ABOUT VARIOUS THINGS.
When the watchman took possession of his shake-down Matt Coyle and his
family, following their usual custom, adjourned to the open air and
sat on the logs in the wood-yard, smoking their pipes, talking over
their troubles, and consulting as to the means they ought to employ to
“get even” with the guides and other well-to-do people who were so
relentlessly persecuting them. On this particular morning they talked
about Jake and his unaccountable absence; that is, Matt and his wife
did the talking, and Sam sat and listened, all the while looking as
innocent as though he had never heard of the Irvington bank robbery,
or felt the weight of the two valises that contained the six thousand
stolen dollars. His brother Jake would have betrayed himself a dozen
times in as many minutes; but Sam did nothing to arouse suspicion
against him. Matt at last gave it as his opinion that Jake intended to
run away with the money, and repeated what he had said the night
before—that a man who had spent years of his life in dodging
constables was not to be beaten by one of his own boys. Then he filled
a fresh pipe and strolled off toward the hatchery. He thought that was
the safest place for him, for if the sheriff came back after Jake Matt
would see him when he signaled for a boat to take him across the
outlet, and have plenty of time to run to the cabin and warn his
family.
Of course the squatter did not show himself openly. He took up a
position from which he could see every thing that went on about the
hatchery, and smoked several pipes while he waited for something to
“turn up.” If the sheriff was looking for Jake, he certainly did not
come near the outlet; but somebody else did. It was Tom Bigden. Matt,
of course, was not aware that the boy had come there seeking an
interview with him; but when he saw him loitering about the hatchery
with no apparent object an idea suddenly popped into the squatter’s
head.
“I jest know that Bigden boy didn’t tell me the truth when he said
that him an’ his cousins was strapped for money, an’ that they would
have to go to Mount Airy before they could buy them guns of me,”
soliloquized Matt. “I’ll watch my chance to ketch him while he is on
his way to camp, an’ tell him that I can’t wait no ten days for my
money. I must have it to onct, ’cause I want to buy that furnitur’ of
Rube.”
While he was talking to himself in this way Matt got up and started
for the lake; and, as we have seen, he got there in time to intercept
Tom Bigden. So far as Matt was concerned, the interview was a most
unsatisfactory one. Tom was so very haughty and independent that the
squatter knew, before he had exchanged half a dozen words with him,
that there was “something wrong somewheres.”
When Tom paddled away, after promising to meet Matt the next morning
at seven o’clock, he left the man revolving some deep problems in his
mind. Matt never once suspected that Tom had found the guns, but he
did fear that he had found the valises that contained the bank’s
money, and the thought was enough to drive him almost frantic. As soon
as Tom was out of sight he caught up his rifle and posted off to the
cabin to see if Jake had been there during his absence; but neither
Sam nor the old woman could tell anything about him.
“I’d give every thing I’ve got in the world if I could get my hand on
that boy’s collar, for jest one minute,” cried Matt, as he stormed
about the wood-yard shaking his fists in the air. “He kalkerlates to
ruinate the whole of us by runnin’ off with them six thousand. I’ll
tell you what we’ll do, ole woman. To-morrer mornin’ at seven o’clock
I shall have money enough to buy the furnitur’ we need, an’ soon’s we
get it we’ll go up to the cove an’ camp there agin. Jake hid that
money somewheres around there, an’ if he don’t take it away to-day he
won’t never get it, for we shall be there to stop him. Don’t you
reckon that’s the best thing we can do?”
Too highly excited to remain long in one place, Matt did not stop to
hear his wife’s answer, but posted off to the cove after the guns. He
might never see a cent of the six thousand dollars, he told himself,
but the guns he was sure of.
“That Bigden boy didn’t say, in so many words, that he had fifty
dollars to pay for them, but he winked, an’ that’s as good an answer
as I want. He wouldn’t dare fool me, knowin’ as he does that I can
have him ’rested any time I feel like it. Here is where we left ’em,”
said Matt, stooping down in front of the log in which he and his boys
had concealed the property he wanted to find. “But I do think in my
soul that somebody has been here. The chunks is all scattered around
an’—yes, sir; the guns is gone.”
Matt dropped upon his hands and knees and peered into the hollow,
which he saw at a glance was empty. Then he seated himself upon the
log and took his pipe from his pocket. He did not whoop and yell, as
he usually did when things went wrong with him, for this new
misfortune fairly stunned him. His knowledge of the English language
was so limited that he could not do justice to his feelings; but by
the time he had smoked his pipe out he had made up his mind what he
would do.
