VIII
IT WAS fully two hours later, and within an hour of noon, when I returned to the top of the bank at a point opposite the Jeanbard place and looked cautiously out from cover. I was warm and dry by that time, having engaged in a great deal of unavoidable exercise since coming ashore five miles farther upstream. I had failed to find anything in the nature of a path. It had been rough footing all the way, over rocks and blow-downs and through tough tangles of underbrush. I saw no sign of human life. The surface of the hurrying stream was empty for as far as I could see up and down. But I was not taking any chances on again attracting the murderous attention of the person who had splintered the gunnel of the lost canoe. I retired again into thick cover and sat down and smoked. My cigarettes were wet, but the tobacco in my oiled silk pouch was dry. I smoked and thought the situation over and made up my mind to give old Ruben Glashner and his confederate evil for evil, shot for shot—and then some more. They were afraid of me, afraid that I might upset their plans. They should have ample and just cause to fear me before I was through with them. I no longer saw the affair of the treasure-hunt in the light of a joke. It was a fight now. There would be enough action to make up for the lack of treasure. I would rid Moosemeadows Park of Ruben Glashner and his confederate; yes, and of his sympathizers and abettors—or dig their graves on the place.
I had not brought anything to eat in my pockets, being sure of the hospitality of the Jeanbards. I regretted this, but there was nothing to do about it just then. I overhauled the pistol, wiping it carefully. I refilled my pipe. I kept under cover and grew hungry and hungrier as the idle hours crawled up and dragged past. The sun drew to the western horizon at last, dipped a red edge behind black spruces and finally sank out of sight. The western red faded slowly and the clear twilight slowly thickened to dusk. I placed the pistol and two clips of cartridges in the oiled-silk pouch with my tobacco, wound and tied the pouch securely and buttoned it into a hip-pocket. Then I descended the bank with as little disturbance of the brush as possible, stepped into the chilly water without a splash, waded with scarcely a ripple and swam for the darkling shore opposite.
Light streamed from the windows of the kitchen of the little white house. Rose opened the door to my knock and stepped back with an exclamation of startled concern at sight of me. I saw anxious alarm in her dark eyes.
"There's been no harm done," I said, as I entered. "I've been swimming; and I'm hungry—that's all. The water is cold."
There were three men in the room, all on their feet. Jacques Jeanbard strode forward, laid a hand on my wet shoulder and advanced his lean face and sombre eyes to within a few inches of my own.
"What's happened, sir?" he whispered. "Attacked?"
I nodded, smiling. Jacques moved off to the windows and lowered the green cotton blinds. Jules Jeanbard and Stack Glashner stepped up and shook hands with me.
"It's a rough country," said Stack, grinning. "You look like somebody had throwed you into the drink. But I warned you."
"I like it rough," I replied, staring at him without an answering smile. "If rough's the game, whoever started it will find that my long suit is the rough stuff."
"Don't tell me," returned Stack. "I'm not startin' anything. I didn't throw you into the crick. I don't know why you went swimmin'."
I seated myself in the chair from which Stack had risen, close to the stove. The heat felt good, and I leaned forward to it. Rose took the coffee pot from the table, added fresh coffee and hot water and stood it on the stove. Jules put wood into the fire-box and sat down beside me. He looked anxious. Jacques insisted on pulling off my soaking coat.
"What happened, sir?" he asked.
I did not answer instantly, for I was wondering what had brought Stack Glashner so far from his home at Indian Ledge.
"Ye're amongst friends here," said Jules Jeanbard.
"Old Ruben Glashner wanted me to go fishing with him today, but I refused," I said. "I can't stand the poisonous old beast. He's a thief, a liar and a hypocrite; and if he had the self-respect of a worm he'd get out of that house. He sneaked into my room a few nights ago and stole my pistol. I took it back from him—pulled it out of his pocket—at the breakfast-table. When I refused to fish with him, he suggested that I should paddle down to the settlement and become acquainted."
"What did he want of yer gun?" interrupted Stack.
"I don't think he wanted it so much as he didn't want me to have it," I replied. "An unarmed man is a safer subject for murder than one with an automatic pistol in a handy pocket."
Then I told them exactly what had happened. I glanced at Rose. Her gaze was on my face, wide-eyed and tragic, and her cheeks were colorless. I smiled; and the pink bloomed again, the eyelids flickered and the intent gaze wavered. She took the coffee pot from the stove to the table, filled a cup and brought it to me.
