Brent handed me the paper and Pee-wee nearly pushed me off the seat
sticking his head way over and trying to read it. I have to admit it was
mighty interesting what was on that paper. The more Pee-wee stared at it
the bigger his eyes got, and it had _me_ guessing, too.
All the while, Brent just sat there driving the machine as if he wasn’t
interested in the paper at all. He said, “You seem to like it. I pick up
papers like that every day. If you don’t care for that one, just say so
and I’ll dig you up another; I’ll find you German spy maps, lost patent
papers of wonderful inventions, mortgage papers stolen by villyans,
anything you say; just say the word.”
“If you don’t care for this one, don’t be afraid to say so. I know where
there are some documents about a dark anarchist plot. Do you care about
anarchist plots? Some people like them and others don’t; it’s just a
matter of taste.“
I said, “_Good night_, this will do for me.”
Pee-wee said, all excited, “Maybe it means millions of dollars; maybe it
means bars of gold. We’ll solve the mystery, hey?”
“Oh, just as you say,” Brent said; “you know my stand on mysteries and
adventures; I eat them raw.”
That paper was all old and yellow and when we opened it I had to hold it
on my knee, because it tore where the creases were. I guess maybe it was
as old as ten years. It looked as if it had been torn out of a
memorandum book and the writing was made with a lead pencil and it was
kind of blurred, but anyway, this is what it said:
Snake Creek. North shore from Ohio R. to Skeleton Cove, Top of S
Cove. Follow line due north from willow. Cons to west. Stake.
Measure ninety-two feet along north line, then follow line due
NW through T.W. Stake. Treasure at HW limit, indicated at AN
Stake. Follow S line south to pie.
Pee-wee said, very mysterious like, “What da you think it is? It tells
where there’s buried treasure, doesn’t it?”
“Sure it does,” I said. “It sounds just like the directions in the _Gold
Bug_ by Edgar Allan Poe.”
“It sounds just like _Treasure Island_,” Pee-wee put in.
Brent said, “Well, I don’t know. I was thinking about it and I decided
that it’s a bill of fare.”
“A what?” Pee-wee shouted.
“You see it’s got stake and pie on it,” Brent said.
“You make me tired!” the kid fairly yelled. “That paper shows where
buried treasure is hidden.”
Brent said, “Well then, that scarecrow must have been a pirate in his
younger days. He had an evil past and I’m glad I killed him.”
“You seem to think it’s a joke,” I said; “but it tells where there’s
buried treasure, that’s one sure thing. You can’t make anything else out
of it—can you?”
Brent said, “Buried treasure’s good enough for _me_—gold or stakes or
pies, I don’t care. I’d like to dig up a few buckwheat cakes just now.”
“Do you know what you are? Do you know what you are?” the kid began
shouting. “You’re a Philippine—that’s what you are!”
I said, “You mean a philistine—that’s a person that makes fun of things
and doesn’t believe anything.”
Brent said, “The only time I ever went after buried treasure I was
_foiled_ by the boy scouts. Never again. They wouldn’t chop down a tree
under which the treasure was buried because they loved trees.”
“This isn’t under a tree,” Pee-wee said; “it’s in a cove—on the end of
a line due north. That’s different. That’s always the kind of a place
wkere treasure is—in a cove. You can tell by the names that there’s
treasure there—Snake Creek and Skeleton Cove and lines due north and
willows and everything. It says _treasure_, doesn’t it? What more do you
want?”
“Only where’s the place?” Brent said.
“We’ll find it,” Pee-wee said; “we’ll find it if we, if we—drop in our
tracks.”
Brent said, “That’s something I’ve always longed to do—drop in my
tracks. I’d like to be rescued by a St. Bernard dog.”
I said, “_Good night_, have a heart. There are dogs enough in this
series of thrilling adventures.”
Brent said, “Well anyway, this is the only story of adventure that has a
scarecrow for a villain. What d’ye say?”
XXIX—THE MYSTERY DEEPENS
Brent said, “Well, as long as you like my little mystery, we might as
well take a peep into it. We may have a couple of hairbreadth escapes,
you never can tell. By rights, we ought to quarrel over the treasure
after we have found it, and all kill each other. That’s the way they
usually do.”
“They don’t do that way any more,” Pee-wee said; “they divide it up.”
Brent said, “No, I insist on quarreling over it.”
He folded the paper and put it back in his pocket. It seemed funny for a
paper like that to be in an old black frock coat like ministers wear. I
had to laugh at Brent on account of the sober way he tucked it back into
the pocket.
I said, “It’s got _me_ interested, that’s one sure thing. But how are we
going to find out where that place is?”
He said, “Well, the proper way would be for us just to fit out an
expedition and go in search of it like old what’s-his-name who hunted
for the soda fountain down in Florida.”
