Two days later Mary Farrell left Brine’s Rip. She hugged and kissed
Woolly Billy very hard before she left, and cried a little with him,
pretending to laugh, and she took her three big trunks with her, in the
long-bodied express waggon which carried the mails, although she said
she would not be gone more than a month at the outside.
Tug Blackstock eyed those three trunks with a sinking heart. His only
comfort was that he had in his pocket the key of Mary’s little shop,
which she had sent to him by Woolly Billy. When the express waggon had
rattled and bumped away out of sight there was a general feeling in
Brine’s Rip that the whole place had gone flat, like stale beer, and the
saws did not seem to make as cheerful a shrieking as before, and Black
Saunders, expert runner of logs as he was, fell in because he forgot to
look where he was going, and knocked his head heavily in falling, and
was almost drowned before they could fish him out.
“There’s goin’ to be some bad luck comin’ to Brine’s Rip afore long,”
remarked Long Jackson in a voice of deepest pessimism.
“It’s come, Long,” said the Deputy.
That same day the wind changed, and blew steadily from the mills right
across the village. But it brought no change in the weather, except a
few light showers that did no more than lay the surface dust. About a
week later it shifted back again, and blew steadily away from the
village and straight across the river. And once more a single
night-watchman was regarded as sufficient safeguard against fire.
A little before daybreak on the second night following this change of
wind, the watchman was startled by a shrill scream and a heavy splash
from the upper end of the great pool where the logs were gathered before
being fed up in the saws. It sounded like a woman’s voice. As fast as he
could stumble over the intervening deals and rubbish he made his way to
the spot, waving his lantern and calling anxiously. There was no sign of
any one in the water. As he searched he became conscious of a ruddy
light at one corner of the mill.
He turned and dashed back, yelling “Fire! Fire!” at the top of his
lungs. A similar ruddy light was spreading upward in two other corners
of the mill. Frantically he turned on the nearest chemical extinguisher,
yelling madly all the while. But he was already too late. The flames
were licking up the dry wood with furious appetite.
In almost as little time as it takes to tell of it the whole great
structure was ablaze, with all Brine’s Rip, in every varying stage of
_déshabille_, out gaping at it. The little hand-fire-engine worked
heroically, squirting a futile stream upon the flames for a while, and
then turning its attention to the nearest houses in order to keep them
drenched.
“Thank God the wind’s in the right direction,” muttered Zeb Smith, the
storekeeper and magistrate. And the pious ejaculation was echoed
fervently through the crowd.
In the meantime, Tug Blackstock, seeing that there was nothing to do in
the way of fighting the fire—the mill being already devoured—was
interviewing the distracted watchman.
“Sure,” he agreed, “it _was_ a trick to git you away long enough for the
fires to git a start. Somebody yelled, an’ chucked in a big stick,
that’s all. An’, o’ course, you run to help. You couldn’t naturally do
nothin’ else.”
The watchman heaved a huge sigh of relief. If Blackstock exonerated him
from the charge of negligence, other people would. And his heart had
been very heavy at being so fatally fooled.
“It’s Harner’s Bend all right, that’s what it is!” he muttered.
“Ef only we could prove it,” said Blackstock, searching the damp ground
about the edges of the pool, which was lighted now as by day. Presently
he saw Jim sniffing excitedly at some tracks. He hurried over to examine
them. Jim looked up at him and wagged his tail, as much as to say, “So
_you’ve_ found them, too! Interesting, ain’t they?”
“What d’ye make o’ that?” demanded Blackstock of the watchman.
“_Boy’s_ tracks, sure,” said the latter at once.
The footprints were small and neat. They were of a double-soled
larrigan, with a low heel of a single welt.
“None of _our_ boys,” said Blackstock, “wear a larrigan like that,
especially this time o’ year. One could run light in that larrigan, an’
the sole’s thick enough to save the foot. An’ it’s good for a canoe,
too.”
He rubbed his chin, thinking hard.
“Yesterday,” said the watchman, “I mind seem’ a young half-breed, he
looked like a slip of a lad, very dark complected, crossin’ the road
half-a-mile up yonder. He was out o’ sight in a second, like a shadder,
but I mind noticin’ he had on larrigans—an’ a brown slouch hat down over
his eyes, an’ a dark red handkerchief roun’ his neck. He was a stranger
in these parts.”
