THE SQUATTER TURNS UP AGAIN.
ONE fishing excursion is much like another, and any boy who has handled
a nicely-balanced bait-rod when the black bass, perch, and yellow pike
were hungry and full of fight, as they were on the morning of which we
write, will have a clearer idea of the sport Tom Bigden and the rest
enjoyed there on the pond than we could possibly give him. We did not
follow them through the rapids to tell how they played their fish and
how many they caught, and so we shall have but little to say about it.
Joe Wayring affirmed that the twenty minutes’ fight he had with a nine
pound pike, which began in less than half a second after he dropped his
hook into the water, gave him solid comfort and enjoyment for a week
afterward; but whether or not he found any comfort in something that
happened when they went ashore to eat their lunch, is another matter
altogether.
About eight o’clock the fish gave notice that they had quit business for
the day by refusing to notice any of the lures that were dropped among
them, and then the boys discovered that their long pull before breakfast
had made them hungry.
“Did you ever eat a fish that had been baked in the ashes?” inquired
Joe, addressing himself to Tom and his cousins. “Then you have yet one
enjoyment in store for you. You won’t think much of house-cooking after
you have eaten one of Roy’s dinners. We know a nice place on the point
above, with an ice-cold spring handy, and we’ll—”
“Excuse me for interrupting,” said Loren, suddenly. “But did you ever
see a dog like that before?”
The speaker was not a little surprised by the effect his words produced
upon some of his companions. They all looked in the direction indicated
by his finger, and then Joe began pulling up his anchor with almost
frantic haste, while Arthur and Roy reached rather hurriedly for their
guns.
“You can’t do any thing with him from here,” said Joe.
“And if we paddle for the shore he will see us and take to his heels,”
added Roy.
“Why who—what are you going to do to him?” stammered Ralph.
“We’d be glad to shoot him if we could,” replied Joe. “He’s no dog. He’s
a half-grown bear.”
Tom and his cousins, of course, asked a good many questions with their
lips and more with their eyes, but Joe and his two friends were too busy
to answer them. They made all haste to raise their anchors, and then
pulled rapidly but silently toward the shore, all the while keeping a
close watch over the movements of the bear, which was wandering
listlessly about, now and then stopping to look into the water or to
sniff at a log, as if he were hunting for something he had lost. Tom and
his cousins thought he looked too small for a bear, but as he did not
walk or act like a dog or any other animal they had ever seen at large,
they were forced to conclude that he really was a bear, and that he was
in search of his breakfast. They didn’t know whether to be afraid of him
or not; but when they saw how anxious Joe and his two friends were to
bring themselves within shooting distance of him, they lost no time in
pulling up their own anchors and falling in behind them. The bear,
however, was not to be taken unawares. He did not appear to notice their
approach, but he had his eyes on them nevertheless, and when he thought
they had come close enough, he left the beach and lumbered off into the
bushes.
“There!” said Tom, who was glad to see the last of him. “He has taken
himself safely off.”
“We expected it,” said Roy, redoubling his exertions at the paddle. “If
we only had Mars with us we could see more fun with him in half an hour
than we could in a week’s fishing. He begged hard to be allowed to come,
but Joe made him stay behind. You see, he won’t sit anywhere but in the
bow, and he is so heavy that he makes a canoe hard to manage in rough
water.”
“He wouldn’t trail the bear, would he?”
“Of course he would, and be glad of the chance. If he found him, he
would set up such a yelping that you would think there were a dozen dogs
in the woods.”
“What are you going to do now?” inquired Ralph, as the six canoes ran
their bows upon the beach, one after the other.
“We are going to stretch our legs, and that will be a comfort after
sitting in such cramped positions for four long hours,” replied Joe, at
the same time catching up his double-barrel and springing ashore with
it. “We’ll follow up his trail, which we can easily do for a mile or
more, because all the ground about here is swampy, and when we lose it,
we’ll knock over a few squirrels and go up to the point and eat our
breakfast. Keep close to us, or else stay within sight of the beach. The
woods are thick, and you could get lost without half trying.”
Led by Arthur Hastings, the boys ran up the shore of the pond until they
reached the place where the bear had turned off into the bushes, and
then the pursuit began in earnest. Whether or not Loren and Ralph were
as anxious to get a shot at the game as they pretended to be, it is hard
to tell; but they made a great show of eagerness and enthusiasm, and
Tom, not wishing to be out-done, floundered along the trail behind them.
But he did not keep his companions in sight for more than five
minutes—in fact, he didn’t mean to. He gradually fell to the rear, and
when the bushes closed up behind Roy Sheldon, who was the last boy on
the trail, Tom sat down on a log and thought about it.
