THE OLD INDIAN TRAIL
Courtney delayed. A certain aloofness on Alix's part caused him to
hesitate. Something in her manner following upon the visit of the
Blythes invited speculation. She was as pleasant as ever, yet he
sensed a subtle change that warned him of defeat if he attempted
to storm the citadel. His confidence was slightly shaken,--but not
his resolve.
"She's been different ever since those infernal Blythes were
here," he reflected aloud, scowling as he watched her pass in the
car several days after the departure of her guests.
She went to the city nearly every day now, and seldom returned before
dark. Somehow he felt that his grip was slipping. He was standing
in front of the Tavern. She had waved her hand to him, and had
smiled gaily, but it was not the first time that week she had failed
to stop and repeat her usual invitation for him to accompany her,
even though she knew he would politely decline. He resented this
oversight. How could she know that he hadn't changed his mind about
going to the city? As a matter of fact, he had changed it. He would
have gone like a shot. Indeed, he had dressed with that very object
in view,--and she had gone by with a casual wave of her hand.
His annoyance was increased by the remark of Mr. Nichols, who was
standing at the top of the steps at the time.
"Thought you said you was going up to town, Courtney," said the
old man, with a detestable grin on his wrinkled visage.
"I didn't say anything of the kind," snapped Courtney, and strode
off angrily.
His stroll,--and his reflections,--took him up the old Indian trail
along the bank of the river. He wanted solitude. He wanted to be
where he could talk without fear of being overheard. There was much
that he had to say to himself.
The rarely used path through the willows and underbrush ran along
the steep bank, sometimes within a few feet of water. Once before
he had walked a couple of hundred yards over this ancient, hard-packed
trail of Tecumseh's people, but had been turned back by the sight
of a small snake wriggling off into the long grass ahead of him.
That was in the warm days of early September. There was no likelihood
of serpents being abroad on this chill October morning.
Leaving the road at the cut above the ferry landing, he turned into
the trail. A half hour's walk brought him to the gradually rising,
rock-covered slope that led to the base of Quill's Window. On all
sides were great, flat slabs of stone, some of them almost buried
in the earth, others sticking their jagged points up above the
brush and weeds. Back in ages dim these drab, moss-covered rocks
had been sliced from the side of the towering mound by the forces
that shaped the earth, to be hurled hither and thither with the calm
disdain of the mighty. No human agency had blasted them from their
insecure hold on the shoulders of the cliff. Uncounted centuries
ago they had come bounding, crashing down from the heights, shaken
loose by the convulsions of Mother Earth, tearing their way through
the feeble barrier of trees to a henceforth place of security.
The trail wound in and out among these boulders, dividing at a
point several hundred feet south of the steep ascent to the top of
the great black mound. The main-travelled path turned in from the
river at this point, to skirt the hill at its rear. A more tortuous
way, traversed presumably by the fishers and hunters of the tribes,
or perhaps by war parties in swift pursuit or retreat, held directly
to the bank of the stream and passed along the front of the cliff.
Courtney took the latter branch. Presently he was picking his way
carefully along the base of the cliff, scrambling over and between
the rocks that formed a narrow ledge between the river and the
sheer face of Quill's Window. He was now some fifty or sixty feet
above the cold, grey water. Below him grew a line of stunted,
ragged underbrush, springing from the earth-filled fissures among
the boulders. Across the river stretched far away the farms and
fields of the far-famed grain-belt.
He sat down upon a rock and gazed out over these fertile lands,
now crowded with shocks of corn or rusty with the dead glories
of summer. There were great square fields of stubble, fenced-in
patches of pasture-land, small oases of woodland, houses and barns
and silos as far as the eye could reach,--and always the huge red
barns dwarfed the houses in which the farmers dwelt. Cattle and
sheep and horses, wagons and men, all made small and insignificant
in the sweep of this great and solemn panorama.
The home of Amos Vick was visible, standing half-a-mile back from
the river. He looked hard and long at the house in which he had
spent the first three weeks of his stay in the country. So young
Cale had gone off to join the Navy, eh? Good! And Rosabel,--what
of her? What was she doing over at the old Windom house that day?
Could it have been she who was watching him? Looking badly, too,
they said. Such a strong, pretty, wind-tanned young thing she was!
How long ago was it? Not two months....He lit a cigarette and
resumed his way, the shadow of a fond smile lingering in his eyes.
Rounding the curve, he came to that side of the stone hill which
faced up the river. He had passed many small, shallow niches along
the base of the eminence, miniature caves from which oozed what
might well have been described as sweat. There were, besides, deep
upright slashes in the side of the rock, higher than his head,
suggesting to the imagination the vain effort of some unhappy giant
to burst through the walls of his rocky prison,--some monster of
a man who now lay dead in the heart of the hill. The turn took him
farther away from the river.
He was looking now into the tops of several tall sycamores that
rose from the low ground at the foot of the hill. Extending far to
the north along the river was a fringe of these much be-sung trees.
