AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.
MR. SWAN and his young friends at once went ashore and set out for the
hotel, the former to tell “the boys” that he had struck the trail of the
man they most wanted to see, and Joe and his companions to examine the
rods the landlord had in his possession, and to engage some one who was
handy with tools to repair the skiff. They left me lying in my usual
place on the stern locker, with Jim and the two bait-rods for company.
I had heard so much about Indian Lake and its hotels that I had pictured
them out to myself, and thought I could tell pretty near how they
looked; but nevertheless I was greatly surprised by what I saw around
me. I told myself that the boy who could not find there what he wanted
in the way of recreation, must be hard to suit. If he was fond of gay
company and liked such places as Saratoga and Long Branch, he would
probably stop at the “American” on the further side of the lake; but if
he were an angler and a lover of nature, or if he desired to get away
somewhere and rest, he would choose the “Sportsman’s Home” every time.
The house itself looked like a hunter’s camp on a grand scale, or like
the cabins of the loggers I afterward saw in the wilds of Maine, only it
had two stories instead of one. It was built entirely of logs, which had
been painted with some substance that I don’t know the name of, but it
sparkled in the bright sunlight like a covering of ice. In the groves
that surrounded the hotel on all sides, were log houses, tents and
shanties without number. Noisy children were running in and out among
the trees, the clashing of croquet balls was almost incessant, sportsmen
in dogskin jackets, leather helmets and leggings, and guides in blue
shirts and cowhide boots were constantly going and coming, and every one
that I saw seemed to be enjoying himself. This was one of the happy
parties that Matt Coyle was determined to break up because the landlords
refused to trust their guests to his care! It was no wonder Mr. Swan and
his brother guides were anxious to rid the country of the presence of
such a villain. While I was thinking about it I heard myself addressed
in a faint voice; and upon looking in the direction from which it came,
I discovered a seedy breech-loader resting against the thwart of the
neighboring canoe.
“You don’t seem to remember me,” said he, reproachfully.
“I can’t say that I do,” was my reply. “I think you have made a mistake
in the fly-rod.”
“No, I haven’t,” said he, confidently. “I knew you before you left Mr.
Brown’s store. Don’t you remember the English fowling-piece that had the
dispute with that conceited bamboo?”
So this was my old acquaintance, the “Brummagem shooting-iron,” was it?
It was right on the point of my tongue to remind him that the bamboo had
not showed himself to be any more conceited than he was; but I didn’t
say it. I judged by his appearance that he had seen pretty hard times
since he left Mr. Brown’s protecting care. He had sneeringly told me
that I was not worth the modest price that had been set upon me, but,
here I was, as bright as ever, while he looked as though he had been
through half a dozen wars.
“I remember you now,” said I, “but you have changed so much that I did
not recognize you at first. Where have you been, and what have you done
since that countryman of yours ordered you to be sent up to the Lambert
House?”
“He was no countryman of mine,” replied the double barrel, sadly. “He
was a full-fledged Yankee who tried to pass himself off for something
better than he really was. But he’s got all over that; the guides
laughed him out of it.”
“Did they laugh you into your present condition?” I asked, remembering
that the double barrel had also tried to pass himself off for something
better than he really was.
“Eh? No,” he replied, indignantly. “It’s the result of abuse and
hardship. Last year I was stolen out of camp—”
“By whom?” I interrupted, excitedly.
“By a vagabond who calls himself Matt Coyle,” was the reply. “His old
shanty leaked like a sieve, and I got wet and rusty. That’s what makes
me look so bad.”
“How did your master get you back?”
“I heard the story about in this way: In less than an hour after I was
stolen, a dirty, unkempt boy made his appearance in my master’s camp,
and told him that he had been fishing on the pond all the afternoon,
that he knew the man who took me, and for a reward of ten dollars he
would follow me up and steal me back again.”
“Of course your master wasn’t deceived by any such shallow trick as
that!” I exclaimed.
“Well, he was. You see, he and the two young fellows who come up here
with him every summer, never hire a guide. As they seldom venture more
than twenty or thirty miles away from the lake, and never leave the
water courses, there’s really no need of a guide; but if they had had
one when that boy came into camp, he would have saved my master from
imposition. As it was, he promised to give him the ten dollars, and
before sunset I was brought back. But it had rained buckets during my
absence, I was wet inside and out, my master did not know enough to take
care of me, and that’s how I came to be in this fix. They’re coming now,
and we are off again, I suppose.”