“That bear doesn’t belong to me, and I don’t know that it is any concern
of mine whether they find him or not,” said he to himself. “It is easier
to sit here in the shade, even if one does have to fight musquitoes,
than it is to go prancing about through a swamp where the water, in some
places, is up to the tops of a fellow’s boots.”
Tom suddenly brought his soliloquy to a close and jumped to his feet.
There was a frightened expression on his face, but the determined manner
in which he gripped his gun showed that he had no intention of running
away until he had had at least one shot at the bear; for that it _was_
the bear which occasioned the slight rustling in the thicket a short
distance away, Tom had not the slightest doubt. Probably the animal had
made a short circuit through the woods, and was now coming back to the
pond to finish his breakfast. While these thoughts were passing through
Tom’s mind, the bushes toward which he was gazing parted right and left,
and a big red nose, with a shock of uncombed hair above and a mass of
tangled brown whiskers below it, was cautiously thrust into view, being
followed a moment later by the burly form of Matt Coyle, the squatter.
He was as ragged and dirty as ever, and carried a heavy rifle on his
shoulder.
The meeting, which was entirely unexpected, was a surprise to both of
them. To tell the truth, Tom was more alarmed when the squatter emerged
from the thicket than he would have been if the bear had made his
appearance. Matt Coyle was very angry at the Mount Airy people on
account of the indignities they had put upon him, and who could tell but
that Tom Bigden himself was included in the list of those against whom
he had threatened vengeance? The squatter seemed to read the thoughts
that were passing in the boy’s mind, for as soon as he could speak he
hastened to say:
“You needn’t be no ways skeary about meetin’ us. We ain’t forgot that
you was the only one who said a kind word to us while we was down
there”—here Matt gave his head a backward jerk intending, no doubt, to
indicate the village of Mount Airy—“an’ of course we ain’t got nothing
agin you.”
Tom drew a long breath of relief as he listened to these words. Matt
wouldn’t do any thing to him, and neither would he injure any of his
property.
“But as fur the rest of ’em, they had better watch out,” continued the
man, in savage tones. “I shan’t forget ’em, an’ I’ll even up with them
some day. It may be five year, an’ it may be ten; but I’ll even up with
’em.”
“What are you and your boys doing now?” inquired Tom. He did not like
the way the squatter glared around him when he spoke of the village
people, and he wanted to turn the conversation into another channel if
he could.
[Illustration: TOM UNEXPECTEDLY MEETS MATT COYLE.]
“We ain’t doin’ nothin’,” was the surly reply, “’cause why, we ain’t got
nothin’ to do with. We ain’t got a bite of meat in the house, an’ I was
after that there b’ar when you fellers come up an’ skeared him away. So
thinks I to myself, I’ll jest go down to the pond where their boats is,
an’ I’ll take the best one of ’em an’ cl’ar out afore they gets back.
Then I’d have somethin’ to do with.”
“Where would you go?”
“Up to Injun Lake. I’m the bulliest kind of a guide fur that neck of the
woods, an’ so’s my two boys; but you see we ain’t got no boats, an’
we’re too poor to buy ’em.”
“Why don’t you go to the hotels and hire out to them?” demanded Tom; and
then he wondered if there were a landlord in the world who would trust a
boat-load of passengers, ladies and children for instance, to the care
of the walking whisky barrel he saw before him.
“Didn’t I try that very thing down there”—another backward jerk of the
head—“an’ didn’t they tell me that they didn’t have no use fur sich
lookin’ fellers as me an’ my boys was?” exclaimed Matt Coyle, fiercely.
“They did fur a fact. But if I had a boat of my own I could go up to
Injun Lake where they ain’t so perticular about the clothes a man wears,
so long as he understands his business, an’ I’d make piles of money,
too; ’cause why—I’d work fur less’n the reg’lar hotel guides. See?”
“Yes, I see; but how long would it be before the regular guides would
run you out, the same as the Mount Airy people did? They would make the
country so hot for you that you couldn’t stay there.”
“Suppos’n they tried that little game on?” answered Matt, laying down
his rifle long enough to shake both his huge fists in the air. “Ain’t
that somethin’ that two can play at? I’d break up the business of
guidin’ in less’n two seasons.”
“How would you do it?”
“Yes, I would,” Matt went on. “If I only had a boat that was easy to
slip around in an’ light to tote over the carries, I’d make the folks
who come there fur fun so sick of them woods that they wouldn’t never
come there no more; then what would become of them two big hotels when
there wasn’t no custom to run ’em?”
“How would you go about it?” repeated Tom.
“Oh, there’s plenty of ways,” answered the squatter, shaking his head
knowingly.
“Give us one of them.”
