Two days later Mary Farrell left Brine's Rip. She hugged and kissed
Woolly Billy very hard before she left, and cried a little with him,
pretending to laugh, and she took her three big trunks with her, in the
long-bodied express waggon which carried the mails, although she said
she would not be gone more than a month at the outside.
Tug Blackstock eyed those three trunks with a sinking heart. His only
comfort was that he had in his pocket the key of Mary's little shop,
which she had sent to him by Woolly Billy. When the express waggon had
rattled and bumped away out of sight there was a general feeling in
Brine's Rip that the whole place had gone flat, like stale beer, and
the saws did not seem to make as cheerful a shrieking as before, and
Black Saunders, expert runner of logs as he was, fell in because he
forgot to look where he was going, and knocked his head heavily in
falling, and was almost drowned before they could fish him out.
"There's goin' to be some bad luck comin' to Brine's Rip afore long,"
remarked Long Jackson in a voice of deepest pessimism.
"It's come, Long," said the Deputy.
That same day the wind changed, and blew steadily from the mills right
across the village. But it brought no change in the weather, except a
few light showers that did no more than lay the surface dust. About a
week later it shifted back again, and blew steadily away from the
village and straight across the river. And once more a single
night-watchman was regarded as sufficient safeguard against fire.
A little before daybreak on the second night following this change of
wind, the watchman was startled by a shrill scream and a heavy splash
from the upper end of the great pool where the logs were gathered
before being fed up in the saws. It sounded like a woman's voice. As
fast as he could stumble over the intervening deals and rubbish he made
his way to the spot, waving his lantern and calling anxiously. There
was no sign of any one in the water. As he searched he became
conscious of a ruddy light at one corner of the mill.
He turned and dashed back, yelling "Fire! Fire!" at the top of his
lungs. A similar ruddy light was spreading upward in two other corners
of the mill. Frantically he turned on the nearest chemical
extinguisher, yelling madly all the while. But he was already too
late. The flames were licking up the dry wood with furious appetite.
In almost as little time as it takes to tell of it the whole great
structure was ablaze, with all Brine's Rip, in every varying stage of
_deshabille_, out gaping at it. The little hand-fire-engine worked
heroically, squirting a futile stream upon the flames for a while, and
then turning its attention to the nearest houses in order to keep them
drenched.
"Thank God the wind's in the right direction," muttered Zeb Smith, the
storekeeper and magistrate. And the pious ejaculation was echoed
fervently through the crowd.
In the meantime Tug Blackstock, seeing that there was nothing to do in
the way of fighting the fire--the mill being already devoured--was
interviewing the distracted watchman.
"Sure," he agreed, "it was a trick to git you away long enough for the
fires to git a start. Somebody yelled, an' chucked in a big stick,
that's all. An', o' course, you run to help. You couldn't naturally
do nothin' else."
The watchman heaved a huge sigh of relief. If Blackstock exonerated
him from the charge of negligence, other people would. And his heart
had been very heavy at being so fatally fooled.
"It's Harner's Bend all right, that's what it is!" he muttered.
"Ef only we could prove it," said Blackstock, searching the damp ground
about the edges of the pool, which was lighted now as by day.
Presently he saw Jim sniffing excitedly at some tracks. He hurried
over to examine them. Jim looked up at him and wagged his tail, as
much as to say, "So you've found them, too! Interesting, ain't they!"
"What d'ye make o' that?" demanded Blackstock of the watchman.
"_Boy's_ tracks, sure," said the latter at once.
The footprints were small and neat. They were of a double-soled
larrigan, with a low heel of a single welt.
"None of _our_ boys," said Blackstock, "wear a larrigan like that,
especially this time o' year. One could run light in that larrigan,
an' the sole's thick enough to save the foot. An' it's good for a
canoe, too."
He rubbed his chin, thinking hard.
"Yesterday," said the watchman, "I mind seein' a young half-breed, he
looked like a slip of a lad, very dark complected, crossin' the road
half-a-mile up yonder. He was out o' sight in a second, like a
shadder, but I mind noticin' he had on larrigans--an' a brown slouch
hat down over his eyes, an' a dark red handkerchief roun' his neck. He
was a stranger in these parts."
