BILLY'S PROBLEMS MULTIPLY
Recovery of the stolen goods caused considerable excitement in the
Settlement. For a week or so nothing else was talked of and
conjecture ran rife as to why the thieves had not made off with their
pillage rather than hide it in the haunted house. Harry O'Dule came
in for a plenty of praise for the part he had played in finding the
loot but beyond hinting that the job had been more than easy for the
seventh son of a seventh son, he was reticent on the subject. That
he should have returned the liquor almost intact, to the owner, was a
conundrum to all who knew him, with the exception of Billy and
Maurice.
Billy was anything but easy in his mind during these exciting days.
Who were the two strangers who had searched old Harry's hut? Were
they the same two he and Maurice had seen in the woods on the night
of the storm? If so, why did they send a message to Hinter, and what
was its significance? Where was Gibson's Grove, anyway? These
questions bothered him, and pondering upon them robbed him of
appetite and sleep. Maurice and Elgin were no help to him in a
dilemma of this kind and the new boy, Jim Scroggie, he knew scarcely
well enough to trust.
It was, perhaps, just as well for Anson that he kept out of Billy's
way during this period. However very little that Billy did was
missed by his pale blue eyes. He knew that his step-brother had
visited the haunted house alone and had searched it nook and corner.
For what? He had seen him fasten his rabbit-foot to a branch of a
tree and dig, and dig. For what? He wanted to find out but dared
not ask. Perhaps Billy was going crazy! He acted like it. Anson
made up his mind that he would confide his suspicions in his mother.
But on the very day that he had decided to pour into Mrs. Wilson's
ear all the strange goings-on of his brother, Billy caught him out on
a forest-path alone and, gripping him by the shoulder, threatened to
conjure up by means of witchcraft at his command a seven-headed
dragon with cat-fish hooks for claws who would rip his--Anson's--soul
to shreds if he so much as breathed to his mother one word of what he
had seen.
In vain Anson declared he didn't know anything to tell. Billy looked
at him calmly. "You been follerin' me an' I know it," he said.
"Croaker saw you, an' so did Ringdo."
Anson's mouth fell open in terror. "You don't mean--" he commenced,
then gulped, unable to proceed.
"That Croaker's a witch? Of course he's a witch, an' so's Ringdo.
They both know exactly what you're thinkin', an' what you're doin'.
Listen, you," as Anse shivered. "Didn't you dream, jest t'other
night, that Croaker was bendin' over you to peck your eyes out?"
Anse nodded a reluctant admission.
"Well, s'pose it wasn't any dream? S'pose it was all real? An'
s'pose, if I hadn't waked up in time to stop him, he'd have picked
your eyes out an' put in fisheyes in their place? Then you couldn't
see anythin' unless you was under water. An' s'pose, when I asked
Croaker what he wanted to do that awful thing fer, he up an' told me
that you'd been spyin' on me an' you didn't deserve to own human
eyes? I say s'pose all this. Now then, Anse, you best mind your own
business an' let your mouth freeze up close, else you're goin' to
have an awful time of it. If I get Croaker to say he won't gouge
your eyes out till I give the word it's more'n you deserve."
Hope stirred in Anson's fear ridden soul--hope which Billy
remorselessly killed with his next words.
"But I couldn't get no promise out o' Ringdo. He says you're workin'
'gainst us."
"But I ain't, Bill. Cross my heart, I ain't," protested Anson. "Why
should I be?"
"Maybe jest 'cause you're a sneak," Billy answered, "but you're my
brother an' I don't want anythin' horrible to happen to you if I kin
help it. The best thing fer you to do is keep mum, an' when you see
me strikin' off anywhere look t'other way."
"An' you'll see that Ringdo don't bite me, Bill?" pleaded Anson.
"You'll keep him off me, won't you?"
Billy considered. "I'll try," he promised, "but it's goin' to take a
whole lot of coaxin' to do it. That old witchcoon has been prowlin'
down through the tamarack swale huntin' copperhead snakes for a week
now, gettin' ready to do fer somebody er other."
"Oh gollies!" gasped Anson. "What's he huntin' copperheads fer,
Bill?"
"Why to poison his teeth with. He's loadin' up fer somebody, sure as
shootin'. Gosh! I am sorry you've been sech a fool, Anse. Jest
think, one little scratch from that coon's teeth and--'
"Bill," Anson's voice was husky with terror. "You won't let him
touch me, will you, Bill?"
