NEW BUSINESS CONNECTIONS
The village was aroused from its slumber by the reports of Amos
Hammond's gun, but by the time the villagers were out of their
houses, Jim Todhunter was far out of sight, and even the flying beat
of his heavy boots on the hard road was out of earshot.
Jim had forseen the disturbance and curiosity of the neighbors and
felt in no mood to calm the disturbance or satisfy the curiosity. In
fact, he had nothing to say. He was a fighter, but not a
gun-fighter. He was sane, and he believed Hammond to be mad. He had
run from a gun, though he had a gun in his own hands and ammunition
in his pockets. He could have returned Hammond's fire, shooting to
frighten rather than to hit, and closed with the fellow eventually
and hammered him into submission. He had considered this course and
dismissed it early in his flight. The truth is, he was glad to be
rid of the responsibility to the Hammond family which he had assumed
in promising Mrs. Hammond to stick to the household as long as
possible. That promise no longer held. Even the most good-natured
and altruistic person in the world would not be expected by even the
least altruistic to continue to cling to a household against the
efforts of the head-of-the-house to dislodge him with smokeless
powder and swan-shot.
Jim felt that he was well rid of the Hammonds and of all
responsibility toward them. Other plans for the future had been
developing brightly in his mind of late. Now he was free to follow
these plans. He would remove his baggage from the Hammond premises
on the morrow and have done with that blunder forever.
It was a frosty night. Jim went up-river, for in that direction were
his friends and the matter of his plans for the immediate future. He
had slowed to a walk as soon as the bridge over Millbrook was
crossed, and from there onward to the fork of the roads he took his
time. There he paused, considering two courses of action. Would he
make camp until daybreak, or would he press on and disturb the
slumbering Ducats? The air tingled with frost, he had overheated
himself in his flight, and he was without overcoat or blanket. He
decided to go on up the glen.
The Ducat dogs hurled themselves upon him from the woodshed, only to
retire at a word. He found the kitchen door on the latch, entered
noiselessly and closed the door. There was still a glow in the big
old cookstove which stood bodily in the older fireplace. He laid his
gun aside, removed his boots, sank into old Archie Me Kim's armchair
and fell asleep.
Flora Ducat always lit the kitchen fire (now that she was considered
grown-up) and then banged on the stove-pipe with an iron spoon. At
that signal, men arose and descended and went out to the feeding, and
the milking--Mark and his father and uncle when they were at home,
the grandfathers at other times. On this particular morning, Flora
descended to the kitchen in a red blanket dressing gown, with her
dark hair about her ears and a lamp in her right hand, and beheld a
man lolling sound asleep in a chair beside the stove. She was
startled, but she neither screamed nor dropped the lamp. She
recognized the sleeper almost instantly. It just happened that she
had been thinking of this young man while she donned the red dressing
gown and descended the backstairs and crossed the kitchen; so the
discovery was no more than a realization of the mental vision by the
physical vision, and therefore not an overwhelming shock.
Jim opened his eyes to the shine of the lamp, blinked owlishly at the
flame, then glanced higher. The girl, meeting his look squarely, saw
bewilderment give way to astonishment and astonishment to admiration.
"Why are you here, Jim?" she asked.
"Ah! So I'm awake!" he exclaimed, sitting up straight. "Of course!
I remember now. Didn't want to disturb you," he added.
"When did you come back?" she asked.
"It must have been between three and four. Amos Hammond got after me
with a gun. Fired three shots."
He pulled on his boots and stood up without lacing them.
"Did he--hit you?" she asked, her voice gone to a whisper.
He smiled and shook his head.
"And now?" she queried.
"I'm going in with Mark," he answered. "I've stood for all I'm going
to from that hypocritical, mad, crooked psalm-singer."
"I'm glad he didn't hit you, but I'm glad he fired at you," she
returned.
They lit the fire together and Jim filled the kettle. Flora banged
the pipe with the iron spoon and went upstairs. Mark came down and
found Jim lacing his boots.
"Hammond locked me out, and when I kicked his front door in he opened
on me with a shotgun," explained Jim.
Mark laughed and shook hands.
"I knew he'd bust out at ye pretty soon," he said. "It was just that
or lose his reputation for righteousness; an' I reckon he figgered it
out how his reputation was worth a few more dollars to 'im, in the
long run."
After breakfast Jim and Mark drove in to Millbrook with a pair of
horses and a heavy wagon. They drew rein in front of the Hammond
house.
"Look there, will ye!" exclaimed Mark, who had heard all the details
of the encounter between Jim and the storekeeper.
Jim looked and saw a patch of new flooring on the veranda, directly
in front of the door.
"Quick work," he replied.
"He's quick as a mink an' sly as a fox an' heartless as a weasel, is
that skunk Amos Hammond," returned Mark.
The store stood on the other side of the road, directly opposite the
dwelling. Several teams stood hitched before it. Mark and Jim
descended from the wagon, crossed the road and entered the store.
Three or four customers were there, and Amos Hammond stood behind a
counter and talked confidentially across it to a tall countryman with
a face full of uncontrolled whiskers. Amos glanced at the newcomers
from a corner of his near eye, but went on with his conversation.
