BRUIN'S ISLAND.
"That's a purty way he's got of doin' business, I do think. He's a
trifle the meanest feller I ever seed, Dave is, an' if I don't pay
him fur it afore he's a great many weeks older, I'll just play myself
out a tryin'. If me an' him works together we kin get them fifty
dollars as easy as fallin' off a log; but he can't arn 'em by
hisself, an' he shan't, nuther."
This was the way Dan Evans talked to himself, as he trudged through
the woods with his rifle on his shoulder, after his unsuccessful
attempt to overhear what passed between his brother and Don and Bert
Gordon; or, rather, after his failure to find out what it was that
brought Don and Bert to the cabin. He _did_ overhear what passed
between them, but he did not learn anything by it. Of course that
made him angry. A good many things had happened that day to make him
angry, and he had gone off in the woods by himself to think and plan
vengeance.
"Bein' the man of the house I've got more right to them fifty dollars
nor Dave has," thought Dan, "an' if he don't give me half of 'em, he
shan't see a cent of 'em hisself. Wouldn't I look nice loafin' around
in these yere clothes while Dave was dressed up like a gentleman an'
takin' his ease? I'll bust up them traps of his'n faster'n he kin
make 'em. I'll show him that I'm the boss of this house now that
pap's away, no matter if them Gordon fellers is a backin' on him up.
I've larned a heap by listenin'. I heard Dave tell the ole woman that
he's goin' to make three dollars a dozen outen them quail. I didn't
larn nothing this arternoon, howsomever. Them fellers must a seed me
lookin' through the cracks, kase they didn't tell him what they was
agoin' to tell him when they fust come up to the fence."
Dan walked about for an hour or more, talking in this way to himself.
The squirrels frisked and barked all around him, but he did not seem
to hear them. He was so busy thinking over his troubles that he
scarcely knew where he was going, until at last he found himself
standing on the banks of a sluggish bayou that ran through the swamp.
The stream was wide and deep, and near the middle of it and opposite
the spot where Dan stood, was a little island thickly covered with
briers and cane. It was known among the settlers as Bruin's Island.
Dan knew the place well. Many a fine string of goggle-eyes had he
caught at the foot of the huge sycamore which grew at the lower end
of the island, and leaned over the water until its long branches
almost touched the trees on the main shore, and it was here that he
had trapped his first beaver. More than that, the island had been a
place of refuge for his father during the war. He retreated to it on
the night the levee was blown up by the Union soldiers, and spent the
most of his time there until all danger of capture was past.
When Dan appeared upon the bank of the bayou a dark object, which was
crouching at the water's edge near the foot of the sycamore, suddenly
sprang up and glided into the bushes out of sight. Its movements were
quick and noiseless, but still they did not escape the notice of Dan,
who dropped on the instant and hid behind a fallen log that happened
to be close at hand. He did not have time to take a good look at the
object, but he saw enough of it to frighten him thoroughly. He thrust
his cocked rifle cautiously over the log, directing the muzzle toward
the sycamore, but his hand was unsteady and his face was as white as
a sheet.
"Looked to me like a man," thought Dan, trembling in every limb, "but
in course it couldn't be; so it's one of them haunts what lives in
the General's lane."
Dan kept his gaze directed across the bayou, and could scarcely
restrain himself from jumping up and taking to his heels when he saw
a head, covered with a torn and faded hat, raised slowly and
cautiously above the leaning trunk of the sycamore. It remained
motionless for a moment and Dan's eyes were sharp enough to see that
there was a face below the hat--a tanned and weather-beaten face, the
lower portion of which was concealed by thick, bushy whiskers. As Dan
looked his eyes began to dilate, his mouth came open, and the butt of
his rifle was gradually lowered until the muzzle pointed toward the
clouds. He was sure he saw something familiar about the face, but the
sight of it was most unexpected, and so was the sound of the voice
which reached his ears a moment later.
"Dannie!" came the hail, in subdued tones, as if the speaker were
afraid of being overheard by some one besides the boy whom he was
addressing.
"Pap!" cried Dan.
[Illustration: Dan Recognizes his Father.]
As he spoke he arose from his concealment, and the man on the other
side of the bayou--Dan was pretty certain now that it was a
man--stepped out into view, disclosing the well-known form and
features of Godfrey Evans. Dan could hardly believe his eyes, and
even Godfrey seemed a little doubtful.
"Is that you, Dannie?" asked the latter.
"You're just a shoutin'," was the reply.
