A TRAP FOR THE HUNGRY
Ben O’Dell and Jim McAllister reached home soon after dinner time
next day, canoeless, baggageless and empty but very well pleased
with themselves. They found Mrs. O’Dell and little Marion Sherwood
drying the last spoon.
Mrs. O’Dell gave the returned voyagers just one look before
replacing the chicken stew on the stove to reheat and the baked
pudding in the oven. Then she looked again and welcomed them
affectionately.
“I hope you had a good time,” she said. “We didn’t expect you home
so soon. Why didn’t you bring your blankets and things up with you?”
“We didn’t fetch them home with us,” said Uncle Jim. “Left them a
long ways upriver, Flora. There wasn’t much to fetch back—a few old
blankets and a teakettle and a mite of grub. But we had a good time.
For a little while there I was having more fun than I’ve had in
twenty years, thanks to Ben.”
“I ran Big Rapids, mother,” said Ben, with a mixed expression of
face and voice. “I was paddling stern, you know, and we were in a
hurry, and I let her go. The water was at its lowest and worst, but
we got through—all but.”
“Sure we got through!” exclaimed McAllister. “It was the prettiest
bit of work I ever saw! We were clean through, and we’d of been home
earlier, blankets an’ all, if Ben’s paddle hadn’t bust.”
“Jim McAllister! You let Ben shoot Big Rapids at low water?—that
boy? What were you thinking of, Jim?”
“Let nothing, Flora! He was aft, because he’s a bigger man than I am
and a better one—though a mite reckless, I must say. I warned him,
but not extra strong. And he did it! If there’s another man on the
river could do it any better, show him to me!”
“You are old enough to have more sense, Jim. And if you did it,
where’s your dunnage? Why did you leave it all upriver?”
“Did you run a canoe through those rapids, Ben?” asked the little
Sherwood girl. “Right down those rapids between here and French
River—those rapids all full of rocks and black waves and
whirlpools?”
“Yes—just about,” answered Ben.
“You are very strong and courageous,” she said.
Ben’s blush deepened and spread.
“Oh, it wasn’t much. Nothing like as bad as it looks. And we didn’t
quite make it, anyhow. My paddle broke off clean just above the
blade just before we struck smooth water—and so we struck something
else instead!”
“You are very courageous. Dad wouldn’t do it, even in our big
pirogue. We let it through on a rope.”
“And he did right,” said Uncle Jim. “Yer dad showed his sense that
time. I ain’t blaming Ben, you understand, for I don’t. It was
different with Ben. He didn’t have any little girl in the canoe with
him, but only a tough old uncle who was seasoned to falling into
white water and black before Ben here was ever born. I enjoyed it.
Ben was right, sure—but Dick Sherwood was righter, Marion. He came
down those rapids with you just the way any other real good father
would of done it.”
The little girl said nothing to that, but she went over and stood
close to Uncle Jim and held his hand. Flora O’Dell grasped her son’s
big right hand in both of hers. Her blue eyes filmed with tears.
“Ben, you upset in Big Rapids?” she whispered faintly.
“We were clear through, mother, and upset into the pool,” he said.
“I want you to be brave,” she continued, her voice very low in his
ear. “But I want you to remember, dear, that you are the only O’Dell
on this river now—on this earth—and that life would be very terrible
for me without—an O’Dell.”
Ben was deeply touched. Pity and pride both pierced his young heart.
Now he fully realized for the first time the wonder and beauty of
his mother, of the thing that brightened and softened in her brave
eyes, her love, her loneliness, her love for him. And now she called
him an O’Dell; and he knew that she thought of all O’Dells as men
possessed of the qualities of his heroic father. His heart glowed
with pride.
“I’ll remember, dear—but we were really in a hurry, mother,” he
answered.
For fully ten minutes he felt twenty years older than his age.
After Ben and Uncle Jim had eaten and the little girl had gone out
to the orchard with a book Ben told his mother all they had learned
from old Noel Sabattis and of the clew he had discovered to the
identity of Balenger’s murderer. He showed her the pen and comb. She
felt remorse for having doubted poor Sherwood’s innocence.
“Then he must be crazy—and that is almost as unfortunate,” she said.
“It is almost as bad for both of them.”
“I don’t believe he’s really insane,” said Ben. “He acted like it
part of the time, by Noel’s account, but not all the time. He was
sane enough when he dropped the pirogue down the rapids on a rope
instead of trying to run them. His nerves are bad and I guess he’s
sick. What Noel said sounded to me as if he was sick with fever—and
he’s afraid—afraid of all sorts of things. But I guess he’d soon be
all right if he knew he was safe from the law and was decently
treated. He hasn’t got Balenger to worry about now. Was any more
food taken while we were away, mother?”