Jim went straight up to the bewhiskered man's elbow and addressed
Hammond.
"I've come for my baggage," he said.
The tall fellow looked sideways at him, but Amos didn't give him a
glance or pause in his talk.
"I've come for my baggage," repeated Jim. "For my rifle, my trunks
full of clothes, my boots, my fishing-rods, my books, and my
dispatch-box containing private papers and one hundred and twelve
dollars in Canadian currency. I'll let the wages you owe me go."
"Young feller, that's sure sayin' a mouthful," remarked the hairy
stranger, eyeing Jim with interest. "What's all this about yer boots
an' yer baggage, anyhow?"
"He's a liar!" exclaimed Hammond, suddenly losing his pose. "Ain't I
just told ye all about it, Mr. Hart? About his one trunk, an' his
ungodly nighthawkin' up to Piper's Glen an' his bustin' into my house
at two o'clock this mornin', drunk as a soldier, an' how I had to
chase 'im away with a gun loaded with salt? If ye don't believe me,
come along over an' look at his baggage yerself."
"Sure, let's go," agreed the whiskery one. "It's the cleanest job
ye've put me to yet, Hammond, this lookin' at a trunk. Cleaner an'
more to my taste nor foreclosin' mortgages an' evictin' widows."
He turned and saw Mark Ducat and extended a hairy hand.
"How do, Mark," he said.
"How do, Sheriff," returned Mark, shaking his hand.
"Speakin' of widows," continued Hart, sagging an elbow to the counter
and crossing his long legs, "have ye seen old Widow Wilson of
Kingswood Settlement since the deacon here sicked the law on to her
an' run her off her little old farm?"
"No, I ain't seed her, but I heered tell the Duffys took her in,"
returned Mark.
"They did that, sure enough," said the other, "but they can't keep
her in. She's went that clean off her head since losin' her home
that ye can't do nothin' with her. Can't keep her housed, anyhow,
though she's reasonable enough about eatin' an' sleepin' whenever she
stops in anywheres. Hoofs the roads all day an' sometimes all
night--an' winter a-comin' on. Well, let's go along an' look at this
here baggage."
"What brought ye up-river so early in the day, Sheriff?" asked Mark.
"Looks to me kinder like ye'd been sent fer."
"Not aigzactly, Mark, but I heered a kinder rumor as how
righteousness had bust out so hot in Deacon Hammond here that he'd up
an' murdered a young man for settin' in to a hand at cribbage. So I
come in my official capacity to take a look at the corpse, but I
reckon there's nothin' to see but some baggage, after all."
Amos Hammond led the four men across the road and through his front
door and pointed to a leather trunk in the front hall, all in a black
silence.
"Yer trunk, young man?" asked Mr. Hart of Jim.
"It is one of them," replied Jim, producing a folded paper from a
pocket and handing it to the hairy official. "Here is a list."
The sheriff read the list aloud, slowly.
"Hell!" he exclaimed, in a voice of wondering admiration.
"I'll have no cussin' in this house!" cried Hammond.
"Where'd ye leave it all?" inquired Hart, eyeing Jim.
"Every article of it in this house, except my shotgun and what I'm
wearing," replied Jim. "Two or three boxes are in the outer kitchen
and all the rest of the stuff is in my bedroom."
Amos Hammond led the way to the outer kitchen. No boxes were there.
He led the way to Jim's bedroom. It, too, was empty.
"Search the house, if ye want to," sneered Hammond.
"I've had enough of this tomfoolery," said Jim. "I've given you a
chance to hand over my things, and you haven't done it. You have
overreached yourself this time. But for your wife and family, I
would have filled you with partridge-shot last night. I had a gun in
my hands, too. And but for these same unfortunate persons, I would
send you to jail now. I brought my stuff to Covered Bridge as
freight, and here are my vouchers, and the freight agent at Covered
Bridge has another set of them, and he is a witness that the things
were loaded on to your wagon, and every member of your family is a
witness that they were unloaded in this house, and were still here
when I was last in the house. Very crude! Last night's fit was too
much for you. I'm afraid that you are off your head permanently.
I'll overlook last night's attempted murder and to-day's attempted
robbery--but, sane or mad, the next time you try anything on me will
be the last time!"
Hammond screamed and snatched the vouchers from Jim's hand. Jim let
them go and struck. Hammond fell unconscious. While Mark and Jim
worked over the householder with cold water, Mr. Hart calmly examined
the crumpled vouchers.
"I reckon ye're right, Mr. Todhunter," he said. "It sure does look
like he was off his nut for keeps, tryin' to put over a fool play
like this right under the nose of the law, so to speak."
Hammond recovered consciousness in a few minutes and, under pressure
from Hart, led the way to a loft above the wagon-shed, rolled aside a
wall of empty barrels and disclosed Jim's baggage to view. Then, to
the amazement of the three, he turned to Jim with bowed head.
"James, it wasn't yer worldly gear I wanted," he said in a trembling
voice. "I run the risk of hanging an' I run the risk of jail, an' I
told a lie, all in a vain effort to save yer soul from the hellish
lure of Piper's Glen. But the devil's been too strong for me! I
forgive ye the blow, James, for it was not yerself who struck me but
Old Adam. Take yer empty vanities an' depart in peace."
