SETTING WRONG THINGS RIGHT
Wearily had Lewis Grandall lain himself down to sleep in his hot, close
room. It was his last night in the old clubhouse. He might have been
quite comfortable, so far as his physical self was concerned, had he been
willing to open the door-like window that led to the small balcony and
admit the air; but this he feared to do.
Some sense of danger, a feeling of some dreadful peril impending, harassed
him. He tried to reason it all out of his mind. He had not felt so
before having actually in his possession the moldy, discolored leather
suit-case, he reflected. Why should it make a difference?
There was no good cause for its doing so, he told himself, and resolved
to think of other things. But always his thoughts came back to the one
point--some great peril close before him. What was it? He could not fathom
the distress of his own mind.
Often as Grandall tried wearily to forget, to turn and sleep, some
lines of a tale he had somewhere heard or read,--a pirate's song you'll
recognize as being in a book of Stevenson's--struck into his mind. It was
as if someone sang or called aloud to him:--
"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest!
Yo-ho-ho! And a bottle of rum!"
In vain he told himself that it was nothing--nothing! That he must not
let himself fall a prey to such silly dread, an unidentified fear, like a
child afraid in the dark. But ever the sense of peril oppressed him. Ever
there came to his haunted thoughts--
"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest!
Yo-ho-ho! And a bottle of rum!"
At last he rose and sat a long time on the edge of the bed. Then he
dressed himself. For a great while, as the night crept slowly on, he
sat thus fully clothed. He did not know why he did this. The fear of some
unknown, threatening thing was not removed or altered. The ringing in his
brain--
"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest!" was just as it had been before.
He lighted a match and looked at his watch. Four o'clock. Soon it would be
daylight. Then he would go--leave this terrible place forever! Leave
everything he hated--and that was all persons and all things. Leave the
guilt he vowed he would never face--if he could. So thinking, he lay
down once more and sheer exhaustion let the wretched man sink into heavy
slumber.
Lynx-eyed, the scowling Murky waited. The black shadows of the thick
shrubbery near the clubhouse door concealed him. A long, long time passed.
It was quite evident, the tramp reflected, that the man with the suit-case
had gone to bed.
Should he break in on him? Break in the house, slip up to his bed, strike
one swift blow and end the whole search for that twenty thousand dollars
quickly? End it all so quietly that the one who had played him false
would never be conscious of the outcome?
No, that was not the plan Murky chose to follow. It might result in his
obtaining the prize he sought, but he desired more. He wanted revenge.
He wanted Grandall to know, too, that he _was_ avenged,--would have him
fully realize that it was Murky,--Murky whom he had tricked and deceived,
that had found him out and vanquished him at last.
Daylight was necessary to the tramp's plan. He wanted Grandall to see and
recognize him. He pictured in his mind how, when suddenly awakened, the
trickster should find looking down into his face a pair of eyes that were
sharper and just as unmerciful as his own. Then he would speak, make sure
he was known--strike quickly and effectively, and be gone.
He would not commit murder--unless obliged to do so; it might make
trouble. But he would leave Grandall so hopelessly senseless that there
would be no possibility of early pursuit from that quarter, as there
would probably be none from any other.
Oh, they were black, black thoughts that coursed in Murky's mind!--hardly
the thoughts that should come to a man in his last night on earth. But
they were very pleasing to the tramp. With a kind of wild, wolfish relish,
he pondered over the details of his plan.
Satisfied that Grandall would not leave the clubhouse before morning,
confident of his own ability to awaken at the slightest sound of footsteps
near, and resolving to be astir before daybreak, anyway, if he were not
disturbed earlier, which he regarded as quite improbable, the scowling
wretch allowed his eyes to close.
Even in sleep Murky's face bore an expression little short of fiendish.
He was lying quite under the thick foliage of the bushes. They screened
him from view and from the breeze that had sprung up out of the west. But
also they screened from his eyes the glow that now lit up the heavens, in
the distance, for miles around.
