VICTORY
The next hours were blank for Tom, or almost blank. He seemed at
last to hear a roaring sound like water. He seemed to be rushing at
dizzying speed through worlds of darkness. Then he thought he saw
the malicious face of McLeod peering into his own, and again
blackness and silence covered everything.
Something aroused him; something was pulling at him. Opening his
eyes, he saw strangely an outline of tree-tops sharp against a
starry sky. He was being dragged violently by the shoulder.
“Git up, Tom—quick!” a voice penetrated his ears. “They come back
soon.”
Tom’s head ached so dizzily that it fell back when he tried to lift
it. He could not remember where he was. He did not know who was
beside him. He tried feebly to raise his arms, and found that they
were roped together; and his legs, too, were tightly bound at the
ankles.
“Wait—I see now. I cut you loose,” muttered the hurried voice, which
Tom now dimly recognized. A knife-blade flashed, and sawed at the
rope. His arms were free, then his legs. He made a feeble effort to
get up, and collapsed again.
“No use! Can’t do it!” he murmured thickly.
Charlie seemed to hesitate.
“I carry you,” he said with determination, and, getting his arms
around Tom’s body, he sought to heave him on his shoulders. He
really might have carried him, for Charlie was used to carrying
tremendous loads over canoe portages, but Tom’s faintly reviving
spirit rebelled. He slipped down, clung to a tree for several
seconds, and tried to steady his whirling head.
“You come,” said Charlie anxiously. “That red-hair man, he be back
quick, mebbe. I wait long time.”
Tom had only a vague notion of what the Ojibway meant. He could not
remember what had happened; he knew only that some danger hung over
him like a nightmare. He let the tree go and attempted to walk. He
reeled, and would have fallen but for Charlie’s quick grasp. Then
Charlie got an arm around his body, and, half carrying, half leading
him, managed to steer him through the woods.
It seemed an endless way to Tom, but it could have been only a few
rods, when the Indian uttered a wearied grunt of satisfaction, and
Tom saw the shimmer of moonlight on water. Charlie let him go, to
sink on the ground, and vanished. In a minute or two he was back,
and helped Tom down to the shore. Tom saw a canoe without surprise.
He managed to get into it somehow without upsetting it, and settled
down into a crumpled heap amidships. Charlie got into the stern, and
without a sound the craft glided down the shore, keeping in the
shadows of the trees.
By slow degrees the boy’s wits returned, helped by the fresh lake
air. Leaning over, he splashed water on his head, which hurt
severely. The douche cooled and refreshed him. Memory struggled
back.
Painfully he remembered the knock-out he had received—Harrison’s
proposal—his scouting at the raft—groping his way back step by step.
Of what had taken place after he had been struck senseless he had no
idea, nor how much time had passed. From the feeling of the air, it
seemed to him that it must now be late in the night.
“Where are we going, Charlie?” he said thickly, over his shoulder.
“By gar, I think you mebbe dead, Tom!” exclaimed the Indian, in
excited, though subdued tones. “We go good place. I fix you up all
right. Mos’ there now.”
They were going down Little Coboconk now, taking less care to keep
out of the moonlight. Just at the lower end of the lake Charlie ran
the canoe ashore beside a great log, got out, and helped Tom to
disembark. He lifted the canoe out of the water and stowed it
somewhere in the dark undergrowth; and then, with an air of being
familiar with the place, he grasped Tom’s arm and conducted him
among the spruces by several mazy turnings, and at last indicated by
a pressure on his shoulder that he was to sit down.
Tom dropped gratefully, finding himself on a thick pile of spruce
twigs. Above him he found a rough shelter of bark and boughs.
“I camp here,” said Charlie, “ever since you go ’way. I look down
river for you, mos’ every day—think maybe you come back. I see you
yesterday when you come.”
“You’re the best friend I ever had, Charlie!” said Tom gratefully.
“Maybe you saved my life to-night. How did you find me? Where was
I?”
