RED CROSSES AGAIN
"I am investigating the mysteries of Samson's Mill Settlement along
lines of my own," said Harvey P. Banks. "My system of detection is not
perfect yet, but it is good enough to go ahead with. So far I have not
nailed anything down, but my little hammer is ready, I can tell you. I
am full of highly colored suspicions, and there is one thing I am ready
to swear to."
"What is that?" asked Reginald Baynes Rayton.
"Just this, Reginald. I'll eat my boots--and they cost me twelve
plunks--if the burning of young Marsh's camp and the attack upon old
Timothy Fletcher are not parts of the same game. I don't see any
connection, mind you, but I'll swear it is so. I have two pieces of this
picture puzzle on the table, and I am waiting for more. I know that
these two pieces belong to the same picture."
"And what about the marked card?" inquired Rayton. "Is it part of your
puzzle?"
"Certainly. It is the title of the picture. But I want more pieces, and
just at this stage I need another game of poker. Can you get the same
bunch of players together for to-night--and Dick Goodine?"
"I'll try. If we both set to work we can make the round this afternoon.
Jim Harley is home, I know. Why do you want Dick? I give you my word, H.
P., that you'll not find him one of the crooked pieces of your puzzle
picture."
"Right you are, son! But he has sharp eyes, and as he is our friend it
would not be polite to give a party and leave him out. He needn't play.
Somebody must sit out, anyway, or we'll have too many for a good game,
but he can talk, and look on, and help burn tobacco."
"Good! Then we must get Goodine, Nash, Wigmore, Marsh, Jim Harley, and
Benjamin Samson."
"Never mind Samson. We don't need him. He is harmless and hopeless--and
one too many. Also, he has promised Mrs. Samson never to stay out again
after ten o'clock at night."
"All serene. We'd better start out with our invites right after grub.
And as the roads are bad we may as well ride. You can have Buller and
I'll take Bobs. Who do you want to call on?"
"I'll see Nash and Wigmore, and leave the others to you."
So, after the midday meal, they saddled the two farm horses and set out.
Mr. Banks rode straight to Captain Wigmore's house. The air was still
mild and the sky was clouded. About four inches of slushy snow lay upon
the half-frozen ruts of the roads. The New Yorker hitched Buller in an
open carriage shed, and hammered with the butt of his whip upon the
front door. He waited patiently for nearly ten minutes, then hammered
again. This time the summons brought old Timothy Fletcher, looking even
more sullen than usual and with his gray-streaked hair standing up like
the crest of some grotesque fowl. His eyes had the appearance of being
both sharp and dull at the same time. They showed inner points, glinting
like ice, and an outer, blinking film like the shadow of recent sleep.
For several seconds he stood with the door no more than six inches ajar,
staring and blinking at the caller, his wind-tanned brow forbidding, but
his lower face as expressionless as a panel of the door.
"Who d'ye want, sir?" he inquired at last, in a grudging voice.
"Good!" exclaimed Mr. Banks. "I really thought you were asleep,
Timothy. I want to speak to the captain for a few minutes. Is he at
home?"
Timothy Fletcher lowered his staring eyes for an instant, then raised
them again, blinking owlishly. The glint in their depths brightened, and
took on sharper edges.
"What d'ye want to speak to him about?" he asked suspiciously.
"I'll tell that to your master," replied Mr. Banks blandly.
"He ain't at home."
"Not at home? Guess again, my good man."
"I tell ye, he ain't at home!"
"Not so fast," said the sportsman coolly, and with astonishing swiftness
he advanced his heavily booted right foot, and thrust it across the
threshold. The door nipped it instantly.
"It is not polite to slam doors in the faces of your master's friends,"
he said.
Then he threw all his weight against the door, flinging it wide open and
hurling Timothy Fletcher against the wall.
"I don't like your manners," he said. "I intend to keep my eye on you. I
give you fair warning, Timothy Fletcher."
