AN UNFORTUNATE MOMENT FOR THE DOCTOR
The morning after the second card party found Banks and Rayton eating an
early breakfast with good appetites. If Rayton felt uneasy, face and
manner showed nothing of it. The big New Yorker was in the highest
spirits. He had found an unfamiliar sport--a new form of hunting--a
twisted, mysterious trail, with the Lord knows what at the far end of
it. He was alert, quiet, smiling to himself. He ate five rashers of
bacon, drank three cups of coffee, and then lit a cigar.
"I'll have my finger on him within the week," he said, leaning back in
his chair.
The Englishman glanced up at him, and smiled.
"I do not think we should encourage the idiot by paying any further
attention to his silly tricks," he said. "Whoever he is, let him see
that he does not amuse or interest any one but himself. Then he'll get
tired and drop it. The whole thing is absolute foolishness, and the man
at the bottom of it is a fool."
"I mean to trail him, and pin him down, fool or no fool," replied Banks.
"I'll make him pay dear for his fooling, by thunder! He is having his
fun--and I mean to have mine."
Rayton laughed. "Go ahead and have your fun, old chap; but I tell you
that the more notice you pay his silly tricks, the more you tickle his
vanity."
"I'll tickle more than his vanity before I'm done with him," promised
Banks.
The two were washing the dishes, when the kitchen door opened, and Dick
Goodine stepped into the room.
"We're in for another spell o' soft weather," he said. "It's mild as
milk this mornin'. This little lick o' snow'll be all gone by noon. It
don't look as if I'll ever get into the woods with my traps."
He sat down, filled and lit his pipe, and put his feet on the hearth of
the cookstove.
"That was an all-fired queer thing about old Wigmore," he said. "All the
fools ain't dead yet, I reckon. Since the captain got that there card,
the thing don't look as serious to me as it did. Not by a long shot!
What d'you say, Mr. Banks?"
"You are right, Dick, according to your lights," replied the New
Yorker.
The trapper looked puzzled.
"He means that you don't know all the particulars of what happened last
night," said Rayton. "Captain Wigmore got the marked card, right enough,
after supper--but I got it twice, before supper. That is the puzzling
part of it, Dick."
The care-free smile fled from Goodine's handsome and honest countenance.
His dark cheeks paled, and a shadow, starting far down, came up to the
surface of his eyes.
"You!" he exclaimed. "Twice--before supper! That--that looks bad to me.
That's the worst yet."
"My dear chap, if the silly thing was dealt to me every night, and
chucked into my bedroom window every morning, it wouldn't be a jot less
silly," replied Rayton. "Some idiot, who has heard Jim Harley's story,
is trying to have some fun out of it. That is all. It amuses him
evidently, and doesn't hurt us."
Dick Goodine shook his head. "I guess it hurt David Marsh," he
said--"whatever it may be. It smashed his arm, an' pretty near drownded
him, an' burned his camp, an' about fifty dollars' worth o' gear an'
grub. That don't look much like fun to me--not like fun for the man who
gets the card, anyhow. I'll tell you right now, if ever it comes to me
I'll light out within the hour, an' hit the trail for my trappin'
grounds over beyond the back o' nowhere."
"Don't believe it, Dick."
"But that's just what I'd do all the same. It ain't natural. It's more
nor a game, I tell you--it's like something I've read about, somewheres
or other."
"You're wrong there, Dick," said Mr. Banks. "It is a game--a dangerous
one, maybe, but a game, for all that. I'll show you the player, one of
these days, as sure as my name is Harvey P. Banks! In the meantime,
Dick, I'll bet you five dollars that if you happened to be picked out to
receive those red marks, as Reginald has been picked out--for the same
reason, I mean, according to the family tradition--you'd not budge an
inch or back water half a stroke. You'd just put your finger to your
nose at the warning, as Reginald does, even if you thought Fate, family
curses, Spanish ghosts, old Jackson, and the devil were all on your
trail."
The color came back to the trapper's cheeks. He lowered his glance to
the toes of his steaming boots on the hearth of the stove, and shifted
uneasily in his chair.
"I guess yer right," he said huskily. "I guess I'd be brave enough to
face it, devil an' all, if I had that reason to be brave. But I ain't
got that reason, an' never will have--so I'm scart. I'm a durned
ignorant bushwhacker, I reckon. Anyhow, I'm scart."
Rayton placed a hand on the other's shoulder for a second.
"That is like you," he said. "You are more frightened about your friend
than you'll ever be about yourself. But cheer up, old man! I don't think
Fate will break any canoe poles on me."
"Fate!" repeated Mr. Banks, laughing merrily. "Oh, you are safe enough
from Fate, Reginald!"
But Dick Goodine shook his head.