"He can't shoot for nuts," said Stack. "He's got only one eye. He wouldn't of hit within twenty yards of the canoe. An' he ain't all there, anyhow. A darned sight less'n half-witted."
I sipped the coffee in silence.
"How many eyes d'ye use yerself when you shoot off a rifle?" asked Jules Jeanbard, turning to Stack. "I'm a pretty fair shot myself, an' one's all I ever use. An' as for him bein' less'n half-witted, all I got to say is that if he's insane enough to go round attemptin' murder, his folks had better git busy an' lock him up instead of tryin' to make excuses for him."
Stack Glashner's face reddened. "The old fool's nothin' to me," he said. "Same name, that's all. I have no dealings with him."
"He's yer own pa's first cousin," returned Jules.
"Forgit it!" exclaimed the other, "I didn't pick 'im for a cousin for my old man, did I? Ye're always harpin' on that tune, Jules Jeanbard."
The senior Jeanbard let that go for what it was worth.
"If you are on speaking terms with the old fool," I said to Stack, "tell him from me that his goose was cooked when that shot was fired, whoever fired it. Tell him that he and his confederates and friends have just one chance of saving their dirty hides, and that's for him and whoever is working with him—it's a man who can read, tell him—to clear out of the Wicklow Creek country on the double."
"You've got me wrong," returned Stack. "I don't give a hoot what happens to that old skunk nor his friends. I mean well by you, as you know. Wasn't it me told you where you'd find a friend in the settlement—an old soldier—Jacques here?"
"You're right, Stack, and I beg your pardon," I said. "You are out of this, so keep out of it. My temper was ruffled slightly by that attempt on my life. Being picked for an easy mark always gets my goat."
After drinking three cups of coffee, a stiff glass of whisky, and eating bacon and eggs, hot biscuits, strawberry-jam and cream, my temper was greatly improved. Stack Glashner had cigarettes; and that helped.
It appeared that Stack was in the habit of making the trip from Indian Ledge to the Jeanbard farm once in every period of ten days, if not oftener. I gathered this from the conversation. He and Rose were quite evidently good friends. Jacques treated him with a slight suggestion of superiority. It was evident to me that the senior Jeanbard liked Stack but did not approve of his blood and surname. Stack was certainly a fine figure of a man; and his eyes were of the reckless, devil-may-care kind that prove extraordinarily attractive to most women. I watched, talking and smoking comfortably by the stove; and I decided that they had not yet had any serious effect on Rose Jeanbard.
Jules Jeanbard got out his fiddle and played for us. He was a fiddler of quality. He ruffled out his beard and whiskers, shut his eyes and played the most unusual things. One suggested thawing snow and wild geese flying over, northward bound. Another made me think of red sunsets behind black spruces, and a little house and barn surrounded by great snowdrifts, I looked at his daughter; and she nodded to me just as if I had asked her a question. So I knew that the things were of his own composing, and that I had read them right. So I knew the fiddler for a real musician—a poet!
It was ten-thirty when I got reluctantly to my feet and said that I had to go home.
"I got to move, too," said Stack, "I'll take you home, like I did before—but behind a black mare this time, instead of in a canoe."
"I'll accept that offer on one condition—that you don't turn round and beat it as soon as you come in sight of the house," I replied.
"I'll step right in with you," he assured me, assuming a mock-heroic air. "I ain't scared, nor overly particular. To hell with public opinion! I'll stop the night in the old house, if you say so."
There was a very good road passing just back of the barn. It ran up-stream as far as the old Deblore place, and all the way down to the village.
While Stack Glashner hitched the mare to the buggy, I said good night to the Jeanbards, shaking hands with each in turn. I took the girl's hand last; and I was startled to feel something in her palm. Her glance acknowledged it; and, realizing that the thing was a scrap of paper intended for me, I recovered my appearance of composure. I held her hand several seconds longer than convention authorizes; and as I crossed the threshold I slipped my own hand into a pocket. My first idea was to relight my pipe and examine the scrap of paper by the brief flame of the match; but I did not attempt it, for Stack called to me from the barnyard and Jules and Jacques were at my shoulders; and when I was snug beside Stack in the buggy I had not a chance.
There was starshine enough to see the road by, except in those places where the heavy growths of spruce and hemlock and fir crowded close in upon it from both sides. The black mare was long-gaited, sound and steady. She went forward like a dependable machine, taking the rough with the smooth, the dips with the rises. Every now and then a wheel went over a rock, a root or a log of an imperfect culvert, jouncing us sharply. Stack drove for a long time in silence. At last he spoke, suddenly.
