Tug Blackstock arrived the next morning about eleven. Before he had time
to sit down for a cup of that strenuous black tea which the woodsmen
consume at all hours, he had heard from Woolly Billy’s eager lips the
story of the hole in the tree beneath the fish-hawk’s nest. He heard
also of the episode at Zeb Smith’s store, but Woolly Billy by this time
had quite forgiven Long Jackson, so the incident was told in such a way
that Blackstock had no reason to take offence.
“Long tried _hard_,” said the child, “to get me to tell where that hole
was, but I _wouldn’t_. And Black Dan was awful nice, an’ made him stop
botherin’ me, an’ said I was quite right not to tell _anybody_ till you
came home, coz you’d know just what to do.”
“H’m!” said the Deputy-Sheriff thoughtfully, “Long’s had a lot of money
stole from him, so, of course, he wanted to git his eyes on to that hole
quick. But ’tain’t like Black Dan to be that thoughtful. Maybe he
_hasn’t_ had none taken.”
While he was speaking, a bunch of the mill-hands arrived at the door,
word of Blackstock’s return having gone through the village.
“We want to go an’ help ye find that traysure, Tug,” said Long Jackson,
glancing somewhat sheepishly at Woolly Billy. A friendly grin from the
child reassured him, and he went on with more confidence:
“We tried to git the kiddie to tell us where ’twas, but wild steers
wouldn’t drag it out o’ him till you got back.”
“That’s right, Long,” agreed Blackstock, “but it don’t need to be no
expedition. We don’t want the whole village traipsin’ after us. You an’
three or four more o’ the boys that’s lost money come along, with Woolly
Billy an’ me, an’ the rest o’ you meet us at the store in about a couple
o’ hours’ time. Tell any other folks you see that I don’t want ’em
follerin’ after us, because it may mix up things—an’ anyways, I don’t
want it, see!”
After a few moments’ hesitation and consultation the majority of the
mill-hands turned away, leaving Long Jackson and big Andy Stevens, the
blue-eyed giant from the Oromocto (who had been one of the chief
victims), and MacDonald, and Black Saunders, and Black Dan (whose name
had been Dan Black till the whim of the woodsmen turned it about).
Blackstock eyed them appraisingly.
“I didn’t know as _you’d_ bin one o’ the victims too, Dan,” he remarked.
“Didn’t ye, Tug?” returned Black with a short laugh. “Well, I didn’t say
nawthin about it, coz I was after doin’ a leetle detective work on me
own, an’ mebbe I’d ’ave got in ahead o’ ye if Woolly Billy here hadn’t
a’ been so smart. But I tell ye, Tug, if that there traysure’s the lot
we’re thinkin’ it is, there’d ought ter be a five-dollar bill in it what
I’ve marked.”
“H’m!” grunted the Deputy, hastily gulping down the last of his tea, and
rising to his feet. “But Woolly Billy an’ me _and_ Jim’s a combination
pretty hard to git ahead of, I’m thinkin’.”
As the party neared the bluff whereon the tree of the fish-hawk’s nest
stood ragged against the sky, the air grew rank with the pungent odour
of skunk. Now skunks were too common in the region of Brine’s Rip Mills
for that smell, as a rule, to excite any more comment than an occasional
disgusted execration when it became too concentrated. But to-day it drew
more than passing attention. MacDonald sniffed intently.
“It’s deuced queer,” said he, “but I’ve noticed that there’s always been
a smell of skunk round when anybody’s lost anything. Did it ever strike
you that way, Tug?”
“Yes, some!” assented the Deputy curtly.
“It’s a skunk, all right, that’s been takin’ our money,” said big Andy,
“ef he _don’t_ carry his tail over his back.”
Every one of the party was sniffing the tainted air as if the familiar
stench were some rare perfume—all but Jim. He had had an encounter with
a skunk, once in his impulsive puppy days, and the memory was too
painful to be dwelt upon.
As they climbed the slope, one of the fish-hawks came swooping down from
somewhere high in the blue, and began circling on slow wings about the
nest.
“That cross old bird doesn’t like visitors,” remarked Woolly Billy.
“You wouldn’t, neether, Woolly Billy, if you was a fish-hawk,” said
Jackson.
Arrived at the tree, Woolly Billy pointed eagerly to a slightly broken
piece of bark a little above the height of the Deputy’s head.
“_There’s_ the hole!” he cried, clapping his hands in his excitement as
if relieved to find it had not vanished.