Charlie burst into an explanation, compounded of English and French,
which he was apt to use when excited. It made Tom’s head ache, but
he gathered that Charlie had slipped out of sight on seeing his
friend’s capture, but had stayed close inshore in the canoe. He
heard the sound of Tom’s choked-off cry and fall, but had not dared
to interfere as Harrison was almost immediately joined by the
red-haired man. Between them, they had tied Tom up and carried him
several hundred yards farther down the shore, depositing him in a
little valley full of evergreens. McLeod remained on guard, while
Harrison returned to the camp. Charlie had scouted close up, and
thought of shooting the red-haired man, but restrained himself.
Finally, McLeod went back to the camp also, to get matches for his
pipe, Charlie thought; and the Indian boy seized the opportunity for
a rescue.
“We safe here,” he concluded. “Good place—can look up, down—they
never find us. Besides, you say your father come.”
“I declare, so he is!” Tom exclaimed with a start. In his confusion
and pain he had totally forgotten that fact. Mr. Jackson was coming,
was doubtless on the way; and then Tom remembered also Harrison’s
statement that his father would be “turned back.”
“We must meet him, Charlie!” he cried. “Those fellows may catch him,
murder him perhaps.”
“Plenty time. He not come till daylight,” said Charlie, glancing up
at the sky. “Three hours, mebbe. Sleep now.”
And the young Indian stolidly stretched himself on the spruce twigs
also, and appeared to fall instantly asleep.
Tom could not rest so easily. It was true, no doubt, that his father
would not come in the darkness. Morning would be time enough to look
for him. But he felt nervously uneasy, impatient, and alarmed. His
head still ached and spun at the slightest movement. Feeling it
cautiously, he found it badly swollen on the left side, and blood
had dried and caked in his hair. Harrison must have struck him with
the revolver butt, he thought.
He tried to compose himself, lay awake for a long time grew drowsy
at last and drifted through a series of nightmares, awaking with a
painful start. But at last he did sleep, and was disturbed only by
hearing Charlie making a fire.
It was daylight, but not yet sunrise. The sleep had done him good.
His head ached less, and he felt more in command of his nerve. The
Indian boy produced tea, some fragments of pork, and some very hard
bread; and the food still further restored Tom’s strength. He was
eager to intercept his father, however, and they had no sooner eaten
than they took to the canoe again, and dropped down the river to a
point where Mr. Jackson would surely pass in coming over the trail
from Ormond.
Here, for hour after hour, they waited, watchful alike for friends
and for enemies, for Tom more than half expected to espy McLeod
scouting down the river shore to prepare some ambush. Tom’s head
still ached, but the effects of the blow were fast passing, and
under frequent applications of cold water the swelling was going
down. They ate a cold lunch, not venturing to light a fire, but it
was not until well into the afternoon that Charlie suddenly sat up
alertly from the ground where he was lounging.
“Somebody come!” he said in a low voice, staring into the woods.
Tom had heard nothing, and in fact it was nearly ten minutes before
he heard trampling and crashing in the undergrowth. The sound
instantly reassured him. Harrison’s scouts would not have made so
much noise and in fact within a few minutes a party emerged upon the
shore a few yards below. In the first two figures Tom recognized his
father and “Big Joe” Lynch.
There were four other men with them. Tom burst out from the woods
and rushed down to meet the new-comers, followed by Charlie. He was
recognized from a distance; there was a waving and a calling of
greetings. Tom grasped his father’s hand; then he found himself,
being hailed by two others of the party, whom he finally recognized
to be Uncle Phil and Cousin Ed.
“Is it all right? We couldn’t—” Mr. Jackson began.
“We missed you yesterday,” put in Ed, a wiry young fellow a year
younger than Tom. “But we started out to catch Uncle Matt on the
trail this morning.”
“Found him broken down,” said Phil Jackson.
“Yes,” said Tom’s father. “The wagon couldn’t get on very fast. Had
to stop and chop the trail. We left three of the men to bring it up,
and the rest of us came along on foot. I was getting uneasy about
you. How did you find things? Why, what’s the matter with your
head?”
“A collision with Mr. Harrison,” said Tom; and he rapidly described
his misadventures of the night. Mr. Jackson’s face turned grim as he
listened.
