A BORROWED SHOTGUN
I decided to accompany the physician, though my night on the sleeper had
left me pretty tired. But I wanted to see Lewis; so we got out the
faithful flivver and drove downtown.
“Hope the old chap’s been well looked after,” said Somers. “I left the
key with Wakefield before we went. But no doubt Dorothy’s been there
every day.”
We stopped at the constable’s house, got the lockup key, and went on to
the jail. Poor Lewis looked ill, I thought. Confinement was wearing on
his high spirits; his greeting, though hearty enough, was subdued. We
told him of our trip to the mountains, and its negative result. He shook
his head hopelessly.
“Mighty good of you both, but it was no use. Nothing’s any use now; I
can feel it; I know it! Some dreadful fate is against me; I’m doomed.
They’ll convict me of this murder as surely as I sit here.”
“Lewis,” said I impulsively, “Peter suggested that perhaps you did kill
Gaskell at four o’clock, then cleaned the gun and came back, meaning to
pretend to discover the body. You--you didn’t do _that_?”
He smiled sadly. “You see? Even Peter believes I did it. And you had
your doubts, unk. There’s no hope for me--none at all. No, Uncle George,
I didn’t do that. If I shot Gaskell at all, it was just as I told you:
at five o’clock, and by accident. I didn’t even know he was there.”
“Buck up, Parker,” said Somers. “Things are beginning to look bright for
you.”
Just vague optimism, I thought; and so did Lewis.
But before he could reply some one knocked on the jail door. I unlocked
it, and Wakefield appeared, escorting the sheriff.
“Howdy, people! Mr. Uhlman, I hear you-all was up to the hills recent?”
I nodded; and in response to his keen questioning, Somers and I told him
all that had transpired there.
“H’m,” said he reflectively, fingering his absurd white mustache. “H’m!
So Satterfield an’ Roarin’ Lafe was thereabouts ’at mornin’? Yeah, I
kinda s’picioned them two. Y’ see, Gaskell come t’ me ’bout th’
cawn-liquor trade; it was me sent word t’ Raleigh on his say-so. Yeah, I
kinda reckoned mebbe one or other o’ them two mighta done ’at killin’.
But they claimed it wa’n’t neither of ’em done it, an’ you-all believed
’em both, huh? H’m! I done studied about this here killin’ a right
smart, one time an’ another. I reckoned Vanbrugh was all wrong. H’m!
Well, gentlemen, I reckon you-all ain’t a-goin’ t’ need them depitty
stars no longer. Y’ see th’ county jail’s ’bout fixed now. Oh, they’s a
right smart o’ work left--kinda sorry-lookin’ place yit, all scorched,
but I reckon we better carry Doc Parker over yonder ag’in. H’m! I better
take them stars. You-all c’n tell young McGregor he’s resigned; he ain’t
a depitty no more. He c’n turn in his badge to-morrow. Rufe here c’n
keep ’at lockup key, an’ I’ll send a reg’lar depitty over t’ keep him
comp’ny an’ carry th’ doc t’ jail ag’in to-morrow mornin’. H’m! Good
day!” He nodded slightly and waddled out.
Lewis sighed dispiritedly. “You see, unk! Redden was inclined to think
me innocent until now. He’s been mighty decent. I suppose he thought the
bootleggers killed Gaskell, and was working quietly along that line; now
he thinks I did it. Did you see him look at me? And I’m to be treated
like any other prisoner awaiting trial.”
We left him. After all, what comfort had we to offer? Doctor Somers
called after the retiring constable.
“Oh, Wakefield! Say, Rufe, got a shotgun you’ll lend me?”
The big man nodded slowly. “W’y, yes, doc,” he replied amicably. It was
strange how Pinelands had adopted Somers; already he was intimate with
half the town and every one liked him, as did this huge, timorous,
boastful constable.
“W’y shore, I gotta gun--kind of a one, leastways. Jist let me lock up,
and I’ll git ’er, ’f you-all’ll carry me home.”
After a few minutes we returned to Fort House, Somers holding in the
crook of one long arm a dilapidated double-barreled shotgun.
“Not much to look at, as Rufe admitted,” he remarked, displaying the
weapon. “But I guess she’ll shoot, and Peter’s got lots of shells.”
It was a dubious-looking affair, whose stock had been split and wound
with tape and wire, both about the grip and above the lock, where its
barrels were hinged. Somers broke it and peered down the barrels.
“A bit rusty,” he announced and snapped the barrels into place. They
dropped promptly back. “And the catch doesn’t work properly. I’ll have
to watch out, or the old thing’ll break when I fire it, and I’ll get
beaned. But it will do, I expect.”
We went on into the house. Aunt Mary was nowhere in sight, but the two
girls fastened upon us at once, demanding full details of our trip. “We
didn’t dare say much about it before Aunt Mary,” explained Dorothy. “She
acts so queer when we talk about the murder, and Peter is so
aggravating. He just keeps saying: ‘Wait; let Somers tell it. He was the
hero!’ So go ahead, doctor, and tell us!”
Somers told our tale, prompted now and again while the two young women
listened, spellbound.
“Satterfield showed us up,” said he, “and the bunch was just about to
eat us alive when the revenue agents stepped in and arrested all hands.