“That would account for the voice, like a woman’s,” said Blackstock,
following the tracks till they plunged through a tangle of tall bush.
“An’ here’s the handkerchief,” he added triumphantly, grabbing up a dark
red thing that fluttered from a branch. “Harner’s Bend knows somethin’
about that boy, I’m thinkin’. Now, Bill, you go along back, an’ don’t
say nothin’ about this, _mind_! Me an’ Jim, we’ll look into it. Tell old
Mrs. Amos and Woolly Billy not to fret. We’ll be back soon.”
He slipped the leash into Jim’s collar, gave him the red handkerchief to
smell, and said, “Seek him, Jim.” And Jim set off eagerly, tugging at
the leash, because the trail was so fresh and plain to him, and he hated
to be held back.
The trail led around behind the village, and back to the river bank
about a mile below. There it followed straight down the shore. It was
evident to Blackstock that his quarry would have a canoe in hiding some
distance further down. There was no time to be lost. It was now almost
full daybreak, and he could follow the trail by himself. After all, it
was only a boy he had to deal with. He could trust Jim to delay him, to
hold him at bay. He loosed the leash, and Jim bounded forward at top
speed. He himself followed at a leisurely loping stride.
As he trotted on, thinking of many things, he took out the red
handkerchief and examined it again. He smelt it curiously. His nose was
keen, like a wild animal’s. As he sniffed, a pang went through him,
clutching at his heart. He sniffed again. His long stride shortened. He
dropped into a walk. He thought over, word by word, his conversation
with Mary that night beside the mill. His face went grey. After a brief
struggle he shouted to Jim, trying to call him back. But the eager dog
was already far beyond hearing. Then Blackstock broke into a desperate
run, shouting from time to time. He thought of Jim’s ferocity when on
the trail.
Meanwhile, the figure of a slim boy, very light of foot, was speeding
far down the river bank, clutching a brown slouch hat in one hand as he
ran. He had an astonishing crop of hair, wound in tight coils about his
head. He was panting heavily, and seemed nearly spent. At last he
halted, drew a deep sigh of relief, pressed his hands to his heart, and
plunged into a clump of bushes. In the depth of the bushes lay a small
birch-bark canoe, carefully concealed. He tugged at it, but for the
moment he was too weary to lift it. He flung himself down beside it to
take breath.
In the silence, his ears caught the sound of light feet padding down the
shore. He jumped up, and peered through the bushes. A big black dog was
galloping on his trail. He drew a long knife, and his mouth set itself
so hard that the lips went white. The dog reached the edge of the
bushes. The youth slipped behind the canoe.
“Jim,” said he softly. The dog whined, wagged his tail, and plunged in
through the bushes. The youth’s stern lips relaxed. He slipped the knife
back into its sheath, and fondled the dog, which was fawning upon him
eagerly.
“You’d never go back on me, would you, Jim, no matter what I’d done?”
said he, in a gentle voice. Then, with an expert twist of his lithe
young body, he shouldered the canoe and bore it down to the water’s
edge. One of his swarthy hands had suddenly grown much whiter, where Jim
had been licking it.
Before stepping into the canoe, this peculiar youth took a scrap of
paper from his shirt pocket, and an envelope. He scribbled something,
sealed it up, addressed the envelope, marked it “private,” and gave it
to Jim, who took it in his mouth.
“Give that to Tug Blackstock,” ordered the youth clearly. Then he kissed
the top of Jim’s black head, pushed off, and paddled away swiftly down
river. Jim, proud of his commission, set off up the shore at a gallop to
meet his master.
Half-a-mile back he met him. Blackstock snatched the letter from Jim’s
mouth, praising Heaven that the dog had for once failed in his duty. He
tore open the letter. It said:
Yes, I did it. I had to do it. But _you_ could have saved me, if you’d
_dared_—for I do love you, Tug Blackstock.—Mary.
A month later, a parcel came from New York for Woolly Billy, containing
an air-gun, and a toy steam-engine that would really go. But it
contained no address. And Brine’s Rip said that Tug Blackstock had been
bested for once, because he never succeeded in finding out who burnt
down the mills.