Such ruin as had been wrought in Sedgwick's studio was strictly
localized. The easel lay on the floor, with its rear leg crumpled.
Around it were scattered the fragments of the glass upon which the
painter had set his labor of love. A high old-fashioned chair faced the
wreckage. On its peak was hung a traveling cap. Lopping across the back
sprawled a Norfolk jacket belonging to Sedgwick. Chester Kent lifted the
coat, and after a swift survey let it drop.
"Did you leave that there?" he asked.
"I hung it across the back of the chair," answered Sedgwick.
"North window closed?"
"Yes, as you see it now."
"And west one open?"
"Nothing has been changed, I tell you, except this." Sedgwick's hand,
outstretched toward the destroyed portrait, condensed itself
involuntarily into a knotty fist.
"The lock of the door hasn't been tampered with," said Kent. "As for
this open window," he leaned out, looking around, "any man gaining
access here must have used a ladder, which is unlikely in broad
daylight."
"How about a pass-key for the door?"
"There's a simpler solution nearer at hand, I fancy. You didn't chance
to notice that things have happened to the coat, as well as to the
easel."
"Then the invader went through the coat and, not finding what he was
looking for, smashed my picture," cried Sedgwick.
"Through the coat, certainly," agreed Kent, with his quiet smile. "Now
hang it across the chair back just as it was, please."
Sedgwick took the Norfolk jacket from him. "Why, there's a hole through
it!" he exclaimed.
"Exactly: the path of the invader."
"A bullet!"
"Right again. Instead of murdering, as you pine to do, you've been
murdered. That the picture was destroyed is merely a bit of ill fortune.
That you weren't inside the coat when the bullet went through it and cut
the prop from your easel, is a bit of the other kind. Hang up the coat,
please."
Sedgwick obeyed.
"There," said Kent viewing the result from the window. "At a distance
of, say, a quarter of a mile, that arrangement of coat and cap would
look uncommonly like a man sitting in a chair before his work. At least,
I should think so. And yonder thicket on the hillside," he added,
looking out of the window again, "is just about that distance, and seems
to be the only spot in sight giving a straight range. Suppose we run up
there."
Sound as was his condition, Sedgwick was panting when he brought up at
the spot, some yards behind his long-limbed leader. As the scientist had
surmised, the arrangement of coat and cap in the studio presented, at
that distance, an excellent simulacrum of the rear view of a man
lounging in a chair. Bidding the artist stay outside the copse, Kent
entered on hands and knees and made extended exploration. After a few
moments the sound of low lugubrious whistling was heard from the trees,
and presently the musician emerged leading himself by the lobe of his
ear.
"Evidently you've found something," commented Sedgwick, who had begun to
comprehend his friend's peculiar methods of expression.
"Nothing."
"Then why are you so pleased with yourself?"
"That is why."
"Because you've found nothing?"
"Exactly."
"It seems an easy system," observed the artist sarcastically.
"So it is, to a reasoning being. I'm satisfied that some one fired a
shot from here. The marksman--a good one--saw you, as he supposed, jerk
to the shot as if with a bullet through you, and went away satisfied."
"Leaving no trace behind him," added Sedgwick.
"No trace that is tangible. Therein lies the evidence."
"Of course you don't expect me to follow that."
"Why not? Look at the ground in the thicket."
"What is there to be seen there, since you've said there are no marks?"
"The soil is very soft."
"Yes; there's a spring just back of us."
"Yet there's not a footprint discernible on it."
"I've got that part of the lesson by heart, I think."
"Use your brain on it, then. Some one designing to make you his target,
has been in this thicket; been and gone, and left the place trackless.
That some one was a keen soft-footed woodsman. Putting it in words of
one syllable, I should say he probably had the racial instinct of the
hunt. Does that flush any idea from the deep and devious coverts of your
brain?"
"Racial instinct? Gansett Jim!" said Sedgwick.
"Exactly. If I had found tracks all over the place, I should have known
it wasn't he. Finding nothing, I was naturally pleased."
"That's more than I am," retorted the other. "I suppose he's likely to
resume his gunnery at any time."
"Unless we can discourage him--as I expect we can."
"By having him arrested?"
"Difficulties might be put in our way. Sheriff Len Schlager and the
half-breed are in some sort of loose partnership in this affair, as you
know. Gansett Jim honestly thinks that you had a hand in the Lonesome
Cove murder, as he believes it to be. It isn't impossible that the
sheriff has subtly egged him on to kill you in revenge."
"Why does the sheriff want me killed?"
"Nothing personal, I assure you," answered Kent with mock courtesy.