“Wal, s’pos’n I should see a big party, with childern among ’em, start
out from one of them hotels as big as life, an’ I should foller along
after ’em, easy like, an’ some day, when there wasn’t no men folks
about, I should slip up, grab one of them childern an’ run him off to
the mountains? An’ s’pos’n one of my boys should happen to be loafin’
around that hotel when the party come back without the child, an’ should
hear that a reward of a hunderd, mebbe two hunderd dollars had been
offered fur his safe return? Couldn’t my boy easy hunt me up, an’
couldn’t I tote that young un back to his pap an’ claim them dollars?
Eh?”
Tom was so astounded that he could say nothing in reply. Matt Coyle was
a great deal worse than he thought he was. The squatter saw that his
solitary auditor was interested, and went on to tell of another way in
which he could break up the business of guiding in the wilderness about
Indian Lake, in case the people living there didn’t treat him and his
family as well as Matt thought they ought to be treated.
“Or s’pos’n there wasn’t no childern into the party,” said he. “There’d
be fine guns an’ fish poles an’ lots of nice grub, in course; an’
couldn’t I slip up to their camp when there wasn’t no body there to
watch it, an’ tote some of them guns an’ things off into the bresh an’
hide ’em? Oh, there’s plenty of ways to bust up guidin’ an’ them big
hotels along with it. They would think twice before bein’ too rough on
me, ’cause they know me up there to Injun Lake.”
And the man might have added that that was the very reason they drove
him away from there—because they knew him.
“But the trouble is, I ain’t got no boat of my own to run about with.
The punt, she’s too heavy, an’ I ain’t got no other,” continued Matt
Coyle; and then he stopped and looked hard at Tom, and Tom, in return,
looked hard at Matt. An idea came into his head; or, to speak more in
accordance with the facts, Tom suddenly recalled some words which the
squatter had let fall at the beginning of their interview.
“You said you were on your way to the pond to pick out a boat when you
met me,” said Tom. “Well, why don’t you go ahead and get it? There is
one among them that will just suit your purpose. It is a canvas canoe.
It is very light, and you can pack it across a four mile portage without
any trouble at all. If you don’t want to do that, you can take it to
pieces and carry it in your hand as you would a grip-sack. It will hold
up eight hundred pounds, and you can’t over-turn it by rocking it from
side to side.”
“Who belongs to it?” inquired Matt, who had never heard of such a craft
before.
“Joe Wayring; and his father is one of the Mount Airy trustees. Your
house was on his land, and if Mr. Wayring had said the word, you might
have been living happily there now, with plenty to do in the way of
boating and guiding and with money in your pocket,” said Tom, hoping
that this reference to Mr. Wayring and the influence he might have
exerted in Matt’s behalf, if he had seen fit to do so, would make the
squatter angry, and awaken in him a desire to be revenged on the son
since he could not harm the father in any way. The plan succeeded
admirably. Matt laid his rifle on the ground so that he could shake both
his fists, and the oaths and threats he uttered when he had thus
relieved himself of all incumbrance, were frightful to hear. He did not
yell, as he would like to have done, for he knew that the boys who had
gone in pursuit of the bear were not far away; but he hissed out the
words between his clenched teeth, and kicked and trampled down the
bushes in his rage.
“I’d take the boat now, even if I knowed it wouldn’t be of no use to
me,” said he, as soon as he could speak. “It’ll cost ole man Wayring
five an’ mebbe twenty dollars to buy him another—”
“More than that,” said Tom. “A good deal more.”
“Wal, it’ll be jest that much out of his pocket whatever it is,”
answered Matt Coyle. “Where did you say them boats was?”
“Right down there on the beach,” replied Tom, indicating the direction
with his finger. “You know which one I mean, don’t you? You’re sure you
can tell a canvas canoe from a Shadow or a Rob Roy?”
“Am I sure that I can tell a pipe from a shot gun?” retorted Matt.
“Yes, I suppose you can do that, but I am not so positive that you can
tell one canoe from another,” answered Tom. “Of course it wouldn’t be
safe for me to go down to the beach with you, for if Joe should happen
to be anywhere within sight, I’d be in a pretty fix. You may be sure I
shall not so much as hint that I saw you here in the woods, and you
mustn’t lisp it to a living person.”
“Course not,” said Matt. “Mum’s the word between gentlemen.”
Tom could scarcely restrain an exclamation of disgust. It looked as
though this blear-eyed ragamuffin considered himself quite as good as
the boy he was talking to.
“Take the canoe just as it stands,” continued Tom, “and you will find a
good lunch as well as a fine fishing-rod in it. Be lively now, for Joe
may come back at any moment. I’ll keep out of sight, for of course I
don’t want to know any thing about it.”
