CARSON’S SON
Several weeks had passed. They were back in the North Country again—all
except Wyatt. Outside the door of the trading room at Fort Good Faith,
Sandy and Toma were bidding Corporal Rand and Dick good-bye, and wishing
devoutly that they too might have been permitted to accompany the
policeman on this—the last stage of a memorable journey.
Dick had been more than fortunate, they considered, in receiving
official sanction to be in at the finish. He had earned this privilege,
to be sure, but for that matter, hadn’t they? For weeks now they had
been pursuing what had at first appeared to be a phantom. The phantom
had taken form. The mystery had been uncovered. Step by step, day by
day, slowly and inexorably events had moved to an ultimate end. The
guilty were about to be punished. A few more things to do, then—
“Hang it all,” thought Sandy, “the real work is over anyway. I’ve done
my part. They can’t say I haven’t. This case is run to earth. What
little excitement remains, Dick is welcome to. Toma and I both need a
rest.”
Thus philosophically dismissing the matter, he and Toma went fishing;
and Corporal Rand and Dick made their way on horseback to the foothills,
arriving at the Carson cabin one evening before dusk.
Mrs. Carson met them at the door. She smiled her greeting and led the
way into the house. A sort of motherly person, Dick thought.
“I hadn’t expected anyone at this time of the year,” she told them
laughing, at the same time brushing back a dark wisp of hair that had
fallen over her kindly forehead. “I’m afraid you’ll find everything in
disorder. We’ve been drying saskatoons for the winter. Mr. Carson is in
the kitchen helping now. He’ll come right in.”
True to his wife’s prediction, Mr. Carson came right in and, looking at
him, Dick became heartily sick of the whole business. Carson was the
sort of man one couldn’t help but like instantly. A much older man than
Dick had expected, yet agile enough in spite of the white crown of hair,
and handsome in a dignified way. He shook hands and took a seat
opposite.
“Everyone is welcome here. You’re tired, I expect.”
“And hungry,” Corporal Rand amended.
“Mrs. Carson will soon attend to that,” her husband smiled. “She’ll have
something ready in a few minutes. Have you come far?”
“From Fort Good Faith.”
A girl appeared in the open doorway, having come noiselessly, and stood,
staring at them. The young lady mentioned in Dewberry’s diary, Dick
surmised. She continued to stare as the now somewhat bashful young man
stole a glance in her direction, then quickly dropped his gaze.
“Gertrude,” expostulated her father, “that isn’t nice. Either come
forward and be introduced or return to the kitchen. My daughter,” he
explained, turning his head and speaking to Rand. Gertrude made a wry
face, shrugged her pretty shoulders and returned to the room, where her
mother was preparing the evening meal. Her place was immediately usurped
by a tall youth, older than Dick, who took up the business of staring
with considerably more energy and effect, adding a dark scowl or two for
good measure. As this was the young man he and Corporal Rand had come
all that way to interview, Dick lost no time in giving him a careful
appraisal.
Reynold Carson’s appearance was not prepossessing. He resembled neither
of his parents. Unlike his sister, he was not good-looking. His mouth
turned down at the corners. An unpleasant habit of scowling had etched
two deep lines across his narrow forehead.
“A young cutthroat and no mistake,” mused Dick, remembering Dewberry’s
verbal picture of him.
It was not until after supper that Rand stated his errand. All except
Mrs. Carson were in the room. The boy and girl sat in one corner and
conversed in low tones. Rand and Carson had pushed back their chairs
from the supper table and had lit their pipes.
“Came over from Fort Good Faith,” said Rand, endeavoring to keep his
voice steady, “to see your son. There’s a certain matter Mr. Carson,
that I’d like to discuss with him. It’s important.”
“Yes, yes—” Carson removed his pipe and seemed to exhale the words with
the smoke. “Reynold—” he trembled. “What—what has he done?”
The policeman placed one hand on the old man’s shoulder.
“I—I hate to do this. I wish it wasn’t necessary to tell you. You—you
understand my position. It’s hard for me—hard for all of us.”
Dick choked and turned away his head. His heart had gone out to this
poor old man, and he just _couldn’t_ look at him now. And then, too,
there was the boy’s mother. Thinking about her— It was terrible! She
mustn’t come into the room. She mustn’t hear what Rand was saying.
“It’s in connection with Dewberry’s murder. Indirectly your son is
implicated. I—I—”
Carson shrank back in his chair, threw up his hands in front of his face
and moaned in misery—in terror. Reynold, who had heard his name
mentioned, and perceived his father thus afflicted, got unsteadily to
his feet and came stumbling across the floor, glaring at Rand.
“What you doing to dad?” he demanded.
Carson sat up, endeavoring to get a better grip of himself. Almost
fiercely he turned upon his son.
“Reynold, you’re in trouble. The police have come for you. What have you
done? Speak up, boy; speak up! My God!—this will kill your mother.”
“He lies! He lies!” stormed the boy. “I’ve done nothing. He lies!”
The corporal held up his hand, commanding silence.
“Sit down, Reynold—and keep quiet. You probably don’t know what it’s all
about—yet. Listen to me. Answer my questions. No! Don’t try that,” he
warned, as Carson’s son reached for his knife. “Sit down!”
