It was staggering in its unexpectedness. A gasp came from the lips of
Barry Houston. He felt himself reeling,--only to suddenly straighten,
as though a crushing weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He
whirled excitedly and grasped the nearest onlooker.
"Go get Medaine Robinette. Hurry! Tell her that it is of the utmost
importance--that I have found the proof. She'll understand."
Then, struggling to reassure himself, he turned again to the prisoner.
Two hours later, in the last glint of day, the door opened, and a woman
came to his side, where he was finishing the last of many closely
written sheets of paper. He looked up at her, boyishly, happily.
Without waiting for her permission, he grasped her hand, and then, as
though eager for her to hear, he turned to the worn-faced man, now
slumped dejectedly in his chair.
"You understand, Thayer, that this is your written confession?"
The man nodded.
"Given in the presence of the sheriff, of Ba'tiste Renaud, of myself,
and the various citizens of Tabernacle that you see here?"
"Yes."
"Of your own free will, without threats or violence?"
"I guess so."
"And you are willing to sign it?"
The man hesitated. Then:
"I'd want to know what I was signing."
"Certainly. I intend to read it to you--so that all witnesses may hear
it. It is then to be filed with the district attorney. You can
signify its correctness or incorrectness after every paragraph. Is
that agreeable?"
"I guess so."
A pause. At last:
"'My name is Fred Thayer. I am forty-four years of age. Prior to
about a year ago, I was employed by the Empire Lake Mill and Lumber
Company as superintendent. I had occupied this position for some
fifteen or twenty years, beginning with it when it was first started by
Mr. Houston of Boston.' Is that right?"
A nod from the accused. Houston went on:
"'I figured from the first that I was going to be taken in partnership
with Mr. Houston, although nothing ever was said about it. I just took
it for granted. However, when years passed and, nothing was done about
it, I began to force matters, by letting the mill run down, knowing
that Mr. Houston was getting old, and that he might be willing to sell
out to me if things got bad enough. At that time, I didn't know where
I was going to get the money, but hoped that Mr. Houston would let me
have the mill and acreage on some sort of a payment basis. I went back
to see him about it a couple of times, but he wouldn't listen to me.
He said that he wanted to either close the thing out for cash or keep
on running it in the hope of making something of it.' That's all
right, isn't it, Thayer?"
"Yes."
"'I tried two or three times to get him to sell out to me, but we
couldn't get together on the terms. He always wanted cash, and I
couldn't furnish it--although I pretended that I had the money all
right, but that I simply did not want to tie it all up at once. About
this time--I think it was three or four years ago; I am not exactly
clear on the dates--a nephew of his named Thomas Langdon came out here,
under the name of John Corbin. He had been a black sheep and was now
wandering about the country, doing anything that he could set his hand
to for a living. I had known him since boyhood and gave him a job
under his assumed name. He pretended that he was very close to Mr.
Houston, and I thought maybe he could help me get the plant. But his
word was not worth as much as mine.' Have I taken that down correctly,
Thayer?"
"Yes. Except about Langdon. He told me when he came here that his
uncle had sent him out to straighten him up. But I don't guess it
makes much difference."
Houston, nevertheless, made the changes, glancing up once to assure
himself that Medaine still was there. She had not left his side. He
went on with the reading:
"'By this time, the mill had gotten to be a sort of mania with me, and
I almost had myself believing that Houston had promised me more than he
had given me. Then, a woman came out here, an Agnes Jierdon, a
stenographer, on her vacation. I met her and learned that she was from
Boston.'" A slight pressure exerted itself on Houston's arm. He
glanced down to see Medaine Robinette's hand, clasped tight. "'She
spent nearly the whole summer here, and I made love to her. I asked
her to marry me, and she told me that she would. She was really very
much in love with me. I didn't care about her--I was working for a
purpose. I wanted to use her--to get her in Houston's office. I
wanted to find out what was going on, so that I would know in advance,
and so that I could prepare for it by having breakage at the mill, to
stop contracts and run things farther down than ever, so the old man
would get disgusted and sell out at my terms. I knew there would be a
mint of money for me if I could get hold of that mill. At the end of
her vacation, she went back to Boston and got a job with Houston, as an
office clerk. Almost the first thing that she wrote me was that the
old man was thinking about selling out to some concern back East.'"