It was the smoke, strong in his nostrils, that at last startled the
fellow into sudden wakefulness. He had been too long a woodsman, had
had too thorough a knowledge of the great forests in his earlier, better
days, not to know instantly what it meant. He sprang up and looked about.
The course of the wind was such, he reasoned, that the fire would not
reach this particular vicinity. But what if it should? Why, so much
the better, he reflected. The clubhouse would burn. If Grandall, dead
or unconscious, burned with it--Murky's smile was hideous.
For some time he watched the progress of the fire, yet in the distance.
But presently he became aware that the daylight was near. It was time for
him to act.
Stealthily Murky crept to the broken window at the west side of the
clubhouse and entered. He knew the first floor doors were locked, but
he did not know that Grandall had secured his bedroom door. This he
discovered in due time. Just outside the room he listened. Sounds of
heavy breathing assured him his victim slept.
It took a good while for Murky's heavy knife to cut in a panel of the pine
door a hole large enough to permit him to reach in and turn the key; for
he worked very slowly, very quietly. The daylight was coming in at the
window of the narrow hallway when his task was done--the daylight, the
dull glare of the advancing flames and the sound of their roar and fury.
The door creaked slightly as ever so slowly its hinges were moved, but
in another second Murky stood inside.
The man on the bed awoke--leaped to his feet--saw--recognized--gave forth
a yell the like of which even the wildest places have seldom heard.
Instantly Grandall knew his danger. Seizing the leather case, for whose
stolen contents he had risked so much, he threw open the balcony window.
In another moment he would have leaped to the ground below but Murky
caught him and they grappled.
It was in the midst of this first fierce struggle that the two were seen
by those on the raft. Murky's greater strength was fast overpowering the
other's soft muscles. Grandall breathed in choking gasps.
Then came the shouted warning from the lake. For an instant the surprise
of it caused the tramp to relax his hold, but only for an instant.
"Blame _me_!" like some wild beast he growled, though there was savage
delight in his tones as well, "Blame _me_! but I'd as soon leave my bones
here as anywhere, to see you get what's comin' to ye, you lyin' skunk!" He
fairly hissed the epithet in Grandall's ear.
It was at this juncture that Murky first drew his panting adversary back
into the flaming clubhouse. Grandall knew he was no match for his enemy
in strength.
"Wait, you fool!" he gasped. "There's a fortune for you--ease--luxury!
Take it! I'll add as much more to it!"
As the lying wretch hoped, Murky's wild thoughts were for the moment
attracted by the words. His grip upon Grandall's great, fat neck was
weakened. Like lightning and with a vicious curse the latter threw him
off, put forth all his strength and hurled the tramp to the floor.
For himself there was aid in sight, was Grandall's thought. If he could
escape to the water below, he could make some explanation to those on the
raft, whoever they might be. They would save him from the fire and from
Murky, whom he feared still more.
Far more quickly than you read the words, the idea flashed in the mind of
the frightened scoundrel. The instant he freed himself he leaped again
through the window. With the yell of an enraged maniac Murky followed.
The Auto Boys and their companions on the great raft, floating but a
few hundred feet from shore, saw Grandall reappear. With horrified
faces they saw about him the smoke and flame that now raged in the roof
above, and throughout the whole lower floor of the clubhouse, below
the balcony,--saw him seize the leather case and pitch it far forward
to the water's edge--saw him glance down as if, in desperation, to leap.
Again a blood-thirsty savage scream sounded above the fury of the fire
and wind, and Murky also appeared on the flame-shrouded balcony.
Grandall was too late. No more than a child could he cope with the mad
strength of his assailant. Like a great bag of meal, or other heavy, limp
and lifeless thing he was dragged in through the open, blazing window. A
fiendish but triumphant yell once more came out of the leaping smoke and
flame. It was the voice of the infuriated tramp, to be heard on earth
again, no more forever.
Dazed, powerless, speechless, those on the lake helplessly witnessed the
awful tragedy. With straining eyes and ears they watched and listened;
but there came now no sound above the fitful roar and crackle of the fire
and the surging wind.