During the morning, Rayton went over to the Harley place. The sun was
glowing with a heat as of September, and the snow was already a mixture
of slush and mud. Dick Goodine went about his business; and Mr. Banks
sat by the kitchen stove, smoking and struggling with his puzzle. Rayton
found Jim Harley in the barnyard. Jim's greeting was emotional. He
gripped the Englishman's hand, and looked steadily into his face with
troubled eyes.
"I was just going over to see you," he said. "I'm glad you're here. I--I
feel pretty bad about you, Reginald--mighty bad, I can tell you!"
"For Heaven's sake, Jim, what's the trouble?" asked Rayton. "What have I
done--or what d'you think I've done?"
Harley flushed. "You know what the trouble is--what is worrying me," he
said. "You have not done anything. I am thinking of the marked card, as
you know very well."
Rayton laughed, and slapped the other on the back.
"Laugh, if you choose," returned Harley; "but I tell you it is no
laughing matter. Have you forgotten what I told you about those red
crosses? Have you forgotten the manner of my father's death? Great
heavens, man, it is nothing to laugh about! Those marks have brought two
men to their death. And there's Marsh! He came within an inch of being
drowned that day his pole broke. Of course, you think I am a fool. You
may call me one if you want to. But, for God's sake, get out of here
until the danger passes! That's all I ask, Rayton. Get out! Get away
from this settlement for a little while!"
The smile left the Englishman's face, and he gaped at his friend in
utter astonishment.
"Get out?" he repeated, in a dazed voice. "Get out? What for? What good
would that do to any one? What--in the name of all that's sensible--are
you driving at?"
"Get away from here--away from me--and save yourself," replied Harley.
"Don't you understand? This trouble is all _our_ fault--all due to my
sister. Don't you see that? Then get away from us! Drop us, and clear
out!"
"To save myself from the curse of the little red marks on the card, I
suppose?"
"Yes, yes. Go away and save yourself. That is what I ask you, Rayton."
"You really believe, then, in the power of those crosses? You really
believe that my life is in danger--that I have been marked by Fate?"
"I only know what those crosses have done in the past. The evil is not
in the marks, though. Don't think I'm quite a fool! But they are sent as
a warning--by some unknown enemy of ours. Can't you see that, Rayton? My
father was murdered after receiving a card marked with those crosses.
David Marsh's life was attempted! Don't you see? We have a bitter,
hidden enemy!"
"No, I don't!" retorted Rayton, with spirit. "I don't think Marsh's life
was attempted. Great heavens, Jim, didn't a canoe pole ever break in
this country before? And didn't a shack ever burn down before? Buck up
and look at the thing like a sensible man! What happened to that young
bounder Marsh was nothing but chance. You make me angry, 'pon my word
you do! But don't think for a minute that you can make me angry enough
to run away--or that you can scare me away. I stand pat; but if my house
catches fire, or anything of that kind happens, then I'll set to work
and dig up the fool who hands out those marked cards, and land him in
jail."
"I have asked you to go, for your own sake. I can't do anything more,"
returned Harley.
Rayton gazed at him earnestly, eye to eye; but Harley kept his eyes
steady.
"Jim, that sounds queer," he said. "It sounds like some rot that Nash
was talking, not long ago. Perhaps you know what I mean. Nash's idea was
that you dealt the marked card to Marsh, and then invented the story,
just to scare Marsh away from your sister. Now he will say that you are
trying to frighten me away."
"He is a liar!" cried Harley.
"I know your story is true," said the Englishman, "and I know you are
just as much in the dark about those cards as I am; but if you go on
like this, old chap, other people will think as Nash thinks. Nash is not
the only fool in these woods.
"And I want to tell you that even if you were trying to frighten me away
from here you couldn't do it! That's my position, Jim. I am here--and
here I stay! Whoever marks those cards is a harmless idiot. I love your
sister--though she doesn't know it, yet--and the only thing that can
chase me away from her is her own word. So save your anxiety for me, old
chap, and keep your wind to cool your porridge. Also, think the thing
over quietly; and, if it continues to worry you, go hunting for the man
who makes a fool of you by marking those cards. Good morning."
Reginald Rayton turned and strode away without waiting for an answer to
his last long speech. He was angry--hot and cold with it, from his head
to his feet. He had been excited into a premature disclosure of his
sentiments toward Nell Harley. He had been talked to like a fool--and
he had talked like a fool. He was furious. He felt the need of some one
to punch and kick. It was years since he had last been in such a wax.
And this was his mood when Doctor Nash appeared over the brow of a hill
in front, driving toward him in a mud-splashed buggy. Nash drew rein
within a yard of the Englishman. The Englishman halted. Nash leaned
forward, and grinned.
"That was a good one, last night," he remarked. "A good joke on old
Wigmore; but I don't quite see the point of it. Do you?"
"No. Is there supposed to be any point?" returned Rayton.