Houston looked toward the accused man for his confirmation, then
continued.
"'While she had been out here, I had told her that Houston had promised
to take me into partnership and that he had gone back on his word. I
put it up to her pretty strong about how I had been tricked into
working for him for years, and she was sympathetic with me, of course,
inasmuch as she was in love with me. Naturally, when she heard this,
she wrote me right away. It made me desperate. Then I thought of
Ba'tiste Renaud.'"
"Ah!" The word was accompanied by a sharp intake of breath as the big
French-Canadian moved closer to hear again the story of a murder. But
the sheriff motioned him back. The emotions of the old trapper were
not to be trusted. The recital went on:
"'Everybody around this country had always talked about how rich he
was. There was a saying that he didn't believe in banks and that he
kept more than a hundred thousand dollars in his little cabin. At this
time, both he and his son were away at war, and I thought I could steal
this money, place it in other hands, and then work things so that if I
did get hold of the mill, people around here would merely think I had
borrowed the money and bought the mill with it. By this time, a cousin
of Miss Jierdon's, a fellow named Jenkins, had gotten a job with
Houston and was working with her, and of course, I was hearing
everything that went on. It looked like the deal was going through,
and it forced me to action. One night I watched Mrs. Renaud and saw
her leave the house. I thought she was going to town. Instead, after
I'd gotten into the cabin, she came back, surprising me. There wasn't
anything else to do. I killed her, with a revolver.'"
"_Diable_!"
"Easy, Ba'tiste. That's the way you gave it to me, isn't it, Thayer?"
"Yes. I shot twice at her. The first bullet missed."
Again the door of the tiny lobby opened and closed, and a form edged
forward,--Blackburn, summoned from his mill. Thayer glanced at him,
then lowered his eyes. Houston made the additional notation on the
confession and went back to his reading:
"'When I found the deed box, there was only ten thousand dollars in it
instead of the fortune that I had supposed was there. I was about to
take it out and stuff it into my pocket, when I heard a noise outside
the window. Thinking it was Renaud's wolf-dog, and that he might give
the alarm, I pushed the box under my coat and ran out the back door.
The next day, Corbin--or Langdon--came to me and demanded his share of
what I had stolen. He said that he had seen me at the deed box after I
had killed the woman, that he had made the noise outside the window. I
put him off--denying it all. But it wasn't any use. At first he
threatened that he would go to the sheriff at Montview, and for several
days he came to me, telling me that this was the last chance that he
would give me if I didn't let him have his share. I played him for
time. Then he began to beg small amounts of money from me, promising
to keep still if I gave them to him. I guess this kept up for two or
three months, the amounts getting larger all the time. At last, I
wouldn't stand it any longer. He threatened me again,--and then,
suddenly, one day disappeared. I hurried to Montview, thinking of
course that he had gone there, hoping to catch him on the way. But no
one had seen him. Then I went to Tabernacle and learned that he had
bought a ticket for Boston, and that he had left on a morning train. I
knew what was up then; he was going back to tell Old Man Houston and
try to step into my shoes when I was arrested. But I beat him there by
going over the range in an automobile, and taking an earlier train for
Boston. I picked him up when he arrived and trailed him to young
Houston's office. After that I saw them go to a cafe, and from there
to a prize fight. I bought a ticket and watched them from the rear of
the hall. I had my gun with me--I had made up my mind to kill them
both. I thought Langdon had told. After the fight, they started out,
myself in the rear. Young Houston had gotten a mallet from the
timekeeper. On the way home, I could hear them talking, and heard
Houston asking Langdon why he wanted to see the old man. By that I
knew that it hadn't been told yet--and I felt safer. Then they got in
a quarrel, and my chance came. It was over the mallet--Langdon took it
away from his cousin and started to fight him. Houston ran. When he
was well out of sight, I went forward. No one was near. Langdon still
had the mallet in his hand. I crept up behind him and clubbed my
revolver, hitting him on the head with it. He fell--dead--and I knew I
was safe, that Houston would be accused.'"
