IN THE WATCHMAN’S CABIN.
Mr. Swan and his party started for Indian Lake at an early hour the
next morning, and I was left alone in the bushes. I stayed there all
that night and until noon the next day, and then Jake Coyle and his
brother suddenly appeared in front of my hiding-place. They came up so
silently that I did not know they were anywhere in the neighborhood
until they were close upon me; but I was not much surprised at that,
for I had become well enough acquainted with them during my previous
captivity to know that that was their usual way of doing. They could
not have taken more pains to conceal their movements if they had been
hostile Indians on the hunt for scalps.
They always had the fear of the law before their eyes, and lived in a
state of anxiety and apprehension that could hardly have been endured
by any one else.
“Here he is, all right an’ tight,” said Jake, laying hold of the rope
with which he had tied me together and hauling me out of the thicket.
“Ole Swan didn’t go to pokin’ around through the bresh like I was
afeared he would. Come out here. You’ve got to help me steal some more
bacon an’ ’taters to-night.”
“Don’t you let Joe Wayring an’ the rest of them fellers sneak up an’
take him away from you, like they done the last time you went out with
him to steal bacon an’ ’taters,” cautioned Sam. “Them boys ain’t gone
home yet, an’ I shan’t rest easy till they do. As long as they stay
snoopin’ around in these woods where they ain’t wanted they’re liable
to drop down on us at any minute.”
“I don’t want ’em to go home till I get a chance to squar’ up with Joe
for hittin’ me in the face with pap’s paddle,” said Jake, who seemed
to think that a greater insult could not have been put upon him. “I
shall allers remember that agin him. Now le’s go back to our ole camp
an’ see what Swan an’ his crowd done there arter we left.”
So saying Jake led the way into the evergreens, carrying me on his
shoulder. A single glance at the place where the camp had been was
enough to show that the guides had done their work well. There was
nothing left of the lean-to, the bedding, and the small supply of
provisions that Matt and his family had abandoned, except a little
pile of ashes.
“This is a purty way for them rich folks to treat poor chaps like us,
ain’t it?” said Sam, bitterly. “What business did they have to go an’
do it? We’ve just as much right to be guides here as Swan has.”
“Well, I don’t reckon him an’ his crowd hurt us any wuss than we hurt
them,” observed Jake. “Them fish-poles an’ other things that we flung
into the bresh an’ sunk in the bay must have cost a good many dollars,
an’ we’ve got two of their best boats besides.”
“But them boats won’t do us anymore good than the two guns we’ve got
hid in the bresh,” answered Sam. “Le’s go an’ take a look at them guns
an’ see if they are all right.”
The hollow log in which the stolen weapons had been stowed away for
safe keeping was at least a quarter of a mile from the thicket that
had furnished me with a hiding-place, but Jake and his brother went
straight to it; and after removing a few bushes and chunks of wood
that had been scattered carelessly around the end of the log to
conceal the opening, the former put in his hand and pulled out a
Victoria case which contained the Lefever hammerless. Passing it over
to his brother, Jake again thrust his arm into the hollow and brought
to light the stolen Winchester, wrapped in a tattered blanket. When
their coverings were removed I took a good look at them. They were the
handsomest things in the shape of guns I ever saw, and I did not
wonder that their rightful owners were so anxious to get them back.
“If we had a few ca’tridges to fit ’em, we’d take a shot or two jest
for luck,” said Sam, raising the double-barrel to his shoulder and
running his eye along the clean brown tubes. “But they ain’t no more
use to us than so many chunks of ole iron. We dassent sell ’em, an’
pap’ won’t let us have ’em for fear that we will be took up for
thieves.”
“Didn’t you hear pap say that he didn’t hook the guns ’cause he wanted
’em, but jest to break up guidin’ an’ ruin them hotels up to the
lake?” Jake inquired. “It’s the only way we’ve got to even up with the
folks that are tryin’ to starve us out, ain’t it? I’ll go furder’n
that, if I ever get a good chance. I’ll burn every camp I find, like
Swan done with our’n.”
“I reckon that if me an’ you had the money these guns cost we could
wear good clothes an’ live on good grub all the rest of the year,
couldn’t we?” said Sam, as he returned the Lefever hammerless to his
case and handed it to his brother. “They must have cost as much as
forty or fifty dollars apiece, don’t you reckon?”
