people, Rosenblatt made him foreman over one of the gangs of workmen in his employ.
In order to remove suspicion from him, Rosenblatt was to appear during the early evening in a railway camp some distance away. The plot was so conceived and the details so arranged that no suspicion could attach to the guilty parties. "And now," said Malkarski, "rush to Wakota, where I know Mr. French and Kalman are to be to-day.
It was toward the end of the third week which followed French's return that Portnoff and Malkarski were sitting late over their pipes and beer. The shack was illumined with half a dozen candles placed here and there on shelves attached to the walls. The two men were deep in earnest conversation. At length Portnoff rose and began to pace the little room.
An hour later found Malkarski, pale and breathless, at the door of Portnoff's cabin, unable to recover his speech till Portnoff had primed him with a mug of Sprink's best whiskey. "What is it, my brother?" cried Portnoff, alarmed at his condition. "What is it?" "A plot!" gasped Malkarski, "a most damnable plot! Give me another drink."
At a little distance was Malkarski, or Kalmar, as he must be called, and where the cabin had been a great hole, and at some distance from it a charred and blackened shape of a man writhing in agony, the clothes still burning upon him. Brown rushed down to the Creek, and with a hatful of water extinguished the burning clothes. "Water! water!" gasped the wretch faintly.
On the railroad line many accidents occur. Let us not spoil all by undue haste." "It is your day to watch to-morrow, Malkarski," said Portnoff. "I shall keep watch to-morrow," said Malkarski. "After all, it is joy to look on his face and think how it will appear when we have done our work." He rose and paced the floor, his deep-set eyes gleaming like live coals in his haggard old face.
He was speaking to Rosenblatt, whose head could be seen thrust far out of the window. "Who is that man?" cried the Sergeant. "Mother of God!" said old Portnoff in a low voice. "It is Malkarski. Listen." "Rosenblatt," cried the old man in the Russian tongue, "I have something to say to you.
Those bags of gunpowder, that dynamite with which you were to destroy two innocent men, are now piled under your cabin, and this train at my feet will fire them." With a shriek Rosenblatt disappeared, and they could hear him battering at the door. Old Malkarski laughed a wild, unearthly laugh. "Rosenblatt," he cried again, "the door is securely fastened! Three stout locks will hold it closed."
Shriek after shriek from the wretched victim seemed to pierce the ears of the listeners as with sharp stabs of pain. "Rosenblatt," cried old Malkarski, putting up his hand, "you know me now?" "No! no!" shrieked Rosenblatt. "Mercy! mercy! quick! quick! I know you not." The old man drew himself up to a figure straight and tall. The years seemed to fall from him.
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