“In course that Bigden boy will have the fifty dollars in his pocket
when he comes after the guns to-morrer,” said he. “So all I’ve got to
do is to get him ashore an’ take it away from him. I reckon I’ve lost
them six thousand, but I ain’t goin’ to be cheated on all sides, I bet
you. Then if he blabs, I’ll tell about his bein’ in ca-hoots with me
when I stole Joe Wayring’s canvas canoe. I reckon that’s the best
thing I can do.”
I have already told you how hard Matt tried to carry out this
programme when he met Tom Bigden on the following morning and how
signally he failed. Tom could not be induced to approach very close to
the beach, and was so wide-awake and so quick with his paddle that
Matt could not seize his canoe. The squatter’s proverbial luck seemed
to have forsaken him at last. He was being worsted at every point.
I pass over the next few days, during which little occurred that was
worthy of note. Jake Coyle kept aloof from his kindred, who had not
the faintest idea where he was or how he lived. Matt and the rest of
his family again established their camp at the cove, and they did not
go there a single day too soon; for when it became known among the
guides that the stolen guns had been found and given into Mr. Hanson’s
keeping a dozen of them plunged into the woods, intent on earning the
hundred dollars that had been offered for the squatter’s apprehension,
and ridding the country of a dangerous man at the same time. Tom
Bigden and his cousins fished a little and lounged in their hammocks a
good deal, and, having had time to become thoroughly disgusted with
camp life, were talking seriously of going home.
As bad luck would have it, the three boys went up to the Sportsman’s
Home after their mail on the same day that Mr. Swan returned from his
trip to Mount Airy. They heard him say that he had restored the canvas
canoe to his owner, that Joe Wayring was all ready to pay another
visit to Indian Lake, and that he and his two chums might be expected
to arrive at any hour. Ralph and his brother did not pay much
attention to this, for they didn’t like Joe well enough to be
interested in his movements; but Tom paid a good deal of attention to
it. He spent an hour or two the next morning in loafing about the
hatchery, and another hour on the beach waiting for Matt Coyle. That
was the time he was seen by a couple of guides and their employers,
who were camping on the opposite side of the Lake, and who had a good
deal to say about the incident when they went back to their hotel.
They saw Matt plainly when he came out of the bushes and accosted Tom,
and if they had been near enough they might have overheard the
following conversation:
“I seen you hangin’ around the hatchery, an’ thought that mebbe you
had something to say to me; so I come up yer,” said Matt, who, for
some reason, was in exceedingly good humor.
“You have been a long time coming,” was Tom’s reply. “I began to get
tired of waiting and was about to start for camp. What has come over
you all of a sudden? You are not quite as ugly as you were the last
time I saw you.”
“An’ you ain’t quite so skittish, nuther,” retorted Matt. “I couldn’t
get you to come ashore last time you was here.”
“Of course not. You meant to rob me, and I knew it. What good fortune
has befallen you now?”
“You may well ask that,” replied the squatter, sitting down on the log
and producing his never failing pipe. “I did think one spell that luck
was agin me, but now I know it ain’t. The reason I kept you waitin’ so
long for me was ’cause I run foul of Jake as I was comin’ here.”
As soon as Tom had time to recover from the surprise that these words
occasioned, he told himself that he wouldn’t be in Jake’s place for
any money.
“I ain’t sot eyes on that there boy for better’n a week, an’ you can’t
begin to think how tickled I was to see him,” continued Matt. “He’s
been livin’ tol’able hard since he’s been away from hum, an’ I reckon
it’ll do him good to get a jolly tuck-out onct more.”
The squatter might have added that he and his family had also lived
tolerable hard during Jake’s absence. They had put themselves on half
rations, trying to make their bacon and potatoes last as long as
possible, for when their larder was empty they did not know where the
next supply was coming from.
“What did you do to Jake when you ran foul of him?” inquired Tom.
“What did I do to him? Why should I want to do any thing to him,
seein’ that he has come hum to show me where them six thousand is hid?
I jest tied him hard an’ fast, so’t I could easy find him agin, an’
left him in the bresh behind Rube’s cabin with the ole woman watchin’
over him to see that he don’t get loose,” replied Matt, with a grin.
“Did you want to say any thing to me?”