This showed that Sam had about as clear an idea of the price of fine
guns as his father had of the value of split bamboo fishing-rods and
German-silver reels. The Winchester was worth fifty dollars, but the
list price of the Lefever hammerless was three hundred.
Having put the guns back into the log again, Jake once more raised me
to his shoulder, and started off through the woods. But he and Sam
moved with long, noiseless steps, stopping frequently to reconnoiter
the ground before them, and if they conversed at all it was in low and
guarded tones. At the end of half an hour they struck a “carry”—a dim
path leading from the pond to another body of water that lay deeper in
the forest—and here they became doubly cautious in their movements.
“Now you toddle on ahead,” said Jake to his brother, “an’ if you see
one of them city chaps an’ his guide comin’ along the carry, fetch a
little whistle so’t I can hide in the bresh afore they see me.”
But, as it happened, this precaution was unnecessary. The carry was
deserted by all save themselves, and at the end of another half hour
Jake took me through a little clearing and into a dilapidated log
shanty, where we found the squatter and his wife waiting for us.
“Well, Jakey, you found your boat whar you left him, didn’t you?” said
Matt Coyle, as the boy deposited me in a corner of the shanty near the
wide fire-place. “I didn’t know but mebbe Swan an’ the rest of ’em had
nosed him out an’ took him off.”
“Well, they didn’t,” answered Jake. “We found him all right, an’ the
guns, too. We hauled ’em out an’ took a good look at ’em, me an’ Sam
did. It’s a mean shame that we can’t keep ’em out an’ use ’em like
they b’longed to us.”
The squatter made no reply, and I had leisure to look about me before
any one spoke again. I was surprised to see how much furniture there
was in the shanty, for I knew that Matt had lost the bulk of his
property when the guides burned his camp. Of course, it was of the
rudest description, but it would answer very well when nothing better
could be had. I have seen many a well-appointed camp whose owners were
not any better supplied with needful things than Matt Coyle was. There
were two comfortable looking shake-downs on the floor; three-legged
stools and chairs without any backs were abundant; the home-made table
supported more dishes than Matt and his family were ever likely to
fill with provender, and under it were piled a lot of miscellaneous
articles, including a frying-pan, camp-kettle, and coffee-pot. To
complete the picture, three of the stools and broken chairs were
occupied by Matt Coyle, his wife, and a roughly dressed man whom I had
never seen before. They were all smoking, and sat with their elbows
resting on their knees. Taken as a group, they were the laziest
looking lot I ever happened to meet. The stranger was the first to
speak.
“What guns is them you’re talkin’ about?” said he, in a drawling tone.
“Oh, they’re some that I picked up while I was a roamin’ around,”
replied Matt, with a knowing wink.
“An’ you got that there canvas canoe in the same way, I reckon,”
continued the stranger, nodding toward the corner in which I lay,
listening to the conversation.
“Well, p’raps I did,” answered Matt. “It’s jest like I told you, Rube.
I would be willin’ to work hard an’ faithful if they would only give
me a chance to be a guide, but they won’t do it, an’ me an’ the boys
have set ourselves the job of bustin’ up the hul business. We’ve done
right smart of damage already, but we ain’t through yet. I’ll bet you
there won’t be as many guests up to them hotels at Injun Lake next
summer as there was this.”
“I heared all about it, an’ about them guns, too,” drawled Rube. “Do
you know that there’s been a big reward offered fur ’em? Well, there
has. The man who ketches you an’ finds the guns will get two hundred
dollars for it; an’ if he finds the guns without ketchin’ you he’ll
get half as much.”
“That’s enough to turn every man in the woods agin me,” said Matt,
anxiously.
“All except your friends,” Rube hastened to assure him. “They won’t go
agin you for no money.”
“Well, I’ll bet you they don’t ketch me agin,” said the squatter,
confidently. “They done it once, but I’m onto their little games now.
They thought they had us all in their grip, Swan an’ his crowd did,
when they burned our camp up there in the cove; but we knowed they was
comin’ long afore they got there. I ain’t afeared of their ketchin’
me.”