Within a minute the roof of the clubhouse went down. The whole interior
of the building followed, and where had stood the old house on the Point
there remained only the walls of flaming logs, the mass of debris and the
wreckage of wrecked lives that rapidly burned within them.
"You know what's in that bag he threw down to the water?" the golfing
man asked. It was in the midst of the exclamation and words of awe of
those who saw the terrible scene enacted, that the question was asked
of Anderson. The Swede nodded.
"And you?" said the stranger, turning to Phil as spokesman for the boys.
"Yes, we know. We know the whole story. We--we thought _you_ were--We saw
you about the clubhouse and we got it into our heads that _you_ were--Was
it really Grandall that we saw on the balcony?"
"Thought _I_ was Grandall?" muttered the man, mystified. "Why should
you? Did you know he was in the woods? For I did not. But it was Lewis
Grandall and no other that went to his death before our very eyes! The
man with him--Murky was the name you used? Who was he?"
"Then you don't _know_ the _whole story_ of the robbery?" exclaimed
Billy Worth. "Murky was the man Grandall got to go through the motions
of robbing him of the twenty thousand dollars in the first place!"
It was with great interest, indeed, that Mr. Beckley heard the complete
account of Grandall's double-dealing scheme as Chip Slider and the Auto
Boys had gathered the information.
Meanwhile there had come with the wind fitful dashes of rain that soon
settled itself to a steady downpour. The forest fire had nearly burned
itself out on the lake's south shore. Thousands of acres of smoldering
ruins lay in its wake. Yet for a long time the refugees huddled upon
the raft, protecting themselves from the storm as best they could with
blankets and bedding. Not yet was it safe to venture ashore.
It was during this period that the golfing man made known his own identity
and told why he happened to be hiding in the old clubhouse, resulting
quite naturally, he freely admitted, in his being taken for the fugitive
treasurer of the Longknives.
His name was Henry Beckley, he explained, and he had been one of the most
active members of the Longknives Club. He had never been quite satisfied
that the club's treasurer was really robbed of the money intended for the
road builders, but had never found any genuine evidence to the contrary.
A long time had passed since the loss of the money. The investigation
of Grandall's crookedness, at home, was taken up by the Grand Jury. Mr.
Beckley had reason to suspect the man of a number of dishonest practices,
but feared for the safety of the bank, in which he was heavily interested,
if the public suddenly learned that Grandall was a thief.
To avoid being called as a witness in the matter he decided to go away
until the investigation was over. He would keep his going and his
destination a secret from all, his own family excepted, he planned,
and with no one suspecting where he might be, visit Opal Lake. Living in
concealment at the clubhouse he would have an opportunity of investigating
his suspicion that Grandall had made up the robbery story. Also he would
satisfy himself, at least, that Nels Anderson had had no part in the
disappearance of the payroll money and settle, for all time, occasional
rumors to the contrary.
Mr. Beckley had reached the lake only a day or two before the Auto Boys
set up their camp there. He avoided them for he wished to work in secret.
Also, for fear other strangers, or even some who might know him, should
chance to visit the lake, he was careful not to disturb the deserted
appearance of the clubhouse. He burned no light at night, and rarely
sat anywhere but in his bedroom.
"You had a light there one night," spoke Paul. "We saw it flicker for just
a second once, then after while saw the same thing again."
"It must have been matches to light my cigar that you saw," Mr. Beckley
replied. "I knew you had discovered me and that in part was one reason
that I went to Anderson's to stay. He brought me some provisions one
evening and I agreed then to go to his house, and I did so within a day
or two."
Paul could have said "Yes, _I_ knew he came to see you," if he had wished.
But he was silent.
But MacLester spoke up: "And you went down on the old pier and threw
something into the water the last thing before leaving. We saw that, too!"
"Yes, you're right. All the scraps of my lunches and the like I tied up
and, putting a stone in the package to sink it to the bottom of the lake,
I threw it in. You must have had pretty sharp eyes for the Point," the
speaker added, pleasantly. "But it is no wonder. I would have been even
more interested in my own investigations than I was had I known half as
much of the true story of the Grandall robbery as you boys knew. And had
I known of that awful Murky being around I'd most certainly have gone to
stay with good old Nels Anderson much sooner than I did."