“I thought it might interest you to know that your friend Joe Wayring
is coming back to Indian Lake, and that he will probably bring Jake’s
canoe with him,” answered Tom.
“Is _that_ all?” exclaimed Matt, knocking the ashes from his pipe and
glaring fiercely at the boy. “Have you made me tramp three or four
miles through the woods jest to tell me that? I don’t care for Joe
Wayring an’ his ole boat now. They can go where they please an’ do
what they have a mind to, so long’s they keep clear of me. I wisht I
hadn’t come. Jakey an’ me might have been most up to the cove where
the money is hid by this time.”
Seeing that Matt was disposed to get angry at him for the time he had
wasted and the long tramp he had taken for nothing, Tom stepped into
his canoe and shoved off, while the squatter disappeared in the woods,
grumbling as he went. He took the shortest course for the outlet, and
in the thickest part of the woods, a short distance in the rear of the
watchman’s cabin, found his wife keeping guard over the helpless Jake,
who was so tightly wrapped in ropes that he could scarcely move a
finger. The woman had accompanied Matt to the hatchery with the
intention of begging a few eatables of Rube; but, finding him fast
asleep, she helped herself to every thing she could find in the house,
without taking the trouble to awaken him. When Matt came suddenly upon
Jake in the woods and made a prisoner of him before he had time to
think twice, his mother was on hand to stand sentry over him.
“That Bigden boy made me go miles outen my way an’ lose two or three
hours besides, jest ’cause he wanted to tell me that Joe Wayring is
comin’ back to Injun Lake directly,” said the squatter, in response to
his wife’s inquiring look. “Jest as if I cared for him when there’s
six thousand dollars waitin’ for me. Now, Jakey, what brung you to the
hatchery? I ain’t had a chance to ask you before.”
“I come to git some grub, for I’m nigh starved to death,” said Jake,
and his pinched face and sunken eyes bore testimony to the truth of
his words. “I allowed to take one of the skiffs that we stole from
Swan and his crowd, an’ go up to the lake an’ rob another suller.”
“Well, you wouldn’t have found the skiffs, even if I hadn’t collared
you before you knowed I was within a mile of you,” answered Matt.
“Rube told the guides where we hid ’em, an’ they took ’em off the same
day they carried away your canvas canoe. But I’m glad you come after
one of ’em, for it brung you plump into the arms of your pap, who has
been waitin’ for more’n a week for you to came an’ show him where you
hid them six thousand dollars. Be you ready to do it now, Jakey?”
“I allers kalkerlated to do it,” replied Jake. “Sure hope to die, I
did.”
“I’m glad to hear it; but I’d been gladder if you had brung the money
to me the minute you found it. Untie his feet, ole woman, an’ we’ll go
back to camp.”
“An’ my hands, too,” added Jake.
“You don’t need your hands to walk with,” said Matt.
“But I need ’em to keep the bresh from hittin’ me in the face while we
are goin’ through the woods, don’t I?”
“Oh, shucks! The lickin’ you’ll get from the bresh won’t be a patchin’
to the one you’ll get from me if we don’t find them grip-sacks
tol’able easy,” replied Matt in significant tones. “Now, you go on
ahead, takin’ the shortest cut, an’ me an’ yer mam’ll foller.”
Having helped the boy to his feet, Matt waved his hand toward the
cove, as if he were urging a hound to take up a trail, and Jake
staggered off. I say staggered, because he was too weak to move with
his usual springy step. When his strength failed through long fasting,
his courage also left him, and Jake had at last determined that if he
could secure one of the skiffs he would take the money to Indian Lake
and give it up to the sheriff. He was afraid to surrender it to his
father, because he knew that Matt would thrash him for not giving it
up before. His father came upon him suddenly while he was making his
way around the hatchery toward the place where the skiffs had been
concealed, and Jake, too weak to run and too spiritless to resist, was
easily made captive. He was very hungry, and repeatedly begged his
father to untie his hands and give him a slice off the loaf of bread
that he could see in the bundle the old woman carried on her arm; but
Matt would not listen to him.
“Show us the money first, Jakey,” was his invariable reply, “an’ then
you shall have all you want. But not a bite do you get till I feel the
heft of them grip-sacks. ’Tain’t likely that I’ll go outen my way to
please a ongrateful scamp of a boy who finds six thousand dollars an’
hides it from his pap.”
