A Clear Trail
Colonel Hallibut sat before the fire smoking and dreaming. The
monotonous winter had proven drear enough for him, accustomed as he was
to out-of-doors exercise, and now the splash of rain upon the roof fell
on his ears like the tinkle of music. Every morning for three months the
Colonel had told himself that he would visit those outlaws as soon as
the trail was clear, and demand that the man who burned his schooner
give himself up. But for three months the trail remained choked and the
frost promised death to anyone venturing any distance from shelter.
However, spring would now soon come bounding in, so the big man nursed
his wrath and said, “To-morrow.”
During the long waiting-time he walked between his house and stable, or
stalked among his dogs with scolding voice. Dick, the man-of-all-work,
kept out of his master’s way as much as possible, but sometimes the
Colonel had him come into the big room and sit before him while he
unburdened his mind.
“Those Bushwhackers have dared to burn my vessel and have threatened to
kill me,” he would say. “Think of it—threatened to kill me! I wonder if
the idiots have an ounce of sense or honor among them. They claim they
have their own laws, but we’ll show them that their laws don’t go very
far when it comes to firing men’s property. Here was I, ready to give in
that they were in the right about wanting to hold their timber. I was
fool enough to let myself be influenced by sentimentality. I was fool
enough to think them a simple nature-loving people who were attached to
their environment. Now I find them a low, lawless band of cut-throats,
capable of any crime. That Big McTavish, their ring-leader, is bad
enough, but he has a son who will stop at nothing, I understand. I have
no doubt that it was he set fire to my boat.”
At such times Dick would listen attentively and vouchsafe no remark.
Experience had taught him that silence was golden. The Colonel would
shake his head, relight his pipe, and go on.
“I blame myself a whole lot for not going among the people and finding
out just what they were, before allowing anybody else to run into
danger. I know they never did like me on account of my hounds. They
claim I slaughtered the deer and fox, and I thought it policy to keep
out of their way. I have nothing in common with those people. When I
took a notion to their timber I naturally thought that Watson and Smythe
could deal better with them than I could. You know how well they’ve
succeeded. Watson has been nearly killed and has been robbed of six
hundred dollars. At least he says so. Well, you numbskull, why don’t you
say something!”
Dick would grin foolishly and shake his head.
“I’m thinkin’, sir, as I don’t know hanythink t’ say,” he would remark.
“I like t’ ’ear you talk about what you know to be a fact, sir, an’
beggin’ your pardon, prefer t’ listen, sir.”
“Lord,” the Colonel would murmur, “it’s awful to have only a
thick-skulled Englishman to pour out my troubles to. But I must talk to
somebody. Your mother, lad, is a good woman, with more brains in one
bump than you have in your whole cranium. But she’s so deaf I’m afraid
I’ll bite her ear off trying to make her hear me. Then, too, she has a
nice way with her of thinking out loud. Of course, she can’t hear
herself, but I can hear her, and when her thoughts turn to me I tell you
I hear a lot that I would rather not hear. ‘Rough on the surface, but a
good man at heart, God bless him.’ That’s the kind of bouquets I get
from your mother, Dick, whenever I open up and tell her what I intend to
do with those Bushwhackers. ‘He wouldn’t hurt a baby, the kind
gentleman. He’s a Hallibut, every inch of him, and I carried him about
when he was a baby.’ That’s the kind of rubbish I get when she’s in the
room. By George! if she wasn’t an old family servant I’d fire her and
I’d fire you, too, you good-for-nothing, you. Why, fellow, just you
watch those dogs get down and crawl when I speak to ’em. Does that look
as though I was a kind-hearted gentleman? Does it?—answer me, sir.”
“It do not, sir. You surely are ’ell, sir, yes sir.”
“Only sensible remark you have made since this cursed winter set in.
Yes, I’m a rough ’un, I guess. I’m a match for that big hairy McTavish,
or any of them, eh?”
“You are, sir.”
“And you think they’ll find it out,—you do, don’t you?”
“They’ll find they have t’ deal with a tartar, sir. They’ll wish th’
’eavens would fall an’ cover ’em, sir, I’m thinkin’.”
Dick would answer solemnly and the Colonel would slap him on the back
and tell him that there was some hope for him yet.
Very often the big man would prefer to be alone, and there in his great
chair he would sit listening to the wind moaning through the bare trees.
