THE DESERTED CABIN
‘Phoney?’ asked the sheriff.
Mr. Kinsey lifted some of the bills from one of the two stacks and
riffled the edges with a square thumb, nodding. These were tens; the
other pile held twenties. He passed one of the oblong slips of crisp
paper to the sheriff. ‘Rotten job,’ he said contemptuously. ‘Wouldn’t
fool a child. Look at the lathe work! And the threads, done with a fine
pen; no silk there. These are some of the same lot, Sheriff, as the
ones the banks picked up. I’d like mighty well to know who made the
plates. He must be a fool to think he could get away with anything as
crude as that!’
‘Well, now, I don’t know,’ said the sheriff slowly. ‘I reckon if some
one was to hand me one of those I wouldn’t suspect anything wrong with
it. ’Course, if I was on the lookout for queer money I might be leery.’
He handed the bill to the policeman.
‘I’d take it in a minute,’ said the latter, ‘if I didn’t know there was
bad ones around.’
Mr. Kinsey smiled and shook his head. ‘It will pay you to get a
genuine bill and study it,’ he said. ‘It’s a good thing to know what a
real ten-dollar bank-note looks like, Casey. Then maybe you won’t ever
get stung.’ He placed the bill back and retied the package. ‘Want to
run up there, Sheriff, and look things over?’ he asked as he climbed
back into the other boat.
‘Well, I dunno,’ was the reply. ‘Think there’s enough of us?’
‘Oh, there won’t be any trouble,’ answered Mr. Kinsey. ‘They’ve
skipped by this time. I’d just like to look the place over. Might find
something that would help me a bit.’
‘Well, if they’ve gone,’ objected the sheriff, ‘we’d better go back to
town, maybe, and work the ’phone.’
‘No hurry. I’d rather find out who they are first. I’m pretty sure
about Thorbourn, but this “Cocker” has me guessing. And there may have
been others in the gang.’
‘There was one more,’ said Pud, and he told about the man who ‘talked
funny.’
‘Italian, probably,’ commented Mr. Kinsey. ‘He was the engraver, I
guess. Well, let’s go.’
‘You come in here,’ directed the sheriff, ‘and we’ll pick up your
friends. Your boat will be all right, I reckon, till we get back.’
Pud obeyed, and the police launch, with Mr. Casey in charge, jumped
forward. That was, as Pud told himself, ‘some launch.’ It was long
and slender, with a sharp, high bow, and it gleamed with white paint
and mahogany and shining brass. The engine was housed in a compartment
to itself, well forward, and beyond that, perched on the bow deck, was
something concealed in a waterproof canvas cover that engaged Pud’s
curiosity tremendously until he finally realized, with a thrill, that
it was a small machine-gun.
To his surprise, the police launch, which bore no name, but had the
letters ‘L. P. D.’ painted on the bow, turned almost instantly into a
broad creek which the sheriff told him was Two-Pond Run.
‘That’s Second Pond there, son; where you spent the night. First Pond’s
two miles below.’
‘Gee,’ muttered Pud, ‘if I’d known that last night――’
‘Glad you didn’t,’ said Mr. Kinsey. ‘We might not have found you at
all. Suppose you tell us about your run-in with those fellows, Lank and
Cocker. I’d like to get it straight.’
So Pud began with their arrival at Corbin, with Gladys Ermintrude
aboard, and narrated their adventures down to the evening before when
sleep had overtaken him. He had three interested and, at moments,
slightly incredulous hearers.
‘Son,’ said the sheriff solemnly, ‘you’ve got a heap o’ pluck, and I’ll
be gol-swizzled if you haven’t got a head on your shoulders, too!’
‘He’s got something else that’s better than those,’ said Mr. Kinsey,
‘and that’s luck!’
‘Aren’t you hungry?’ asked the sheriff solicitously.
‘Starved,’ laughed Pud.
‘’Course you be! Tom, got anything to eat aboard?’
The policeman shook his head regretfully. ‘Afraid not,’ he said. ‘I
don’t know, though, Henry. Look in the little locker just back of you.
There might be some crackers.’
There were! Only part of a carton, but Pud, eating them ravenously,
was sure they had saved his life! There was plenty of cool water in
a copper tank with a little nickel faucet, and he made a breakfast.