I looked toward the hotel, and there was the young man with the gold
eye-glasses, peaked shoes and downy upper lip—the same knowing fellow,
who had been foolish enough to take a cheap gun that wasn’t warranted,
with the expectation that it would do as good work as a Greener.
“We’re going up to the pond, and I shall be called upon to fire heavier
charges than I can stand at every thing in the shape of a partridge or
squirrel that comes in my way,” added the double barrel.
“You ought not to be required to shoot those birds at this time of
year,” said I. “It’s against the law.”
“Oh, I don’t hurt them any. I only shoot at them. I never killed any
thing.”
“That’s just what Mr. Brown said when he sold you,” thought I. “Have you
a dog to guard your camp? Well, you ought to have. Matt Coyle lives up
there, and night before last he made a daring attempt to steal this
skiff, and then he tried to sink her. Don’t you see the hole in her
side?”
I was going on to tell the double barrel that if his master did not keep
his eyes open he might expect another visit from the squatter, but just
then I saw Joe Wayring and his friends coming down the bank; and as I
was more interested in them and the rods they carried on their
shoulders, than I was in the fortunes of the seedy-looking fowling
piece, I had nothing more to say to him. I saw him once afterward, and
then he was a perfect wreck of a gun. There wasn’t enough of him left to
sell for old iron.
“Haw! haw!” said Roy, as he jumped into the skiff. “We’ve got them back
again, and only one of them is the worse for being stolen by that
squatter.”
I wondered which one that was, and found out when Arthur Hastings began
taking his rod from its case. It was a beautiful rod, and looked strong
enough to handle any fish that was likely to be encountered in that
country; but the second joint was broken close to the ferrule. I looked
pityingly at him, little dreaming that I was destined to go home in the
same crippled condition.
“I don’t believe that any bass that ever wiggled a fin could break that
rod,” said Arthur, dolefully. “Matt or some of his vagabond band must
have caught the hook into a log or the stem of a lily-pad. Well, it
isn’t as bad as it might be, but I hate to think that that squatter has
made some money out of me.”
While the boys were waiting for the guide who had promised to come down
and look at the skiff, they talked of their interview with the landlord
of the Sportsman’s Home, and in that way I came to know just what
happened when they went up to see the rods he had purchased of Jake
Coyle. Of course they recognized them at once, and promptly handed over
the money that Mr. Hanson had paid for their property, but said nothing
about paying for the rods that belonged to Tom Bigden and his cousins.
“Hadn’t you better take them all?” asked the landlord. “You say that the
boys from whom these rods were stolen live in Mount Airy, and perhaps
they would be grateful to you for returning them.”
“I think we’d better not have any thing to do with them,” said Arthur.
“But we’ll forward them a dispatch and let them send or come after the
rods. They’ve nothing else to do.”
There was telegraphic communication between Indian Lake and Mount Airy,
by the way of New London, and Arthur wrote and sent off the dispatch
before he left the hotel. If he and his chums had been able to look far
enough into the future to see every thing that was to result from this
simple act, they would have been greatly astonished. I know I was when I
heard the full particulars.
In a few minutes the expected guide came down to the beach and gave the
skiff a careful examination. After he had stripped off the canvas and
bark, so that he could see the full extent of her injuries, he remarked
that Matt’s scow must have hit her a middling heavy crack.
“I should say she did,” replied Joe, with a laugh. “When three strong
fellows do their level best with paddles, they can make a small boat get
through the water with considerable speed. They hit us hard enough to
knock Arthur overboard. Who are those men, and where are they going in
such haste?” he continued, directing the guide’s attention to a company
of guests and boatmen who were walking rapidly toward the beach.
“Two of them are the gentlemen whose camps were robbed the other day,”
replied the guide, after he had taken a glance at the party. “They’ve
got some friends to help them, and are going out to see if they can
track down them varmints who have been kicking up so much fuss about
here of late. There comes Swan. He’s going with them, but they might as
well stay at home, the whole of them. That Matt Coyle can cover up his
trail like an Injun. It took every guide in the country to hunt him down
the last time we drove him away from here.”
