IN THE DARK WOODS.
"Eh?" gasped Browning, amazed. "What was that?"
"Dead and buried!"
Again that mysterious, awesome, uncanny whisper that seemed to float in
the air. They looked around, they looked upward, they saw nothing but
the blue sky above the leaves and somber trees that surrounded them.
"Dead and buried!"
Now it seemed to come from the ground--seemed to issue from the grave
before them! It was as if the dead man hidden away down there had
uttered the words.
Frank Merriwell shrugged his shoulders, while his companion shivered and
felt for his revolver. A cold chill swept over the big Yale man, as if
he felt the touch of a dead hand. He was awed despite the fact that
there was nothing superstitious in his character.
They listened, expecting to hear the whispers again, but there was such
a silence in the woods as seemed to press down on them like a crushing
weight. Not even a breath of a breeze reached the spot to rustle the
trees, and no sound of the surf chafing against the distant rocky shore
reached their ears.
It seemed at that moment that they alone were the only human living
creatures on that uncanny island. A sense of desolation came upon them
and made them feel as if they were far, far from human beings, buried as
in the heart of a mighty desert.
They did not stir; they stood there listening.
Silence.
Once, far on a Western desert, Browning had experienced the same
feeling of loneliness, but then there was not the grewsome, ghostly fear
that now clutched at his heart and chilled its beatings so it seemed to
be struggling feebly like an imprisoned bird fluttering against the
cruel bars of a cage.
The big fellow choked. There seemed to be a lack of pure air for him to
breathe. He longed to cry out, but his tongue lay stiff and paralyzed in
his mouth.
Then came the thought that some uncanny spell was being wrought about
him, and that soon he would be body and soul in the power of the evil
spirit of the island.
With a mighty effort he moved, he spoke, he said:
"Come, Frank, let's get away from here!"
His voice was husky and hoarse, so that he was startled by its sound.
Merriwell glanced toward him, lifting a hand with a gesture that warned
to silence, while he bent his head toward the grave and listened.
For some moments both stood still, and again Browning felt that strange
spell stealing upon him, as if hypnotic eyes were peering out from the
shadows and looking down into his soul. He shook himself, he even looked
around in search of those eyes; but he saw nothing save the dark, gloomy
woods and the funereal shadows.
Frank straightened up. There was a queer look on his face.
"Did you hear it?" he asked, in a whisper.
"Of course I heard it," answered Browning, thinking he spoke of the
whisper. "The words came to my ears distinctly."
"No, no; I did not mean the whisper."
"Then what did you mean? I heard no other sound."
"It is strange, for I fancied I heard it distinctly."
"Where did the sound come from?"
Without a word, Merriwell pointed downward toward the grave. There was
a look on his face that made his companion shiver.
Bruce swallowed down the lump in his throat.
"I am a fool!" he thought. "I am ashamed of such childish fears!"
Then he forced himself to distinctly ask:
"What kind of a sound did you think you heard?"
"A rustle--a movement. It was as if the body down there had turned
restlessly in its bed of earth!"
Never did Bruce forget how those words sounded in the deep silence of
the black woods. Never did he forget the sensation of unutterable horror
that they brought with a shock to his soul. He stared at Frank, his jaw
dropping, while awful thoughts ran riot in his brain.
They had heard the whispered words, "dead and buried," which at first
seemed to float in the air, and then appeared to come up from the grave
before them. Browning fancied the dead lips down there uttering those
words. He fancied the murdered man turning restlessly in his cold, dark
bed--turning, twisting, unable to rest till he had been avenged.
What thoughts fled through Frank Merriwell's brain? Surely he was
besieged by uncanny fancies, but never in all his life was he more on
the alert. The very air of mystery that surrounded him was a stimulant.
He had solved many mysteries, and now he was determined to solve this
one.
Down the slope in the shadows of the dark woods below there was a
rustling sound. Quick as a flash, Merriwell wheeled, rifle in hand, and
bounded in that direction.
Browning did not care to be left there alone beside that grave, and he
followed Frank in a hurry. He saw Merry disappear amid the trees, heard
a sudden chattering, and then there was a flash of fire and the clear
report of a rifle. Frank had fired at something while he was on the run.
The big Yale man crashed into the woods and came upon his friend, who
was stooping to pick up a dead squirrel.