“You still think it is Richard Sherwood who takes the food?” she
asked nervously.
“I think so more than ever now, since Noel told us about him. He
hadn’t the nerve to go far away from his daughter.”
“I wouldn’t wonder if Ben’s right,” said McAllister.
“I hope he isn’t!” exclaimed Mrs. O’Dell in a distressed voice. “A
cruel thing happened last night and it was my fault. I—I told Ian
about the thefts when he asked me why I was afraid to sleep without
a man in the house. I didn’t want him to think me just a—an
unreasoning coward. And he set a trap in the bread box last night, a
steel fox trap. I didn’t know anything about it. I would have taken
it away if I had known.”
“A trap!” cried Ben, his face flushing and then swiftly paling and
his eyes darkling. “A trap in this house! To hurt some one in need
of bread! If he wasn’t your brother I’d—I’d——”
“Same here!” muttered Uncle Jim.
“I didn’t know until this morning,” continued Mrs. O’Dell, glancing
from her son to her brother with horrified eyes. “I found it
outside, with an ax lying beside it. He had pried it open with the
ax. There was blood on it. I—I went over to see Ian then—he’d gone
home early—and I saw him and told him what—how I felt. I think he
understood—but that won’t help the—the person who was hurt.”
She was on the verge of tears but Ben comforted her.
Ben and Jim McAllister spent the remainder of the afternoon in
searching the woods for the poor fellow who had put his hand into
the trap. Ben was sure that the person whom they sought was Sherwood
and Uncle Jim agreed with him; but whoever the unfortunate thief
might be, Ben felt that he was entitled to apologies and surgical
aid and an explanation. These things were due to the sufferer and
also to the good name of O’Dell. In setting a trap to catch a hungry
thief in the O’Dell house Ian McAllister had flouted a great
tradition of kindness and smudged the honor of an honorable family.
The woods were wide, the ground was dry and showed no tracks, the
underbrush was thick. Their search was in vain. They shouted words
of encouragement a score of times, at the top of their voices, but
received no reply.
The three talked late that night after the little girl had gone to
bed. Ben was determined to follow up the clew which he had obtained
on French River immediately and personally, to save the poor fellow
who had once been his father’s friend from the blundering of the law
and from destruction by his own fears. And not entirely for the sake
of the old friendship, perhaps. There was their guest to consider,
the brave child upstairs. His mother and uncle saw the justice of
his reasoning, but without enthusiasm. His mother felt uneasy for
him, afraid to have him to go to a big city on such a mission. He
had been away from home for months at a time during the past six or
seven years, but that had been very different. He had been at school
in a quiet town on the river, among people she knew. And she feared
that his efforts in Sherwood’s behalf would interrupt his education.
She said very little of all this, however, for she knew that in this
matter her son’s vision was clearer and braver and less selfish than
her own. Uncle Jim felt no anxiety concerning Ben, for his faith in
that youth had grown mightily of late, but he wanted to know what
was to become of the harvest.
It was decided that a good Indian or two should be hired to help
McAllister with the harvesting of the oats, barley and buckwheat,
and that Ben should go to Woodstock next day and discuss Richard
Sherwood’s unhappy situation with Judge Smith and return to O’Dell’s
Point for a night at least before going farther. Mrs. O’Dell and
Uncle Jim would do everything they could to find Sherwood and
reassure him. All three were convinced by now that Sherwood and the
unfortunate thief were one, in spite of the fact that the red dogs
had behaved as if the thief were an old and trusted friend.
Ben set out for Woodstock after an early breakfast. The long drive
was uneventful. The road was in excellent condition for a road of
its kind, the mare was the best of her kind on the upper river, the
sun shone and the miles rolled steadily and peacefully back under
the rubber tires of the light buggy.
Ben stabled the mare at the Aberdeen House stables, saw her rubbed
dry and watered and fed, then sat down to his own dinner. He was
well along with his meal when Deputy Sheriff Brown walked into the
hotel dining room, turned around twice as a dog does before it lies
down, then advanced upon Ben’s table. Ben felt slightly embarrassed.
He saw that Mr. Brown’s face still showed something of the effects
of their last meeting. The deputy sheriff held out his hand and Ben
arose and took it.
“I’ll eat here too, if you don’t mind,” said Mr. Brown.
Ben was relieved to see that, despite the faint discoloration around
the other’s eyes, the expression of the eyes was friendly.
“You gave me a good one, Ben,” said the arm of the law, speaking
between spoonfuls of soup. “I’ve been thinkin’ it over ever since
and the more I think on it the clearer I see why you did it. I was
danged mad for a spell, but I ain’t mad now. Yer a smart lad, Ben,
if you’ll excuse me for sayin’ so; and jist pig-headed enough to be
steady and dependable, if you don’t mind me expressin’ it that way.”