“Keep off a bit now, boys,” cautioned Blackstock. Drawing his long
hunting-knife, he carefully loosened the bark without letting his hand
come in contact with it, and on the point of the blade laid it aside
against the foot of the trunk.
“Don’t any of you tech it,” he admonished.
Then he slipped his hand into the hole, and felt about.
A look of chagrin came over his face, and he withdrew his hand—empty.
“Nothin’ there!” said he.
“It was there yesterday morning,” protested Woolly Billy, his blue eyes
filling with tears.
“Yes, yes, of course,” agreed Blackstock, glancing slowly around the
circle of disappointed faces.
“Somebody from the store’s been blabbin’,” exclaimed Black Dan, in a
loud and angry voice.
“An’ why not?” protested Big Andy, with a guilty air. “We never said
nawthin’ about keepin’ it a secret.”
In spite of their disappointment, the mill-hands laughed. Big Andy was
not one to keep a secret in any case, and his weakness for a certain
pretty widow who kept the post-office was common comment. Big Andy
responded by blushing to the roots of his blonde hair.
“Jim!” commanded the Deputy. And the big black dog bounded up to him,
his eyes bright with expectation. The Deputy picked him up, and held him
aloft with his muzzle to the edges of the hole.
“Smell that,” he ordered, and Jim sniffed intently. Then he set him down
and directed him to the piece of bark. That, too, Jim’s nose
investigated minutely, his feathered tail slowly wagging.
“Seek him,” ordered Blackstock.
Jim whined, looked puzzled, and sniffed again at the bark. The
information which his subtle nose picked up there was extremely
confusing. First, there was the smell of skunk—but that smell of skunk
was everywhere, dulling the keenness of his discrimination. Then, there
was a faint, faint reminiscence of Woolly Billy. But there was Woolly
Billy, at Tug Blackstock’s side. Certainly, there could be no reason for
him to seek Woolly Billy. Then there was an elusive, tangled scent,
which for some moments defied him. At last, however, he got a clue to
it. With a pleased bark—his way of saying “Eureka!”—he whipped about,
trotted over to big Andy Sevens, sat down in front of him, and gazed up
at him, with tongue hanging and an air of friendly inquiry, as much as
to say: “Here I am, Andy. But I don’t know what Tug Blackstock wants me
to seek you for, seein’ as you’re right here alongside him.”
Big Andy dropped his hand on the dog’s head familiarly; then noticing
the sudden tense silence of the party, his eyes grew very big and round.
“What’re you all starin’ at _me_ fer, boys?” he demanded, with a sort of
uneasy wonder.
“Ax Jim,” responded Black Dan, harshly.
“I reckon old Jim’s makin’ a mistake fer once, Tug,” drawled Long
Jackson, who was Andy’s special pal.
The Deputy rubbed his lean chin reflectively. There could be no one more
above suspicion in his eyes than this transparently honest young giant
from the Oromocto. But Jim’s curious action had scattered to the winds,
at least for a moment, a sort of hypothesis which he had been building
up in his mind. At the same time, he felt dimly that a new clue was
being held out to him, if he could only grasp it. He wanted time to
think.
“We kin all make mistakes,” he announced sententiously. “Come here, Jim.
Seek ’im, boy, seek ’im.” And he waved his hand at large.
Jim bounced off with a joyous yelp, and began quartering the ground,
hither and thither, all about the tree. Big Andy, at a complete loss for
words, stood staring from one to another with eyes of indignant and
incredulous reproach.
Suddenly a yelp of triumph was heard in the bushes, a little way down
towards the lake, and Jim came racing back with a dark magenta article
in his mouth. At the foot of the tree he stopped, and looked at
Blackstock interrogatively. Receiving no sign whatever from his master,
whose face had lit up for an instant, but was now as impassive as a
hitching-post, he stared at Black Dan for a few seconds, and then let
his eyes wander back to Andy’s face. In the midst of his obvious
hesitation the Oromocto man stepped forward.
“Durned ef that ain’t one o’ my old mittens,” he exclaimed eagerly,
“what Sis knit fer me. I’ve been lookin’ fer ’em everywheres. Bring it
here, Jim.”
As the dog trotted up with it obediently, the Deputy intervened and
stopped him. “You shall have it bime-by, Andy,” said he, “ef it’s yourn.
But jest now I don’t want nobody to tech it except Jim. Ef you
acknowledge it’s yourn—”
“_Of course_ it’s mine,” interrupted Andy resentfully. “An’ I want to
find the other one.”
“So do I,” said Blackstock. “Drop it, Jim. Go find the other mitt.”