Pee-wee said, “Ponce de Leon, he hunted for the Fountain of Youth.”
“But the best way,” Brent said, “if you’re really interested, is for us
to get hold of a map of the Ohio River when we hit Indianapolis. We
cross the Ohio at Wheeling and if that old creek is anywhere in our
neighborhood we’ll see if we can hoe up a few nuggets. That’s the proper
thing, isn’t it—nuggets?”
“Nuggets and pieces of eight,” Pee-wee said, very serious.
Brent said that we had enough on our minds then, with the Uncle Tom’s
Cabin people and the Veterans’ Reunion, and that we’d better get along,
especially as Harry with the van had almost caught up to us.
But one more thing happened before we got very far from Barrow’s
Homestead, and it threw some light on the mystery—that’s what Pee-wee
said. A man in a pair of overalls came along the road and Brent stopped
to ask him a couple of questions. While the machine was standing there,
the van passed us. Gee, there were a lot of people in it and on it and
all over.
Harry said, “Do you want us to tow you? Come on, hurry up, you’ll be
late for the show. We’ve got Sherman’s march through Georgia beat a
hundred ways.”
Brent said, “Don’t bother us, we’re chasing after nuggets.” Then he said
to the man, “You don’t happen to know who owns that land beyond the
marsh down at the other end of town, do you? Before you get to the Post
Office? There’s a big cornfield there.”
I whispered to Pee-wee, “Keep your mouth shut, now, and don’t tell him
about good turns.”
The man said, “Yer mean swamp acres? That’s part o’ th’ old Deacon
Snookbeck place.”
Brent said, “Yes. Who’s he?”
“Wa’l, he ain’t,” the man said, “but he was. Th’ best thing I can say
abaout that ole codger is, he’s dead.”
Brent rested his arms on the steering wheel and talked kind of careless,
sort of. He said, “I was just wondering if the place was for sale. So he
was a queer ole codger, the deacon, hey?”
The man said, “Yes, en’ more’n that as I’ve heared tell. I guess young
Snookbeck ain’t calc’latin’ on sellln’ th’ place. I reckon nobody raound
these parts is wantin’ ter buy it, neither. Yer see thar was a kind of a
mystery ’baout ole Ebenezer. Some folks even say his haouse is haunted
by a chap he murdered. But I reckon he wasn’ as bad as all that.”
Oh, boy, you should have seen Pee-wee! He just sat there staring, his
eyes as big as dinner plates. He didn’t say a word, only just stared.
Brent said, “House of mystery, hey? The Frock-coated Villyan! That would
be a good name for a photoplay, huh?”
That man leaned his elbow on the side of the car and said, kind of
friendly like, as if we were special friends of his, he said, “Wa’l,
’baout, let’s see, nigh onter ten year ago, thar was a couple of young
chaps wearin’ khaki like you chaps, come out this way en they wuz
rootin’ raound on th’ deacon’s farm. They weren’t plantin’, that was
sure; and they weren’t no farm hands. Nobody seemed jest able ter find
out ezactly what they were, ’cause they never talked ter nobody. Aunt
Josie Anne, daown th’ road a piece, asked one uv ’em who he thought he
was. He said he thought he was Santa Claus, but he wasn’ sure. They wuz
kind o’ comics, both uv ’em. Wa’l, I ain’t ashamed ter tell no man who I
am.”
Brent said, “You’re right,” just sort of to encourage him to talk.
The man said, “Wa’l, they stayed at th’ deacon’s house ’n’ one night
they wuz out with a lantern in the middle of the night, under the big
tree near th’ deacon’s haouse. Steub Berry, he ’laowed they wuz buryin’
treasure thar. Some folks had it them two strangers wuz Mexican spies
’n’ others reckoned they wuz army deserters. Th’ ole deacon, he jes’
laughed and said we couldn’ guess. He wouldn’ deny nuthin’. All of a
sudden, _ker-bang_, they disappeared jes’ like that ’n’ some folks said
th’ deacon murdered both uv ’em ter git th’ treasure. My wife, she allus
had it, they come off some ranch or other with a lot uv stealin’s. Wa’l,
’twas a nine days’ wonder ’n arter that folks kinder fought shy of th’
deacon.”
Brent said, “And he’s dead now?”
“Oh, deader’n a mummy,” the man said. “When the world war come some
folks said as haow that pair might a been German spies all th’ while,
kind uv studying ’raound. But young Snookbeck he says if old Ebenezer
had anything hid it would be in his Bible, en’ ’s long ’s ’tain’t thar,
’tain’t nowhere. But that’s treasure hid somewhere, I say, ’cause them
wuz mighty funny doin’s of them strangers. Yer goin’ ter th’ reunion
over t’ ’he Cross-roads?”