“You missed it by not putting him in jail,” said Roy.
“That’s just what we wanted to do,” answered the guide. “But when we
come to talk to some of the guests about it—there was lawyers among
them, you know—we found that we didn’t have any evidence that would
convict him. We suspected him, but we could not prove any thing.”
“You’ll not be troubled in that way this time,” Arthur remarked. “You’ll
have the guns for evidence.”
“Don’t fool yourself,” said the guide. “Do you suppose that they will
find that three hundred dollar scatter-gun and that fifty dollar rifle
when they find Matt Coyle—that is, if they do find him? Not by a great
sight. Them things is safe hid in the woods. Matt’ll sw’ar that he
didn’t hook ’em, and there ain’t a living man that can sw’ar that he
did. The only thing they can do is to burn him out of house and home,
like we did last time, and force him to go off somewhere and steal a new
outfit.”
“What’s the reason we can’t go with them?” said Joe, suddenly.
“I reckon you can. You know more about the woods than some of that party
do, and you might be of some use to them.”
“Well, look here, Mr. Morris: Will you fix up our boat in good shape,
give her a coat or two of paint and take care of the things that we
shall be obliged to leave behind us?”
“I will, sartain,” answered the guide, readily.
In an instant both the lockers were opened, and Joe Wayring, snatching
up a camp basket, started post-haste for the hotel to hire a skiff and
purchase a small supply of provisions for the trip, leaving Roy and
Arthur to select the outfit. The tent and the most of their heavy
cooking-utensils were to be left behind. They were very useful articles,
of course, but they were not absolutely necessary to their existence, or
even to their comfort. Besides, the skiff that would be provided for
them would not carry as much “duffle” as the roomy boat they were going
to leave in the guide’s keeping. Their bows and arrows, blankets, the
knapsacks that contained their extra clothing, and the frying pan must
go, of course; but every thing else was left behind.
While they were awaiting Joe’s return, Mr. Swan and his party came up,
got into their boats and pushed away from the beach. Mr. Morris pointed
out two stalwart gentlemen in shooting costume, who, he said, were the
owners of the stolen guns. They seemed to be in very bad humor, and the
boys did not wonder at it.
“I shouldn’t like to be in Matt’s place if those men get their hands on
him,” said Roy, in a low tone.
“Nor I,” answered the guide. “They sw’ar they’ll pound him before he
goes to jail, and they look to me like fellers that will keep their
word.”
“Say, boys,” exclaimed Mr. Swan, as he backed water with his oars and
brought his boat to a stand-still at the stern of the skiff, “can’t you
stay here till we come back? We want your evidence.”
“We’ll be around, you may depend upon that,” returned Roy. “But we’re
not going to stay here, if you will let us take part in the hunt. Joe
has gone up to the hotel after a boat.”
“Oh! All right,” said Mr. Swan. “Them’s two of the lads that had the
battle in the dark that I was telling you about,” he added, addressing
himself to the owner of the lost “scatter-gun”, who was his employer.
“Well, I must say that they are plucky fellows, and that they deserve
better luck,” said the gentleman, returning the military salute which
the boys gave him from sheer force of habit. “I hope their skiff can be
easily repaired, Mr. Morris?”
“No trouble about that, sir,” answered the guide. “She’ll be right and
tight before sundown—all except the paint.”
After telling Roy and his companion that if they did not overtake him
before, they would find him encamped somewhere on the bank of the creek
near the pond, Mr. Swan applied himself to his oars, and a fleet of
seven boats, manned by fourteen angry and determined guides and guests,
set out in pursuit of Matt Coyle and his thieving crew. Ten minutes
later Joe Wayring returned, accompanied by a guide and a small party of
ladies and gentlemen. The former was to show him what boat he could
take, and the latter were listening with much interest to Joe’s graphic
account of his adventures with the squatter. Joe was surprised to learn
that Matt’s way of creeping up through the bushes and robbing unguarded
camps, had frightened the women and children so badly that they refused
to go into the woods until the thief had been captured and safely lodged
in jail. That depended upon the evidence Joe could give to put him
there.