Very often his thoughts would stray away back to the far-away days when
he roamed the hills and valleys of the land where he had held and lost
his happiness. And as he dreamed, his head would bend lower on his
breast and his hand would unconsciously tighten on the arm of his chair.
And after his dream he would awaken slowly, and, sighing, arise and
stand before the portrait on the wall. All men have their little
flower-gardens of memory—Colonel Hallibut’s lay away back among the far
hills.
“If she only had not gone,” he would murmur. “If she only had not gone,
or if only I had gone with her. Dear little Phoebe, my heart gets hungry
for you, and now I can only lead you along the old paths in fancy,
girl.”
And the pictured face would grow wistful and he would whisper:
“The part you knew and owned of me is all right, girl. I’m not such a
bad chap; I’m a big bluff, just a big bluff. I remember, dear, even
though the joy of memory is painful. Glimpses are all I can stand, my
little sister.”
Then the shadows would flicker and the Colonel would creep back to his
old place and snooze and forget. Sometimes, very late, as he groped his
way from the room, his eyes would seek the face in the frame, and all
bitter thoughts would melt away from him. He would speak “Good-night”
from the door and the portrait would smile upon him. But many and many
nights these questions would arise to trouble him:
“Why did they burn my boat! Why should they threaten my life?”
And now the first spring rain was falling, whispering a promise of clear
trails and open weather. There was the very essence of spring in the
soft voice and damp smell. The Colonel sat before the fire thinking of
what he would do, and how he would act, now that the weather permitted
his going forth to show the Bushwhackers just how greatly they had
erred. And he intended to show them that he had the law behind him. If
they refused to give the incendiary up to justice, then he would get the
machinery into motion which would speedily make them. He did not believe
for a moment that they would refuse to give over the men who had broken
the law. They well knew that he, Colonel Hallibut, wasted no words, and
made no promise he could not fulfill. As for their threat to shoot him
on sight, he hooted the idea as absurd. They might be murderers, but
they were not fools. Nor would he, as he had first decided to do, take
anyone else with him when he sought an explanation from and made a
demand of the Bushwhackers. To take a body-guard would lead them to
think that he was afraid.
All night long the Colonel sat listening to the rain, anticipating that
of which the elements had deprived him for three long months. As the
night advanced he grew more restless, and only when the tardy day began
to dawn did his eyes close in sleep. The old housekeeper found him
asleep in his big chair. This was nothing unusual, and she simply
replenished the fire noiselessly and slipped out to prepare breakfast.
Dick came in, when it was ready, and gently shook his master’s arm.
“Breakfast, sir,” he apologized; “it’s ready, sir.”
The Colonel arose and stretched his huge person. Then he went over to
the window. Not a single patch of snow was visible. He threw open the
door and stepped outside. From the ground arose a smoky haze that tasted
of earth and roots, and he breathed it into his lungs with long,
grateful breaths. He quickly prepared himself for breakfast and passed
into the dining-room.
“After you have finished your meal, Dick, put the saddle on bay Tom,” he
commanded. “Don’t ask any questions, now. Fact is, I’m going down to
have it out with those murderers in Bushwhackers’ Place. I’m going
alone, but I’m going loaded for trouble. I’ll take my pistols and the
double-barreled rifle. If I don’t come back in two days you had better
come and look for me.”
“Lor’!” breathed Dick, starting.
“There, now, you needn’t get scared,” laughed the Colonel. “I’m going
out now to say good-by to the dogs. Get Tom out as soon as you can.”
Hallibut walked to the dog-kennels. Yelps and whines besought him as he
passed along, but his head was bowed and he did not call out, as was his
fashion, to his friends. Instead, he bent and patted each of those
wistful-faced brutes that nosed and rubbed against him, speaking to each
in an undertone of forced jollity.
“Sprague, you old beggar, you’re glad it’s spring, aren’t you? Hello,
Nell, what are you doing away from your puppies at this time of day?
Poor old Jep—come on, old chap. Ha, ha, he’s a good-for-nothing old
codger, he is.”
He walked over to the corner of the yard, the pack following him, and,
seating himself on a bench, called the dogs in close beside him.