"I'll keep him away from you so long as you keep away from us, an'
hold a close tongue in your head," Billy promised. "Understan',
though, it's goin' to be a mighty hard thing to do; I saw him trying
the bark of that elm jest under our winder only this mornin'. He's
likely aimin' to shin up that tree an' fall on your face, most any
night, so if you want your eyes an' your life you'd better do what I
say."
"I'll do jest as you say, Bill," Anse promised, fervently, and Billy
knew that he meant it. "All right, that's a go," he said and went
off to the menagerie to feed his pets.
* * * * *
Something else was to happen shortly to make Billy feel that his
world was full of mysterious agents sent for no other purpose than to
give him fresh worries.
That evening, as he drove the cattle down along the Causeway for
water he met two teams of horses hauling loads of greasy-looking
timbers and black, oily pipes. The men who drove the teams were
strangers to him. Scroggie, or Heir Scroggie, as he was now commonly
called in the neighborhood, sat beside the driver of one of the
wagons.
"He's movin' a saw-mill up into the big woods," thought Billy. "But
where in the world did it come from!" he pondered as he looked after
the creaking loads.
He was not long to remain in doubt on that point. As he approached
the lake road another load of timbers and metal rounded the corner.
Two men were seated on the load, a big, broad-shouldered man and a
thin one. Some little distance behind another man was walking. It
was Hinter.
As the load drew close to where Billy stood partly concealed by a
clump of red willows, the driver halted his team for a rest after the
pull through the heavy sand, and apparently not noticing the boy,
spoke in guarded tones to his companion.
"If I had only listened to you, Jack, we wouldn't have lost that
whisky," he said. "I was dead sure nobody would go near that place.
And at that we didn't find what we did the job to get, did we? It'll
be just our luck to have that will turn up in time to cook our goose,
yet."
"Well, Tom, I reckon it's none of our funeral whether it turns up or
not," growled the other. "We're gettin' paid well fer what we're
doin', ain't we? If it turns up, Scroggie and the boss'll have to do
their own worryin'."
The driver cracked his whip and the load went on, swaying and
creaking as it left the soft sand for the corduroy.
A little further on Billy came face to face with Hinter. "How are
you, Billy?" spoke the man, pleasantly. "Still driving the cows down
to the lake for water, I see."
"Yep; they don't seem to take to the crick water," Billy replied.
"It's sort of scummy an' smells queer."
Hinter laughed constrainedly. "I've been pretty well through the
Settlement, and most of the creeks are like that," he replied. "What
do you suppose causes that scum and that peculiar odor?" he asked,
casually.
The boy shook his head. "I dunno; them cricks shouldn't be that way;
they're all spring-fed. Maybe you know?" looking straight into
Hinter's eyes.
"No," said Hinter, startled at the directness of look and question.
"I don't know."
He turned abruptly away to follow the wagons but Billy's voice
stopped him.
"Mr. Hinter, where did that stuff on them wagons come from?"
"Why, it belongs to Mr. Scroggie," Hinter answered. "It was brought
across from Ohio by schooner. You know what it is, I suppose?"
"I take it it's machinery an' stuff for a saw-mill," answered Billy
moodily. "Is it?"
"No. It's a couple of boring rigs, Billy. Mr. Scroggie is going to
earn the good will of all of us here by boring for water and giving
us fine wells on our farms. Don't you think that is mighty good of
him?"
"Yes, sir. If we had a good well I wouldn't have to drive the cows
down to the lake every night, like this."
"That's so, Billy." Hinter laughed and slapped the lad's shoulder.
"Well I'll see that he bores on your daddy's farm just as soon as he
strikes water on his own. I intend to help him get started, because
I think it's going to be a good thing for everybody. Besides, I know
boring-rigs from bit to derrick. It's my trade, you see."
Billy nodded. "An' is the schooner still anchored off here?" he
asked. "I might take a fish-boat an' row out to her, if she is."
"No," Hinter answered. "She didn't anchor off here; water's too
shallow. She anchored off Gibson's Grove, five miles up the point.
She's on her way back to Cleveland by now."
He was already several paces away, anxious to overtake the wagon.
Billy stood looking after him, a frown on his brow. "Gibson's
Grove," he repeated. "So that's where Gibson's Grove is!" Then the
message which the strangers had sent by old Harry might have had some
significance, after all.