"Sure, I am worried sick to know what ever I would ha' done, a gettin'
to the hoose an' not findin' of ye there," put in Daddy O'Lear with a
sorrowful shake of his head.
Mr. Beckley's faithful follower had already given that gentleman and
MacLester an account of his adventures ending in his sudden appearance
on the north shore, as the three sat by themselves in the boat some time
earlier. Now the story was repeated for the information of all.
Mrs. Beckley, it appeared, having learned of the flight of Grandall wished
her husband to be informed of this development. He had cautioned her
that he could receive no letters without revealing where he was, and she
could not write or telegraph. So with many instructions as to secrecy
she sent the old family gardener, Daddy O'Lear, to tell all that had
occurred.
The well-meaning old fellow left the train at a town to the north of
Opal Lake, as told to do. He became quite confused and lost in the woods
as he sought the clubhouse, and when he chanced to learn from MacLester
that he had actually reached Opal Lake, though quite without knowing
it, he was greatly alarmed. He feared the nature of his errand would be
discovered by the young campers.
On the pretext of going for his baggage he walked back into the forest,
MacLester accompanying him, instead of crossing over to the boys' camp.
He wanted to gain time to think and plan. He finally decided that, a long
way into the woods, he would give MacLester the slip and later reach the
clubhouse and Mr. Beckley secretly, by walking around the lake to the
other side.
This plan might have been more successful had "Daddy" not lost himself
more hopelessly than ever, before he was ready to put it into execution.
And if it had not been for Dave serving as his guide, at last, the
good-natured Irishman never would have found his way to the lake again
at all. This he freely admitted.
"I was satisfied that the stream we found must lead to the lake, or to
some larger stream that would do so," MacLester explained. "We were a long
time getting here, but when I saw the fire burning so terribly I didn't
know whether to be glad or sorry we had saved ourselves. Then I saw the
raft, and--_believe me_!"
Very soon after reaching his friends MacLester had learned of the loss
of the automobile. Naturally thoughts of the car were in the mind of
every one of the boys, even in the midst of all they had lately passed
through. But no word of complaint or grief was spoken. Possibly Mr.
Beckley noticed this for his own thoughts were not idle.
The rain still fell in torrents, hissing and steaming in the smoldering
ruins of the great fire. But the heat was almost gone now. The shore could
be approached without inconvenience. Mentioning this, the golfing man
suggested that it would now be possible to see if the general suspicion
concerning the suit-case Grandall had thrown to the water's edge was
correct.
The skiff was moored to the raft. Dave and Phil entered the boat and rowed
up past the rotting and now half burned timbers of the old pier. The
leather case had fallen partially into the water they saw, but quickly
they recovered it.
"In spite of what has happened to this money, and we all know the terrible
history now--I suppose we must agree that this bag and its contents are
still the property of the Longknives Club," said Mr. Beckley solemnly.
For, unopened, Phil had passed the discolored case at once to him. "At
any rate," the speaker went on, very soberly, "we will see what is in it.
I have a few things in mind regarding the club's disposition of this
matter."
Without hesitation Mr. Beckley picked up the leather case and eyed it with
a growing suspicion. It was now battered, almost shapeless. More than that
it looked, somehow, almost too small. Finding that it was locked, he cut
open one of the sides with his pocket knife.
But, instead of packages of bank notes and bags of gold and silver coin,
there was disclosed brushes, comb, and a few other toilet accessories,
together with a limited change of underwear and one bosom shirt. Of
course these were soiled by mud and water, but not unduly discolored.
The varied expressions of dismay, vexation and amazement shown by those
on the raft and in the skiff were almost comical.
Nels Anderson ventured an opinion that the bag was Grandall's, but
wondered why the man had heaved it over first instead of jumping with
it himself.