“The scoundrel! He was planning to keep you out of the way, I
suppose, till he could dispose of some of his loot. He must have
planned something to head me off, too. Never mind! his finish is
close now. I struck another piece of luck in Ormond. This
gentleman,” indicating one of the party whom Tom did not recognize,
“is Joe Gillespie, the postmaster there. I used to know him, and he
was concerned in the liquidation of the Wilson Lumber Company, so he
can testify that I really bought the raft. He’s a magistrate too, so
we have the law with us.”
“Good. That’ll fix Harrison!” said Tom, rejoicing. “Let’s hurry
ahead.”
“Better not go up lake. Mebbe him lay for us. Go through woods,” put
in Charlie.
“I’d take Charlie’s advice on anything now,” said Tom. “He’s right.
Better not let Harrison see us coming, though I don’t think he’d
make any resistance to so large a party as this.”
First of all it was necessary to cross the river, and Charlie
brought up the canoe and ferried them all over. Thence they filed up
the shore for half a mile, and then, under the Indian’s guidance,
turned into the woods, and made a detour to come around to the
narrows at the head of Little Coboconk.
Part of these woods had been swept by the fire, and the walking was
bad, choked with fallen timber and half-burned logs. Tom was
astonished at his father’s strength. Even after the long tramp he
had had that day he pushed through the woods almost as actively as
any of them. The familiar atmosphere of the woods and the prospect
of action had restored the invalid to health almost magically.
Remembering the doctor’s caution not to overdo the exercise,
however, Tom insisted on their stopping for occasional rests. With
this slow progress it was almost two hours before Charlie veered to
the left. They caught a glimpse of the waters of the lake beyond the
scraggly and scorched spruces, and thenceforth they had to move more
cautiously.
The shore was a quarter of a mile farther, and by glimpses they saw
the white tents, the dark bulk of the raft, and the men’s figures
moving about it. Work seemed to be going slowly, however; as they
halted at last about a hundred yards from the camp, crouching behind
a half-burned clump of willow, Tom thought that operations were
entirely suspended.
“Harrison’s found out that I’ve vanished and doesn’t know what to do
next,” he chuckled to his father. “Look, that’s Harrison—the man in
the brown shirt and soft hat. I don’t know the man with him—some
stranger.”
Mr. Jackson took out a field-glass and scrutinized the camp for a
few minutes.
“No, not much doing,” he said at last. “But that stranger with your
Harrison—I think I know him. Unless I’m much mistaken, he’s a
certain lumber dealer of Montreal whom I know very well. Looks as if
Harrison was trying to make his sale on the spot.”
And Mr. Jackson put away the glasses, rose to his feet, looked about
for a moment, and then walked coolly toward the camp.
Tom gave a cry of protest and then jumped up and followed, and the
whole party came after. It happened that nobody noticed them until
they were almost at the shore. Harrison was talking earnestly to his
companion, looking the other way, until he chanced to turn and
beheld the eight advancing figures.
He started forward, uttering an exclamation; and then his eye fell
on Tom, and he stopped short again. His face was almost livid.
“What—?” he began, blusteringly; but Mr. Jackson paid not the
slightest heed to him. He walked up to the strange man, who was
looking surprised, and held out his hand cordially.
“How are you, Archer?” he said. “What are you up here in the woods
for—business or pleasure?”
“Why, Jackson, man!” exclaimed the other, after an amazed stare.
“You’re the last person I thought of seeing here. I heard you were
sick. Pleasure, eh? I guess we’re both here for the same thing. But
you’re too late for once, Matt. I’ve made the deal.”
“Not so you can’t break it, I hope,” returned Mr. Jackson, smiling.
“For this fellow has no right whatever to any of this walnut
timber.”
At this Harrison recovered himself.
“No right to it?” he snarled. “We’ll see about that! Who are you,
anyway? Why, this boy here admitted that I had the right of it, and
he saw all the papers.”
“You were able to bluff a boy, perhaps, but you can’t bluff Matt
Jackson,” returned the lumberman. “You know who I am now. I bought
out Dan Wilson. Here’s Mr. Gillespie from Ormond, who’s a magistrate
and knows all about it.”