Barry looked earnestly at the man before him.
"That's all true, isn't it, Thayer?"
"I haven't made any objection, have I?" came surlily.
"I merely wanted to be sure. But to go on: 'Then I thought of a way to
get what I wanted from Miss Jierdon. This was several months
afterward, just before the trial. I argued that I was sure young
Houston hadn't committed the murder, and that if some woman could
testify to the fact that Langdon had that mallet, it might free
Houston, and make a hit with the old man and that maybe he would make
good on his promises. I did it pretty skilfully and she listened to
me, largely, I guess, because she was in love with me. Anyway, it
ended with her testifying at the trial in a sort of negative way. I
didn't care about that--it was something else I wanted. Later after
the old man had died, I used it. I wanted her to switch some papers on
young Mr. Houston for me, and she bucked against it. Then I told her
that she had done worse things, that she had perjured herself, and that
unless she stayed by me, she could be sent to the penitentiary. Of
course, I didn't tell her in those exact words--I did it more in the
way of making a criminal out of her already, so that the thing she was
going to do wouldn't seem as bad to her. I wasn't foolish enough to
threaten her. Besides, I told her that the mill should have been
rightfully mine, that the old man had lied to me and gotten me to work
for him for years at starvation wages, on promises that it would be
mine some time, and that he had neither taken me in partnership, nor
left it to me in the will. She got her cousin to help her in the
transfer of the papers; it was a lease and stumpage contract. He
affixed a notary seal to it. The thing was illegitimate, of course.
Shortly after that, young Houston came out here again, and I got her to
come too. I wanted to see what he was up to. He fired me, and while
he was in Denver, and Renaud away from the mill, I got Miss Jierdon and
took her for a walk, while one of the other men kept watch for the cook
who was asleep. But she didn't wake up. On the way back, Miss Jierdon
saw that the mill was burning, and I directed her suspicion toward
Renaud. She accused him, and it brought about a little quarrel between
Miss Jierdon and young Houston. I had forced her, by devious ways, to
pretend that she was in love with him--keeping that perjury thing
hanging over her all the time and constantly harping on how, even
though he was a nice young fellow, he was robbing us both of something
that was rightfully ours. All this time, I had dodged marrying her,
promising that I would do it when the mill was mine. In the meantime,
with the lease and contract in my hands, I had hooked up with this man
here, Blackburn, and he had started a mill for me. I guess Miss
Jierdon had gotten to thinking a little of Houston, after all, because
when I forced her to the final thing of telling some lies about him to
a young woman, she did it, but went away mad at me and threatening
never to see me again. But a little while later, she came back. Our
relations, while she had been at the Houston camp, hadn't been exactly
what they should have been. Miss Jierdon is dead--she had stayed in a
little cabin in the woods. I had lived with her there. About ten days
ago, the baby died, while I was laid up at camp with a sprained hip.
To-day I went there to find her dead, and while I was there, Renaud and
young Houston caught me. This is all I know. I make this statement of
my own free will, without coercion, and I swear it to be the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.'"
The little lobby milled and buzzed, drowning the scratching of the pen
as a trembling man signed the confession, page by page. Then came the
clink of handcuffs. A moment later two figures had departed in the
dusk,--the sheriff and Fred Thayer, bound for the jail at Montview.
Houston straightened, to find a short, bulky form before him, Henry
Blackburn.
"Well?" questioned that person. "I guess it's up to me. I--I haven't
got much chance against that."
"What do you mean?"
"Simply this," and the bulky Blackburn drew a nervous, sweating hand
across his brow. "I ain't above dealing with crooks, I'll admit that.
I've done a few things in my life that haven't been any too straight,
or any too noble, and when Thayer came to me with this contract and
lease, I didn't ask any questions. My lawyer said it was O. K. That
was enough for me. But somehow or other, I kind of draw the line at
murder. I'm in your hands, Houston. I've got a mill up there that
I've put a lot of money in. It ain't worth the powder to blow it up
now--to me, anyway. But with you, it's different. If you want to make
me a fair offer, say the word, and I'll go more than half-way. What
say?"