The space between the straight face of the cliff and the edge of
the ledge on which he stood was not more than seven or eight feet.
It was possible, he perceived, for one to continue along and down
this natural path to the bottom of the hill, coming out among the
trees in the low ground. The descent, however, was a great deal
more precipitous than the ascent from the other direction.
Now that he was immediately below the cave known as Quill's
Window, he was surprised to find that the cliff was not absolutely
perpendicular. There was quite a pronounced slant; the top of the
wall was, at a guess, ten feet farther back than the foot. His
gaze first sought the strange opening three-fourths of the way to
the top,--a matter of eighty or ninety feet above the spot on which
he stood. There it was,--a deep, black gash in the solid rock,
rendered narrow by fore-shortening and a slightly protruding brow.
He could think of nothing more analogous than an open mouth with
a thick upper lip and the nether lip drawn in.
Then he saw what surprised him even more,--something that none of
the chroniclers had mentioned: a series of hand-cut niches up the
face of the cliff, leading directly to the mouth of the cave. He had
been given to understand that there was no other means of reaching
Quill's Window save from the top of the rock. These niches or
"hand-holds" were about two feet apart. He examined the lower ones.
They were deeply chiselled, affording a substantial foothold as
well as a grip for a strong, resolute climber. Most of them were
packed with dirty, wind blown leaves from the trees nearby,--so
tightly packed by the furious rains that beat against the rock
that he had difficulty in removing the substance. Higher up they
appeared to be quite clean and free from obstruction.
He scraped the leaves out of five or six of the slits, one after
the other, as he climbed a short distance up the wall. Further
progress was checked, not so much by lack of desire to go to the
top, but by an involuntary glance over his shoulder. He was not
more than ten feet above the trail, but the trail was shockingly
narrow and uneven. So down he came, quite thrilled by his discovery,
to lean against the rock and laugh scornfully over the silly tales
about Quill's Window and its eerie impregnability. Anybody could
climb up there! All that one needed was a stout heart and a good
pair of arms. Closer inspection convinced him that these niches were
of comparatively recent origin,--certainly they were not of Quill's
time. David Windom? Had that adventurous lad hewn this ladder to
the cave long before the beautiful Alix the First came to complete
the romance of his dreams?
No matter who cut them, they were still there to prove that Quill's
Window was accessible. According to tradition, no one had put foot
inside the cave since David Windom, in his youth, had ventured to
explore its grisly interior. Courtney promised himself that one
day he would enter that unhallowed hole in the wall!
Retracing his steps over the trail, he soon found himself in the
village. He was more cheerful now. He had talked himself into a
better frame of mind....She was shy. She had reached the turning
point,--the inevitable point where women tremble with a strange
mixture of alarm and rapture, and are as timid as the questioning
deer. What a fool he was not to have thought of that!
There was a small package in his lockbox at the postoffice--and
two or three letters. The package was from New York, addressed in
his mother's hand.
He stopped at the general delivery window for a chat with Mrs.
Pollock.
"I had forgotten all about my birthday," he said, "but here's
mother reminding me of it as usual. She never forgets,--and, hang
it all, she won't let ME forget." He fingered the unopened package
lovingly.
"Goodness me, Mr. Thane,--is this your birthday?" she cried excitedly.
"We must have a celebration. We can't allow--"
"Alas, it is too late. Your super-efficient postal service has
brought this to me just forty-eight hours behind time. Day before
yesterday was the day, now that I think of it."
Mrs. Pollock mentally resolved to indite a short poem to him,
notwithstanding. She could feel it coming, even as she stood there
talking to him. The first line was already written, so to speak.
It went:
"The flight of Time has brought once more--"
He continued, oblivious to the workings of the Muse: "Twenty-nine!
By Jove, I begin to feel that I'm getting on in life." He ripped
open one of the envelopes.
Maude Baggs Pollock looked intently at the ceiling of the outer
office, and thought of line number two:
"The busy Reaper to his door,"
She hastily snatched a pencil from her hair and began jotting
down these precious lines. Fumbling for a bit of paper her fingers
encountered an envelope addressed to Alaska Spigg. The Muse worked
swiftly. Before she had dashed off the first two lines, the second
pair were crowding down upon them, to wit:
"But while he whets his fatal scythe, Gaze ye upon his victim
lithe."
At this juncture George Rice's son came in for a half dozen postal
cards, and while she was making change for a dime the Muse forsook
her. Bent on preserving the lines already shaped, she stuffed
Alaska's letter into the pocket of her apron, intending to copy
them at the first leisure moment. Unfortunately for Alaska, there
was a rush of business at the window, including an acrimonious
dispute with Mrs. Ryan over the non-arrival of a letter she was
expecting from her son, and a lengthy conversation with Miss Flora
Grady who dropped in to say that her chilblains always began to
bother her in October. In the meantime, Courtney departed.
Two days later, Alaska Spigg received her letter, considerably
crumpled and smelling of licorice root,--(a favourite remedy of Mrs.
