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Taken Alive
by
“Oh, Ralph, Ralph,” cried the girl, springing up, her eyes flashing through her tears, “if you will bring my father’s murderer to justice, if you will prevent him from destroying other lives, as he surely will, you will find that I can refuse you nothing.”
Then she paused, shook her head sadly, and withdrew the hand she had given him. “No,” she resumed, “I shouldn’t ask this; I don’t ask it. As you say, he is desperate and dangerous; and he would take your life the moment he dreamed of your purpose. I should only have another cause for sorrow.”
Brandt now smiled as if he were master of the situation. “Why, Clara,” he exclaimed, “don’t you know that running down and capturing desperadoes is now part of my business?”
“Yes; but you can get plenty of work that isn’t so dangerous.”
“I should be a nice fellow to ask you to be my wife and yet show I was afraid to arrest your father’s murderer. You needn’t ask me to do this; you are not going to be responsible for my course in the least. I shall begin operations this very night, and have no doubt that I can get a chance to work on the case. Now don’t burden your heart with any thoughts about my danger. I myself owe Bute as big a grudge as I can have against any human being. He cheated me and led me into deviltry years ago, and then I lost sight of him until he was brought to the prison of which your father was one of the keepers. I’ve been absent for the last three months, you know; but I didn’t forget you or your father a day, and you remember I wrote you as soon as I heard of your trouble. I think your father sort of believed in me; he never made me feel I wasn’t fit to see you or to be with you, and I’d do more for him living or dead than for any other man.”
“He did believe in you, Ralph, and he always spoke well of you. Oh, you can’t know how much I lost in him! After mother died he did not leave me to the care of strangers, but gave me most of his time when off duty. He sent me to the best schools, bought me books to read, and took me out evenings instead of going off by himself, as so many men do. He was so kind and so brave; oh, oh! you know he lost his life by trying to do his duty when another man would have given up. Bute and two others broke jail. Father saw one of his assistants stabbed, and he was knocked down himself. He might have remained quiet and escaped with a few bruises; but he caught Bute’s foot, and then the wretch turned and stabbed him. He told me all with his poor pale lips before he died. Oh, oh! when shall I forget?”
“You can never forget, dear; I don’t ask anything contrary to nature. You were a good daughter, and so I believe you will be a good wife. But if I bring the murderer to justice, you will feel that a great wrong has been righted–that all has been done that can be done. Then you’ll begin to think that your father wouldn’t wish you to grieve yourself to death, and that as he tried to make you happy while he was living, so he will wish you to be happy now he’s gone.”
“It isn’t a question of happiness. I don’t feel as if I could ever be happy again; and so I don’t see how I can make you or any one else happy.”
“That’s my lookout, Clara. I’d be only too glad to take you as you are. Come, now, this is December. If I bring Bute in by Christmas, what will you give me?”