THE PROOF.
In the silence which followed the soft, muffled sound of a
wood-chopper’s axe drifted to their ears from the northern slope of
Turkey Hill. Even the snow, which was now falling thickly, could be
heard making an almost imperceptible rustling and whispering amid the
bushes. Slowly Barker folded the red silk handkerchief and put it
carefully away in a pocket.
“I think this will be sufficient evidence,” he said harshly; “but we
may as well locate the contemptible whelp if we can, and I fancy we’ll
find him with his pals at Lander’s camp. It won’t be possible to follow
the snowshoe tracks more than two or three minutes longer, but he was
certainly heading for that camp.”
“If we do find him, be careful with that gun of yours,” again warned
Piper. “Don’t lose your head, Berlin, old man.”
“I’m not a fool,” returned Barker. “Come on.”
The snowshoe trail was soon obliterated, but the last faint tracks were
plainly seen to be pointing toward the island in the heart of the
swamp, and they pushed straight on. Finally the old camp came into view
through the film of falling snow, and in a hoarse whisper Piper called
attention to the fact that smoke was rising from the piece of rusty
stovepipe which served as a chimney. With all possible caution the
three trailers crept forward.
Not a sound came from within the camp; the smoking chimney was the only
token which gave evidence that a human being had been there in many
hours—possibly many days. After wasting some time in vain listening,
Berlin suddenly made a bold move, advancing toward the door.
“Hello!” he muttered, stopping as the others came up behind him. “Look
at this!”
There was a padlock on the door, securing it by means of a staple and
clasp.
“My deduction is,” said Piper, “that the den is deserted and the
miscreant flown.”
“He’s sus-skipped already,” said Springer.
Investigation revealed that the padlock was really locked. Then they
peered in through the dingy window, and, their eyes after a time
becoming accustomed to the gloomy interior, they saw beyond question
that no living person was there.
“He hasn’t been gone long,” decided Barker disappointedly, “for the
smoke proves that. There’s still a smoldering fire in the old stove.”
“Let’s bub-bust the door open and look the place over,” suggested
Springer.
“Let me hasten to caution you against such a proceeding,” interposed
Sleuth, as Barker seemed to hesitate. “The complete details of our
morning’s work will doubtless be laid before the public eye, and we
must take every precaution not to perpetrate any act that will rebound
to our discredit. Let it not be said that, like the owner of this den
of iniquity, we broke and entered.”
“It wouldn’t do any good, anyhow,” said Berlin. “We couldn’t learn
anything further, and I feel certain I already have the proof that will
nail the sneak fast.”
“What are you going to do about it?” questioned Phil.
“Do?” cried Barker. “I’m going to make him settle—handsomely. I’ll
teach him he can’t shoot my dog without paying for it.”
“This will come pretty near fuf-fixing Mr. Grant for good around
Oakdale. He’d better pull up stakes and get out.”
“He was practically fixed before this,” said Barker; “but this will
certainly satisfy every doubter as to his character. Even Stone can’t
have anything to say in his defense after this.”
By the time the swamp was left behind the snow was coming down in such
an impenetrable mass that they could barely see a few feet in advance,
and the wind was rising, forcing them to hold their heads down and bend
forward as they breasted the storm.
“It’s going to be a ripper,” said Springer. “Winter came in early this
year, and it’s sus-soaking it to us good.”
Down the Barville road they went, Barker silently planning his course
of action toward Grant.
Until late in the afternoon the storm continued, the wind piling the
snow in drifts; between three and four o’clock, however, it abated far
more suddenly than it had begun. The wind died down, and the sun,
setting beyond Turkey Hill, shot red gleams through a rift in the
clouds, gilding the arrow-vane on the steeple of the Methodist church.
Men and boys appeared everywhere with shovels, opening paths to houses
and clearing the sidewalks. The loafers, who had spent the greater part
of the day around the roaring stove in Stickney’s store, discussing
national politics, high finance, and arguing vociferously over original
methods for busting the trusts, gradually melted away until only two
rheumaticky old codgers who could not wield shovels were left.