"Empty?" queried Mark Ducat, lifting inquiringly on the end of a
trunk. "No, I guess they're full enough, but ye may's well get out
yer keys an' take a look, Jim."
Mr. Hart stared at Hammond with horrified eyes.
"Amos, ye'll go too far one of these days," he said earnestly. "The
Almighty is long-sufferin', so I've heered tell, but it ain't in
reason to insult Him like ye've just done an' expect to get away with
it every time. Have ye no fear, to make a mock of Him by sinnin' in
His very name? Look out that a bolt from heaven don't strike ye dead
some day!" He turned to Jim. "Any charge agin' this man, Mr.
Todhunter?" he asked.
"None, sir," replied Jim. "I'll leave it to the bolt from heaven."
Half an hour later, Jim and Mark drove off toward Piper's Glen with
the baggage intact. They discussed their plans for the winter. They
would go north and west beyond the rise of Piper's Brook to the
headwaters on Kettle Creek and there trap furs. It was a promising
country. An old half-breed, dead now these five years, had once
taken a black fox somewhere up around Kettle Pond. Perhaps he had
taken more than one of those priceless pelts, but he had shown only
one on the river. If he had killed others and kept quiet about them
he had practiced commendable business discretion, for Amos Hammond
had bought that one from him--after priming him with gin--for fifteen
dollars. Mark knew that country fairly well, having hunted moose
there several times and cruised timber on the fringe of it once; and
he had worked a winter in a lumber camp at the mouth of Kettle Creek
and spent his Sundays spying out the land to the north and west of
the camp.
The partners decided to look over the ground immediately, before
snow, and perhaps bag a supply of fresh meat while they were about
it. They toted their dunnage straight across to the river by way of
a rough and narrow trail, for even as the homing bee flies, the
distance between the Ducat place and the nearest point on Racket
River is three miles. There Mark uncovered a bark canoe from a
brush-screened cleft between big rocks. A thorough examination
disclosed leaks in three seams, and these were treated with a melted
mixture of resin and lard. The canoe was launched, the dunnage
stowed amidship and Jim placed in a cramped position in the bow with
a paddle in his hands. Mark stood aft and plied a long pole of
spruce, the working end of which was bound with a wide ring of iron.
Jim knew nothing about paddling a canoe, but he worked away at it and
heeded Mark's comments and corrections.
Two hours of easy work against swift water brought them to the mouth
of Kettle Creek. In the creek the water was deeper and less swift
for a few miles, so Mark slid the pole inboard and manned a paddle.
He returned to the pole before noon, and at noon they went ashore and
boiled the kettle. At three o'clock they had to go ashore again,
unload, and carry canoe and dunnage around Rusty Trap Falls. At
sundown they made camp for the night at a spot which Mark calculated
to be within a few miles of half way between the mouth of the creek
and Kettle Pond, the heart of the land of promise.
"But it's heavy goin' from here on," he said.
He was right. They were ashore almost as much as they were afloat
next day. They scrambled over rocky portages. They jumped from
boulder to boulder in mid-stream, with burdens on their backs and
heads.
"I believe we've carried that canoe more than she has carried us,"
said Jim, toward the close of the strenuous day.
"Guess ye're right," returned Mark. "Water's lower'n I looked for.
We'll wait for snow to fetch in the rest of the stuff--straight
acrost from the head of the glen to this valley."
They reached the head of navigable water late in the afternoon of the
third day of their journey. Here Kettle Creek, creeping out of
Kettle Pond, twisted feebly among scores of great boulders; and the
voyagers were forced to make a half-mile carry into the little lake.
The country was full of game.
"We'll take it easy," said Mark. "More'n half my livin' is in the
woods, so I look on all the beasts that are worth eatin' or skinnin'
as property. So we'll act here like this Kettle Pond country was our
own farm, Jim. I don't hold with slaughterin' for the fun of
shootin' this early in the season, an' then have a bunch of good meat
rot on me come a spell of warm weather."
They cruised the country on all sides for likely lines for traps.
They built a solid little hut of logs and poles, all complete with a
hearth and chimney. They chinked the cracks in the walls with moss,
the cracks in the chimney with clay, and made the roof tight with
sheets of birch bark. Between bouts of construction work and
exploration, Mark instructed Jim in the art of handling a canoe in
still water. The nights fell suddenly from snappy to shivery.
Mark made a horn of birch bark one night and, by producing a variety
of grunts and gurgles and groans from it, lured a big bull moose into
the open beside the lake. Jim shot the deluded creature by the light
of the Hunter's Moon.
They decided, next day, that one of them should take out the canoe
and the moose-meat before the water-route was closed by ice; and that
the other should remain on the ground and build a second hut six
miles to the northward and then go south and east to the glen on
foot; after which they would return together on the snow to Kettle
Pond with traps and a toboggan and the balance of the winter's
supplies. As Jim didn't know the way out across country he
volunteered to take out the canoe and moose-meat.