THE TELL-TALE PIPE.
Long before the first beams of breaking day illumined the eastern
horizon, the shrill voice of the little, wrinkled, half-apish-looking
guide, Paul Chicot, roused the sleeping camp, bidding all prepare for
a long, hard day's travel. Eagerly the emigrants flew around, for once
more the golden phantom seemed beckoning them on.
And yet, despite their anxiety, that day was to carry them no nearer
the golden land. A blow fell that for the moment drove away all such
thoughts.
"Whar's Dutchy?" suddenly queried Paul Chicot, running his beadlike
eyes rapidly around the little group.
As customary, the emigrants were regularly divided into "messes."
One of these messes was formed by the guide, Chicot, Nate Upshur, an
Irishman called Tim Dooley, and "Dutchy," as the fourth member was
familiarly known.
This last personage was an enigma to the greater portion of the
emigrants. At times he appeared the polished scholar, then again one
of the most ignorant men imaginable. He had joined the train at St.
Charles, preferring the overland route on account of his poor health,
hoping thus to recuperate. He seemed possessed of plenty of money,
paying his fare in gold, without a demur at the price.
"I don't know--I hain't seen him since last night," replied Upshur,
wiping his lips, after a long draught of coffee.
"Go hyste him out, Tim. He takes so durned long to fix up his ha'r an'
teeth afore eatin' thet he won't be ready fer the road none too soon.
Tell 'im we're all ready fer startin'," muttered Chicot.
Dooley arose and glided toward a small tent a little to one side,
and pushing back the hanging door-flap, entered. The next moment he
reappeared, staggering back with starting eyeballs and hair standing
on end, a wild cry bursting from his pallid lips.
The shrill cry startled the entire camp, and all eyes were turned
toward the trembling man. Paul Chicot was the first to speak, in an
angry tone:
"What the devil's the matter wi' ye _now_, I'd like to ax? See'd
another snake, eh?" he asked, sarcastically.
"It's murther, that's what it is! He's kilt--kilt intirely!" gasped
Dooley, his eyes still glaring toward the quiet tent, as if enchanted
by the horrible object lying so still and ghastly within.
"Who's kilt--not Dutchy?" quietly demanded Upshur, stepping forward.
Chicot, giving over all idea of getting any thing satisfactory out of
the stupefied Irishman, sprung forward and flung aside the strip of
canvas that protected the entrance. One glance told him the truth. Tim
was right. Murder had been done!
Lying upon a couple of blankets, was all that remained of their quaint,
pleasant comrade, Carl Hefler, or "Dutchy," the _sobriquet_ suggested
by his broken, stammering speech.
The long, slim figure lay at full length, as though peacefully
slumbering, but the arms were flung wide, the long, bony fingers
clutched as though in agony. An agonized expression had frozen upon the
thin, pallid face.
On the white shirt-bosom was a great stain--a stain of that peculiar,
unmistakable color that seldom requires a second glance to designate.
Directly above the heart the stain was blackest. There the blow had
been dealt.
Chicot, old and thoroughly versed in that art peculiar to his craft
and the detectives--of remarking _everything_--knew that no feeble,
faltering hand had dealt this blow. Either the hand of an unusually
bold and cool-headed man, or else that of one to whom such deeds had
been familiar.
He knew that the murderer had crept fairly into the tent, had glided
close to the victim, as he lay buried in unconscious slumber, and that
he must have even felt out the region of the heart, since all within
had been dark, else the blow could never have been delivered with such
deadly precision.
"What is all this, Chicot?" hurriedly demanded the leader, Mitchell, as
he reached the guide's side.
"It's _murder_--thet's what it is," coolly returned Chicot.
"But who could--"
"Thet's jest what I'm goin' to find out, 'f you give me time. Keep
back--don't none o' you step inside here ontil I say ye may. Mebbe
thar's some sign left."
"Wouldn't it be a good plan to call the roll and see if all are
present?" suddenly suggested Upshur, his eyes gleaming furtively.
"'Twon't do no harm. You mought as well, cap'n," muttered Chicot. "This
'll keep us back hafe the day, anyhow, ef not more."
Mitchell promptly sounded his whistle--and taught its meaning, the
members of the wagon-train followed his lead back to the open ground.
Upshur ran his eyes hastily over the group. Then the evil glow
deepened, and his lip curled with triumph.