“An’ I ain’t afeared of their findin’ the guns nuther,” chimed in
Jake. “They’re hid where nobody wouldn’t never think of lookin’ for
’em.”
“Whereabouts is that?” asked Rube, carelessly.
The boys grinned, while Matt and the old woman looked down at the
floor and said nothing. They were perfectly willing that Rube should
know how the guns came into their possession, but they were not so
ready to tell him where the stolen weapons were concealed. How did
they know but that Rube, tempted by the promise of so large a reward,
would hunt up the guns, restore them to their lawful owners, and hold
fast to all the money he received for it? Perhaps we shall see that
that was just what Rube wanted to do. He was by no means as good a
friend to the squatter as he pretended to be, and Matt suspected it
all the while.
“What made you turn agin them folks up there to the lake?” said the
latter, suddenly. “The last time I seen you, you told me that you had
a good job at guidin’, an’ that you was gettin’ two an’ a half a day.”
“So I did, an’ it was the truth,” replied Rube. “But he didn’t stick
to his bargain, Hanson didn’t. The last feller I went out with told
him that I was a powerful lazy chap, an’ that I wouldn’t do nothin’
but jest roll around on the grass an’ leave him to pick the browse for
the beds an’ cook his own bacon an’ slapjacks. He told him, furder,
that I wouldn’t take him to the best troutin’ places, ’cause there was
too many ‘carries’ in the way. Well, that was a fact,“ added Rube,
reflectively. “He had so much duffle with him, my employer did, that I
had to make two trips to tote it all over the carries, an’ two an’ a
half a day is too little money for doin’ sich work as that. I hired
myself out to the hotel for a guide, an’ not for a pack-horse. So
Hanson, he allowed he didn’t want me no longer, an’ that made me down
on him an’ all the rest, same as you are. If that ain’t a fact, an’ if
I ain’t a friend of your’n, what made me tell you to come into my
shanty an’ make yourselves to home, an’ use my things till you could
get some furnitur’ of your own?”
So that was the way Matt came to be so well fixed, was it? The shanty
and every thing in it belonged to Rube, and he had told Matt to step
in and make himself at home there. I thought that looked like a
friendly act on Rube’s part.
“It was mighty good-natur’d an’ free-hearted in you, an’ if it ever
comes handy, you’ll see that I don’t forget sich things,” said Matt,
after a little pause. “I’m free to say that I didn’t look fur no sich
favors from you, for I thought you was down on me, like all the rest
of the guides.”
“Well, you see that I ain’t, don’t you? I’ve been mistreated same as
you have, an’ have jest as good a reason to be mad about it. Now I’ll
tell you what I’ll do with you consarnin’ them guns that you’ve got
hid in the bresh,” continued Rube. “You dassent sell ’em or give ’em
back to the men you stole ’em from, ’cause if you try it you will be
took up; but I can do it for you, an’ they won’t never suspicion any
thing agin me. I can take ’em up to Hanson to-day an’ get the hunderd
dollars cash money that has been promised for ’em. Say the word an’
I’ll do it, an’ go halves with you. Fifty dollars is better than
leavin’ ’em out there in the woods to rust till they ain’t good for
nothing.”
This seemed to be a fair offer, and I expected to hear Matt close with
it at once; but instead of that he fastened his eyes on the floor once
again, and drew his shaggy brows together as if he were thinking
deeply. Even Jake went off into a brown study.
“If you want to make any thing out of them guns, I don’t see any other
way for you to do it,” said Rube, knocking the ashes from his pipe and
getting upon his feet. “I’ll make the same bargain with you consarnin’
them two boats you hooked from Swan an’ his crowd on the day they
burned your camp. You can’t use them any more’n you can use the guns,
an’ what’s the use of leavin’ ’em in the bresh to rot away to
nothin’?”
“An’ what’s the use of my robbin’ camps if I’m goin’ to give back all
the things I hook?” asked Matt, in reply.