"Sure! What d'ye think it's all about if there isn't a point to it? You
fellows are lobsters, I must say, if you are still cloudy on that
business. Those marks are warnings--oh, yes! But they are not sent by
Fate. They are sort of 'keep off the grass' signs issued and posted by a
very dear friend of yours. Last night he felt my eye on him, and so
threw the bluff. It worked pretty well, too. It had me guessing for
about an hour; and then I thought it over after I went to bed, and got
it all straight and clear."
"I am glad that some one has it straight and clear," said Rayton. "I am
in the dark, myself; but I agree with you that the deal to Wigmore was
a bluff. I am positive about this because a marked card came to me twice
before supper."
Nash uttered a derisive whistle, then slapped his knee with an open
hand.
"I might have guessed it!" he cried. "So it's your turn, is it? Keep off
the grass, Reginald. Good old Jim! He knows what he's about."
"What are you driving at?" demanded the Englishman. "What has Jim to do
with it?"
He had heard the doctor's theory before, but wanted first-hand proof of
it--and he was looking for an excuse for letting loose.
"What has Jim to do with it?" repeated Nash sneeringly. "Why, you
lobster, he has everything to do with it. He's _it_! What's your head
made of, anyway? A block out of the oak walls of old England, I
suppose."
Rayton averted his face.
"Do you mean that Jim has anything to do with the marks on those cards?"
he asked, in a faint and unsteady voice.
"You lobster! He marks them, and he deals them!" cried Nash.
Rayton faced him.
"You are a liar," he said quietly. "Not only that, but you are a
bounder. Better whip up your nag and drive away, or I'll be tempted to
pull you out onto the road and give you what you need. You are a
disgrace to this settlement." He stepped back to the edge of the road.
"Drive along, fat head," he commanded.
But Nash did not drive along. He had a great opinion of himself--of his
physical as well as his mental powers. He hung the reins on the
dashboard.
"Do you mean that?" he asked. "Are you trying to insult me? Or are you
drunk?"
"I am not drunk. Yes, I am trying to insult you. It is rather a
difficult thing to do, I know."
"Steady, Champion!" cried Nash to his nodding horse. Then he jumped over
the wheel, threw aside his hat and overcoat, and plunged at Rayton, with
his fists flying. He smote the air. He flailed the sunlight. He punched
holes in the out of doors. At last he encountered something hard--not
with his fist, however, but with an angle of his face. With a futile
sprawl, he measured his considerable length in the mud and slush of the
highway. So he lay for a little while, one leg flapping, then scrambled
slowly to his feet. He gazed around in a dazed way, and at last rested
his glance upon Rayton.
[Illustration: "PLUNGED AT RAYTON, WITH HIS FISTS FLYING"]
"See here!" he exclaimed; "that--that's no way to do! Can't you fight
fair? What did you hit me with?"
The Englishman lifted his right fist, and pointed at it with the index
finger of his left hand.
"That is what I hit you with," he said in matter-of-fact tones. "But if
you don't think that fair, I'll land my left next time."
"Don't trouble," replied Nash. "I'm no match for a professional prize
fighter. That's not my line."
"Oh, cheer up! We've just begun."
"I've finished."
"In that case you can take back what you said about Jim Harley."
"What did I say?" asked the doctor, making a furtive step toward his
trap.
Rayton advanced. "Quick!" he cried. "Call yourself a liar, or I'll try
another prod at you!"
"Leave me alone. D--n you! I'll have the law on you for this. Keep off!
Mind what you're about. Keep your distance, I say. Yes, yes! You're
right. I'm a liar. _I'm a liar!_"
He jumped into his buggy, wakened Champion with a cut of the whip, and
drove away at a gallop, leaving his hat and overcoat on the side of the
road. For a minute Rayton stood and gazed after the bouncing vehicle.
Then he picked up the hat and coat, and placed them on the top rail of
the fence.
"That is the worst thing I ever saw in the way of a doctor," he said.
"Most of them are mighty good fellows--and I didn't know before that any
of them were quitters. But that chap? Why, he's a disgrace to a pill
box. Hope he'll come back for his duds, though."
Mr. Reginald Baynes Rayton turned, and continued on his homeward way,
swinging his feet well in front of him, and expanding his chest. But
presently he lost the air of the conquering hero. Misgivings assailed
him. He had picked a fight simply because he was in a bad temper. He had
called a more or less harmless individual names, and then punched him in
the jaw and forced him to call himself a liar.
"I'm ashamed of myself," he murmured. "What has become of my manners?"
He reached his house, and found Mr. Banks in the kitchen, still
reflectively consuming tobacco.
"What's the matter with you, Reginald?" inquired the New Yorker. "You
look excited."
"I am," replied Rayton, and told frankly but briefly of his talk with
Jim Harley and of his fight with Nash.
"I am glad you punched Nash, for I don't like the animal," said Banks.
"But why in thunder didn't you trim Harley first? He insulted you."
"He didn't mean to insult me. He believes in the potency of those red
crosses. It is a matter of family pride with him," answered Rayton.