Chicot, free from the annoying crowd, proceeded with his
investigations, with all the relish of a true-born detective. Yet there
seemed little show of his making any discovery, since the floor of the
little tent was beaten hard and dry by the murdered man's own feet,
during the stay at the sick-camp.
Of course no _trail_ had been left, nor did he seek for one. His eye
had already fallen upon the little leather sachel, lying beside the
dead man's head, where it had been dragged from beneath the blankets.
Its lock was unbroken, but one side had been slit through with a
knife--the same weapon that had dealt the death-blow, for the leather
was stained here and there with blood.
"He stuck 'im fer the money," muttered Paul, as he dropped the valise.
Suddenly he stooped and lifted the right arm of the dead man. A tiny
point of something yellow had caught his keen eye.
Chicot uttered a low grunt, and started back. The clue was before him;
and yet he scarce believed his eyes. Could it be?--
Exposed to view lay a small, curiously-carved meerschaum pipe, with
stem of bright, clear amber. This it was that had caught his eye.
Chicot turned and left the tent, slowly gliding out toward where
Mitchell was calling over the list. The guide's brows contracted as he
listened.
"John Tyrrel."
"Not here," slowly replied a voice, after a brief, painful silence.
"Burr Wythe."
"I reckon he's gone, too, cap'n," quietly uttered Chicot. "Thar ain't
much use o' your goin' any furder. I think I've found the right eend o'
the trail."
"What do you mean, Paul?" cried Mitchell, in surprise. "Surely you
don't suspect--"
"I don't go by 'spicions, myself, but I know a trail when I strike it.
Come an' look fer yourself--one at a time, though. See what I've found,
then say who it b'longs to."
One by one the party filed into the tent and glanced at the tell-tale
pipe. All recognized it. There was not another in any wise resembling
it in the company.
"Whose pipe is it, boys?" demanded Chicot.
"Burr Wythe's!" came the reply, the voice of Nat Upshur above all
others.
"But _he_ may not have dropped it there," suggested Mitchell. "Might
not Hefler have borrowed it?"
"No," declared Upshur, stepping forward. "Hefler went to bed just after
dark, and I saw Wythe smoking that pipe as late as two o'clock, and he
was talking with Jack Tyrrel and Paley Duplin, at the time."
"It's so--I see'd 'em, too," reluctantly added Chicot.
"I admit that it has an awkward look, but after all, though those three
are absent, they may return soon and clear matters up. If he, or they,
are guilty, I will not be one of those who would seek to screen them
from justice; but for all that, they shall not be condemned without
a chance to clear themselves. First we must find them," said the
wagon-master.
"But it is nearly sunrise; we were to take up the march to-day,"
ventured one.
"Justice first: we must not let this brutal murder go unavenged. One
day, more or less, can make but little difference to us, in the end. If
Wythe did kill him, he must pay the penalty."
"But what object could he have in doing it? They were good friends, so
far as I know."
"Look here," uttered Chicot, lifting the cut sachel. "This is what the
Dutchman kept his money in. He was a simple-hearted feller, like, an'
didn't seem to think but that all was as honest as he was hisself,
fer he showed us his money only two nights ago. We laughed at him, I
'member, fer kerryin' gold to Californey, but he wasn't goin' to dig.
He went overland fer his health, and then was goin' to ship fer Chinese
land, or some sech place, I b'lieve."
"Who was with you when he showed the money?"
"_He_ was--Burr Wythe--an' a lot more," reluctantly added Chicot.
Mitchell looked sober. He had formed a high opinion of the young man,
but he could no longer blind himself to the fact that suspicion pointed
strongly toward young Wythe as the murderer. And he saw, too, that
this belief was gradually gaining ground among the emigrants, and deep
whispers ran round, while eyes flashed and brows grew black. The spirit
of Lynch-law was rapidly arising, and woe be unto the victim that
should first feel its power!
"Easy, men," he shouted, waving his hand. "Keep silent for a moment
and listen to me. There must be no mad action here. We must proceed
carefully and justly. First, you must elect a leader, whose word shall
be law; then we must hunt up the missing men and hear their defense.
That one murder has been committed is no reason that another should
follow. I cast my vote for a fair trial."
"So we all do, I reckon," chimed in Paul Chicot. "An' I don't know any
better man for Judge Lynch than you be. What say, boys?"