While he ate, he listened to the conversation of the others. He learned
that the sheriff’s name was Bowker, that Mr. Kinsey was a detective of
the Department of Justice who had been sent to Livermore to find the
persons who had been flooding the country thereabouts with counterfeit
money, and that the latter’s presence aboard the launch was purely
an accident. He had, it appeared, been at Police Headquarters when
Sheriff Bowker had arrived to requisition the launch and had added
himself to the party. Pud learned, too, many interesting facts about
counterfeiters and their methods. The thought that the somewhat
friendly Lank was in reality a desperate criminal, one ‘wanted’ by the
Federal Government, stirred him considerably. Why, he and Lank had
talked together just like ordinary folks! And, more marvelous still,
he, Pud Pringle, alone and unaided, had foiled the villain! _Gee!_
‘Getting nigh Cypress Creek, son,’ announced the sheriff, breaking in
on Pud’s reflections. ‘Maybe you better watch for those partners of
yours.’
A minute or so later the launch slowed down, swung gracefully to the
right and nosed into the smaller stream. Pud recognized the scene,
although the morning sunlight gave it a far different aspect. Policeman
Casey’s voice came suddenly from the bow.
‘There they are,’ he said. ‘One white and one black. On the bank over
there.’
It was rather a sorry pair who sat on the rim of the creek and kept
watch over a dilapidated rowboat. There had been no fire this morning,
and, as a matter of course, no breakfast, and only within the last
half-hour had the sun’s warmth begun to drive the chill from their
bodies. But at sight of the launch they perked up immediately, their
delight tempered by dubious surprise at the discovery that the boat
was not only a strange one, but one inhabited by strange men. The
discovery of Pud brought relief, but at the next instant Tim saw the
uniformed officer and feared that his chum was in the hands of the Law.
Indeed, it took a good while for Pud to convince Tim that he wasn’t,
and he hadn’t quite succeeded when, with the outcasts aboard and the
skiff tied astern, the police launch came in sight of the cabin.
‘You boys better stay here and keep out of sight,’ said the sheriff,
jerking his pistol holster around to the front.
‘Oh, they’ve gone,’ said Mr. Kinsey confidently. ‘Door’s wide open, you
see. Let the kids come if they want to.’
So they all went, the three men well in advance, and Tim, ever
cautious, bringing up the rear. But no hostile demonstrations greeted
the party as, leaving the launch well upstream, they advanced through a
thicket and at last came to the edge of the small clearing. The cabin
was a ramshackle affair of weathered planks and pine slabs, with a roof
patched here and there with pieces of tin or squares of tar paper.
There was a sagging porch in front, a door and two windows. A third
window looked up the stream and a crazy brick-and-clay chimney peered
over the roof at them.
Mr. Kinsey gave a hail, but there was neither answer nor sign of
life, and they went on, crossed the rotting boards of the porch and
entered the cabin. It had probably never been commodiously furnished,
and perhaps what was left behind was all there ever had been; two
bedsteads built against the walls, a rickety table, the remains of a
canvas camp-chair, and four home-made stools. The cabin was divided
by a wooden partition into two rooms of unequal size, the smaller of
which had evidently served as kitchen and dining-room and the larger
as sleeping- and living-apartment. There was a two-year-old calendar
tacked to a wall and a litter of empty food containers, crusts of
bread, fragments of paper, and other rubbish lay about.
‘Flown,’ said Mr. Kinsey dryly.
He peered about on the soiled floor, kicked about among the rubbish,
fumbled amongst the ashes of the fireplace. Finally he brushed his
hands. ‘They didn’t leave much,’ he said admiringly. ‘Plenty of ink
on the floor over there, and a strong smell of it still, but that’s
about all. Here’s where the press stood, Sheriff.’ He pointed with a
broad-toed shoe at four spots on the worn floor. ‘Those are acid stains
yonder, by that window. They moved out last night, I guess. You can see
one or two places where the press scraped between here and the door.
Must have had plenty of time, or thought they had, for they cleaned up
pretty thoroughly. Took even the lamps, didn’t they? Must have had a
boat-load! Wonder where they got that boat?’ He looked speculatively at
the sheriff.
‘That’s so,’ said the latter. ‘You didn’t see any boat besides your own
here last night, did you?’ he asked of Pud.
‘No, sir, I’m pretty sure there wasn’t any.’
‘Humph! Well, this Lank fellow probably fetched himself back in one
from the Hole. Don’t seem like they could have got far, rowing, does
it?’