Even before the snow had ceased to fall, Rodney Grant was out and at
work on the path leading to his aunt’s house, and, having begun thus
early, he was able to complete the task before darkness came on. He had
just disposed of the last shovelful when, straightening up, he
perceived two persons plowing toward him, almost waist deep, along High
Street. One was a tall, husky-looking man, and the other Rod recognized
with some surprise as Berlin Barker. He flung the shovel to his
shoulder and turned, but the voice of the man hailed him.
“Hold on, young feller! We want to see you a minute.”
His surprise redoubled, Grant dropped the blade of his shovel to the
snow, leaned lightly on the handle and waited. The man he had often
seen around Oakdale, but did not know his name. He fancied that
Barker’s cold, grim face wore an expression of malignant, but
repressed, triumph.
“You’re Rod Grant, old Aunt Kent’s nevvy, ain’t ye?” questioned the
man, coming up.
“I am Rodney Grant, Miss Priscilla Kent’s nephew,” was the calm answer,
although the man’s tone and Barker’s appearance forewarned the boy from
Texas that something disagreeable was about to take place.
“I’ve got a few questions I want to ax ye, young man, and I advise ye
to answer ’em truthfully.”
“Save your advice; I’m not in the habit of lying.”
Barker laughed shortly, sneeringly, and Rod was seized, as he had been
scores of times before, by an intense and almost irresistible desire to
lay hands on the fellow.
“All right,” said the man. “Now what I want to know fust is this: Did
you go out gunnin’ early this morning?”
“Although I consider it none of your business, I’ll answer. I did not.”
“What? You didn’t? Now be keerful. Take keer. You’re li’ble to git
yourself into a mess.”
“What’s the game, Mr. Man?” indignantly demanded Rod.
“You’ll find out purty quick. What did you do this morning, if you
didn’t go out gunnin’?”
“I don’t mind telling you that I started to go fishing.”
“Fishin’? Ho! ho! Where was you goin’?”
“That also is none of your business, but I see no reason why I
shouldn’t state truthfully that we started for Coleman’s Pond. We were
going to cut holes and fish through the ice.”
“We? Who? Who was with ye?”
“Bunk Lander.”
“Didn’t you start out alone?”
“No, sir.”
“Didn’t you take a gun with ye?”
“No, sir.”
“Now hold on, hold on. Be keerful. You’re li’ble to git twisted.”
“Let me inform you, my friend, that you make me plenty tired. I don’t
know what you’re driving at, but I do know that your insinuations that
I am lying are insulting. There’s no reason why I should lie.”
“Mebbe not. Did you go over to Coleman’s Pond? That’s a right long
distance; ’bout five miles or a little more.”
“No, we didn’t go over there.”
“Why not?”
“Because after we reached Lander’s camp, where we stopped a while, this
storm began, and we decided it would be right foolish to attempt any
fishing through the ice to-day.”
“H’m!” grunted the inquisitor skeptically. “Did the Lander boy have a
gun with him?”
“No, sir.”
“How’d you happen to stop at his camp?”
“We went there for fishing tackle.”
“And built a fire?”
“Yes. We weren’t in any hurry and the place was cold, so Bunk started a
fire.”
“H’m! You’ve got it fixed up purty well, ain’t ye?”
Rod felt his cheeks burn. “I don’t know what you mean, for there was
nothing to fix up. I do know that you’re making me right sore with your
questions and your nasty doubting manner, and I don’t propose to answer
anything further until you inform me what all this is about. What are
you driving at?”
The man reached into his pocket and brought forth a red silk
handkerchief, which he offered to Rod.
“I guess you dropped this handkercher on your way, didn’t ye? It’s
yourn, ain’t it?”
Grant took the handkerchief and looked at it. “Yes,” he replied,
forgetting his determination to answer no more questions, “it’s mine.”
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