The old fellow stood against the wall, breathing heavily, but in no wise
abashed. He grinned sardonically.
"Warning?" he gasped. "Ye warn _me_! Chuck it!"
Mr. Banks halted and gazed at him, noting the narrow, heaving chest and
gray face.
"I hope I have not hurt you. I opened the door a trifle more violently
than I intended," he said.
Fletcher did not answer. Banks glanced up the stairs and beheld Captain
Wigmore standing at the top and smiling down at him. He turned sharply
to the servant. "There!" he whispered. "Just as I suspected! You were
lying."
The old fellow twisted his gray face savagely. That was his only answer.
Timothy retired to the back of the house as Captain Wigmore descended
the stairs. The captain was in fine spirits. He clasped his visitor's
hand and patted his shoulder.
"Come into my den," he cried. "What'll you have? Tea, whisky, sherry?
Give it a name, my boy."
"A drop of Scotch, if you have it handy," replied the caller. "But I
came over just for a moment, captain, to see if you can join us
to-night in a little game of poker."
"Delighted! Nothing I'd like better. We've been dull as ditch water
lately," answered the captain, as he placed a glass and decanter before
his visitor. "Just a moment," he added. "There is no water--and there is
no bell in this room. Timothy has a strong objection to bells."
Wigmore left the room, returning in a minute with a jug of water. He
closed the door behind him.
"Same crowd, I suppose," he said, "and the cards cut at eight o'clock."
Banks nodded, and sipped his whisky and water. "Yes, about eight," he
answered. "We don't keep city hours."
"Do you expect the marked card to turn up again?" asked Captain Wigmore,
fixing him with a keen glance.
The New Yorker looked slightly disconcerted, but only for a fraction of
a second.
"Yes, I am hoping so," he admitted. "I want to see those marks. Do you
think there is any chance of the thing working to-night?"
"That is just what I want to know," returned the captain. "If the devil
is at the bottom of that trick, as Jim Harley would have us all
believe, I see no reason why he should neglect us to-night. But,
seriously, I am convinced that we might play a thousand games and never
see those two red crosses on the face of a card again. It was chance, of
course, and that the Harleys should have that family tradition all ready
was a still more remarkable chance."
Mr. Banks nodded. "We'll look for you about eight o'clock," he said, and
then, very swiftly for a man of his weight, he sprang from his chair and
yanked open the door. There, with his feet at the very threshold, stood
Timothy Fletcher. Banks turned to the captain with a gesture that drew
the old man's attention to the old servant's position.
"I'd keep my eye on this man, if I were you," he said. "I have caught
him both at lying and eavesdropping to-day."
"Timothy, what the devil do you mean by such behavior?" cried Wigmore
furiously.
Timothy leered, turned, and walked slowly away.
Mr. Banks mounted his horse and set out for Doctor Nash's at a
bone-wrenching trot.
"I'll bet a dollar old Fletcher is at the bottom of the whole business,"
he murmured. "I wonder where Wigmore picked him up. He looks like
something lifted from the bottom of the sea." During the ride to the
doctor's, and throughout the homeward journey, his mind was busy with
Timothy Fletcher. When he reached home he told something of his new
suspicion to Rayton.
"How could that poor old chap have got at that card?" asked Rayton. "He
has never been inside my sitting room in his life."
"That is just what you think, Reginald," replied Mr. Banks. "But we'll
soon know all about it, you take my word. I am on a hot scent!"
Jim Harley was the first of the company to arrive. He looked worried,
but said nothing about his anxieties. Next came young Marsh, with his
right arm in a sling and a swagger in his stride. Dick Goodine and
Captain Wigmore appeared together, having met at the gate. The captain
wore a cutaway coat, a fancy waistcoat, and a white silk cravat fastened
with a pearl pin. His whiskers were combed and parted to a wish, his
gray hair was slick as the floor of a roller-skating rink, and his
smiling lips disclosed his flashing "store" teeth. He was much merrier
and smarter than on the night of the last game.