"Nobody ain't thar with you, I reckon," said Godfrey.
"No, I'm all by myself. But be you sartin that's you, pap?"
"In course I am, an' I've been a waitin' an' a watchin' fur yer. I'll
bring you over. You're an ongrateful an' ondutiful boy to leave your
poor ole pap, what's fit the Yankees an' worked so hard to bring you
up like a gentleman's son had oughter be brung up, out here in the
cane so long all by hisself."
"Why, pap, I didn't know you was here," said Dan.
Godfrey walked briskly along the shore until he reached a little
thicket of bushes into which he plunged out of sight. He appeared
again almost immediately, dragging behind him a small lead-colored
canoe which Dan recognized the moment he saw it. It was Don Gordon's
canoe, the one he used to pick up his dead and wounded ducks when he
was shooting over his decoys. It was a beautiful little craft, and
Dan had often wished that he could call it his own. It was one thing
that made him hate Don and Bert so cordially, and he had often told
himself that when he was ready to carry out the threats he had so
often made, that canoe should be one of the first things to suffer.
The brothers took altogether too much pleasure in it, and he wouldn't
have them rowing about the lake enjoying themselves while he was
obliged to stay ashore. The sight of it satisfied him that the man on
the opposite bank was his father, and nobody else. If he had been a
"haunt" he would not have needed a canoe to carry him across the
bayou.
Having placed the canoe in the water Godfrey went back into the cane
after the oars--the little craft was provided with rowlocks and
propelled by oars instead of paddles--and in a few seconds more he
was on Dan's side of the bayou. The moment the canoe touched the bank
he sprang out, and if one might judge by the cordial manner in which
father and son greeted each other, they were glad to meet again.
"I didn't never expect to feel your grip no more, pap," said Dan, who
was the first to speak, "an' I'm ridikilis proud to see you with this
yere dug-out. How came you by it, and whar did you git it?"
"I jest took it an' welcome," answered Godfrey. "I wasn't goin' to
swim over to the island every time I wanted to go there, was I?"
"In course not. I'm scandalous glad you tuk it; an' now I'll have a
ride in it, an' no thanks to Don Gordon nuther. Been a livin' here
ever since you've been gone?" added Dan, as he stepped into the boat
and picked up the oars.
"Yes, an' I've been a lookin' fur you every day. Seems to me you
might a knowed where to find me, kase here's whar I hung out when the
Yanks was in the country. Hear anything about me, in the settlement?"
"Yes, lots. Silas Jones has done been to Dave fur them eight dollars
you owe him."
"Much good may they do him, when he gets 'em," said Godfrey, snapping
his fingers in the air.
"Dave's goin' to pay the bill," added Dan. "I done heard him say so."
"The ongrateful an' ondutiful scamp!" exclaimed Godfrey. "If he's got
that much money, why don't he give it to me, like he had oughter do?
I need it more'n Silas does. Hear anything else, Dannie?"
"Yes; General Gordon says, why don't you come home an' go 'have
yourself? Nobody wouldn't pester you."
"Does you see anything green in these yere eyes?" asked Godfrey,
looking steadily at Dan. "That would do to tell some folks, but a man
what's fit the Yanks ain't so easy fooled. I'm safe here, an' here
I'll stay, till----Hear anything else, Dannie--anything 'bout them
two city chaps, Clarence an' Marsh Gordon?"
"O, they've gone home long ago."
"You didn't hear nothing about them gettin' into a furse afore they
went, did you?"
"Course I have. Everybody knows that you an' Clarence thought Don was
ole Jordan an' shet him up in the tater-hole."
"An' sarved him right, too," exclaimed Godfrey. "I reckon he's well
paid fur cheatin' me outen that chance of making eighty thousand
dollars. I heard Clarence was robbed afore he went away," added
Godfrey, at the same time turning away his head and looking at Dan
out of the corner of his eyes.
"I didn't hear nothing about that," said Dan.
Godfrey drew a long breath of relief. Ever since he took up his abode
on the island he had been torturing himself with the belief that the
robbery of which he was guilty was the talk of the settlement, and
that he would be arrested for at if he should ever show himself at
the landing again. He breathed much easier to know that his fears on
this score were groundless.
"Hear anything else, Dannie?" asked Godfrey, and his voice was so
cheerful and animated that the boy looked at him in amazement.
"What's Dave an' the ole woman doin'?"