"I've already explained that he will not arrest you. But you're the
suspect, and if you were put out of the way every one would believe you
the murderer. There would be a perfunctory investigation, the whole
thing would be hushed up, and the body in Annalaka churchyard would rest
in peace--presumably a profitable peace for the sheriff."
"Flat out, Kent, do you know who the dead woman is?"
"Flat out, I don't. But I've a shrewd guess that I'll find out before
long."
"From Gansett Jim?"
"No hope there. He's an Indian. What I'm going to see him about now is
your safety."
"Now? Where do you expect to find him?"
"In the village, I hope. It wouldn't do for you to come there. But I
want you to go to the spot where you met the circus-wagon man, and wait,
until I bring Jim."
It was a long wait for the worried artist, in the deep forest that
bounded the lonely road along Hawkill Heights. Ten o'clock had chimed
across the hill from the distant village, when he heard footsteps, and
at a call from Kent, stepped out into the clear, holding the lantern
above him. The light showed a strange spectacle. Kent, watchful, keen,
ready as a cat to spring, stood with his eyes fixed upon the distorted
face of the half-breed. Terror, rage, overmastering amazement, and the
soul-panic of the supernatural glared from the blue-white eyeballs of
the negro; but the jaw and chin were set firm in the stoicism of the
Indian. In that strange racial conflict of emotions the fiercer finer
strain won. Gansett Jim's frame relaxed. He grunted.
"Good boy, Jim!" Chester Kent's voice, at the half-breed's ear, was the
voice of one who soothes an affrighted horse. "I didn't know whether you
could stand it or not. You see, you didn't shoot Mr. Sedgwick, after
all."
"Dun'no what you mean," grunted Gansett Jim.
"And you mustn't shoot at him any more," continued the scientist. The
tone was soft as a woman's; but Sedgwick felt in it the tensity of a man
ready for any extreme. Perhaps the half-breed, too, felt the peril of
that determination; for he hung his head. "I've brought you here to show
you why. Pay good heed, now. A man traveling in a wagon was met here, as
he says, by a woman--you understand--who questioned him and then went
on. He followed the trail through the brush and found the signs of a
fight. The fight took place before the death. Here's the lantern. Take
his trail from here."
Without a word the half-breed snatched the light and plunged into a
by-path. After a few minutes of swift going he pulled up short, in an
open copse of ash, and set the lantern on the ground. Hound-like, he
nosed about the trodden earth. Suddenly he darted across and, seizing
Sedgwick's ankle, lifted his foot, almost throwing him from his balance.
Sedgwick wrenched himself free and, with a swinging blow, into which he
put all the energy of his repressed wrath, knocked the half-breed flat.
"Hands off, damn you!" he growled.
Gansett Jim got to his feet a little unsteadily. Expectant of a rush,
his assailant stood, with weight thrown forward; but the other made no
slightest attempt at reprisal. Catching up the lantern, which had rolled
from his hand, he threw its light upon Sedgwick's forward foot. Then he
turned away. Kent whistled softly. The whistle had a purring quality of
content.
"Not the same as the footprint, eh?" he remarked.
"Footprint too small," grunted Gansett Jim.
"How many people; two?"
"Three."
[Illustration: _You see, you didn't shoot Mr. Sedgwick, after all._]
"Three, of course. I had forgotten the circus-wagon man. He came later.
But, Jim, you see it wasn't Mr. Sedgwick."
"What he follow for?" demanded the other savagely.
"No evil purpose. You can take his trail from the circus wagon and
follow that, if you want to satisfy yourself further that he wasn't
here. I'll let you have the lantern. Only, remember, now! No more
shooting at the wrong man!"
The half-breed made no reply.
"And you, Sedgwick. Here's the destroyer. Do you still want to kill
him?"
"I suppose not," replied the artist lifelessly.
"Since his design was only against your life and not against your
picture," commented Kent with a smile. "Well, our night's work is done."
Lifting the lantern, he held it in the face of the half-breed. "Jim!"
"Huh?"
"When you really want to know who made those footprints, come and tell
me who the body in Annalaka burying-ground is. A trade for a trade. You
understand?"
The eyes stared, immovable. The chin did not quiver. Reaching for the
lantern, Gansett Jim, now nine of Indian to one of negro, turned away
from them to the pathway. "No," he said stolidly.
As the flicker of radiance danced and disappeared in the forest Sedgwick
spoke. "Well, do you consider that we've made a friend?"
"No," answered Chester Kent; "but we've done what's as good. We've
quashed an enmity."