THE RED DOGS AT WORK
Jim McAllister and old Noel Sabattis set out for the woods back of
the point within an hour of Noel’s arrival. They took uncooked food
and a kettle and a frying pan in a bag, a cold lunch and a flask of
brandy in their pockets, four blankets, two waterproof ground
sheets, an ax and Noel’s old duck gun. They took Red Chief and Red
Lily, the oldest and next older of the three red dogs. They moved
inland along a thin screen of alders and choke-cherries and
goldenrod until they reached a point of dense second-growth spruce
and fir—this to avoid attracting the attention of Sol Bear, Gabe
Sacobie and Molly Sacobie. The red dogs moved obediently “to heel”
until the cover of the wood was gained.
The point of woods soon widened and merged into the unpeopled forest
which lay unbroken behind the river farms for scores of miles to the
right and left and spread northward for scores of unbroken miles. An
eighty-rod by ten-mile strip of this forest belonged to the O’Dell
property. This strip of wilderness had supplied generations of
O’Dells with timber and fuel and fencing without showing a
scar—nothing but a few stumps here and there about the forward
fringe of it and a mossy logging road meandering in green and amber
shadows. Generations of O’Dells and McAllisters had shot and hunted
here without leaving a mark. Maliseets had taken toll of it in bark
for their canoes, maple wood for their paddles and ash wood for the
frames of their snowshoes for hundreds of years; and yet to any but
the expert eye it was a wilderness that had never been discovered by
man.
Jim and Noel and the dogs quartered the ground as they moved
gradually northward, a man and a dog to the right, a man and a dog
to left, out for five hundred yards each way and in and out again,
expanding and contracting tirelessly through brush and hollow. The
men kept direction by the sunlight on the high treetops and touch
with each other by an occasional shrill whistle. Red Chief, the
oldest dog, worked with Noel, and Red Lily with Jim.
The fact that Jim did not carry a gun puzzled Red Lily, and the fact
that Noel Sabattis carried a gun and did not use it puzzled Red
Chief even more. Red Lily caught the scent of partridge on leaf and
moss, stood to the scent until McAllister called her off or ran
forward impatiently and flushed the birds. She did these things half
a dozen times and the man always failed to produce a gun or show any
interest in the birds. Then she decided that he wasn’t looking for
birds, so she hunted hares; but he recalled her from that pursuit in
discouraging tones. She smelled around for something else after
that. And it was the same with Red Chief. That great dog, the
present head of that distinguished old family of red sportsmen gave
Noel Sabattis five chances at partridge and two at cock without
getting so much as an acknowledgment out of the ancient Maliseet.
The fellow didn’t shoot. He didn’t even make a motion with the duck
gun. And yet he looked to Red Chief like a man who was after
something and knew exactly what it was; so Red Chief ignored the
familiar scents and tried to smell out the thing Noel was looking
for.
At noon the men and dogs met and sat down beside a tiny spring in a
ferny hollow. McAllister made a small fire and boiled the kettle.
The cold lunch was devoured by the four and the men drank tea and
smoked pipes. Then the fire was trodden out and the last spark of it
drenched with wet tea leaves. The search was resumed.
The sun was down and though the sky was still bright above the
treetops a brown twilight filled the forest when the efforts of the
searchers were at last crowned with success. The honor fell to the
lot of Red Chief. Noel was about to turn and close on the center
with the intention of rejoining Jim and making camp for the night
when he heard the dog yelp excitedly again and again. He hurried
toward the sound. He forced his way straight through tangled brush
and over mossy rocks and rotting tree trunks, straight into the
heart of a tree-choked hollow. The dusk was almost as deep as night
in there but he saw the red dog yelping over something on the
ground. He joined the dog and looked close. The thing on the ground
was a man. It was Richard Sherwood, unconscious, perhaps dead.
Noel’s tough old heart failed him for a moment. It seemed to turn
over against his ribs and he withdrew his glance from his friend
and, for a moment, put an arm over the red dog’s shoulder for
support. Then he laid his gun down and produced the flask from his
hip. He forced a few drops of brandy between Sherwood’s colorless
lips. His hand shook and some of the liquor spilled and ran into the
wild, gray-shot beard. He felt unnerved—far too unnerved to go on
with this thing alone. He believed that Sherwood was dead; and
though he was glad of the red dog’s presence he wanted human
companionship, too.
