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  |                      TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES                         |
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  | * The original work contains some text in italics and in bold-   |
  |   face. These are represented here as _text_ and =text=, respec- |
  |   tively. Small capitals in the original work have been changed  |
  |   to capitals for this e-text.                                   |
  | * The oe-ligature from the original work has been transcribed as |
  |   [oe], as in man[oe]uvre.                                       |
  | * Inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have only been     |
  |   corrected where one variant was clearly used more often than   |
  |   the other (aint was changed to ain't, etc.). 'Warburton place' |
  |   has been changed to 'Warburton Place.' Note that both 'Joe     |
  |   Blakesly' and 'Joe Blakesley' occur in the text.               |
  | * Minor typographical errors have been corrected silently. More  |
  |   important changes made to the text:                            |
  |   - page 90: 'Mrs. Follinsbee' changed to 'Mrs. Follingsbee';    |
  |   - page 173: 'Lerchen' changed to 'Leschen';                    |
  |   - page 194: 'And won't do' changed to 'And it won't do';       |
  |   - page 220: CHAPTER XX changed to CHAPTER XXX; CHAPTER LXVI    |
  |     and CHAPTER LXVIII changed to CHAPTER XLVI and XLVIII,       |
  |     respectively;                                                |
  |   - page 449: Beal changed to Beale.                             |
  | * Some pages had poorly printed parts; here a 'best guess' has   |
  |   been used to complete the text (page 159, some parts of the    |
  |   advertisements at the end of the book).                        |
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[Illustration: "Not just yet; I ain't quite ready!"--page 410.]




                      THE GREAT DETECTIVE SERIES.

                           DANGEROUS GROUND;

                                  OR,

                         THE RIVAL DETECTIVES.

                                  BY

                           LAWRENCE L. LYNCH,

                        (OF THE SECRET SERVICE.)

       Author of "Madeline Payne, the Detective's Daughter;" "Out
               of a Labyrinth;" "Shadowed by Three;" "The
                      Diamond Coterie," etc., etc.

                                CHICAGO:
                    ALEX. T. LOYD & CO., PUBLISHERS.
                                 1886.


                            COPYRIGHT, 1885,
                    BY ALEX. T. LOYD & CO., CHICAGO.
                          ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

                           Dangerous Ground.


[Illustration: "Mamma brings the candle very near to the closed eyes,
waving it to and fro, rapidly."--page 309.]




DANGEROUS GROUND.




PROLOGUE.


TIME: The month of May. The year, 1859; when the West was new, and the
life of the Pioneer difficult and dangerous.

SCENE: A tiny belt of timber, not far from the spot where not long
before, the Marais des Cygnes massacre awoke the people of south-eastern
Kansas, and kindled among them the flames of civil war.


I.

It is a night of storm and darkness. Huge trees are bending their might,
and branches, strong or slender, are swaying and snapping under a fierce
blast from the northward.

Night has closed in, but the ghostly light of a reluctant camp fire
reveals a small group of men gathered about its blaze; and back of them,
more in the shelter of the timber, a few wagons,--prairie schooners of
the staunchest type--from which, now and then, the anxious countenance
of a woman, or the eager, curious face of a child, peers out.

There has been rain, and fierce lightning, and loud-rolling thunder; but
the clouds are breaking away, the rain has ceased: only the strong gusts
of wind remain to make more restless the wakeful travellers, and rob the
weary, nervous ones of their much needed sleep.

"Where's Pearson?" queries a tall, strong man, who speaks as one having
authority. "I have not seen him since the storm began."

"Pearson?" says another, who is crouching over the flickering fire in
the effort to light a stubby pipe. "By ginger! I haven't thought of the
fellow; why, he took his blanket and went up yonder," indicating the
direction by a jerk of the short pipe over a brawny shoulder--"before
the storm, you know; said he was going to take a doze up there; he took
a fancy to the place when we crossed here before."

"But he has been down since?"

"Hain't seen him. Good Lord, you don't suppose the fellow's been
sleepin' through all this?"

Parks, the captain of the party, stirs uneasily, and turns his face
towards the wagons.

"There's been some fearful lightnin', sir," breaks in another of the
group. "'Tain't likely a man would sleep through all this, but--"

He stops to stare after Parks, who, with a swift impulsive movement of
the right hand, has turned upon his heel, and is moving toward the
wagons.

"Mrs. Krutzer," he calls, halting beside the one most remote from the
camp fire.

"What is wanted?" answers a shrill, feminine voice.

"Is the little one with you?"

"Yes." This time there is a ring of impatience in the voice.

"Have you seen Pearson since the storm?"

"My gracious! No."

"How is Krutzer?"

"No better; the storm has doubled him up like a snake. Do you want him?"

"Not if he can't walk."

"Well he can't; not a step."

"Then good-night, Mrs. Krutzer." And Parks returns to the men at the
fire.