Pollock's)--but rendered precious by the presence of a mysterious
"quatrain" done in violet hues by some poetic wielder of an indelible
pencil. Guilt denied Maude Baggs Pollock the right to claim
authorship of these imperishable lines, and to this day they remain
unidentified in the archives of the Windomville Public Library,
displayed upon request by Alaska Spigg, their proud and unselfish
donor.
Courtney read two of his letters. The third he consigned, unopened,
to the fireplace at Dowd's Tavern. The little package, minus the
wrapping paper, was locked away in his trunk.
Charlie Webster, emerging from his office at the dinner hour,--twelve
noon,--espied Miss Angie Miller hurrying toward the Tavern. He hailed
her,--not ceremoniously or even gallantly,--but in the manner of
Windomville.
"Hey!" he called, and Angie promptly responded, not with the dignity
for which she was famous but with an entirely human spontaneity:
"Hey yourself!"
She waited till he caught up with her.
"Have you had an answer to that letter, Angie?" he inquired, glancing
at a small bunch of letters she held in her hand.
"No, I haven't." she replied, somewhat guardedly. "I can't understand
why he hasn't answered, Charlie,--unless he's away or something."
"Must be that," said he, frowning slightly. "You wrote nearly two
weeks ago, didn't you?"
"Two weeks ago yesterday."
"Sure you had the right address?"
"Absolutely. Thirty-three Cedar Street. He's had an office there for
ever so long. I ought to know where my uncle's office is, oughtn't
I?"
"I thought maybe you might have got the wrong tree," explained
Charlie.
"It's Cedar," said Miss Angie flatly.
"Cedar and pine are a good deal alike, except in--" began Charlie,
doubtfully,
"Goodness!" cried Miss Angie, stopping short. "It IS Pine! How
perfectly stupid of me! How utterly reprehensible!"
Charlie stared at her a moment in sheer disdain.
"Well, by gosh, if that ain't like a woman," he exclaimed disgustedly.
"I'd hate to send you for a half dozen oranges if there were any
lemons in the market."
"He is such a well-known lawyer," began Angie humbly, "that you
would think the mail carrier would--"
"What did you say his name was?"
"Joseph Smith. He is my mother's brother."
"East or West?"
"East or west what?"
"Pine Street. Same as North Fourth Street and South Fourth Street
up in the city. It runs both ways, Angie,--you poor simp."
"I shall write to him again this evening," said Angie stiffly. "And
I'll thank you, Charlie Webster, to remember that I am a lady and
not a--"
"I apologize, Angie," cried Charlie.
"You'd better!"
They walked along in silence for a few rods. Then Charlie spoke.
"You say your uncle was mixed up in a lawsuit of some kind concerning
the Thane family?"
"I remember it distinctly. It was five or six years ago, before my
mother died. He wrote her a letter about it when he found out that
the Thanes originally came from this neighbourhood. I don't remember
what it was all about, but I think it was some kind of a rumpus
over money."
"Well, you write tonight, Angie," ordered Mr. Webster; "and remember
it ain't Cedar, or Oak, or Mahogany. It's Pine,--the stuff you make
boxes of."
Much to Courtney's dismay, Alix remained in town over night. He went
up to the house that evening, only to receive this disconcerting
bit of information. Halfway home, he stopped short in the road,
confronted by a most astonishing doubt. Had she really stayed in
town? Could it be possible that she was at home and did not care to
see him? Was it an excuse? He compressed his lips. With lightning
rapidity certain bits of circumstantial evidence raced through his
mind. In the first place, there was Sergeant, the police dog. He
wished he could remember whether he had seen the animal in the car
with her that morning. It was her custom to take the dog with her
when she went up for the day. One thing was certain: Sergeant was
now at home. Did that mean she had returned from the city?
And then there was another extraordinary thing,--something to which
he had not given a thought till now. The dog was on the terrace
when he strode up the walk. Not only was he there, but he interposed
his lean, bristling body between him and the porch-steps, growling
ominously and showing his teeth. He did not bark. He merely stood
there, daring him to approach. Courtney remembered saying to himself:
"There's one thing sure, you and I can't live in the same house,
you filthy brute. You'd better learn how to say your prayers, my
amiable friend."
It was not so much the presence of the dog or his inimical attitude
that troubled him now as the fact that Mrs. Strong opened the front
door without having been summoned by the bell. What did that signify?
But one thing: either she or some one else had been waiting and
watching for his arrival,--waiting behind the window curtains of
a darkened room!
"Well,--I'm damned!" he swore to himself, as the blood rushed
furiously to his head. For an instant he saw red. "Good Lord, what
have I done to deserve such a slap in the face as this? What can
be--But, what the devil's the matter with me? Of course, she's in
town! I must be going batty. Certainly she's in town. She--but, even
so, why should she have gone off like this without saying a word
to me about it? She didn't mention it last night. Not a word. And
she must have known then she was planning to spend the night,--why,
by gad, I wonder if she calls that being fair with me? Letting me
trail up here tonight, expecting--Any way you want to look at it,
it's rotten,--just plain rotten!"