Doctor Nash was still to come.
"We'll give him fifteen minutes' grace," said Rayton, "and if he does
not turn up by then we'll sit in to the game without him."
"He is trying to be fashionable," said Captain Wigmore. "Poor fellow!"
Banks produced his cigars and cigarettes. David Marsh drew his chair
close up to Dick Goodine's and began to talk in guarded tones.
"D'ye know, Dick, I'm mighty upset," he whispered. "I'd feel easier if I
knew you'd done me dirt than the way I do now. I can stand up to a
man--but this here mysterious business ain't the kind o' thing nobody
can stand up to."
"Scart?" inquired Dick.
"No, I ain't scart. Just oneasy. D'ye reckon them little crosses will
turn up to-night?"
"Guess not. That sort o' thing don't happen more'n once."
"Will you swear you didn't cut my canoe pole, Dick--so help you God!"
"So help me God, I didn't cut it nor harm it in any way. And I don't
know who did."
"I believe you--now. I guess there's something worse nor you on my
trail. If that marked card turns up to-night, and comes to me, I'll git
out o' the country. That'll be the cheapest thing to do, I guess."
"I wouldn't if I was you. I'd just lay low and keep my eyes skinned."
Then Doctor Nash arrived, and all pulled their chairs to the table
except Dick Goodine. They drew for cards and Mr. Banks produced an ace.
The pack was swiftly shuffled, cut, and dealt. David Marsh put his left
hand on the table, touched his cards, hesitated for a moment, and then
sprang to his feet. His face was twisted with a foolish grin.
"I guess not!" he exclaimed. "It ain't good enough for me."
The captain, having settled down to business, had lost his sweet and
playful temper.
"What's that?" he snapped. "Not good enough! What's not good enough?"
"The risk ain't good enough," replied Marsh, sullenly and yet with an
attempt at lightness. "I don't like them red crosses. I've had enough of
'em, whoever works 'em--man or devil--he's cured me!"
"Cured you?" queried Jim Harley, glancing up from his hand.
"Yes, _cured_ me!" cried Marsh forcibly, "and I don't care who knows it.
I ain't 'shamed to say it, neither. I've broke my arm, lost a canoe,
and a camp--and a good job! Ain't that enough? I quit! I quit right
now."
"Do you mean you'll quit playing cards?" asked Rayton.
"I guess you know what I mean," retorted David. "And I guess Jim Harley
knows, too."
"Oh, shut up!" snapped old Wigmore. "We came here to play poker, not to
listen to you. Who sits in and takes this heroic gentleman's place?
Goodine, it's up to you."
"Don't care if I do," said the trapper; so he and David Marsh changed
seats.
The game went on for half an hour without any fuss. Doctor Nash was
winning. Then, after a throwdown, Rayton gathered up the old pack and
replaced them with a new.
"You are growing extravagant, Reginald," said the captain, glancing at
him keenly.
Rayton laughed.
"I hear Turk scratching," he said. "Excuse me for half a minute."
He went into the kitchen, and threw the old pack of cards into the
stove. He returned immediately to his place at the table and the game
went on. Nash's pile of blue chips dwindled steadily and Dick Goodine
began to stack up the red, white, and blue. Mr. Banks seemed to be
playing a slack game. Captain Wigmore played keenly and snapped at every
one. Rayton left his chair for a few seconds and placed glasses, a
decanter, and cold water on the table.
"Help yourselves," he said. "We'll have coffee, and something to eat,
later."
Captain Wigmore waved the liquor aside, but the others charged their
glasses. Goodine displayed three aces and scooped in a jack pot that had
stood secure and accumulating for several rounds.
"Hah, Davy, you dropped out too soon," said Nash. "You got cold feet at
the wrong time of day. Don't you wish, now, that you'd stayed in the
game?"