As Jim went ranging once more through the bushes, the whole party moved
around to the other side of the tree to get out of the downpour of the
noon sun. As they passed the magenta mitten Black Dan picked it up and
examined it ostentatiously.
“How do ye know it’s _yourn_, Andy?” he demanded. “There’s lots of
magenta mitts in the world, I reckon.”
Tug Blackstock turned upon him.
“I said I didn’t want no one to tech that mitt,” he snapped.
“Oh, beg pardon, Tug,” said Dan, dropping the mitt. “I forgot. ’S’pose
it might kind o’ confuse Jim’s scent, gittin’ another smell besides
Andy’s on to it.”
“It might,” replied the Deputy coolly, “an’ then agin, it mightn’t.”
For a little while every one was quiet, listening to Jim as he crashed
about through the bushes, and confidently but unreasonably expecting him
to reappear with the other mitten. Or, at least, that was what Big Andy
and Woolly Billy expected. The Deputy, at least, did not. At last he
spoke.
“I agree with Mac here, boys,” said he, “that there may be somethin’
more’n skunk in this skunk smell. We’ll jest look into it a bit. You all
keep back a ways—an’ you, Long, jest keep an eye on Woolly Billy ef ye
don’t mind, while I go on with Jim.”
He whistled to the dog, and directed his attention to a spot at the foot
of the tree exactly beneath the hole. Jim sniffed hard at the spot, then
looked up at his master with tail drooping despondently.
“Yes, I know it’s skunk, plain skunk,” agreed the Deputy. “But I want
him. Seek him, Jim—_seek him_, boy.”
Thus reassured, Jim’s tail went up again. He started off through the
bushes, down towards the lake, with his master close behind him. The
rest of the party followed thirty paces or so behind.
The trail led straight down to the lake’s edge. Here Jim stopped short.
“_That_ skunk’s a kind o’ water-baby,” remarked Long Jackson.
“Oh, do you think so?” queried Woolly Billy, much interested.
“Of course,” answered Jackson. “Don’t you see he’s took to the water?
Now, yer common, no-account skunk hates wettin’ his fur like pizen.”
The Deputy examined the hard, white sand at the water’s edge. It showed
faint traces of moccasined feet. He pursed his lips. It was an old game,
but a good one, this breaking a trail by going into the water. He had no
way of deciding whether his quarry had turned up the lake shore or down
towards the outlet. He guessed at the latter as the more likely
alternative.
Jim trotted slowly ahead, sniffing every foot of ground along the
water’s edge. As they approached the outlet the shore became muddy, and
Jackson swung Woolly Billy up on to his shoulder. Once in the outlet,
the foreshore narrowed to a tiny strip of bare rock between the water
and an almost perpendicular bank covered with shrubs and vines. All at
once the smell of skunk, which had been almost left behind, returned
upon the air with fresh pungency. Blackstock stopped short and scanned
the bank with narrowed eyes.
A second or two later, Jim yelped his signal, and his tail went up. He
sniffed eagerly across the ribbon of rock, and then leapt at the face of
the bank.
The Deputy called him off and hurried to the spot. The rest of the
party, much excited, closed up to within four or five paces, when a wave
of the Deputy’s hand checked them.
“Phew!” ejaculated Black Dan, holding his nose. “There’s a skunk hole in
that there bank. Ye’ll be gittin’ somethin’ in the eye, Tug, ef ye don’t
keep off.”
Blackstock, who was busy pulling apart the curtain of vines, paid no
attention, but Long Jackson answered sarcastically:
“Ye call yerself a woodsman, Dan,” said he, “an’ ye don’t know that the
hole where a skunk lives _don’t_ smell any. Yer _reel_ skunk’s quite a
gentleman and keeps his home always clean an’ tidy. Tug Blackstock ain’t
a-goin’ to git nawthin’ in the eye.”
“Well, I reckon we’d better smoke,” said Black Dan amiably, pulling out
his pipe and filling it. And the others followed his example.
Blackstock thrust his hand into a shallow hole in the bank quite hidden
by the foliage. He drew out a pair of moccasins, water-soaked, and
hurriedly set them down on the rock. For all their soaking, they reeked
of skunk. He picked up one on the point of a stick and examined it
minutely. In spite of all the soaking, the sole, to his initiated eye,
still bore traces of that viscous, oily liquid which no water will wash
off—the strangling exudation of the skunk’s defensive gland. It was just
what he had expected. The moccasin was neat and slim and of medium
size—not more than seven at most. He held it up, that all might see it
clearly.