"There's something wrong," he says, with quiet gravity.

"Pearson has not been near the child since the storm. Get your lanterns,
boys; we will go up the hill."

It is only a slight elevation, with a pyramid of rocks, one or two
wide-spreading trees; and a fringe of lesser growth at the summit.

A moment the lanterns flash about, while the men converse in low tones.
Then one of them exclaims:

"Here he is! Pearson; Heavens, man, wake up!"

But the still form outstretched upon the water-soaked blanket, and
doubly sheltered by the great rocks and bending branches, moves not in
response to his call.

They crowd about him, and Walter Parks bends closer and lets the full
light of the lantern he carries, fall upon the still face.

"Good God!"

He sinks upon one knee beside the prostrate form; he touches the face,
the hands; looks closer yet, and says in a husky voice, as he puts the
lantern down:

"He's _dead_, boys!"

They cluster about that silent, central figure. One by one they touch
it; curiously, reverently, tenderly or timidly, according as their
various natures are.

Then a chorus of exclamations, low, fierce, excited.

"How was it?"

"Was he killed?"

"The storm--"

"More likely, Injuns."

"No, Bob, it wasn't Indians," says Parks mournfully, "for here's his
scalp."

And he tenderly lays a brown hand upon the abundant locks of his dead
comrade, sweeping them back from the forehead with a caressing movement.

Then suddenly, with a sharp exclamation that is almost a shriek, the
hand drops to his side; he recoils, he bounds to his feet; then, turning
his face to the rocks, he lets the darkness hide the look of unutterable
horror that for a moment overspread it, changing at length to an
expression of sternness and fixed resolve.

Meantime the others press closer about the dead man, and one of them,
taking the place Parks has just vacated, bends down to peer into the
still, set face.

"Boys, look!" he cries eagerly; "look here!" and he points to a tiny
seared spot just above the left temple. "That's a burn, and here, just
above it, the hair is singed away. It's lightning, boys."

Again they peer into the dead face, and utter fresh exclamations of
horror. Then Walter Parks, whose emotion they have scarcely noticed,
turns toward them and looks closely at the seared spot upon the temple.

"Boys," he asks, in slow, set tones, "did you, any of you, ever _see_ a
man killed by lightning?"

They all stare up at him, and no one answers.

[Illustration: "They cluster about that silent, central figure. One by
one they touch it; curiously, reverently."--page 12.]

"Because," he proceeds, after a moment's silence, "I never saw the
effects of a lightning stroke, and don't feel qualified to judge."

"It's lightnin'," says the man called Bob, in a positive voice; "I've
never seen a case, but I've read of 'em. It's lightnin', sure."

"Of course it is," breaks in another. "What else can it be? There ain't
an Injun about and besides--"

A sharp flash of lightning, instantly followed by a loud peal of
thunder, interrupts this speech, and, when they can hear his voice,
Parks says, quietly:

"I suppose you are right, Menard. Now, let's take him down to the
wagons; quick, the rain is coming again."

Slowly they move down the hill with their burden, Walter Parks
supporting the head and shoulders of the dead. And as they go, one of
them says:

"Shall I run ahead and tell the Krutzers?"

"No," replies Parks, sternly; "we will take him to my wagon. I will
inform Mrs. Krutzer."

So they lay him in the wagon belonging to their leader, and before they
leave him there Parks does a strange thing. He takes off the oil-skin
cap from his own head and pulls it tight upon the head of the dead man.
Then he strides over to the wagon occupied by the Krutzers.


II.

A flickering, sputtering candle, lights up the interior of a large
canvas-covered wagon. On a narrow pallet across one side of the vehicle,
a man tosses and groans, now and then turning his haggard face, and
staring, blood-shot eyes, upon a woman who crouches near him, holding
upon her knees a child of two summers, who slumbers peacefully through
the storm, with its fair baby face upturned to the flickering candle. In
the corner, opposite the woman, lies a boy of perhaps ten years, ragged,
unkempt, and fast asleep.

A blaze of lightning and a rush of wind cause the man to cry out
nervously, and then to exclaim, peevishly:

"Oh, I wish the morning would come; this is horrible!"

"Hush, Krutzer," says the woman, in a low, hissing whisper; "you act
like a fool."

She bends forward and lays the sleeping child beside the dirty boy in
the corner. Then she lifts her head and listens.

"Hush!" she whispers again; "they are astir outside; I hear them
talking. Ah! some one is coming."

"Mrs. Krutzer."

It is the voice of Walter Parks, and this time the woman parts the tent
flap and looks out.

"Is that you, Mr. Parks? I thought I heard voices out there. Is the
storm doing any damage?"

"Not at present. Is Krutzer awake?"

She glances toward the form upon the pallet; it is shivering as with an
ague. Then she says, unhesitatingly:

"Krutzer has been in such misery since this storm came up, that I've
just given him morphine. He ain't exactly asleep, but he's