"Good--good!" came an almost unanimous shout; but Nathan Upshur was
silent.
"Very well; I will act as such, since you demand it. And I am glad,
for one thing. After what I have already spoken, it shows that you
aim at strict and impartial justice. But now to work. If they have
really abandoned the train--as of course they have, if they _did_ kill
Hefler--they must have taken food and other articles that would be
missed. And a close search may give us the clue. You know the messes
they belonged to; go and search closely. Chicot, come with me. I wish a
word with you."
Once fairly set to work, there was little time lost. In ten minutes
the report was given. A small supply of provisions had been taken, and
one pick-ax was missing; but that all believed to have been mislaid
somewhere. No one--save Upshur--dreamed that the deserters had taken it.
Paul Chicot gave his supposition or conjecture concerning the course
most likely to be followed by the deserters. He believed they would
take to the neighboring mountains, there to lie hidden until all search
was given over. They would not be likely to take the back-trail, as
they were afoot, and the country in that direction was mostly open and
level.
"I believe you're right, Chicot," remarked Mitchell, thoughtfully, "and
we will act on that supposition first. We'd best form three or four
parties and each choose a separate trail, for this day is all we can
spare without absolute danger to the whole train."
Little time was lost, now that the duty before them was fairly decided
upon, and all entered upon it with growing eagerness. There is
something strangely exciting in a _manhunt_. Set a warm friend upon the
track of another, and, when once fairly aroused, that friend will be as
inveterate and deadly in pursuit as though a lifelong enemy.
This trait was exemplified now. Before an hour more passed by, even
those who had first declared their belief in the young man's innocence,
were the foremost in searching for his trail, eager to bring him to
justice.
Nathan Upshur kept close to Paul Chicot, the guide, eying him
furtively, seemingly ill at ease. It was plainly evident that he felt
no great desire for Burr Wythe's capture. Indeed, he tried to mislead
Paul, and finally succeeded in doing so.
Upshur had stealthily followed the three deserters for a considerable
distance, on the night before, when they started for the "golden bed,"
as Duplin had called it, the better to satisfy his mind as to the
location of the placer. And now for reasons of his own, he craftily
led Chicot far astray from the right course, though none of the
trail-hunters suspected his purpose.
Satisfied with this, Upshur contentedly followed the guide's lead,
feeling assured there was little or no danger of striking the
deserters' trail, on that day at least. But at a cry from Chicot, his
heart leaped wildly, and the flush left his face pale and ghastly.
"Hold! Stand back, you fellers," cried Chicot, lifting a hand in
warning, as his companions rushed forward, eager to learn the cause of
his sudden exclamation.
"What is it, Chicot?" gasped Upshur.
"A trail, but not the one we're looking fer," was the slow reply, as
Paul closely scrutinized the ground.
Upshur gave a gasp of relief, unnoticed by those near, and then pressed
forward. Pausing beside Chicot, he bent his gaze down upon the narrow
strip of moist sand, upon which was imprinted the strange trail.
There, plainly outlined, was the impress of a large human foot, naked
and bare. That it was not made by an Indian was plain, for though many
white men in-toe, a red-man, unless an habitual drunkard, _never_ toes
out, as this trail plainly did. Then, again, an Indian's foot, from
never having been tightly compressed in boots or shoes, is very flat
and broad; this trail was made by a man with a high instep and arching
sole.
"How do you know it isn't one of them?" asked Upshur.
"Easily enough. Look back along the trail. You see, it crosses that
stretch o' splintered rocks? Now, look at these tracks. The foot ain't
cut none. That shows that it's made by a feller that's _used_ to goin'
bar'foot fer a long time. Ef _you_ was to cross that, you'd cut an'
gouge your hoofs so this 'ere 'd be a trail o' blood. See?"
"But who can it be then?"
"Don't know. It's fresh--ain't bin made over a hour, at furderest.
Whoever it is, must be in the hills yender. _I_ move we foller on, an'
find 'im. Mebbe he kin tell us somethin' 'bout the boys," suggested
Chicot, moving forward, without waiting to learn the wishes of his
followers.
In fact, Chicot was only too glad of a good excuse to delay the search
for Burr Wythe. Though firmly believing him guilty of the murder,
yet he did not wish to be the instrument of justice. In his quiet,
unobtrusive way, he loved Burr, almost as he would have loved a son.