“It is very kind of you to think so,” replied Ben.
“Oh, I’m like that. No meanness in Dave Brown. If he’s wrong he’s
willin’ to admit it once he’s been shown it—that’s me! I guess you
were right that time in yer barn, Ben. I know darn well that you
acted as if right was on yer side, anyhow.”
Ben looked him steadily but politely in the eye for several seconds,
then leaned forward halfway across the narrow table.
“I came down to-day to tell something important to Judge Smith and
perhaps to ask his advice about it, but I think I’ll tell it to you
instead,” he said in guarded tones.
The deputy sheriff’s eyes brightened and he too leaned forward.
“Something about French River?” he whispered.
“You’ve guessed it, Mr. Brown. Uncle Jim and I went up there and saw
old Noel Sabattis and heard all he had to tell. Among other things,
we heard about that stranger Noel saw once a few days before Louis
Balenger showed up again.”
“There was nothin’ to that, Ben. The old man said he didn’t see hair
nor track of him after that one minute. It wasn’t even a good lie.
It was jist the commencement of one—an’ then Noel got wise to the
fact that he couldn’t git it across even if he took the trouble to
invent it.”
Ben smiled and sat back. The waitress was at his elbow. He ordered
peach pie with cream and coffee. Mr. Brown ordered apple pie with
cheese on the side and tea, and the waitress retired. Again Ben
leaned forward.
“That wasn’t a lie, and that stranger shot Balenger,” he said.
“Shoot. I’m listenin’.”
“He shot him from the top of the bank on the other side of the
river, upstream, exactly two hundred and eighty-six yards away.”
“Was yours apple or mince?” asked the waitress, suddenly reappearing
with both arms full of pieces of pie and brimming cups.
The deputy sheriff turned the face of the law on her.
“Leave it an’ beat it an’ don’t come back to-day!” he cried.
“He came from the city of Quebec,” continued Ben, “and I wouldn’t be
surprised to learn that the police there know something about him.”
Mr. Brown looked at once suspicious and impressed.
“It wouldn’t surprise you much to learn anything, Ben,” he said.
“Have you got him tied under yer chair? Introduce me, will you?”
Ben laughed good-naturedly, produced the pen, the comb and the
broken clip and told all that he knew about them, including old
Noel’s searching description of the stranger’s appearance.
“Ben, I hand it to you,” said the deputy sheriff. “I give you
best—for the second time. Yer smart and yer steady—and yer lucky!
What’s yer next move?”
“What would you suggest, Mr. Brown?”
“Me suggest? That’s polite of you, Ben, but I’d sooner listen to
you. I got a high opinion of the way you work yer brains—_and_ yer
luck, if you don’t object to me mentionin’ yer luck.”
“I was thinking that you might make a special constable of me or if
I’m too young for that you might engage me as a private detective,
and we’ll go to Quebec and find out what the chief of police there
knows about an acquaintance of Louis Balenger’s with three gold
teeth and a scar just below his right ear.”
“Exactly what I was goin’ to suggest!” exclaimed Mr. Brown. “Shake
on it! I’ll fix it—an’ the sooner the quicker. What about the day
after to-morrow? If you get here as early as you did to-day we can
take the two-o’clock train.”
Ben spent hours of the next day searching in the upland woods and
the island thickets for Richard Sherwood. The incident of the trap
had increased his pity for and his sense of responsibility toward
the broken fugitive. Again his efforts were unsuccessful. He found
nothing—no ashes of a screened fire, no makeshift shelter, no
furtive shape vanishing in the underbrush. He left a message in the
woods and down among the willows, repeated on half a dozen of pages
torn from his notebook and impaled on twigs. Here is the message:
You are safe and we are your friends. The trap was a mistake. Please
come to the house.
Ben O’Dell.
He told his mother and Uncle Jim what he had done and they approved
of it. He and Uncle Jim drove away next morning; and he and the
deputy sheriff caught the two-o’clock train for Quebec.
O’Dell’s Point experienced busier days than usual after Ben O’Dell’s
departure on the trail of the marksman from Quebec. The harvest was
heavy, and Jim McAllister was the busiest man on the river. By the
application of a few plugs of tobacco as advances on wages he
procured the services of Sol Bear and Gabe Sacobie, two good
Indians. They were good Indians, honest and well-intentioned and
hardy, but they were not good farm hands. If McAllister had hired
them to take him to the head of the river they would have toiled
early and late, bent paddles and poles and backs, made the portages
at a jog trot and grinned at fatigue. That would have been an
engagement worthy of a Maliseet’s serious consideration and effort.