He moved away a few yards and discharged the right barrel of the old
gun into the tops of the gloomy forest. The report thumped and
thundered through the crowding, listening forest. Reserving the left
barrel for a second signal, he returned to the body, raised the
inert head again and forced a little more of the brandy between the
cold lips. Red Chief whined and thrust his muzzle into Sherwood’s
face. Noel drew back a little, gathered dry twigs and moss together
blindly and set a match to them. The red and yellow flames shot up.
The light steadied his nerves but did not ease his heart. He fed a
few sticks to the fire, moved off hurriedly and fired the second
barrel of the big gun. When the echoes of the report had thumped to
silence he heard the shrill, faint whistle of Jim’s reply.
Noel became aware of a new note in the dog’s whines and yelps. He
stooped close and saw that Sherwood’s eyes were open and alive.
“I’ve fooled you,” whispered Sherwood. “I’m as good as dead—and the
little girl is safe.”
Then he closed his eyes. Red Chief ceased his whining, moved back a
yard and lay down. Noel built up the fire.
Red Lily came leaping to the fire, followed by Jim McAllister. She
yapped with delight and anxiety at sight of Sherwood, nosed his
beard, flashed a red tongue at his pale forehead. Again he opened
his eyes for a few seconds.
McAllister and Noel Sabattis worked over Sherwood for hours. The
poor fellow was delirious, exhausted, burning with fever and
suffering intense pain. They managed to get a little brandy and
about a gill of water down his throat. He did not know them. He
thought Louis Balenger was there.
“I’ve fooled you this time,” he said. “Marion is safe. Safe with
people you can’t scare or trick. Safe from me—and safe from you.
Leave her alone—or you’ll get caught in a trap—and die of it—like
me.”
Later, he said, “You can’t touch her, Balenger. Even the red dogs
would kill you. They’re my friends.”
His right hand and arm were in a terrible state. The hand had been
crushed straight across and torn by the steel teeth of the trap
which Ian McAllister, in unthinking cruelty, had set in the O’Dell
pantry. Hand and wrist were dark and swollen. The arm was swollen to
the shoulder. Jim bathed it with warm water, then with hot water.
They applied wads of hot, wet moss to the arm; but they had no
bandages and nothing of which to make bandages for the wounded hand.
And in their haste they had come without medicines—without quinine
or iodine.
Sherwood was still alive at dawn. He even seemed to be a little
stronger and in less suffering. His arm was no worse, that was
certain. They gave him a little more stimulant and a few spoonfuls
of condensed milk diluted in warm water. It was evident from his
appearance that he had been without nourishment of any sort for days
and yet he seemed unconscious of hunger. He was far too ill and weak
to feel anything but the pain of his hand and arm.
Jim set out for home after breakfast, on a straight line, to fetch
in bandages and quinine and to get his sister’s advice as to the
wisdom of using iodine. He believed that nourishment and simple
remedies would revive Sherwood so that they could safely remove him
to the house in the course of a day or two. Then he would get a
doctor from Woodstock, Doctor Scott whom he knew, to deal with the
injured hand. He believed that the inflammation of the hand and arm
could be reduced in the meantime by simple treatment. He left both
dogs and the gun with Noel Sabattis and the sick man.
The searchers must have covered close upon thirty miles of ground in
their hunt for Sherwood but they had not gone more than eight miles
straight to the northward. McAllister traveled a bee line, pausing
now and then to look up at the sun from an open glade. He reached
the house within two hours and twenty minutes of leaving the camp in
the secluded hollow.
Back in the heart of the tree-choked hollow old Noel Sabattis bathed
Sherwood’s hand and arm and applied wads of steaming moss to the arm
and shoulder just as Jim McAllister had done. Sherwood and the dogs
slept. Noel felt sleepy, too. He had been awake through most of last
night and through half of the night before and during the past two
days he had exerted himself more than usual. He blinked and blinked.
His eyelids wouldn’t stay up. He looked at his sleeping friend and
the sleeping dogs. His eyes closed and he made no effort to open
them. Instead, he sank back slowly until his head and shoulders
touched the soft moss.