"That would account for the voice, like a woman's," said Blackstock,
following the tracks till they plunged through a tangle of tall bush.
"An' here's the handkerchief," he added triumphantly, grabbing up a
dark red thing that fluttered from a branch. "Harner's Bend knows
somethin' about that boy, I'm thinkin'. Now, Bill, you go along back,
an' don't say nothin' about this, _mind_! Me an' Jim, we'll look into
it. Tell old Mrs. Amos and Woolly Billy not to fret. We'll be back
soon."
He slipped the leash into Jim's collar, gave him the red handkerchief
to smell, and said, "Seek him, Jim." And Jim set off eagerly, tugging
at the leash, because the trail was so fresh and plain to him, and he
hated to be held back.
The trail led around behind the village, and back to the river bank
about a mile below. There it followed straight down the shore. It was
evident to Blackstock that his quarry would have a canoe in hiding some
distance further down. There was no time to be lost. It was now
almost full daybreak, and he could follow the trail by himself. After
all, it was only a boy he had to deal with. He could trust Jim to
delay him, to hold him at bay. He loosed the leash, and Jim bounded
forward at top speed. He himself followed at a leisurely loping stride.
As he trotted on, thinking of many things, he took out the red
handkerchief and examined it again. He smelt it curiously. His nose
was keen, like a wild animal's. As he sniffed, a pang went through
him, clutching at his heart. He sniffed again. His long stride
shortened. He dropped into a walk. He thought over, word by word, his
conversation with Mary that night beside the mill. His face went grey.
After a brief struggle he shouted to Jim, trying to call him back. But
the eager dog was already far beyond hearing. Then Blackstock broke
into a desperate run, shouting from time to time. He thought of Jim's
ferocity when on the trail.
Meanwhile, the figure of a slim boy, very light of foot, was speeding
far down the river bank, clutching a brown slouch hat in one hand as he
ran. He had an astonishing crop of hair, wound in tight coils about
his head. He was panting heavily, and seemed nearly spent. At last he
halted, drew a deep sigh of relief, pressed his hands to his heart, and
plunged into a clump of bushes. In the depth of the bushes lay a small
birch-bark canoe, carefully concealed. He tugged at it, but for the
moment he was too weary to lift it. He flung himself down beside it to
take breath.
In the silence, his ears caught the sound of light feet padding down
the shore. He jumped up, and peered through the bushes. A big black
dog was galloping on his trail. He drew a long knife, and his mouth
set itself so hard that the lips went white. The dog reached the edge
of the bushes. The youth slipped behind the canoe.
[Illustration: "He drew a long knife ... and slipped behind the canoe."]
"Jim," said he softly. The dog whined, wagged his tail, and plunged in
through the bushes. The youth's stern lips relaxed. He slipped the
knife back into its sheath, and fondled the dog, which was fawning upon
him eagerly.
"You'd never go back on me, would you, Jim, no matter what I'd done?"
said he, in a gentle voice. Then, with an expert twist of his lithe
young body, he shouldered the canoe and bore it down to the water's
edge. One of his swarthy hands had suddenly grown much whiter, where
Jim had been licking it.
Before stepping into the canoe, this peculiar youth took a scrap of
paper from his shirt pocket, and an envelope. He scribbled something,
sealed it up, addressed the envelope, marked it "private," and gave it
to Jim, who took it in his mouth.
"Give that to Tug Blackstock," ordered the youth clearly. Then he
kissed the top of Jim's black head, pushed off, and paddled away
swiftly down river. Jim, proud of his commission, set off up the shore
at a gallop to meet his master.
Half-a-mile back he met him. Blackstock snatched the letter from Jim's
mouth, praising Heaven that the dog had for once failed in his duty.
He tore open the letter. It said!
Yes, I did it. I had to do it. But _you_ could have saved me, if
you'd _dared_--for I do love you, Tug Blackstock.--MARY.
A month later, a parcel came from New York for Woolly Billy, containing
an air-gun, and a toy steam-engine that would really go. But it
contained no address. And Brine's Rip said that Tug Blackstock had
been bested for once, because he never succeeded in finding out who
burnt down the mills.