“Boys,” he said, and his voice was not quite steady, “some people would
think me either a fool or a crazy man if they saw me out here saying
good-by to you. But some people don’t know dogs. I do. We’ve been good
friends, old chaps, haven’t we? There, Jep, it’s just like you to speak
first,” as the old dog lifted his head and whined, “but I guess you
voice the sentiment of the whole pack.” The Colonel glanced about him.
“For the first time in a long while,” he said, “I’m going on a journey
without taking any of you along. I wish I didn’t have to go, but go I
must. If I come back we’ll have many a good chase together. And if I
don’t——”
“Your ’orse, sir,” cried Dick from the gate.
Ten minutes later the Colonel rode the trail once again.
It was just coming noon when he drew rein before Smythe’s store at
Bridgetown and sent a hello out upon the air. The new spring day was
still misty with sweet-smelling fog. The wind blew from the south soft
and refreshing. Mr. Smythe opened the door and, seeing who his visitor
was, came forward with an exclamation of pleasant surprise.
“Heaven be praised, it’s the dear Colonel,” he cried.
“Watson,” he called, “come out and greet our dear friend, Colonel
Hallibut. Just please dismount, sir, and I’ll stable your horse.”
“I’ll dismount, but I’ll stable my own horse, I guess. I want to be sure
that he gets fed. He’s got fifteen miles of bush travel before him,”
grunted the Colonel.
Watson came forward with outstretched hand.
“How are you, Colonel Hallibut?” he said.
“Why, I hardly expected to see you, at least not in the flesh,” rejoined
the Colonel, ignoring the hand. “Haven’t found that six hundred in any
of your pockets, I suppose?”
Watson started.
“I have not,” he answered sullenly, a slow flush dyeing his face. “I
don’t hope to, either. You know, of course, that the Bushwhackers stole
the money.”
“So you said in your touching letter,” replied the Colonel, “but I
expect you to repay it—every cent of it. I’ll give you two weeks.
Smythe,” he asked, turning to that gentleman, “how is it Watson isn’t
dead and buried! I understood you to say he was anxious to die and in a
fair way of doing it.”
“Man proposes and God disposes,” said Smythe piously.
“Humph,” returned Hallibut, “it’s too bad the men who tried to dispose
of Watson didn’t make a clean job of it.”
“Come into the other part,” invited Smythe, “dinner is all ready, sir.”
The Colonel sat down to the table, placing his rifle close beside his
chair.
“A little liquor!” inquired the host, leaning toward the cupboard.
“Not any, thanks,” returned Hallibut. “Who’s smoking that rotten
Canada-Green tobacco?” he demanded sharply. “’Tain’t you, is it?” as
Watson turned quickly.
Watson shook his head and glanced at Smythe.
“Man by the name of Jamison was in here just before you came,” explained
Smythe. “He smoked Canada-Green.”
“Funny,” murmured Hallibut, “it seems to be getting stronger.”
Smythe stamped gently upon the floor.
“What are you dancing about?” asked the Colonel, “isn’t it strictly
against your religious code?”
“A touch of chilblain, my dear Colonel——‘ghost’s itch,’ my sainted
mother used to call it.”
“Humph! it must be a ghost smoking that Canada-twist,” laughed Hallibut.
“If I thought it was,” declared Smythe, “I would bid him cease. I
would,” he cried, raising his voice, “I would command him in this way:
‘Stop smoking immediately!’” Mr. Smythe enforced his command by another
thump on the trap-door.
“You must be crazy,” grunted the Colonel, “guess I’d better be pushing
along. I’m going over to let those Bushwhackers know just where they
stand.”
“Dear Colonel, don’t go to Bushwhackers’ Place,” begged Smythe. “They’ll
shoot you as sure as you are born.”
“They certainly will,” confirmed Watson.
The Colonel nodded.
“Let ’em,” he grated, and, picking up his rifle, he passed out followed
by the distressed Smythe.
When they had gone Watson lifted the trap-door.
“You idiot,” he fumed, “you almost cooked our goose with your stinkin’
Canada-Green tobacco. I’ll be mighty glad to see the last of your red
head, Amos. No, you mus’n’t come up yet. Be patient for five minutes
longer; then, away you go. And may you not stop until you’ve crossed the
border.”
“I’ll lose no time, don’t you fear,” whispered a hoarse voice from the
darkness, and Watson let the trap-door fall with a shudder.