"He must have been crazed by terror," said Mr. Beckley. "But the question
now is what did he do with the larger suit-case. He certainly had it
somewhere, or that chap Murky wouldn't have been hanging round."
"Do you think both those men were burned to death?" This from Dave.
"I don't see how either could have escaped. The building was in flames
when they disappeared. It is almost night and we're all tired. I think
we perhaps had better to go back to camp, sleep quietly, and then in the
morning we can search the ruins and see what we may find."
As everyone was weary, this received general assent. They were not only
weary but discouraged. The unexpected and mysterious loss of the suit-case
containing the money was, in itself, an unlooked-for defeat, and just as
everyone felt sure that their difficulties were solved.
Scarcely had they reached the old camping ground than out of the still
smoking wilderness came a loud shout. Link Fraley, his shapeless old hat
pulled down almost over his eyes, his horses and wagon steaming wet and
coated with ashes, drove up at a trot.
"Well, well!" he cried. "We've been worried about you all. Staretta's
gone wild over this fire. Worried about the Andersons and the Auto Boys;
and I'm more worried about what I saw on the way here."
"What do you mean by that last?" asked Mr. Beckley, who was quick to hear
the unusual note in this final remark by Fraley. "What did you see?"
"I ain't certain; but I'm almost sure I saw that scowling fellow we
called Murky. I didn't get but a glimpse. 'Twas a mile or so back, where
the half burnt logs was piled up thicker than usual near the trail. Before
I could stop my team he was gone. No use to foller; besides, I was in a
hurry to get on to where the camp was, hoping I'd find you folks all
right."
Link's news occasioned somewhat of a flutter among the weary party thus
gathered at the ruins of what had once been the Auto Boys' camp. After
some discussion, while Chip and Worth were roasting potatoes and preparing
hot coffee, it was determined that, after eating, they would return with
Fraley to Staretta and sleep in warm beds once more. After that plans
might be made for investigating what Link had seen on the way over.
They hastened their meal and then, all climbing into the wagon, they
started back. Probably a mile further on Fraley pointed at a confused
tangle of fallen trees and logs which the fire had partially consumed, yet
left in such profusion as to form a sooty labyrinth where a fugitive
might easily escape unseen in that growing twilight. By now the moon
was shining, for the rain had long passed. Link stopped the wagon and was
pointing out where he had caught this flying glimpse. He was about to
start on again when Phil Way, crouched at the wagon's tail-board, cried
out as he jumped off:
"Hold on a minute, Link! I think I see something!"
Mr. Beckley, beside him, had seen it too, for the moonlight made things
more distinct than when Fraley had passed an hour or so before. Beckley
also descended.
When he reached Phil, the boy was raising up a sooty, battered leather
suit-case with several holes burnt partially through its thick sides. A
wide flap was cut through the leather. It hung down as Phil held it up.
It was some larger than the other bag and Beckley instantly knew that he
was looking at the receptacle that had held the money.
Had held it, but now no longer.
"It's empty, Mr. Beckley. How did he come to leave it here?"
"Why, don't you see? Look at those holes." Beckley pulled at the edge
of one and the burnt leather parted easily. "Murky--of course it was
he--must have seen that this bag would no longer safely hold his plunder."
"Then he's taken it out and put it into something else," said Way.
"Perhaps his coat, if he had one left."
"No; here's what looks like it had once been a coat."
Further search under the moon revealed only that certain foot tracks,
found by Paul Jones, led off to the left through the wet ashes, as if
the party who made them was in a great hurry. But, search as they might,
only one pair of foot tracks could be seen.
"Evidently Grandall did not survive," said Beckley. "No wonder! He must
have been all in when that scoundrel dragged him back inside the burning
building. But how could Murky have gotten out alive? Probably Grandall,
in his frantic haste, must have caught up the wrong bag, for it was the
money he was after. When Grandall was finished his companion would, of
course, try to make sure of the loot which both had schemed so hard to
get and keep."
Reasoning thus, they all went on to Staretta, for nothing could be done
that night, or without bloodhounds, which the county sheriff was known
to have at his home at the county seat.