"That thar Dave is goin' to git rich, dog-gone it," replied Dan, in
great disgust. "He got a letter from some feller up North this
mornin' tellin' him if he would trap fifty dozen live quail fur him,
he'd pay him so't he could make three dollars a dozen on 'em. I seed
Don give him the letter, an' I heard 'em a talkin' and a laughin'
about it."
"That's what makes me 'spise them Gordons so," said Godfrey, slapping
the side of the canoe with his open hand. "They're all the time a
boostin' Dave, an' me and you could starve fur all they keer. Now
jump out, an' we'll go up to my house an' talk about it. We'll leave
the boat here, so't it will be handy when you want to go back."
As Godfrey spoke the bow of the canoe ran deep into the soft mud
which formed the beach on that side of the island, and the father and
son sprang out. Godfrey led the way along a narrow, winding path
which ran through the cane, and after a few minutes walking ushered
Dan into an open space in the centre of the island. Here stood the
little bark lean-to that he called his house. The cane had been
cleared away from a spot about fifteen feet square, and piled up
around the outside, so that it looked like a little breastwork.
The lean-to was not a very imposing structure--Godfrey would much
rather sit in the sun and smoke his pipe then expend any of his
strength in providing for his comfort--but it was large enough to
shelter one man, and with a few more pieces of bark on the roof and a
roaring fire in front, it might have been made a very pleasant and
inviting camp. Just now, however, it looked cheerless enough. There
was a little armful of leaves under the roof of the lean-to and there
was a block of wood beside the fire-place, the position of which was
pointed out by a bed of ashes and cinders. The leaves served for a
bed and the block of wood for a chair; and they were all the
"furniture" that was to be seen about the camp. But Godfrey was very
well satisfied with his surroundings and Dan was delighted with them.
It must be splendid, he thought, to live there all by one's self with
nothing to worry over and no work to do. It was not even necessary
that Godfrey should chop wood for the fire, for the upper end of the
island was covered with broken logs and branches, and five minutes'
work every morning would suffice to provide him with all the fuel he
would be likely to burn during the day.
"What a nice place you've got here, pap!" said Dan, when he had taken
a hurried survey of the camp.
"I reckon it's about right," replied Godfrey. "I had this fur a
hidin' place while the Yanks was a scoutin' about through the
country, an' I come here now kase nobody won't think of lookin' fur
me so nigh the settlement. An' they won't stumble onto me afore I
know it, nuther. They can't git to me if they come afoot kase the
bayou'll stop 'em; an' I never heard of nobody coming up here in a
boat. Nothing bothers me 'ceptin' a bar. He comes over every night
to feed on the beech-nuts an' acorns, an' some night he'll come fur
the last time. I'll jest knock him over, and then I'll have meat
enough to last me a month. I build my fire and do my cookin' at
night, so't nobody can't see the smoke, an' that's what frightened
the bar away afore I could shoot him."
"I've a notion to come here an' live with you, pap," said Dan.
"'Twon't be safe," replied his father, quickly. "If you're missin'
from home folks might begin to hunt fur us, an' that's somethin' I
don't want 'em to do. 'Sides you must stay in the settlement an' help
me. I shall need things from the store now an' then, an' as I can't
go and git 'em myself, you'll have to git 'em fur me. But what was
you sayin' about Dave?" asked Godfrey, throwing himself down on one
of the piles of cane and motioning to Dan to occupy the block of
wood.
"I was a sayin' that he's a little the meanest feller I ever seed,"
replied Dan, "an' don't you say so too, pap? Kase why, he's goin' to
git fifty dollars fur them quail, an' he's goin' to give the money
all to the ole woman."
"An' leave me to freeze an' starve out here in the cane?" exclaimed
Godfrey, with a great show of indignation. "Not by no means he won't.
If he don't mind what he's about we'll take the hul on it, Dan, me
an' you will."
"_He_ won't get none on it, you kin bet high on that," said Dan. "I
told him I was goin' agin him, an' so I am. I'll bust his traps as
fast as I kin find 'em, an' I won't do nothin' but hunt fur 'em, day
an' night."
"Now, haint you got no sense at all?" cried his father, so fiercely
that Dan jumped up and turned his face toward the path, as if he were
on the point of taking to his heels.
"Wal, I wanted to go pardners with him an' he wouldn't le' me,"
protested Dan.
"What's the odds? Set down thar an' listen while somebody what knows
somethin' talks to you. What odds does it make to you if he won't go
pardners with you?"
"Kase I want some of the money; that's the odds it makes to me."