By this time Harrison’s men had come crowding up, curious and
hostile. But several of them recognized Mr. Jackson, and all of them
knew Gillespie, who greeted two or three of them by name.
“Yes, that’s right,” said the postmaster. “Mr. Jackson bought out
Dan Wilson when he failed, and so far as I know this timber was in
the deal.”
“Then you don’t know much!” persisted Harrison, furiously. “I’ll
fight to the last court for it.”
“Take it to the courts if you want to,” said Mr. Jackson. “You’ll
face a warrant for murderous assault on my son, and another for
forgery—”
Harrison sprang savagely forward, raising his clenched fist. Tom
jumped to protect his father, caught the half-directed blow on his
elbow, and drove his fist into Harrison’s face. The next instant he
went down himself from a savage uppercut, and heard the rush of a
sudden scrimmage. Joe Lynch had grappled with Harrison, and while
the two wrestled frantically there was a rush of men from both sides
to the spot.
“Stop it! Let him go, Lynch. Here, you young savage, drop that gun!”
Mr. Jackson shouted; and Tom struggled to his feet to see the
postmaster wrenching the shot-gun out of Charlie’s hands. Harrison
went down, with Big Joe on top of him; but Archer and Gillespie
dragged the men apart.
[Illustration: Tom caught the half-directed blow]
Lynch arose laughing. A moment later Harrison gathered himself up
sullenly.
“I’ll settle with you! This ain’t the last—” he began, his voice
thick with rage.
“Whenever you like. But now—you get out of this camp!” Mr. Jackson
ordered.
“This is my camp. These tents—that team—” Harrison snarled.
“Hold on! That team’s mine,” put in one of his men.
“And you ain’t paid us our last week’s wages,” said another.
“I’ll settle your wages,” Mr. Jackson promised. “Take away your
tents and your outfit, Harrison, if you want to.”
Harrison looked about him.
“Take down those tents. Pack up the outfit,” he commanded his men.
Not a lumber-jack stirred. Plainly they had not found Harrison’s
service congenial. Harrison glared, snapped a savage curse, and then
went into his own tent, coming out in a minute with a dunnage sack.
He dragged this down to the shore, dark-faced with rage, but without
a glance at anybody, flung it into a canoe, and darted away with
fierce strokes of the paddle.
“Seen the last of him, I guess,” said Mr. Jackson. “And he’s left us
his outfit. If he doesn’t come back for it we’ll leave it for him at
Ormond.”
“Him go to meet red-haired man,” remarked Charlie, who was watching
the vanishing canoe. “I seen him, that man, ’way down lake.”
“You did?” exclaimed Mr. Jackson. “Scouting for us, I suppose.
You’re a valuable youngster to have around. Want to work for me?
I’ll give you a job.”
Charlie shook his head stolidly.
“No work in summer-time. Work hard in winter—hunt—trap. Rest in
summer—hunt little, fight mebbe.”
“Well, we won’t have any more fighting, I hope,” said the lumberman.
“But there’s a heap of work. You men, Harrison’s gang, I’ll take you
all on, if you want to stay with me, and pay you the same as my own
men. What do you say?”
All the men agreed, with evident pleasure.
“Always did think there was somethin’ crooked about that feller,”
remarked that one of them who owned the team. “Never could git no
money out of him.”
“And now,” said the Montreal lumber dealer, “I certainly wish,
Jackson, that you’d tell me what all this is about. I spend
considerable money to come up here, and find myself landed in a
fight.”
“Think yourself lucky that you didn’t get landed for something
worse,” Mr. Jackson laughed. “You haven’t paid any money out yet?
No? Good. I’ll tell you how the thing stands.”
And he proceeded to detail the circumstances, which were
corroborated by the Ormond postmaster.
“I see,” said Archer. “Harrison offered me the stuff at a great
bargain, but I didn’t see how there could be anything fishy about
it. Well, I’m glad I’m only out my expenses. I suppose you wouldn’t
think of selling any of it yourself? I thought not. You’ll make a
good thing out of it. Walnut’s almost off the market now, and
bringing any sort of fancy price. But I don’t need to tell you
anything about that. All I’ve got to do is to look for a way to get
home.”