We slid down the mountain in the dark, and----”
“Hold on!” interrupted Peter, grinning. “Let me. No, doc, you’ve got to
be a hero, that’s all. The government men came in and this Roaring Lafe,
this great beefy giant, climbed Somers here and got him by the throat.
‘I’m going to kill _you_, anyhow!’ he said. And nobody dared shoot, they
thrashed about so, and poor feeble old doc here was being choked to
death.”
He stopped, prolonging the suspense. “Ah-h-h!” sighed Anne. “Go on!”
“And what do you think the old skeleton did? Why, just poked Roaring
Lafe in the armpit and paralyzed that arm; and then he up with that
pistol you gave him and tapped him on the back of his head, just as
gently, and Roaring Lafe drifted off into dreamland, right away, quick.
Behold the hee-ro!”
Somers looked annoyed. “It wasn’t anything,” he said. “It’s all in
knowing where to hit ’em.”
Anne Christie’s big violet eyes hung upon him almost reverently. This
lanky doctor not only did not fear Roaring Lafe, but he had vanquished
him in single combat by force of arms! He might have been a demigod, so
worshiping was her gaze.
“Look!” whispered Dorothy. “And he doesn’t even see it. Men are so
blind! Don’t he know she’s in love with him?”
If he did he made no sign. He went calmly on while the dull flush faded
from his cheeks, telling of the trip down the mountain, of our interview
with Rutledge at the jail.
“But--but,” said Dorothy, “you s-said it was all right! You said you’d
found out who killed Doctor Gaskell, so Lewis could come home--and you
didn’t! You haven’t done a thing! Why, we’re worse off than we were
before. Oh, dear; oh, dear!”
“I have found out,” declared Somers. “Just wait!”
“Wait?” she asked. “Wait? That’s all you say--wait, wait, wait! Oh,
it’s very easy for you to wait; you’re not in p-prison, and he’s not
your h-husband, either! I’m going to send for a lawyer--a
detective--somebody! Lewis shan’t be c-convicted before my eyes like
this. Wait, you keep saying! How much l-longer must I wait?”
“Until to-morrow.”
I started, looked at the lanky, imperturbable physician more closely.
For all his external calm I saw now that his strange, gray-green eyes
shone with excitement; that some inner fever twitched at his lean hands
and made them unsteady. What had he discovered that was hidden from me?
“Oh-h! Honest?” asked Dorothy incredulously.
He nodded. “Honest! Just wait until morning; you’ll see, unless I’m
making a terrible mistake.”
“But--but who?” we all demanded, excitedly. “Who did it, then?”
Somers grinned. “Closer!” he ordered and whispered dramatically into our
eager ears.
“I think it was--the Poltergeist!”
And he would say no more. I was disgusted at this ill-timed joking; with
my nephew in the county jail once more, awaiting trial for his life,
this silly jest seemed in bad taste, to say the least of it. But there
matters rested for the remainder of a most unpleasant day.
Aunt Mary appeared at supper, looking very haggard, but quite calm. She
smiled wanly and talked in a weak voice about spiritism. She quite
ignored this morning’s outburst; and so did the rest of us.
But I was still more disgusted with Somers when he abandoned his pose of
silly credulity and came out flatly to proclaim an utter disbelief in
all spiritistic manifestations. What ailed the fellow? A few hours ago
he had not only lapped up Aunt Mary’s farrago, but had declared with
every appearance of sincerity that Gaskell had been murdered by a ghost;
now he announced, with a supercilious sneer, that we had merely imagined
the Poltergeist; that it was absurd to suppose that any spirit could
have dragged Rosina’s bedclothes off her, or destroyed Dorothy’s wedding
dress.
We were all angry, I think, even Peter.
“I suppose I imagined myself on the floor when the thing dragged my
chair from under me,” he said.
Somers smiled maddeningly. “You went to sleep and fell off.”
“And how about my blankets?” I asked. “You saw yourself they were gone
from my bed.”
“You walked in your sleep, no doubt, and carried ’em away.”
“Do you think I’d sp-spoil my own wedding dress, even if I was asleep?”
asked Dorothy indignantly. “And I suppose Rosina stuck pins into
herself, too?”
“No doubt.” Somers rose, still grinning. “Ghosts!” said he. “Rot! There
are no ghosts. You folks dreamed or imagined most of this stuff, and
there’s probably a very simple explanation for the rest. Just
superstition, that’s all. You’ve exaggerated and dwelt upon these things
until you’re all convinced a ghost did ’em, and you use all sorts of
trifles to bolster up your belief.”
There was just enough truth in the charge to irritate us all. Only Aunt
Mary failed to protest, but the strangely vindictive look which she bent
upon Somers made me catch my breath.
“I shan’t argue about it,” she said coldly. “I only hope, Doctor Somers,
that you may never suffer for your disbelief. Sometimes the spirits
resent disbelief, doctor, and punish it!”
I shivered, there was such prophetic menace in her tones, but Somers
only smiled again.
“I’m going to bed early,” he declared. “I left that shotgun in the
cupboard on the back porch. Don’t touch it, you girls; it’s loaded. I’m
about used up; I’m going to sleep late if I can. But after breakfast
Peter and I will go a-hunting for bobwhites!”
“Don’t!” begged Dorothy again. “If you do, I’m just sure somebody will
be killed. It’s bad luck to hunt those quail; I know it!”