Old Noel Sabattis slept deep and long. The moss was soft and dry.
The sun climbed and warmed the still air and sifted shafts of warm
light through the crowding boughs. Sherwood lay with closed eyes,
motionless, muttering now and again. Red Chief arose, shook himself,
hunted through the woods for a few minutes, circled the hollow, then
returned to the fallen fire and sleep. The other dog awoke a little
later, scouted around for ten minutes, drank at the ferny spring and
returned to sleep. The hours passed. Red Chief awoke again, sniffed
the still air and got purposefully to his feet. He entered and
vanished into the heavy underbrush with a single bound. Red Lily
awoke in a flash and flashed after him. They were both back in less
than a minute. They awoke Noel Sabattis by licking his face
violently. They were in too great a hurry to be particular.
Noel awoke spluttering and sat up. The big dogs jumped on him and
over him a few times, then turned and disappeared in the underbrush.
The old man wiped his face with the back of his hand and reached for
the duck gun. He had reloaded it before breakfast. He raised the
hammers, produced two copper percussion caps from a pocket of his
rag of a vest, capped each nipple and lowered the hammers to half
cock. Then he crawled after the dogs. He found them awaiting him
impatiently at the outer edge of the hollow. They jumped about him,
nosed him and made eager, choky noises deep in their throats. They
moved forward slowly and steadily then, with Noel crawling after.
But they did not advance far; suddenly they lay down.
Noel listened. He heard something. He set his best ear close to
ground while one dog watched him with intent approval and the other
gazed straight ahead. He raised himself to his knees, lifted his
head cautiously and looked to his front through a screen of tall
brakes. He saw two men approaching, one of whom he recognized as Mel
Lunt; and though he could see only their heads and shoulders he knew
that they were placing their feet for each step with the utmost
care. Also, he saw that each had a rifle on his shoulder.
Noel’s round eyes glinted dangerously. Man hunters, hey! Sneaks!
Sneaks sneaking around to jail poor Sherwood, hunting him down by
tracking his friends. He stooped for a moment and patted each dog on
the head.
“Lay close,” he whispered.
He stood straight, advanced two paces and halted. He brought the old
gun up so that the muzzles of the two barrels were in line with the
heads of the intruders and in plain sight and the butt was within a
few inches of the business position in the hollow of his right
shoulder.
“How do. Fine day,” he said.
Old Tim Hood of Hood’s Ferry and Mel Lunt the local constable
stopped dead in their tracks as if they were already shot. They
didn’t even lower their rifles from their shoulders. Their startled
brains worked just sufficiently to warn them that a move of that
kind might not be safe. For a few seconds they stared at Noel in
silence. Then Tim Hood spoke in a formidable voice that matched his
square-cut whiskers.
“What d’ye mean by p’intin’ that there gun at us?” he asked.
“What it look like it mean?” returned Noel.
“That’s all right, Tim,” said Mel Lunt. “He’s a friend of mine.”
“T’ell ye say!” retorted Noel.
“Well, ye know me, I guess. I was up to yer place on French River.
I’m the constable, don’t ye mind? Me an’ Sheriff Brown was up
there.”
“Sure t’ing, Lunt. What you want now?”
“Ye can’t talk to me like that!” exclaimed Hood. “I don’t take sass
from no Injun nor from no danged O’Dell! Where’s this here Sherwood
the law be after? Take us to ’im!”
“Keep dat rifle steady, Lunt,” cautioned Noel. “An’ you too, old
feller. I got jerks on de finger when I was little papoose an’
mighty sick one time—an’ maybe still got ’em, I dunno. Got hair
trigger on dis old gun, anyhow.”
“Don’t ye be a fool, Noel Sabattis,” said Lunt. “I’m a constable. I
want this man Richard Sherwood, who’s suspicioned of the murder of
the late Louis Balenger, an’ I know ye’ve got him somewheres ’round
here. I’m talkin’ to ye official now, Noel, as the arm o’ the law ye
might say. Drop yer gun an’ lead us to him.”
“Sherwood? Ain’t I told you he don’t shoot dat feller Balenger? He
don’t shoot nobody. You ask Brown. You ask Ben O’Dell. Ask anybody.