The trail led in a direct line toward the hills, here rising abrupt
and rocky, broken and rugged. Though at times losing all trace, Chicot
found little difficulty in recovering the trail as often.
An abrupt exclamation from Nathan Upshur startled him, and all eyes
turned upon him. His face wore an expression of wonder, as he pointed
with outstretched hand toward the rocks above the party.
"Look there! Is it man, or devil?"
Glancing in the direction indicated, the trail-hunters beheld the
object of his wonder. And they, too, stood as if bewildered. And little
wonder. A truly strange object was before their eyes.
Standing erect upon a large bowlder, half-way up the hill, was a human
form, though strange and wild-looking enough to have been taken for
something supernatural. One long arm was extended, pointing toward
them, the rags that only partially clothed the member fluttering in the
brisk breeze.
The stranger seemed far above the usual height of men, and of great
age, if the long, flowing hair and beard of a snowy whiteness be taken
as evidence. This the wind tossed wildly around his face, in a fleecy
cloud.
Rude, uncouth garments partially covered his body and limbs, patched
here and there with pieces of skin and fur. In one hand he bore a heavy
bow, tightly strung. At his shoulder could be seen the feathered tips
of a number of arrows.
"It's the Mountain Devil!" muttered Chicot, in a low, hushed tone, as
he shrunk back, his bronzed cheek paling, his eyes dilating with a look
of fear.
"Man or devil, I do not fear him!" said Upshur, as his rifle clicked
sharply as the hammer was lifted.
"Don't shoot! Make him mad, an' he'll clean out the whole crowd!"
warningly cried Paul; his eyes still riveted upon the strange form.
"He's a devil--you can't hurt him."
"I'll try it, anyhow," and the man's rifle spoke sharp and clear.
The wild-man started and seemed to stagger, as though the bullet had
found its mark. Then, with a shrill cry, he turned and leaped from the
bowlder, the next moment disappearing far up the hillside.
"There's your devil, Paul," chuckled Upshur, as he dropped his rifle
and began reloading it. "And I had only a leaden bullet in, too."
"You laugh now--but the time 'll come when you won't. Believe it or
not, Nate Upshur, you've signed your death papers. A man never shot
at the Mountain Devil but he died for it. You will, too. Mebbe not
to-day--mebbe not for a year, but the time 'll come, I tell you--the
time 'll come at last. Mark my words."
"Bah! you've listened too much to Indian legends, Chicot. That is no
devil, but a man, like you or I, turned hermit like. To prove it, I'm
going to follow after. Come on, boys! Let's go and see what Paul's
devil is made of, anyhow," recklessly said Upshur, who was no coward,
whatever else he might be.
Pale and disturbed, Chicot followed the boaster, and close behind came
the other emigrants, curious to see the denouement. At the bowlder
Upshur paused, with a harsh laugh.
"See!" and he pointed at the rocks before him. "Your devil bleeds,
Paul, like an ordinary man. I thought I touched the rascal."
Here and there drops of blood sprinkled the rocky surface, and Chicot,
though still skeptical, brightened up. After all, this wild-man was not
proof against mortal weapons.
Laughing scornfully, Upshur led the way along the bloody trail, up the
hillside, until it crossed the ridge, keeping a good look-out to guard
against surprise, for none knew better than he what awkward weapons
flint-headed arrows are, at close quarters, when guided by a strong and
experienced hand. And after his wound, the wild-man would not be likely
to stand on ceremony, should he be overtaken.
But overtaken he was not, at least on that occasion. The hillside
seemed to be unoccupied, save by the trail-hunters, but Upshur
suddenly paused, when half-way down the hill, shrinking back with a cry
of horror.
Passing through the dense bushes, he had found himself upon the very
verge of a steep precipice. Staggering back, he clutched the bushes,
unmanned.
"Look yonder!" cried Chicot, pointing downward. "_Now_ what do you
say--is he a devil, or not?"
Swiftly racing along the narrow valley far below, was the form of the
wild-man. To reach this, he must have descended the precipice, and that
seemed beyond mortal skill to accomplish.
Wonderingly the emigrants watched him until he disappeared upon the
further hill, then they slowly retraced their steps toward camp. The
sun was far down in the west, and they had found no trace of the
deserters.