“That’s all mighty fine,” said Mr. Morris, after listening to what Joe
had to say of his conversation with the stranger, “but they don’t give a
thought to the hardest part of the business. Matt ain’t caught yet, and
there’ll have to be a heap of hard work done before he is shut up so’t
he can’t steal no more scatter-guns; you see if there ain’t. I’d like to
take a hand in the hunt myself, but I’ve got to go out with the same man
I guided for last year, and he’s liable to come along any day.”
Their boat having been pointed out to them, Joe and his companions lost
no time in putting their effects aboard of it. Then they bade Mr. Morris
good-by, lifted their caps to the party on shore, and rowed down the
lake and up the creek in pursuit of the fleet. They overtook Mr. Swan
and his party just before they landed to eat their lunch, traveled in
company with them during the rest of the day, and went into camp with
them at night. I had abundant opportunity to compare notes with the
three recovered bait-rods, who corroborated the story that was told me
by the canvas canoe, and which I have already given to the reader in my
own words. The squatter was fully resolved, they said, that if he
couldn’t act as guide in those woods, nobody should; and the worst of it
was, he seemed to be in a fair way to accomplish his object. The
sportsmen who patronized the hotels came there for fun and recreation;
and it wasn’t likely that they could see much of it if their wives and
children were to be prevented from accompanying them on their fishing
excursions through fear of this man, Matt Coyle. The owners of the
Lefever hammerless and Winchester rifle didn’t see much fun in having
their fine weapons stolen, and if these depredations were not stopped,
and that speedily, it would not be long before the guests would be
looking for some place of resort where thieves were not quite so plenty.
“But even that isn’t the worst of it,” continued Joe’s bait-rod, who did
the most of the talking. “Every thing seems to indicate that the
squatter is going to have a bigger following now than he has been able
to boast of in the past. He isn’t the only worthless scamp there is in
the woods, by any means. You know, I suppose, that the State fish
commissioners have established a hatchery at the outlet of Deer Lake, a
few miles from here?”
I replied that I had not heard of it.
“Well, they have, and the superintendent wants to prohibit fishing
there, so that he can get a supply of eggs large enough to stock all
these waters, which will soon be stripped of trout unless there are some
put in to take the place of the multitudes that are caught every year.
The superintendent sets traps in the outlet to catch the fish so that he
can get their eggs, and three or four fellows who live right there, and
who look enough like Matt Coyle to be his brothers, go to the outlet
every night and cut the nets. The superintendent threatened to have them
arrested if they didn’t quit it, and they told him that they had always
fished in that outlet, and if he wanted the hatchery buildings to stay
there, he hadn’t better try to stop them. I heard the whole
conversation. I was down there when old Dead Shot was broken.”
“Who’s Dead Shot?” I inquired.
“I am,” faintly replied Arthur Hastings’s crippled rod.
“Why, that’s a queer name for you to bear,” said I. “I think it would be
more appropriate for a shot-gun or rifle.”
“Perhaps it would; but Arthur has always called me that since I caught
his first string of yellow pike for him, and it is the name I go by. I
never let a fish get away when I get a good grip on him—that is, when I
have some one to handle me who knows what he is about. But Jake don’t
know any thing about a rod, for he has always fished with a pole he cut
in the bushes. On the day the superintendent talked so plainly to the
vagabonds who cut his nets, Jake was fishing in the outlet, and Matt was
hiding in one of the cabins. A little fish—I should not think he weighed
more than a pound, judging by the bite he gave—took the hook, which was
baited with worms, and Jake tried to yank him out by main strength, as
he had always been in the habit of doing; but the line caught between
two rocks, and as Jake threw back his head and surged on me with all the
muscle he had, I broke. That’s all there was of it.”
“And do you think that Matt Coyle will strike hands with those fellows
at the outlet?” I asked, when Dead Shot had ended his story.
“He has done it already, and our friends here have undertaken a bigger
job than they bargained for,” answered the bait-rod. “Those vagabonds
are all tarred with the same stick. They sympathize with Matt, and will
hide him in their houses and help him in every way they can.”
“Haven’t we got force enough to go into the houses and take him out?”
“We’ve got the force, but not the authority. There’s not an officer or a
search-warrant in our party.”
Not being posted in law, I did not quite understand the situation, but I
didn’t like to ask any more questions. It was enough for me to know that
Matt Coyle seemed to have the best of the game. Indeed, he always seemed
to have it.