“I don’t care fur them new-fangled poles what’s got a silver windlass
onto the ends of ’em, an’ I wouldn’t tech it if I didn’t think I could
sell it to somebody; but I’ll go fur the grub, I tell you.”
So saying Matt Coyle went through with some contortions with the left
side of his face which were, no doubt, intended for a friendly farewell
wink, and stole off toward the beach; while Tom turned and walked away
in the opposite direction. When he thought he had put a safe distance
between himself and the pond, he sat down to await developments. Nor was
he obliged to wait long. A rifle cracked away off to the left of his
place of concealment, then a shot gun roared, and presently voices came
to him from the depths of the forest. Joe and his companions had given
up the chase, and were now on their way back to the pond, shooting
squirrels as they came. Tom knew when they passed by within less than a
hundred yards of him, and he knew, too, that they were surprised because
they did not meet him in the woods or find him on the beach, for they
set up a series of dismal whoops as soon as they reached the water’s
edge.
“Now for it,” thought Tom, drawing his hand over his face and looking as
innocent as though he had never been guilty of a mean act in his life.
“I’ve got to meet them some time, and it might as well be now as an hour
later. Whoop-pee!” he yelled in answer to the shouts that were sent up
from the shore of the pond.
Tom’s ears also told him when Joe Wayring first discovered that his
canvas canoe was missing. The yells suddenly ceased, and Tom heard no
more from Joe and his companions until he came out of the woods and
halted on the beach a short distance from the place where they were
standing. They were gathered in a group around Roy Sheldon, who was bent
over with his hands on his knees, and his eyes fastened upon a
foot-print in the mud. They were listening so eagerly to something Roy
was saying, that Tom walked up within reach of them before any of the
group knew that he was about.
“What have you found that is so very interesting?” inquired Tom, who
knew that he ought to open the conversation in some way.
“Oh, here you are,” exclaimed Hastings. “We could not imagine what had
become of you. Until we heard you call out there in the woods, we
supposed that the bear had come back, and that you had gone after him in
Joe’s boat.”
“Not by a long shot!” cried Tom, who saw very plainly what Arthur was
driving at. “I haven’t seen the bear since I lost sight of you, and if I
had, I should have gone away from him and not toward him. I have no
ambition to shine as a bear hunter, and consequently I am here safe and
sound.”
“But Joe’s canoe isn’t,” said Roy.
Tom looked, and sure enough the place where Joe had left his boat when
he went into the woods was vacant. With much apparent anxiety and
uneasiness he turned toward his canoe as if to satisfy himself that his
own treasures were safe, when Roy broke out with—
“Oh, you’re a sufferer the same as the rest of us. Your lunch and your
fine bait-rod have gone off to keep Joe’s canoe company. He took all our
rods and his pick of the fish, too, and it is a great wonder to me that
he was good enough to leave us our paddles.”
Tom was really surprised now, and he was deeply in earnest when he said:
“If I ever meet the man who did that I’ll have him arrested if I can
find any one to make out a warrant for him.” Then suddenly recollecting
that he was not supposed to know who the thief was, he added: “Do you
suspect any body?”
“No, we don’t suspect; we know,” answered Joe. “Look at that!”
“Can you tell a man’s name by looking at the print of his foot in the
mud?” asked Tom.
“I can tell that man’s name, for I know how he was shod the last time I
saw him,” replied Joe. “It was Matt Coyle. He made a good many threats
before he left the village, and he has begun to carry them out already.
He has put up his shanty somewhere in the vicinity of this pond, and
will make it his business to do some damage to every hunting and fishing
party that comes here.”
“Well, what are we standing here for?” exclaimed Tom, who had expected
before this time to hear somebody propose an immediate pursuit of the
robber.
“We might as well stay here and take it easy, as to get wild and rush
around through the woods for nothing,” replied Joe; and Tom was
surprised to see how ready he was to give his boat up for lost. “In the
first place, we couldn’t overtake the robber, and in the second, we
couldn’t recover our property if we did. The day of reckoning will
surely come, but we can’t do any thing to hasten it.”
The idea that the squatter would disturb any of the things in the other
canoes had never entered into Tom’s mind. Matt seemed to remember, with
as much gratitude as such a man was capable of, that Tom was one of the
few who sympathized with him when he was ordered out of Mount Airy, and
yet he had made little distinction between his property and that
belonging to the sons of the trustees who ordered him away. There was no
sham about his rage. He was angry because his elegant rod and German
silver bass reel had disappeared, and because he knew that he would
never dare have Matt Coyle arrested for the theft. If the latter should
go before a magistrate and repeat the words that had passed between Tom
and himself not more than half an hour ago, wouldn’t he be in a pretty
scrape? He was in one already, for the squatter had a hold upon him, and
subsequent events proved that Matt knew how to use it to his own
advantage.