“You needn’t give ’em all back—only jest them that you can get a
reward for. Take time to study on it, an’ then tell me if you don’t
think I have made you a good offer. Now I must step down to the
hatchery an’ go on watch; an’ I warn you, fair an’ squar’, don’t none
of you come prowlin’ round like you was waitin’ for a chance to set
fire to the buildin’s or cut the nets, ’cause if you do I shall have
to tell on you. I shouldn’t like to do that, bein’ as me an’ you is
friends, an’ nuther do I want to lose my place as watchman at the
hatchery, since I’ve been stopped from guidin’. I must have some way
to make a livin’.”
So saying Rube put on his hat and left the shanty. Matt and his family
remained silent and motionless for a few minutes, and then, in
obedience to a sign from his father, Jake jumped up and followed Rube.
After a brief absence he returned with the report:
“He ain’t hangin’ around the back of the shanty to listen to our talk,
Rube ain’t. He’s gone on down the carry t’wards the hatchery. Be you
goin’ to let him have them boats an’ guns, pap? Seems like it would be
better to have the money than the things, ’cause we could use the
money an’ we can’t use the boats an’ guns.”
“Now jest listen at the blockhead!” exclaimed Matt. “Do you reckon
that if we give the things up to Rube we’d ever see a cent of the
money? Do you think that ’cause he opened this shanty to us, an’ told
us to use his dishes to cook our grub with, that it’s safe to trust
him too fur? I don’t. Them boats an’ guns can stay where they be till
they sp’ile afore I will let Rube or any body else make any money out
of ’em. Nobody but me run any risk in hookin’ them guns, an’ I’m the
one that oughter have the money for givin’ of ’em back.”
“I don’t b’lieve Rube’s goin’ agin us,” said the old woman. “If that
is his idee, what’s the reason he don’t bring the constable here an’
have you took up? He could do it in a minute.”
“Now jest listen at you!” said Matt, again. “Of course he could have
me took up if he wanted to, Rube could, but he would make only a
hundred dollars by it, ’cause he wouldn’t have the guns. See? But if
we give him the guns, then he’ll bring the constable here arter me,
an’ he’ll get two hundred dollars fur it. Understand? I don’t b’lieve
that every body up to the lake is down on him like they be on me. If
he was stopped from guidin’, how does it come that he got to be
watchman at the State hatchery? They wouldn’t have no lazy,
good-for-nothing feller there, I bet you. There’s something mighty
jubus about Rube, an’ you want to be careful what you say an’ do afore
him, the hul on you. It won’t do to trust nobody ’ceptin’ ourselves.
Now, Sam, you start up the fire, an’, ole woman, you put what’s left
of them bacon an’ ’taters over. We’ll have more to-morrer, if Jakey
has good luck to-night.”
While the preparations for supper were in progress, Matt filled his
pipe for a fresh smoke, Sam sat on his stool and meditated, and Jake
disappeared down the carry with his fish-pole on his shoulder. Rube’s
proposition had suggested an idea to him and he, too, was thinking
deeply. He went straight to the hatchery, and after watching the carry
for a few minutes to make sure that he had not been followed by any
member of the family Jake peeped around the corner of one of the
buildings and saw Rube in conversation with the superintendent. The
latter went away after a little while, and then Jake presented himself
before the watchman.
“Didn’t I warn you, fair an’ squar’, that you mustn’t none of you come
prowlin’ about here?” demanded Rube, angrily. “Now clear yourself or
I’ll tell on you, sure.”
“You ain’t got nothing to tell, ’cause I ain’t done no damage of no
sort,” answered Jake, with a grin.
“But I wouldn’t be afeared to bet that you’re goin’ to. I wouldn’t
trust none of you as fur as I could sling a meetin’ house. No, I
wouldn’t.”
“Well, pap said he wouldn’t trust you nuther, so I reckon we’re about
even on that p’int,” said Jake with another grin.
“What for wouldn’t he trust me?” asked Rube, in an astonished tone.
“’Cause he says you think you are mighty smart, tryin’ to get them
fine guns into your own hands so’t you can pocket the hul of the
reward an’ never give us none of it. That’s what you’re up to, Rube,
an’ we know it.”
“Tain’t nuther,” said the man, indignantly.
“Well, you can’t never make nothing by coaxin’ pap to give up them
guns; I can tell you that much. Say,” added Jake, drawing a step or
two nearer to Rube and speaking in low and confidential tones, “you
won’t never tell nobody if I say something to you, will you?”