But the harvesting of oats and barley was quite a different matter.
Sol and Gabe could see nothing in the laborious pursuit of the dull
oats but the wages. Squaws’ work, this. So Uncle Jim had to keep
right at their heels and elbows to keep them going.
Jim McAllister kept the sad case of Sherwood in his mind. After the
day’s work and the milking and feeding, when the Maliseets were
smoking by the woodshed door and his sister and little Marion were
sewing and reading in the sitting room, he wandered abroad with a
stable lantern. He showed his light in the high pastures, along
brush fences and through the fringes of the forest. Sometimes he
whistled. Sometimes he shouted the name of the man who had tried to
teach him to shoot duck and snipe on the wing half a lifetime ago.
He did these things five nights running but without any perceptible
result. And no food had been missed since the night the trap had
been set and sprung. It looked to Jim as if his brother’s cruel and
stupid act had driven Sherwood away, had shattered his last thread
of courage, dispelled the last glimmer of his sense of
self-preservation and his last ray of hope.
Jim McAllister believed that misfortune, grief and fear had been too
much for Dick Sherwood’s sanity even at the time of Balenger’s
death. He believed him to have been temporarily insane even
then—partially and temporarily insane. His caution at Big Rapids
showed that he had then possessed at least a glimmer of reasoning
power and nervous control. Friendship, companionship, assurance of
his own and Marion’s safety might have saved him then, Jim
reflected. But now Jim couldn’t see any hope for him. The trap had
finished what Louis Balenger’s cruelty and Julie’s death had begun.
Sherwood had undoubtedly taken to the limitless wilderness behind
O’Dell’s Point, sick, hungry, wounded and crazy with fear. He was
probably dead by now.
Sunday came, a day of rest from hauling oats and barley. Sol and
Gabe and Gabe’s squaw breakfasted in the kitchen. Mrs. O’Dell and
Uncle Jim and the little Sherwood girl breakfasted in the dining
room. Uncle Jim was at his third cup of coffee and already dipping
into a pocket for his pipe when his sister startled him by an
exclamation.
“Hark! Who’s that?”
He pricked up his ears.
“It’s only the Injuns talking, Flora,” he said.
“No, I heard a strange voice.”
The door between the kitchen and dining room opened and old Noel
Sabattis entered. He closed the door behind him with a backward
kick.
“How do,” he said.
His shapeless hat of weather-beaten felt was on his head, a dark
pipe with a rank aroma protruded from his mouth. He held a paddle in
one hand and an ancient double-barreled duck gun, a muzzle loader,
in the other. Marion Sherwood stared at him wide-eyed for a moment.
Then she shot from her chair, flew to him and embraced him.
“Mind yerself!” he exclaimed. “Look out for dat gun!”
“Why have you come, Noel?” she cried, pulling at his belt. “Why
didn’t you come to see me before? Has dad come home?”
“Nope, not yet. Two-t’ree day he come. How you feel, hey?”
“I am very well, thank you,” she replied, “but worried about dad—and
I’ve missed you. Now you must take off your hat and speak to Mrs.
O’Dell, who is very kind.”
McAllister and the little girl relieved the old Maliseet of his gun,
paddle and hat and Mrs. O’Dell brought a chair to the table for him
and fetched more eggs and bacon from the kitchen.
Noel inquired about Sherwood at the first opportunity.
“He’s gone, I guess,” said Jim. “I’m afraid he’s done for. One night
when Ben and I were away, the last night we were away, a darned
nasty thing happened. My brother, Ian McAllister, set a fox trap in
the pantry. Whoever has been taking the food got a hand into it and
had to pry himself clear of the jaws with an ax—and nothing’s been
taken since. It was dirty work! If Sherwood was the man, then I
guess there’s no chance of ever finding him—not alive, anyhow. I’ve
hunted for him, night and day, but ain’t seen track nor hair of him.
He’s kept right on running till he dropped, I guess. That would jist
about finish him, that trap. He’d think the whole world was against
him for sure.”
“Yer brodder do dat, hey?” cried old Noel, angry and distressed.
“You got one fool for brodder, hey? Go trappin’ on de pantry for to
catch dat poor hungry feller Sherwood! You better keep ’im ’way from
me, Ma-callister; or maybe he don’t last long!”
“He thought it was a local thief, I guess,” answered Jim.
“Maybe Sherwood don’t run far,” said Noel. “But he lay mighty low.
You hunt ’im wid dem red huntin’ dogs, hey?”
“No, I didn’t take the dogs in with me. They’re bird dogs. They
don’t follow deer tracks nor man tracks. The only scent they heed is
partridge and snipe and woodcock.”
Noel shook his head.
“No dog ain’t dat much of a fool,” he said.