"Wouldn't risk it, doc--not even for a ten-dollar pot," replied Marsh.
"Bah!" exclaimed old Wigmore, as he cut the deck for Jim Harley. Jim
dealt. Rayton looked steadily at his five cards, then slipped them
together between thumb and finger, and tilted his chair well back from
the table.
"You look as if you'd been given something pretty good," said Captain
Wigmore.
"Not half bad," answered the Englishman quietly.
"On the side," said Nash, "I bet you a dollar, even, that I hold the
best hand--pat."
Rayton shook his head. "Not this time, Nash, if you don't mind," he
replied quietly. "I want to take cards."
"That's easily managed," persisted the doctor. "I want cards, too; but
we can lay our discards aside and show them later. Come, be a sport!
Thought all Englishmen were sports."
Rayton hesitated, flushing.
"Right-o!" he said. "But I'll not be what you call a sport on one
dollar! Twenty-five is my bet, Nash--even money. Come! How does that
suit you?"
"It doesn't suit me at all--thanks just the same," returned the doctor
sullenly.
"Perhaps you'll leave the English sporting instinct alone, after this,"
said Mr. Banks.
"For Heaven's sake, get on with the game!" cried old Wigmore.
All "came in" and took cards. Rayton asked for two, and though he did
not bet, he kept the five cards in his hand. Wigmore took the money,
this time.
"Supper," said the Englishman quickly, and gathered up all the cards
with swift hands, his own included. He entered the kitchen quickly, and
they heard him clattering about the stove.
After supper the game went on, with another fresh pack of cards. They
had been playing for about a quarter of an hour when Captain Wigmore
suddenly began to chuckle.
"What's the matter with you? Have you laid an egg?" asked Nash
insolently.
For a second the old man's face was twisted with white-hot rage and his
eyes fairly flamed upon the doctor. He trembled--then smiled calmly.
"Some one has, evidently," he said, and spread his five cards face-up
upon the table. He pointed at the ace of clubs with a lean finger. It
was marked with two little red crosses!
"You!" cried Jim Harley, staring incredulously from the card to the old
man and back again to the card.
Nash and David Marsh began to laugh uproariously. Goodine and Rayton
looked bewildered, and Banks scratched his head reflectively.
"That beats the band!" cried Nash, at last. "Jim, the spook who works
that family curse of yours must be going daffy. Good for you, captain!
There's life in the old dog yet! No wonder you are dressed up so
stylish."
He leaned halfway across the table, guffawing in the old man's face.
Wigmore's hands darted forward. One gripped Nash's necktie, and the
other darted into an inner pocket of his coat.
"Here! Drop it, you old devil!" cried the doctor.
Captain Wigmore sat back in his chair, laughing softly. He held
something in his hand--something that they had all seen him draw from
Nash's pocket.
"Gentlemen," he said, "look at this. It is another card marked with the
two red crosses. I took it from the pocket of our worthy young pill
roller. Who'd ever have thought that he was the mysterious indicator of
trouble--the warning of the gods--the instrument of fate?"
"You darned old fool!" cried Nash, "that is the same card that was dealt
to Davy Marsh last time we played. You know it as well as I do, you old
ape! Look at it. Look at the back of it. Here, Rayton, you take a look
at it."
"It is the same old card," said Rayton. "Nash took it away with him that
night."
"Ah! My mistake," said the captain mildly.
When the company left the house, Rayton called Jim Harley back.
"I can't make it out," he said, looking from Banks to Harley, "but I
want you chaps to know that two marked cards were dealt to me before
supper. I kept quiet and changed the pack each time."
Harley clutched the Englishman's shoulder.
"You!" he exclaimed, with colorless lips. "Twice! Is that true?"
"Yes, it's true; but it is nonsense, of course," returned the
Englishman.
"Don't worry, Jim," said Mr. Banks calmly. "The thing is all a fake--and
I mean to catch the faker before I leave Samson's Mill Settlement!"