"I'll bet ten dollars it wasn't old Ruben fired that shot," he said. "I ain't tryin' to defend him, mind you, but that wouldn't be his way. He'd know all about it, plan it, like as not, but when it comes to pullin' a trigger on a man—no, not for Ruben! He's short on nerve; and nerve's what's needed for the shootin' of a man in cold blood.' Whoever's workin' with him, he's the man with the rifle. Any notion who he is, or why they're tryin' to pop you off?"
"Have you?" I asked.
"I reckon yer in somebody's way. Perhaps somebody's scared of you."
"You've heard of the treasure, I suppose?"
"Sure thing! That's an old story."
Then I told him of old Ruben's position in the house of Moosemeadows Park, of his constant spying about, of his expedition up one of the chimneys and of his talk to me at the orchard fence. I told him of the carrying off and return of my papers.
"He thinks you've got the dope, that's a sure thing," returned Stack reflectively. "But why would he want to bump you off before he gits hold of the right dope himself? What's the idea? Are they both fools—him an' his pardner?"
"He thinks he has it," I admitted. "When I saw that he took me for an easy mark. I couldn't resist the temptation of playing him for a sucker. It was easy, but the result is slightly more serious than I expected. I didn't expect them to start right in shooting."
"Someone wants to bump you off, that's a sure thing. But why would he? Must be scared of you."
"They think I know where the treasure is, and they think they have discovered my secret; and they are afraid that I may lift it before they do. Yes, and I believe that they are afraid of me."
"But there ain't any treasure. That's one of the oldest lies in the world."
"That's what I think," I replied; and then I told him all about the map and directions I had faked for old Ruben's labor and confusion. I told him of the removal of the faked documents at night from my Gladstone bag, of its alteration and return.
"That was smart," he said. "But if they think they got the bulge on you, what's the shootin' about? What are they scared of?"
To look at Stack Glashner, even by starshine, and to listen to him, was to trust him. And yet his appearance and air suggested irresponsibility. His eyes danced with a humor that was at once gay and derisive and good. I suspected that he was in love with Rose Jeanbard; but I liked him and firmly believed that he liked me.
"I'll tell you all that I know," I said; and I told him of my expedition into the hardhack, of that sudden sense of being observed, of the shaking alder and the brief loss of self-control during which I pulled off two shots. "And I'm a fair shot with that little gun," I concluded.
He was interested. "Hear of anybody with a bullet in him?" he asked.
"The Russian peddler," I replied. "Miss Jeanbard told me that he came to her to have a bullet wound in his left hand dressed."
"When was that?" he asked.
I told him.
"I saw him today—that old peddler," he said. "He was at the Jeanbard place when I got there, about five o'clock. Had colored goggles on, and his left hand bandaged. He went away before supper, before the men came home."
"Was he toting a rifle?" I asked.
"He didn't have it with him at the house," answered Stack. And after a reflective silence, he added, "You better keep yer eye skinned. Yer up agin' something desperate, if you ask me."
THE highroad ended in the barnyard of Moosemeadows Park. We stabled and fed the black mare in the dark. The kitchen windows showed rays of light past the edges of the lowered blinds; and within we found Amy Bear dozing in a rocking-chair and the kettle steaming on the stove. I heard a movement behind us as we crossed the threshold, turned and saw Lion at our heels. He pushed his muzzle into my hand, sniffed Stack politely, then turned and stalked out again. I closed the door, knowing that the dog knew his own business best; and at the moment Amy sat up suddenly and opened her eyes. She looked relieved at sight of me, got quickly but heavily to her feet and crossed to the big dresser where the kitchen dishes were kept. She brought plates, bread and a teapot to the table. I asked her why she had sat up so late.
"For you," she said. "An' kep' the kittle b'ilin'."
"That was very kind of you, but it won't do," I said. "You must let me come and go without upsetting the routine"
"Tom tole me to do it, but I would anyhow," she replied, proceeding with her preparations for a hearty cold supper with hot tea.
I motioned Stack to a chair, then stooped over the table to the lamp, fished the scrap of paper from my pocket and read it furtively in the palm of my hand:
You must go away. You are not safe here, I cannot tell you more, for I have been made to swear not to tell what I know. Your life is in danger. We three and Stack are your friends. They do not know what I know. Say nothing to anyone, but go away. And burn this.