"I rather think this fellow made the rustling that seemed to come from
the grave," said Merry. "I was deceived by my ears, that is all. As I
ran in under the trees here I could not resist the temptation to take a
shot at him, for he was running, too. Now," he slowly added, gazing
sadly at the dead squirrel, "I wish I had not fired."
"Oh, it's nothing but a squirrel," said Bruce. "If I could make such a
shot as that I'd be proud of it."
"I am not proud, only sorry," said Frank, as he gently placed the
squirrel on a soft bed of moss. "Look at the little fellow, Bruce! A few
moments ago he was full of life, happy and free; now he is dead, killed
by a cruel brute of a man! I didn't think I'd hit him, but that is no
excuse. I ought not to have tried. Somewhere he has a home, a nest, a
mate, perhaps little ones. He'll never return to his soft nest, never
again will he scamper through the woods, leaping from bough to bough,
playing hide-and-seek through the brush and the leaves. He is dead, and
I killed him. Bruce, this one thoughtless, hasty act of mine lies like a
sore weight on my conscience. I'll not forget it in a week. It will
trouble me--it will haunt me."
Frank's voice was rather husky with emotion and his handsome face
betrayed his deep feeling of sorrow, and Bruce Browning, who was not
cruel or hard-hearted, but who would have killed a squirrel and never
given it a second thought, now began to realize that there might be
something wrong in the act.
"Oh, it's nothing to make a fuss over," he said, quickly.
"Yes, it is," declared Frank, sincerely. "That little squirrel never
harmed me, but I murdered him. He was one of God's creatures, and I had
no right to lift my hand against him. I feel like a brute, a wretch, a
murderer!"
Then Frank knelt down on the moss beside the dead squirrel.
"Oh, little squirrel!" he said, his voice breaking into a sob; "how much
I would give could I restore your life to you! But I have killed you,
and all my regret and sorrow over the act will not bring you back to
scamper and frolic through the woods."
To his astonishment, Bruce felt a misty blur come over his eyes, and
there was a choking sensation in his throat.
"Come away, Merry--come and leave it!" he exclaimed, thickly. "Don't be
a fool!"
"No," said Frank, "I can't leave him this way."
He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped the squirrel in it,
doing so with such gentleness that Bruce wondered more and more. Then he
searched about till he found a thin, flat rock that was about a foot
long and four inches wide. With that rock Merriwell scooped a grave in
the ground. That grave he lined with soft bits of moss, and then he took
the squirrel, wrapped in the handkerchief shroud, and placed it in the
grave. The earth was thrown in on the little body, and heaped up in a
mound till it was a tiny model of the grave in the glade above. Then
Frank thrust the flat rock into the ground as a headstone, and a tear
dropped silently down.
Browning had turned away. The big fellow had been taught a lesson he
would not soon forget, and more than ever he admired and respected Frank
Merriwell, who could be as brave as a lion or as gentle as a dove.
"Come."
Frank had arisen. Bruce followed him from the spot.
They did not climb the rise and again enter the glade that contained the
mysterious grave, but Frank led the way down through the woods till they
came out to the rocky shore of the island, along which ran the path they
had left some time before. Now they struck into this path and followed
it round the island.
Not a word passed between them till they came to the old granite quarry.
There on their right the bluff of rock rose nearly a hundred feet in the
air, with cedars growing away up on the heights. There were drill marks
on the face of the rock. A weed-grown railroad ran into the quarry, and
on the track sat a flat car, loaded with granite.
"By jingoes!" exclaimed Browning. "It's plain enough there was some
business done here some time."
Frank looked at the face of the broad wall of granite.
"I wonder why they ceased quarrying it?" he speculated.
"I suppose the fishermen would say it was because the island was
haunted."
"More likely because the granite was not of the best quality. Now that
stone does not look to me as if it is first class. It seems to me it is
poor granite, and that is why the quarry was abandoned."
"Guess you are right," nodded Bruce.
They walked along the track which led out of the quarry and down toward
some sagging sheds, in which they could see other flat cars.
When the sheds were reached, they turned to the right and saw at a
distance a house. Beyond the house was a large square building with many
windows. Not far from the car sheds was an old wharf.
"There is the house where the boss must have lived," said Merry; "and
beyond it is the boarding house for the laborers."
"Let's go look them over," said Bruce, who seemed remarkably energetic
for him.
So they walked over to the house. It was securely locked, and the
windows were fastened down. Near the house was a well, from which they
drew water and took a drink from an old dipper that hung on a rusty nail
driven into the curb.
