Two nights later Holcomb again bade Thayor good-night in the square
room with its heavy-beamed ceiling. All the accounts had now been gone
over--even to the minutest detail, and Billy felt supremely happy and
relieved at his employer's enthusiastic approval of all he had done,
so much so that even the one discordant note--Bergstein--seemed of
vague importance.
He crossed the clearing on his way to his cabin cautiously, feeling
his way with his feet to avoid tripping over an unseen root. The night
was intensely dark--so dark that as he neared his cabin he was forced
to stop and feel for his card of matches. At that instant someone in
the pitch darkness ahead of him coughed.
"Is that you, Freme?" called Holcomb, watching the sputtering sulphur
blaze into flame.
"No," answered a hard nasal voice to the right, and within a rod of
him; "it's me--Bergstein. Got any gin in your place? the nigh hoss on
Jimmy's team is took bad with the colic."
"Come inside," said Holcomb.
"Bad luck," muttered Bergstein, as he followed Holcomb into the cabin;
"there ain't a better work hoss on the place. Must have catched cold
drawin' them heavy loads on the mountain."
Holcomb lighted a candle, extracted a bunch of keys, unlocked a
cupboard, and handed Bergstein a black bottle.
"I thought you were in Canada," he said, eyeing Bergstein closely.
"I jest got back--I didn't wait for the funeral."
"Well, keep that horse covered," Holcomb added; "you'll find some
extra heavy blankets back of the feed bin." After his door was closed,
Holcomb stood thinking for some moments, his eyes fastened on the
candle flame.
"That nigh horse seemed all right this fore-noon," he said to himself.
"That's the second horse with colic."
Thayor's first meeting with Bergstein occurred the next morning. It
was brief and business-like, but it left a good impression on Thayor's
mind. What little he had seen of the man, he told Holcomb, had
convinced him of his honesty and ability; that the nigh horse had died
was no fault of Bergstein's, since he and the boys at the lower shanty
had evidently done everything that could be done. What pleased him
most was Bergstein's humane and untiring efforts to save the poor
beast, adding that he had decided to order him to leave for Montreal
at once with instructions to purchase another horse, together with
some other things, amounting to over three thousand dollars in
all, which were badly needed. He liked, too, his quick return from
Canada--this showed his interest in his work.
An hour later the two, with Bergstein, stood on the veranda before the
latter's departure.
"Is there anything else you can think of that we need, Billy?" Thayor
asked.
"That's about all I can think of," returned Holcomb, glancing over the
long list that Bergstein held in his hand.
"He was a hard-working man," Bergstein casually remarked, referring to
the uncle who had so suddenly succumbed. There was nothing to lead up
to it, but that was a way with Bergstein. As he spoke he folded the
list and tucked it into his black portfolio.
"Married?" asked Thayor.
"Yes, and to as nice a little woman as you ever see, Mr. Thayor.
He ain't left her much, not more than will keep her out of the
poor-house." Bergstein's voice had grown as soft as an Oriental's.
"I buried him at my own expense. It's hard on her--she's got a little
girl who was always ailin'--sickly from the first." He fumbled at his
scrubby black beard, his rat-like eyes focussed on the ground.
"One moment, Mr. Bergstein," said Thayor, suddenly turning on his heel
and going into the house. Presently he returned and handed Bergstein
an unsealed white envelope. "Will you kindly give this to the mother
and the little girl," he said. "You will oblige me by not saying whom
it is from."
"Well, now, that's mighty good of you, Mr. Thayor," Bergstein
faltered; "she'll--"
"I trust you will have a pleasant journey," returned Thayor and with
a nod to Billy the two disappeared through the door of Thayor's den,
before the man with the scrubby beard could finish his sentence.
Bergstein tucked the envelope within the black portfolio and went down
the steps to the buckboard waiting to take him out to the railroad.
The boy Jimmy drove, Bergstein taking the back seat. He waited until
they were well into the stretch of wood between the camp and the lower
shanty, then he hurriedly extracted the envelope and glanced within.
It contained a new one-hundred-dollar bill.
That night Bergstein put up at the best hotel in Troy.