Billy passed on slowly after his cows, up through the spicy pines to
the pebbled beach of the lake, pondering for a solution to the
biggest problem his young mind had ever had to wrestle with. He
seated himself on the prow of the big fish-boat, his eyes on the
thirsty cattle now belly-deep in the blue water, drinking their fill.
Along the shore stood the big reels used for holding the seines and
nets when not in use. The twine had been newly coal-tarred and the
pungent odor of the tar mingled pleasingly with the breath of pine
and the sweet freshness of the sun-warmed water.
Billy's eyes strayed to those reels and he sighed to think that the
washing and retarring of the nets was just another sign that the glad
summer holidays would soon be over and the drab days of fall--and
school--would soon be there. A low-flying flock of black ducks
passed over his head in flight from the lake's bosom where they had
rested through the day to the marsh feeding grounds across the point,
and the shadow passed from the boy's face.
After all fall had its compensations. Glorious days beneath lowering
skies in a wind-whipped blind were before him; stormy days when the
ducks would sweep in to his decoys and his old "double-barrel" would
take toll. If only Frank Stanhope was to be the teacher instead of
that cold-eyed, mean looking Johnston. He knew he would not get
along with Johnston. And school was to open on Monday. Great Scott!
The very thought made him shiver.
The cows waded to shore slowly, pausing to brush the troublesome
flies from bulging sides with moist noses, halting to drink again and
again, loath to leave this great body of cool delicious water. Billy
did not hurry them. He thought he understood their feelings in the
matter. It would be a long while before they would have a chance to
drink again. It must be awful, he reasoned, to have to do without a
drink so long. The thought made him thirsty. With his hands he
scooped a hole close to the edge of the lake, and slowly the
miniature well filled with milky water, which immediately cleared,
and lay before him limpid and sweet and fit for king or thirsty boy.
He stretched himself full length on the sand, and drank. When he
arose, wiping his mouth, the cows had moved off lazily towards the
Causeway. Billy did not follow at once. He did not want to miss the
dance of the fire-flies above the darkening marsh along the Causeway,
the twilight blush on the pine tips of Point Aux forest, the
light-house gleam, nor the prayer-time hush of the mystery-filled
rush-land. So he tarried beside the lake until the pines and cedars
had melted into indistinct masses and the call of the whip-poor-will
sounded faintly from far away. Then he turned homeward.
As he left the pine grove for the main road he discerned a lone
figure standing on the Causeway, with head lifted and turned towards
the still faintly glowing west, and his footsteps quickened.
"Teacher," he cried in surprise, "you here?"
Frank Stanhope turned slowly and held out his hands.
"Billy Boy," he said, with a smile, "I had to come, at last. Every
time you have offered to guide me to this old spot we knew and loved
and enjoyed together I have refused because--because I thought I
couldn't stand it: because I am unable to see what my heart and
senses tell me is here. But tonight I groped my way down, knowing
that you would find me and help me home."
He placed his hand on Billy's shoulder, and turned once again toward
the bay. "I am blind," he said, softly, "but I can tell you how it
looks across yonder. There's a white splash of water between deep
shadows, and there's just a faint tinge of crimson above the
tree-tops. The mist is rising off the marsh; the fire-flies are
playing cross-tag above the cat-tails. The light-house--"
He paused abruptly, and the boy felt the hand on his shoulder tremble.
"You tell me, Billy," he said huskily--"tell me if the light shines
as brightly as when we watched it together."
"Why, teacher, it's jest as bright as ever," cried the boy. "It fair
seems to laugh as it swings 'round an' jumps down the bay like a
long, white arm."
"Does it, Billy, does it?" cried the man, eagerly.
"Yep, an' everythin' else is jest like you said, too, only the red
streaks have gone from above the trees now."
"But the light is the same, isn't it, Billy?"
"Jest the same as ever. There, teacher, it fair laughed right out at
us then."
"Did it, Billy, did it? And is my face turned towards it now, Billy?"
"Not quite. There, now you are facin' it."
"Thanks. Now you mustn't tell me when it comes again--the light--I
want to see if I can feel it. I hope--"
He caught his breath and stood with lifted face, as the white light
swept it, lingered on it, drew from it reluctantly.
"Thank God," he whispered, and stood trembling. Then, as though to
himself, he said softly: "It is as though her soft hand touched these
eyes that will never see again."
Then, as the first note of a night-bird came soft and fluted from a
distant willow copse, Billy took his hand and drew him up along the
corduroy road stretching through the shadows.