From the house a path led down toward the boarding house. They walked
down there and could look down into a beautiful little cove close at
hand.
"Why didn't we run in there and anchor, instead of anchoring away round
back of the island?" said Bruce.
"Simply because no one mentioned this cove, and I did hear Bold Island
harbor mentioned," answered Frank.
In the distance they could see three or four white sails. Far away
beyond a group of islands rose a trail of smoke that told some small
steamer was passing. A gull was circling over the cove, and a black crow
cawed dismally from the top branch of a tall spruce.
For all that the sun was in the sky, there was something oppressively
lonely and deserted about Devil Island.
"Let's try the doors here," suggested Bruce.
The front door was fastened, but they found a back door that they were
able to force open, as the nails that held it had rusted in the rotten
wood till they readily bent before the pressure.
"I don't know as we have any right to go in here," said Frank.
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Bruce. "The place is deserted."
"Somebody owns it."
"According to the yarns of the fishermen, it is owned by a monster with
blazing face and black holes for eyes."
"None of them told of seeing the monster anywhere around this building.
He was seen in the woods or on the other side of the island."
"I think we'll see him here just as quick as anywhere," grinned Bruce,
who had thrown off the uncanny feeling that had possessed him as they
stood beside the grave in the woods.
"Those stories were not told for nothing," declared Frank.
"Why were they told?"
"I don't know--not yet."
"But you have an idea?"
"Yes."
"What is it?"
"I rather fancy somebody wishes to keep people away from this island for
some reason."
"I thought the same thing."
"What that reason can be I do not know."
"But, Frank," said Bruce, hesitatingly, "you heard something as we stood
beside that grave up there in the woods?"
"Yes."
"A whisper?"
"Sure."
"What did it say?"
"'Dead and buried.'"
"Then it was not imagination, for we both heard the same thing. Now how
do you explain that?"
"Somebody whispered the words."
"Where was that somebody?"
"You know just as well as I do; but those words were whispered for our
ears to hear. We heard them."
"I do not believe in ghosts any more than you do, Merriwell, but I will
admit that there was a mighty queer feeling came over me as we stood
there near that grave."
"I felt it," confessed Frank. "Had I believed in ghosts, I should have
been badly frightened."
"Well, let's look this building over. We may find something in here."
So they began to explore the old boarding house. It was a large
building, and they climbed the stairs to the second story, where none of
the windows were boarded up. Up there were the rooms where the laborers
had slept. They looked through them all, but found nothing of interest.
At last they stopped by a window and looked out upon the water.
"By Jove!" exclaimed Merriwell. "Look down there!"
"What is it?"
"A boat."
"Where?"
"Beyond the land at the other side of the cove. It's laying close in to
shore. See the mast?"
"Yes, I see it now. Why, it almost seems aground! Wonder what it's there
for?"
"Whoever was in the boat has come ashore on the island."
"Then why didn't he run into the cove down here?"
"Because the boat would be seen in the cove, and where it lays it is not
liable to be seen from the island."
"Why should anybody wish to come onto the island here and not be seen?"
"I don't know, but I'll wager something that that is the lap-streak
sailboat belonging to our friend, the cock-eyed man. If I am right, he
is somewhere on this island."
"He warned us not to come here."
"Yes. He told us what happened to the Boston man who came here. It was
plain to me that he wanted us to keep away. He ran down ahead of us, and
he is on the island. Why should he care to frighten us away? Why should
he hurry to get here ahead of us? I tell you, old man, this is a mystery
worth solving."
Bruce grunted. He felt that Merriwell was right, but he realized it
might not be an easy thing to solve the mystery of the island.
The big Yale man stood looking out of the window and watching the boat,
while Frank continued his investigations. Merriwell wandered from room
to room, and at last descended the stairs again.
"If he gets an idea that there is really a wonderful mystery here,"
muttered Bruce, "he will stay till he has solved it if he spends the
remainder of the summer in this vicinity. Never saw a fellow who took
such an interest in anything mysterious."
The wind was rising again. It rattled a window, and somewhere about the
building it made a loose board clap, clap, clap, in a way that made
Browning think of clods falling on a coffin.
All at once, somewhere down below in the old building, a shriek rang
out, startling, shrill, wild and awful. It froze the blood in Browning's
veins and seemed to cause his hair to stand upon his head. Following the
shriek came--silence!