“You’re lying,” whimpered the boy, taking a chair next to his father.
“Reynold, I wish you wouldn’t say that,” pleaded the old man. “He may be
mistaken, but—but he isn’t lying.”
“I haven’t done a thing,” protested the boy.
“Perhaps you’ve almost forgotten the incident,” Rand cleared his throat,
“but there was a note-book. You found a note-book belonging to Dewberry.
Isn’t that right?”
“Yes,” Reynold acknowledged. “I did.”
“I remember that too,” said Carson brightening a little. “Reynold said
he found it in Mr. Dewberry’s room. The prospector had—had mislaid it, I
believe.”
“I gave it back to Dewberry,” stated the young man defiantly. “You don’t
think I stole it, do you? I gave it back to him.”
“Quite right,” said Rand. “But is that all?”
“All! O’ course, it is. What you tryin’ to insinuate?”
“I’m trying to insinuate,” the policeman was very deliberate in his
choice of words now, “that you read the book, copied something out of it
and afterward sold that copy to two men—Emery and MacGregor. You did
that, didn’t you?”
Reynold seemed to sink into his chair. His lips were white. Either he
could not or would not answer. Feeling faint, Dick looked out of a
window. Shadows were falling everywhere outside. The trees were black
silhouettes. Night was shaking out its mantle from a metal-colored sky.
There was no brightness or radiance anywhere except a single orange
streak in the west, a sinister orange streak that marked the place where
the sun had gone down.
“If he doesn’t confess,” thought Dick, “and have this over with, I’ll go
crazy.”
A voice, trembling but defiant, broke across the silence.
“Yes, I did do that. What was wrong about it? Tell me—what was wrong
about it? I didn’t commit no crime— It wasn’t a very bad thing to do—you
can’t make me believe that. Just sold a copy of something that was
written in that old book.”
“Reynold!” cried the old man. “Reynold!”
“Listen, dad, it wasn’t so terrible wrong. I didn’t touch anybody an’ I
didn’t steal nothing. All I did was to sell what was in that book to a
few men for just a few dollars.”
“To a few men!” gasped the corporal. “Who—beside Emery and MacGregor?”
“I sold one copy one day when Dewberry was here—before I gave him back
the book. I made a second copy, but I didn’t sell it for months
afterwards. Dad and I had a quarrel and I ran away. I played cards and I
lost money—all I had. I tried to sell the copy. I showed it to a few
men, but they laughed at me. Then one night, when I was at a road-house
a queer looking chap, named Crane, gave me ten dollars for it.”
“Are you sure his name wasn’t Creel? Stop and think a moment.”
“Creel! Creel! That’s it.” Reynold looked at the policeman in surprise.
“How did you know?”
“I found out,” answered Rand.
“So you see, dad, it wasn’t anything so very terrible,” Reynold ran on.
“I—”
“Can you repeat what you copied from the book?” Rand interrupted.
“No, not word for word. It was something about an old chest that
Dewberry had at his home at Peace River Crossing—full of money; about a
key that he carried around his neck.”
“Would you remember if I read it to you?”
“Yes, I would,” answered the boy.
Corporal Rand crossed the room, knelt down, and opened his saddle-pack.
A moment later he returned, carrying Dewberry’s diary, resumed his seat,
and began thumbing the pages. It was several minutes before he found the
right place. Then he read:
“May 13th, 1915. That chest is an obsession. Even out here in the
wilderness away from it, it seems to haunt me night and day. Sometimes I
call myself a doddering old fool. To buy it was a waste of money, an act
of folly. That were bad enough, but this thing I have been doing lately
is madness itself. In a thousand years, if God gave me that long to
live, I could never restore that chest to its original glory and
splendor. I’m sure that I haven’t put into it one infinitesimal part of
the wealth and treasure that he did. If he were living now, Ming would
laugh my diamonds and rubies and emeralds to scorn. I’m afraid he’d
spurn my gold too. Cheap stuff! Trash! Where I have thousands he had
millions. Folly to pit the Crystal Lode against the resources of an
empire. Yet here I am, walking about with the key around my neck, trying
to emulate an emperor.”
Corporal Rand closed the book.
“Is that what you copied?” he asked.
“Yes, that’s it,” answered Reynold.
“I wonder if you realize what you’ve done,” Rand spoke softly. “When you
sold those copies you signed Dewberry’s death warrant. You must have
known that one of those men, to whom you sold that information, would
try to obtain Dewberry’s treasure.”
“I didn’t think much about it,” the boy declared doggedly.
“Dewberry is dead. MacGregor murdered him. It’s your fault. MacGregor
never would have murdered him, if—if it hadn’t been for you. I want that
fact to sink in. You know now why I’ve come to get you.”
“I’ll be hanged,” blubbered the boy.
Rand walked over and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder.
“No—not that. We’ll do what we can for you. You have a wonderful father
and mother. For their sake—and for your own—we’ll be as lenient as
possible.”
The young man’s body shook with sobs.
“Hush! Hush!” whispered Carson, wiping away his own tears. “I think I
hear your mother coming.”