Pretty near anybody tell you whole lot you don’t know, Lunt!”
“’Zat so? I’ll ask Mr. Brown when I see ’im, don’t ye fret! I reckon
we kin stand here’s long as ye kin hold up that old gun; and
then—but we’ll show ye all about that later.”
“Maybe,” said Noel. “Hold ’im good long time, anyhow.”
He glanced down and behind him, under his left elbow, for an
instant. Red Lily still lay flat among the ferns but Red Chief was
not there. He wondered at that but he did not worry. His admiration
for the red dogs was great, though his acquaintance with them had
been short.
In the meantime, Jim McAllister was returning on a bee line through
the woods, with iodine and quinine and bandages and boric powder in
his pockets and a basket containing a bottle of milk and a dozen
fresh eggs in his right hand. When he was within half a mile of poor
Sherwood’s retreat he was met by Red Chief. The old dog leaped about
him, squirmed and wriggled, ran forward and back and forward again.
Jim knew that he was needed for something and quickened his pace.
Red Chief led him straight. Soon the dog slackened his pace and
glanced back with a new expression in his eyes. It was as if he had
laid a finger on his lips for caution. Jim understood and obeyed,
anxious and puzzled. He stooped, looked keenly to his front and set
his feet down with care.
Jim heard voices. A few seconds later, he glimpsed the shoulders of
two men among the brown boles of the forest, topping the underbrush.
He saw rifles slanted on their shoulders. He set the basket of eggs
and milk securely in a ferny nook and continued to advance with
increased caution. He recognized the voice of Mel Lunt. Then he
heard Noel’s voice. He heard the old Maliseet say, “I kin hold her
annoder hour yet. Den maybe git so tired me finger jerk, hey? Maybe.
Dunno.”
He saw Noel facing the others, standing with his back square to the
dense growth of Sherwood’s retreat. He saw the duck gun. In a flash
he understood it all; and in another flash of time indignation
flared up in him like white fire. Lunt, that brainless sneak! And
old Tim Hood, whose only pleasure was derived from the troubles of
others! So they had spied on him, had they? Tracked him on his
errand of mercy!
McAllister ran forward. Noel saw him coming, grinned and steadied
the big gun. McAllister seized a rifle with each hand and yanked
them both backward over their owners’ shoulders. He moved swiftly
around and confronted the intruders. The glare of his gray eyes was
hard and hot. He tossed one rifle behind him and held the other in
readiness after a jerk on the bolt and a glance at the breech.
“Guess I go bile de kittle now,” said Noel Sabattis; and he lowered
the duck gun and retired. His old arms trembled with fatigue, but
his old heart was high and strong.
“What have you two got to say for yerselves?” asked McAllister,
turning his unnerving gaze from Lunt to Hood and back to Lunt.
“Ain’t you read the game laws for this year? Hunting season opens
October first, as usual. Or maybe you forgot I’m a game warden.”
“Cut it out, Jim McAllister!” retorted Lunt. “I’m a constable. Ye
ain’t forgot that, I guess.”
“Sure, I know that. And as you won’t be one much longer, I’ll use
you now. Arrest Tim Hood an’ take him down to Woodstock to the
sheriff—an’ hand yerself over too while ye’re about it. The charge
is carrying loaded rifles in these woods in close season.”
“None o’ that,” said old Tim Hood. “Ye can’t fool me, Jim. Me an’
Mel ain’t here to kill moose or deer—an’ well ye know it. We be here
to take a man the law wants for murder. So back out an’ set down,
Mr. Jim McAllister. This ain’t no job for a game warden.”
“I’ll be as easy on you as I can,” returned Jim. “Ye’re out for
Sherwood, I know. Well, Sherwood didn’t murder anybody. The shooting
was done by a stranger from Quebec and Dave Brown and young Ben
O’Dell are looking for him now in Quebec.”
“I ain’t been officially notified o’ that,” said Lunt. “As a private
citizen I reckon it’s a lie—an’ as an officer of the law I couldn’t
believe it anyhow. I’m here to do my duty.”
“Did you call me a liar, Mel?”
“I ain’t here to pick over my words with you nor no man. I’m here to
do my duty.”
“Toting a rifle in close season. Show me yer warrant for Richard
Sherwood’s arrest.”