“No, I won’t,” replied Rube, lowering his own voice almost to a
whisper.
“You won’t never tell pap nor mam nor Sam, nor none of ’em, honor
bright an’ sure hope to die?”
“No, I won’t,” repeated Rube.
“Say honor bright; ’cause if you ever let on to Sam what I say to you,
he’ll tell pap, an’ pap, he’ll wear a hickory out on me.”
“Honor bright I won’t tell,” said Rube.
“Say,” whispered Jake. “I’ve done a heap fur pap fust an’ last, an’ he
ain’t never give me nothin’ fur it, ’ceptin’ that ole canvas canoe I
brung home to-day. I sold them poles that he stole from Joe Wayring
an’ his crowd down on Sherwin’s pond, an’ he never once said to me:
’Jakey, here’s a couple of dollars to buy you a pair of shoes agin
winter comes.’ Now I say that was mighty stingy in pap. He says them
guns may stay where they be till they sp’ile, afore you or any body
’ceptin’ himself shall make any money outen ’em.”
Jake could see by the way Rube hung his head that he was sorry to hear
this. After a long pause he looked up and said:
“Well, what of it?”
“Well,” continued Jake, “I can’t see the use of them guns layin’ there
doin’ nobody no good, when I might jest as well have the reward that’s
been offered fur ’em.”
“No more do I,” assented Rube.
“Say,” Jake went on, in a still lower whisper, “I’ll tell you where
the guns be if you will give me half the money an’ never let on to
none of ’em that I told you.”
“It’s a bargain,” said Rube, extending his hand.
“An’ you’ll give me the fifty dollars, right into my own fingers, an’
keep still about it afterwards?”
“I will.”
“Say. ’Twouldn’t be safe fur me to show you where the guns is hid,
’cause the old man is like Joe Wayring an’ the rest of them fellers.
He’s got a habit of snoopin’ around where he ain’t wanted, an’ jest as
like’s not he’d see me while I was a showin’ you; so I’ll have to tell
you. Say! You know where the creek is that leads—Wait a minute.”
When Jake had said this much it suddenly occurred to him that perhaps
his father was at that very moment “snoopin’ around” where he was not
wanted, and he thought it best to satisfy himself on that point. He
was pretty certain that he would see trouble if any member of his
family caught him in close conversation with the watchman. It was well
for Jake that he took this precaution, for when he looked cautiously
around the corner of the building he discovered a familiar figure
coming down the carry with long and rapid strides. It was plain that
he was fearful of being seen and followed, for he stopped every few
rods to look behind him.
“There comes that Sam of our’n,” said Jake, in an excited whisper.
“Now, Rube, you watch an’ see which end of the buildin’ he’s p’inting
fur, an’ I’ll slip around t’other end an’ make a break fur home
through the bresh. Say, Rube, don’t let on, an’ I’ll see you some
other day.”
Jake caught up his fish-pole, which he had leaned against the side of
the hatchery, and stood ready to run in either direction, while Rube
moved slowly along the bank of the outlet until he could see the
carry.
“Now, then!” he exclaimed, as soon as Sam came within speaking
distance, “you ain’t wanted here, nor none of your tribe. So toddle
right back where you come from.” At the same time he made a quick
motion with his hand, which Jake saw and understood. He darted around
the upper end of the building and was out of sight in an instant.
“You heared me, I reckon,” continued Rube, seeing that Sam quickened
his pace instead of turning about and retracing his steps.
“You can’t fish here, ’cause it’s agin the law, an’ you might as well
understand it first as last. Want to speak to me? Hurry up, then, for
I ain’t got no time to fool away.”
Imagine the watchman’s surprise when he learned that Sam had come
there with the same proposition that his brother had made him a few
minutes before. He gave the very same reasons for it, made the same
stipulations regarding the division of the reward, and exacted the
same promise of secrecy; but he did not tell Rube where the guns were
concealed. Just as he got to that point a step sounded within the
superintendent’s room, and a hand was laid upon the latch. Before the
door opened Sam, who had reasons of his own for not wishing to meet
the superintendent face to face, had vanished in the fast-gathering
twilight.