The long ten-mile tramp through the woods exhausted the last particle
of Jake Coyle’s strength, and when he led his father to the brink of
the cavity at the foot of the poplar he wilted like a blade of grass
that had been struck by the frost.
“Is it in there?” cried Matt, excitedly.
“Yes; clear down to the bottom, clost up under the roots of the tree,”
said Jake, faintly. “Now, mam, untie my hands an’ give me a blink of
that bread, can’t ye?”
The woman, who was not quite so heartless as her husband, thought she
might safely comply with the request. Jake could not have got up a
trot to save his life; but he had strength enough to eat, and the way
Rube’s bread and cold fried bacon disappeared before his attacks was
astonishing. He ate until his mother called a halt and reminded him
that if he kept on there wouldn’t be anything left over for supper.
Meanwhile Matt was working industriously, almost frantically,
expecting every moment that the stick with which he was making the
leaves fly in all directions would strike one of the valises. In a
very short space of time the ground about the roots of the tree was as
bare as the back of his hand, but nothing was to be seen of the money.
Having taken the sharp edge off his appetite, Jake began showing some
interest in the proceedings, and the longer his father worked, the
wider his eyes opened.
“You don’t seem to throw out nothing, pap,” said he, at last.
“I know I don’t,” answered Matt. “But you will seem to feel something
if I don’t find it directly, for I’ll lick ye good fashion.”
“As sure’s you live an’ breathe, pap, I hid it there, clost under the
roots of that tree,” said Jake, who was almost overwhelmed with
astonishment. “I can’t for the life of me think what’s went with it.”
“Mebbe you can after you’ve had a hickory laid over your back a few
times,” replied Matt. “I’ve heard tell that a good lickin’ goes a long
ways in stirrin’ up a boy’s ideas.”
Just then a new actor appeared upon the scene. It was Sam Coyle, who
had been left in camp to watch over things during the absence of his
father and mother. While dozing over the fire he heard and recognized
his father’s voice, and came out to see what he was doing. He took
care to pass the tree in which the valises were hidden, and to look
among the branches to make sure that they were still there.
“Hallo, Jakey,” said he, in a surprised tone. “Where did you drop down
from? What be you lookin’ for, pap?”
“Jakey allowed that he come hum to show me where them six thousand was
hid; but it’s my idee that he come a purpose to get his jacket dusted,
’cause the money ain’t here,” replied Matt. “Jakey oughter know better
than to try to fool his pap that a-way.”
“I ain’t tryin’ to fool you,” protested Jake. “I put the grip-sacks
into that hole, an’ I don’t see where they be now.”
“If he is tryin’ to make a fule of his pap, he deserves a lickin’,”
continued Matt, paying no sort of attention to Jake. “An’ if he hid
the money here, an’ somebody come along an’ found it, he had oughter
have a lickin’ for that, too, to pay him for not givin’ it up to me
the minute he got it.”
As the squatter said this he threw down the stick with which he had
been turning over the leaves, climbed out of the hole and began
looking for a switch. Jake saw that things were getting serious, and
so did Sam. It is doubtful if the latter would have revealed the
hiding-place of the money to save his brother from punishment, but
still he did not want to see him whipped.
“Look a here, pap,” said Jake, desperately. “I told you honest when I
said I put the grip-sacks at the root of that there tree. You can
pound me if you want to, but it’ll be wuss for you if you do.”
There was something in the tone of his voice that made Matt pause and
look at him. “What do you reckon you’re goin’ to do?” said he.
“In the first place, I shan’t steal no grub to feed a pap who pounds
me for jest nothin’,” replied the boy.
“I ain’t a-goin’ to pound you for nothin’. I’m goin’ to pay you for
not givin’ me the money.”
“An’ in the next place I shan’t stay with you no longer,” continued
Jake. “I’ll go down to one of them hotels an’ tell every thing I
know.”
“Whoop!” yelled Matt, jumping up and knocking his heels together.
“Then you’ll be took up for a thief.”
“I don’t care. I’ll be took up some time, most likely, an’ it might as
well be this week as next. I ain’t to blame ’cause the money ain’t
where I left it, an’ I won’t be larruped for it nuther.”
Matt was in a quandary, and he could not see any way to get out of it
without lowering his dignity. According to his way of thinking Jake
deserved punishment for the course he had pursued, but Matt dared not
administer it for fear that the boy would take revenge on him in the
manner he had threatened. At this juncture Sam came to his assistance.