“Show nothin’,” snarled old Tim Hood.
Jim moved backward until he reached the discarded rifle. He laid the
second rifle beside it. Red Lily had joined him and Red Chief at the
moment of their arrival on the scene.
“Guard ’em, pups,” he said.
The big red dogs stood across the rifles. McAllister walked close up
to the intruders, unarmed, his hands hanging by his sides.
“Hood, ye’re an old man and a spiteful one, and because of yer age
I’m only telling you to get off O’Dell land as quick as you know
how,” he said. “I’ll keep yer rifle till you pay yer fine for
carrying it in close season. Beat it! But ye’re not too old to kick,
Mel Lunt. Ye’re my own age and heft and it ain’t my fault ye’re not
as good a man. You had ought to thought of that before you called me
a liar.”
He swung his right hand, wide open, and delivered a resounding smack
on the constable’s left ear. Lunt staggered, cursing. Jim stepped in
and placed a smart left on the nose and upper lip. Lunt made a
furious but blind onslaught and was met by a thump on the chest that
shook his hat from his head and his socks down about his ankles. Jim
was unskilled as a boxer; but he was powerful and in good condition;
the Highland blood of the McAllisters and the pride of the O’Dells
were raging in him and he had picked up a few notions from young
Ben. He biffed Mel again, but not in a vital spot.
Old Tim Hood, that bitter soul, was not idle. He dashed toward the
rifles on the ground, his square-cut white whiskers fairly bristling
with rage. Murder was in his heart—but there was no courage back of
it. He beheld the masks of the red dogs—wrinkled noses, curled lips,
white fangs and blazing eyes. His dash stopped suddenly within a
yard of the rifles. He heard throaty gurgles. The bristles went out
of his whiskers. He turned and jumped away in a cold panic. But rage
still shook in his heart. He stooped and fumbled in the moss and
ferns for a stone with which to smash Jim McAllister on the back of
the head. It was a style of attack with which he had been familiar
in his younger days. He found the thing he wanted, conveniently
shaped for the hand and about seven pounds in weight.
Hood straightened himself, stone in hand, just in time to glimpse a
red flash. Then something struck him all over and down he went, flat
on his back, and the stone went rolling. For half a second he kept
his eyes open. Half a second was long enough. He saw white fangs
within an inch of his face, crimson gums, a black throat, eyes of
green fire. His heart felt as if it would explode with terror. He
screamed as he waited for the glistening fangs to crunch into his
face. He waited and waited.
Mel Lunt was glad to run as soon as he realized that McAllister was
too good for him. He saw that the thing to do was to run while he
could and get to Woodstock as soon as possible and interview the
high sheriff of the county. There might be something in the story
about the man from Quebec, though he doubted it. He needed a warrant
for Sherwood’s arrest, anyway; and after that he would settle with
McAllister and old Noel Sabattis. So he staggered southward; and Jim
sped him with a kick.
Then Jim turned and whistled Red Chief off Tim Hood’s chest. The old
dog came trotting, waving his red plume. Red Lily continued to stand
guard over the rifles. Jim walked over to where Hood lay motionless
with closed eyes.
“Get up,” he said. “You ain’t hurt. No one touched you.”
Mr. Hood opened his eyes, sat up and looked around him.
“Lunt has gone south,” said Jim. “I reckon you can overhaul him if
you hurry. Beat it!”
The bitter old ferryman got to his feet without a word and headed
south at a very creditable rate of speed.
* * * * *
In the city of Quebec, in the midst of excitements and novelties,
Deputy Sheriff Brown and young Ben O’Dell went earnestly and
successfully about their business. Mr. Brown’s mind and heart were
set on catching a murderer; Ben’s thoughts and efforts were all bent
upon clearing and saving the innocent. The success of either meant
the success of both, so they worked in perfect accord.
Ben was the superior in imagination and intelligence but Brown knew
the ways of the police and of cities. Brown obtained audience with
the chief of police and Ben’s manner of telling the story of the
French River shooting did the fine work. The stranger who had
dropped his pen and comb on French River was soon identified as one
Norman Havre, alias “Black” McFay, alias Joe Hatte, known to the
police. Louis Balenger’s record was also known to them.