“Does this belong to you, Andy Stevens?” he asked.
There was a jeer from the group, and Big Andy held up an enormous foot,
which might, by courtesy, have been numbered a thirteen. It was a point
upon which the Oromocto man was usually sensitive, but to-day he was
proud of it.
“Ye’ll hev to play Cinderella, Tug, an’ find out what leetle foot it
fits on to,” suggested MacDonald.
The Deputy fished again in the hole. He drew forth a magenta mitten,
dropped it promptly, then held it up on the point of his stick at arm’s
length. It had been with the moccasins. Big Andy stepped forward to
claim it, then checked himself.
“It’s a mite too strong fer me now,” he protested. “I’ll hev to git Sis
to knit me another pair, I guess.”
Blackstock dropped the offensive thing beside the moccasins at his feet,
and reached once more into the hole.
“He ain’t takin’ no risks this time, boys,” said Blackstock. “He’s took
the swag with him.”
There was a growl of disappointment. Long Jackson could not refrain from
a reproachful glance at Woolly Billy, but refrained from saying the
obvious.
“What are ye goin’ to do about it, Tug?” demanded Black Dan. “Hev ye got
any kind of a _reel_ clue, d’ye think, now?”
“Wait an’ see,” was Blackstock’s noncommittal reply. He picked up the
moccasins and mitten again on the point of his stick, scanned the bank
sharply to make sure his quarry had not gone that way, and led the
procession once more down along the rocky shore of the stream. “Seek
him,” he said again to Jim, and the dog, as before, trotted on ahead,
sniffing along by the water’s edge to intercept the trail of whoever had
stepped ashore.
The party emerged at length upon the bank of the main stream, and turned
upwards towards Brine’s Rip. After they had gone about half a mile they
rounded a bend and came in sight of a violent rapid which cut close
inshore. At this point it would be obviously impossible for any one
walking in the shallow water to avoid coming out upon dry ground. Tug
Blackstock quickened his pace, and waved Jim forward.
A sharp oath broke from Black Dan’s lips.
“I’ve been an’ gone an’ left my ’baccy-pooch behind, by the skunk’s
hole,” he announced. And grumbling under his breath he turned back down
the shore.
Blackstock ran on, as if suddenly in a great hurry. Just where the
shallow water ended, at the foot of the rapid, Jim gave his signal with
voice and tail. He raced up the bank to a clump of bushes and began
thrashing about in them.
“What d’ye suppose he’s found there?” asked Big Andy.
“Scent, and lots of it. No mistake this time,” announced MacDonald.
“Hain’t ye caught on to Jim’s signs yet?”
“Jim,” said the Deputy, sharply but not loud, “_fetch him!_”
Jim, with nose in air instead of to the ground, set off at a gallop down
the shore in the direction of the outlet.
The Deputy turned about.
“Dan,” he shouted peremptorily. “Come back here. I want ye!”
Instead of obeying, Black Dan dashed up the bank, running like a deer,
and vanished into the bushes.
“_I knew it!_ That’s the skunk, boys. Go home, you Billy!” cried
Blackstock, and started after the fugitive. The rest followed close on
his heels. But Jackson cried:
“Ye’d better call off Jim quick. Dan’s got a gun on him.”
The Deputy gave a shrill whistle, and Jim, who was just vanishing into
the bush, stopped short. At the same instant a shot rang out from the
bushes, and the dog dropped in his tracks with a howl of anguish.
Blackstock’s lean jaws set themselves like iron. He whipped out his own
heavy “Colt’s,” and the party tore on, till they met Jim dragging
himself towards them with a wounded hind-leg trailing pitifully.
The Deputy gave one look at the big black dog, heaved a breath of
relief, and stopped.
“’Tain’t no manner o’ use chasin’ him now, boys,” he decreed, “because,
as we all know, Dan kin run right away from the best runner amongst us.
But now I know him—an’ I’ve suspicioned him this two month, only I
couldn’t git no clue—_I’ll git him_, never you fear. Jest now, ye’d
better help me carry Jim home, so’s we kin git him doctored up in good
shape. I reckon Nipsiwaska County can’t afford to lose Mr.
Assistant-Deputy Sheriff. That there skunk-oil on Dan’s moccasins fooled
_both_ Jim an’ me, good an’ plenty, didn’t it?”
“But whatever did he want o’ my mitts?” demanded Big Andy.
“Now ye _air_ a sap-head, Andy Stevens,” growled MacDonald, “ef ye can’t
see _that_!”