"Is to-morrow time enough?"
"To-morrow--or the next day--or the next week. Suits me. I'm in your
hands."
Then he went on, leaving only three figures in the lobby,--the bent,
silent form of Ba'tiste Renaud, grave, but rewarded at last in his
faithful search; the radiant-eyed Houston, free with a freedom that he
hardly believed could exist; and a girl who walked to the window and
stood looking out a moment before she turned to him. Then impetuously
she faced him, her eyes searching his, her hands tight clasped, her
whole being one of supplication.
"I'm sorry," she begged. "Can you--will you forgive me?"
Boyishly Barry Houston reached forward and drew away a strand of hair
that had strayed from place, a spirit of venture in his manner, a
buoyant tone in his voice.
"Say it again. I like it!"
"But I am--don't you believe me?"
"Of course. But then--I--I--" Then he caught her hands. "Will you go
with me while I telegraph?" he asked in sudden earnestness. "I want to
wire--to the papers back in Boston and tell them that I've been
vindicated. Will you--?"
"I'd be glad to."
They went out the door together, Houston beaming happily downward, the
girl close beside him, her arm in his. And it was then that the
features of Ba'tiste Renaud lost their gravity and sorrow. He looked
after them, his eyes soft and contented. Then his big hands parted
slowly. His lips broke into a smile of radiant happiness.
And it was with the same glad light in his eyes that three months later
Ba'tiste Renaud stood on the shores of Empire Lake, his wolf-dog beside
him, looking out over the rippling sheen of the water. The snow was
gone from the hills now; the colors were again radiant, the blues and
purples and greens and reds vying, it seemed, with one another, in a
constantly recurring contest of beauty. Afar off, logs were sliding in
swift succession down the skidways, to lose themselves in the waters,
then to bob along toward the current that would carry them to the
flume. The jays cried and quarreled in the aspens; in a little bay, an
old beaver made his first sally of the evening, and by angry slaps of
his tail warned the rest of the colony that humans were near.
Distantly, from down the bubbling stream which led from the lake, there
sounded the snarl of giant saws and the hum of machinery, where, in two
great mills, the logs traveled into a manufactured state through a
smooth-working process that led from "jacker" to "kicker", thence to
the platforms and the shotgun carriages; into the mad rush of the bank
saws, while the rumbling rolls caught the offal to cart it away; then
surging on, to the edgers and trimmers and kilns. Great trucks rumbled
along the roadways. Faintly a locomotive whistled, as the switch
engine from Tabernacle clanked to the mills for the make-up of its
daily stub-train of lumber cars. But the attention of Ba'tiste Renaud
was on none of these. Out in a safe portion of the lake was a boat,
and within it sat two persons, a man and a woman, their rods flashing
as they made their casts, now drawing slowly backward for another whip
of the fly, now bending with the swift leap of a captive trout. And he
watched them with the eyes of a father looking upon children who have
fulfilled his every hope, children deeply, greatly beloved.
As for the man and the woman, they laughed and glanced at each other as
they cast, or shouted and shrilled with the excitement of the leaping
trout as the fly caught fair and the struggle of the rod and reel
began, to end with another flopping form in the creel, another delicacy
for the table at camp. But at last the girl leaned back, and her fly
trailed disregarded in the water.
"Barry," she asked, "what day's to-morrow?"
"Wednesday," he said, and cast again in the direction of a dead,
jutting tree, the home of more than one three-pounder. She pouted.
"Of course it's Wednesday. But what else?"
"I don't know. Let me see. Twentieth, isn't it?"
This time her rod flipped in mock anger.
"Barry," she commanded. "What day is tomorrow?"
He looked at her blankly.
"I give it up," came after deep thought. "What day is to-morrow?"
She pressed tight her lips, striving bravely for sternness. But in
vain. An upward curve made its appearance at the corners. The blue
eyes twinkled. She laughed.
"Foolish!" she chided. "I might have expected you to forget. It's our
first monthiversary!"