* * * * *
Three days after Bergstein's departure Holcomb sat in his cabin going
over his accounts. When it grew dark he lighted his kerosene lamp and
drew a chair beside his desk. As he bent over and unlaced his shoes
the sash of the square cabin window in front of him was raised
cautiously and four bony fingers slipped in and gripped the sill. As
he sprang to his feet the gaunt face of a man rose slowly above the
window sill and a pair of brilliant, cavernous eyes, framed in a shock
of unkempt beard and sandy hair, stared into his own.
It was Bob Dinsmore--the hide-out. The next instant Holcomb was out of
his boots and had raised the sash with a whispered welcome. With the
quickness of a cornered cat Dinsmore was inside.
"It's took me most a week to git this chance to see ye, Billy,"
the hide-out began in a faint, husky voice weakened by exposure.
He glanced about him nervously, his thin body shivering under the
patchwork of skins and threadbare rags that covered him. Holcomb,
without a word, crossed to the cupboard.
"Eat, Bob," he said, putting a dish of cold meat and beans and
another bottle on the table. For the space of a quarter of an hour the
hide-out ate hurriedly in silence, his food and drink guarded between
his soaked forearms like an animal fearful lest its prey be stolen.
Holcomb watched him the while with now and then a friendly word. When
he had finished eating, the cavernous eyes looked up gratefully.
"I dasn't risk it until to-night, Billy," he resumed. "When I seen
that skunk Bergstein leave I thought I'd let ye know." He leaned
forward, one hand fumbling under the rags. "That's what I found," he
said in a whisper, as he drew out a piece of twisted paper. "I had
hard work to get it," he added, carefully untwisting the fragment and
disclosing a teaspoonful of whitish powder. "It may be pizon and
it mayn't--I ain't tried it on nothin' yet, but he was so all-fired
perticler in hidin' it I thought I'd bring it along."
"Where did you find it?"
"Under that hell-hound's mattress. He's got more of it in a blue box.
Thar warn't nobody seen me. Damn him!"--he muttered--"it was him that
told the sheriff last month down to Leetle Moose that he seen me cross
his trail. I'd crep' down to see my leetle gal, and he stepped 'most
on top of us. We weren't more 'n forty rod this side o' whar she
lived, and the skunk went in and told how he'd seen somebody skulkin'
off, and, of course, they knowed then. They made it hot 'nough for
me. I been layin' for him ever since; I was watchin' him through the
winder when I see him hunt for this powder. Folks don't keep stuff
like that whar he kep' it 'less it's sumpin perticler. Somebody'll
find him in the woods some time with a hole in him."
Holcomb laid the powder on the table. What he suspected he dared not
formulate into words, let alone tell the hide-out.
"I ain't never forgot ye, Billy, for what ye've done for me,"
continued the hide-out with a choke in his feeble voice. Then,
starting to his feet, the old fear returning, he whispered hoarsely:
"'Tain't safe here for me; I dasn't stay longer."
"Bob," said Holcomb, "you're safe here until daylight; there's my
bed."
"No! No! I dassent, Billy."
"But you're wet to the skin," insisted Holcomb.
"So be everything when it rains. I'm wet most of the time. Now I'm
a-goin', and a-goin' quick. That's what I come to give ye," and he
nodded to the crumpled bit of paper and its contents lying under the
lamp's glow.
"Is there anything I can do for you, Bob, down below? I saw Katie last
time I drove in."
A hungry eager look stole into the man's face; tears started in his
eyes and lost themselves in his matted, unkempt beard.
"Ye see Katie, Billy?" he moaned. "God--how I'd like to! Growing,
ain't she? Most 'leven now. Some weeks back since I dared go down.
Last time I see her she cried and went on so holdin' on to me I come
near givin' myself up I felt so bad; then I knowed that wouldn't git
nowhars."
"No, Bob, better keep moving. I'm going to speak to Mr. Thayor when
the time comes--but it isn't yet. Hold on--here's matches and what's
left in the cupboard." Taking two of his own shirts and a pair of
his woollen trousers, he wrapped up the food and a little cheer; then
blowing out the lamp he again raised the sash cautiously, and with a
hurried handshake bade him good-night.
"If ye want me again Hite Holt kin find me--he knows whar I be," he
whispered softly. Then he slipped out into the darkness and was gone.
Holcomb regained his chair, folded the paper containing every grain of
the powder into an envelope and slipped it into his desk.
One thing he was resolved upon--not to tell Mr. Thayor of his
suspicions until there was no question of his proof.