"Wal, you kin have it, an' you needn't do no work, nuther. I'm Dave's
pap an' your'n too, an' knows what's best fur all of us. You jest
keep still an' let Dave go on an' ketch the birds; an' when he's
ketched 'em an' got the money in his pocket, then I'll tell you what
else to do. Le' me see: fifty dozen birds at three dollars a dozen!
That's--that's jest----"
Godfrey straightened up, locked his fingers together, rested his
elbows on his knees and looked down at the pile of ashes in the
fire-place.
"It's a heap of money, the fust thing you know," said Dan. "It's
fifty dollars. Dave told me so."
"Fifty gran'mothers!" exclaimed Godfrey. "Dave done said that jest to
make a fule of you. It would be fifty dollars if he got only a dollar
a dozen. If he got two it would be a hundred dollars, an' if he got
three, it would be----"
Godfrey stopped, believing that he must have made a mistake
somewhere, and stared at Dan as if he were utterly bewildered. Dan
returned the stare with interest. "A hundred dollars!" he repeated,
slowly. "That thar Dave of our'n goin' to make a hundred dollars all
by hisself! Some on it's mine."
"It's more'n that, Dannie," said Godfrey, who, as soon as he could
settle his mind to the task, went over his calculations again, adding
the astounding statement--
"An' if he gets three dollars a dozen, he'll get a hundred an' fifty
dollars for the lot."
Dan's astonishment was so great that for a few seconds he could not
speak, and even his father looked puzzled and amazed. He was certain
that he had made no mistake in his mental arithmetic this time, and
the magnitude of David's prospective earnings fairly staggered him.
It made him angry to think of it.
"The idee of that triflin' leetle Dave's makin' so much money," he
exclaimed, in great disgust; "an' here's me, who has worked an'
slaved fur a hul lifetime, an' I've got jest twenty dollars."
"Eh?" cried Dan.
Godfrey was frightened at what he had said, but he could not recall
it without exciting Dan's suspicions; so he put on a bold face and
continued:--
"Yes, I've got that much, an' I worked hard fur it, too. But a
hundred an' fifty dollars! We must have that when it's 'arned,
Dannie."
"The hul on it?"
"Every cent. I'm Dave's pap, an' the law gives me the right to his
'arnin's, an' yours, too, until you's both twenty-one years ole. Now,
Dannie, I've done a power of hard thinkin' since I've been here on
this island, an' I've got some idees in my head that will make you
look wild when you hear 'em. I didn't know jest how to carry 'em out
afore, but I do now. These yere hundred an' fifty dollars will keep
us movin' till we kin find them eighty thousand."
"Be you goin' to look fur them agin, pap?"
"No, I hain't, but you be."
"Not much, I ain't," replied Dan, emphatically.
"Who's to do it, then?" demanded his father. "I can't, kase I'm
afeared to go into the settlement even at night. You hain't goin' to
give up the money, be you? Then what'll become of your circus-hoss,
an' your painted boats, an' your fine guns what break in two in the
middle?"
"I don't keer," answered Dan, doggedly. "I wouldn't go into that
tater-patch alone, arter dark; if I knowed it was chuck full of
yaller gold an' silver pieces."
The savage scowl that settled on Godfrey's face, as he listened to
these words, brought Dan to his feet again in great haste. The man
was fully as angry as he looked, and it is possible he might have
said or done something not altogether to Dan's liking, had it not
been for an unlooked-for interruption that occurred just then.
Godfrey had raised his hand in the air to give emphasis to some
remark he was about to make, when he was checked by a slight
splashing in the water, accompanied by the measured clatter of oars,
as they were moved back and forth in the row-locks. This was followed
by a clear, ringing laugh, which Godfrey and his son could have
recognized anywhere, and a cheery voice said:--
"I'm getting tired. It is time for me to stop and rest when I begin
to catch crabs."
There was a boat in the bayou, and Don and Bert Gordon were in it.
They were so close at hand, too, that flight was impossible.
"I don't think there's much difference between riding on horseback
and rowing in a boat, as far as the work is concerned," said the same
voice. "I've done about all I can do to-day. There don't seem to be
any ducks in the bayou; so we'll stop here and take a breathing spell
before we go back."
"Is thar any place in the wide world a feller could crawl into
without bein' pestered by them two oneasy chaps?" whispered Dan,
jumping up from his block of wood and looking all around, as if he
were seeking a way of escape.
"Not a word out of you," replied Godfrey, shaking his fist at his
son.
Following Godfrey's example, Dan threw himself behind one of the
piles of cane, and the two held their breath and listened.