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Updated: April 30, 2025
73, Eaton-terrace, S.W., October 22nd, 1895. I had not much hope that I could influence Mr. McCarthy's decision; but it was so serious an obstacle to further action that I made one more appeal.
"No, wait a moment, Harriet," answered the young woman in charge of the party, "I will ask. Surely the guide should be here to meet us, since Miss McCarthy's father had arranged for it." "You are looking for a guide, Miss?" questioned a voice at her side. Miss Elting, the guardian of the party, glanced up inquiringly. She looked into a face of which she could see but little.
Darrow leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. Eldridge continued, explaining the means he had taken to determine more accurately the exact location of Monsieur X. The morning of the third day after the failure of the search, and of the sixth since McCarthy's disappearance, had arrived.
But here are three separate tracks of the same feet." He drew out a lens and lay down upon his waterproof to have a better view, talking all the time rather to himself than to us. "These are young McCarthy's feet. Twice he was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so that the soles are deeply marked and the heels hardly visible. That bears out his story. He ran when he saw his father on the ground.
"Monsieur X might have sent along his 'sign' at six o'clock, anyhow, just for general results." Darrow nodded his approval. "Good boy, Jack," said he. "That is just the point I could not be sure about. But finally, at the time, you will remember, when I predicted McCarthy's disappearance, Monsieur X made a definite threat.
He was fond of a joke himself, and did not get very angry. I had picked up McCarthy's hat, which I returned to him. It was some time before it was discovered who was at the bottom of the affair. It was while I was stationed at Fort McPherson, where Brevet-Major-General W.H. Emory was in command, that I acted as guide for Lord Flynn, an English nobleman who had come over for a hunt on the Plains.
Perhaps our children will follow in our footsteps; enjoying greater honor, comfort, and luxury than they could possibly have had in our own world. I received little from my fellow men, and have already received more from Morquil than I ever had before." As Dick sat down, John McCarthy's voice boomed out. "I'll follow Dick! He's the boss of this party, and if he's satisfied, I am. Boy!
"It manes an ould waistcoat; that is, it's the Irish for an ould waistcoat, and Paudeen Gar's men were called Shanavests, bekaise when they went out to swear the people against tithes and priests' dues, they put ould waistcoats about them for fraid o' bein' known." "And you tell me that McCarthy's a White-boy?"
This was to be a long journey, clear to the Utah country, and I eagerly looked forward to new adventures. The first of these came suddenly. We were strung out over the trail near the Platte, about twenty miles from the scene of the Indian attack on McCarthy's outfit, watching the buffalo scattered to right and left of us, when we heard two or three shots, fired in rapid succession.
From his pocket he drew a note-book and pencil, wrote in it a few words, and handed it to the dazed and uncertain boss. "I was right," Darrow had scrawled. "This proves it. It's by no means the end. Better be good." McCarthy's bulldog courage had recovered from its first daze. He began to see that this visitation was not entirely personal, but extended also to his two companions.
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