“Look a yer, pap,” said he. “You was hid in the bresh where you could
see the sheriff an’ his crowd when they crossed the outlet on the
mornin’ they stole Jake’s canoe, wasn’t you? Well, couldn’t you have
seen the gun-cases if they had ’em in their hands?”
Matt said he thought he could.
“You didn’t see ’em, did you? Then don’t that go to prove that the
guides didn’t find the guns when they found the canoe? Somebody else
took ’em, an’ the money, too.”
“Who do you reckon it was?”
“I’ll bet it was that Bigden crowd.”
“I’ll bet it was too,” exclaimed Jake, catching at the suggestion as
drowning men catch at straws. Of course he knew that Tom and his
cousins carried off the guns, for he had seen them do it; but he dared
not say so, for fear that his father would punish him for permitting
it. Where the money went was a question that was altogether too deep
for him. Matt was so impressed by Sam’s answer that he found it
necessary to sit down and fill and light his pipe.
“I’ll bet it was, too,” said he, when he had taken a few long whiffs.
“I thought that Bigden boy was mighty sot up an’ independent the
second time I seen him, an’ he could afford to be, knowin’, as he did,
that I couldn’t perduce the guns. Now what’s to be done about it?”
“Why can’t we take a run down to their camp to-morrer an’ see what
they’ve got in it?” said Jake. “Of course we’ll have to swim to get on
their side of the creek—”
“An’ jest for the reason that we ain’t got no boat,” snarled Matt.
“That’s what comes of my givin’ that canoe to you ’stead of keepin’ it
for my own. You hid it where they could find it, but I would have took
better care of it. Now, le’s go to camp an’ eat some of the grub that
the ole woman helped herself to in Rube’s cabin. Jake, I’ll let you
off till to-morrer, an’ I won’t tech you at all if we find the money
an’ guns in Bigden’s camp; but if we don’t find ’em I’ll have to do a
pap’s dooty by you.”
Jake, glad to have even a short respite, made no reply, but he did
some rapid thinking.
Now it so happened that Tom and his cousins were not at home when Matt
Coyle and his young allies visited their camp on the following day.
They had gone to Indian Lake after their mail. Contrary to their usual
custom they all went, each one of the party declaring, with some
emphasis, that he was sick and tired of acting as camp-keeper, while
his companions were off somewhere enjoying themselves, and wouldn’t do
it any more because it was not necessary. They could take their most
valuable things with them in their canoes and the rest could be
concealed. The result of this arrangement was that when the squatter
and his boys found the camp they found nothing else.
This was the day that Joe Wayring and his chums arrived at Indian
Lake, and Tom and his friends found them standing on the beach,
talking with Mr. Swan, as I have recorded. After exchanging a few
common-place remarks with the new-comers, Tom kept on toward the
hotel.
“I see Joe has brought his canvas canoe back with him,” observed Tom.
“If Matt Coyle knew it how long do you think it would be before he
would manage to steal it again?”
“I hope you won’t put him up to it,” said Loren. “You once got
yourself into a bad scrape by doing that, and it was more by good luck
than good management that you wriggled out of it.”
“I haven’t forgotten it,” replied Tom, with a light laugh. “I assure
you that I shall have no more suggestions to make to Matt Coyle; but I
do wish he could make things so hot for Wayring and his party that
they couldn’t stay here. They haven’t forgotten how to be mean, have
they? They wouldn’t tell us where they were going to find
trout-fishing, so we will watch and find out for ourselves.”
When Tom’s letters, which came addressed to the care of the
Sportsman’s Home, were handed out he found that one of them contained
a request for his immediate return to Mount Airy. Some of his New
London friends were at his father’s house, and if Tom and his cousins
wished to see them they had better come home without delay.
“Well, I’d as soon go to-morrow as next day, for I am tired of life in
the woods,” said Tom. “If we had only brought our blankets and
provisions along, we could have made a start from here; but as we
didn’t do it some one will have to go to camp for them. It won’t be
necessary for all to go, so I propose that we draw lots to see who
goes and who stays.”
Without waiting to hear from the others on the subject, Tom arranged
three sticks of different lengths in his closed hands, saying, as he
held them out to Loren,
“The one who gets the shortest stick is elected.”
Loren and Ralph made selection, and Tom was left with the shortest
stick in his hand. Of course he was mad about it. He always was when
he was beaten.