‘Oh, I don’t believe they rowed,’ said the Secret Service man. ‘There
are motor-boats about here, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, but they aren’t much. Still, they might have hired one――or
stolen it, for that matter――at the Hole. We might find out if a boat’s
missing. They wouldn’t tell us, though, like as not. They’re pretty
close-mouthed in there.’
‘No harm asking, I guess.’ Mr. Kinsey gave a last look about and moved
toward the door that gave from the kitchen to the back of the cabin.
It was closed, but unlocked, and they all followed him out. There
wasn’t much there; a few yellowed bits of paper that told nothing,
a scanty woodpile, some old tin cans, a broken-handled shovel, the
battered remains of a straw hat. Mr. Kinsey made the circuit of the
cabin, passed through it again and went down the short path to the
creek. There were plenty of footprints, but he did not, as Pud thought
he should have, produce a magnifying-glass and tape-measure and study
them in the manner of the detectives of whom Pud had read. Instead he
gave them brief and unimpressed attention and went on to the bank where
the _Kismet_ had been tied up the night before. Here there were signs
of recent activity. The bank was torn and trodden by many steps, and a
gash in the edge showed where something heavy had been dragged across.
The Secret Service man peered long into the water, shading his eyes,
stepping this way and that.
‘Thought I saw something down there,’ he said at last carelessly, ‘but
it’s only a snag. Well, that’s all we can do here, Sheriff. We’ve got
to get our news somewhere else.’
‘Didn’t learn a thing, eh?’ asked Sheriff Bowker as they turned back
toward the launch.
‘Not much. I learned that they’d been printing here, and I’m pretty
well satisfied that the plates were either engraved in that shack or
finished there. Those were acid stains all right. I know what kind of
a press they used and I know that the third man, the one the boy said
talked funny, is a short, rather small guy; probably not over five
feet six, and’――he took something from his pocket and showed it to the
sheriff――‘I know this is the brand of cigarettes he smokes. Found it
in the ashes in the chimney-place. That doesn’t help much, of course,
but I’ve started on less. Besides, I know one of the three already, and
that’s enough to land them all――some day.’
The sheriff nodded. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘You fellows generally get ’em
in the end. But, say, how’d you get at the Italian’s size and his
height, eh?’
‘Well, the boy described the other two pretty well. One tall and
big-built, the other shorter, but still average height, and heavy-set.
Guess maybe you didn’t notice those beds, did you? Boxes, sort of,
filled with marsh hay. One of them was used by Lank and the fellow
called Cocker. You could see that easy enough. The other was used by
this Italian guy and there was six or eight inches of the hay at the
bottom that had never been pressed down. That’s how I figured his
height. I got his size from the size of his foot. His prints were all
over outside there. Wears about a six shoe, and has a high arch.’
The sheriff grunted. ‘Well, that’s clever,’ he allowed, ‘but I
wouldn’t want to see a man convicted on that sort of evidence.’
‘Oh, that isn’t evidence. That’s only information that may or may not
come in handy some day. Well, now let’s try this famous Swamp Hole I’ve
been hearing so much about!’
Pud had a long story to tell and many explanations to make while the
police launch, her powerful motor scarcely more than purring, went on
down the winding stream. But he was favored with as rapt an audience
as any narrator could desire, and when he told of the short and sharp
engagement in which, with the trusty boat-hook, he had repelled
boarders, Tim gasped admiringly.
‘Gosh!’ he said.
‘My golly!’ chuckled Harmon. ‘Reckon you’s a pretty fine ol’ pirate,
Mister Pud, after all!’
After that Pud brought events down to the moment, exhibiting with Mr.
Kinsey’s permission, the amazing contents of Lank’s package, at sight
of which Harmon’s eyes stuck so far out of his round black countenance
that Pud was momentarily uneasy lest they might not get back again!
And Tim was still questioning when the launch glided around a bend and
Swamp Hole lay before them.
Pud blinked. What he saw now was no more like what he had seen last
night than――well, than daylight is like dark! Now the warm sunlight
bathed the scene; the tranquil stream reflected the clear blue sky, the
green banks, the little cabins and shanty-boats, the clearings about
them, the garden-patches and tobacco-fields beyond. Tall, straight
pines and spreading oaks threw patches of shadow over which the morning
dew still lay like a silver mist. The cabins, roughly made though they
were, looked neat and homelike, and from most of them the gray-blue
smoke of morning fires still arose to hover over the little village
with a pleasantly pungent odor. Nearly every habitation had its small
truck-patch behind. In some cases the patches were of good size, and
several held strawberry beds in blossom and fruit. Tobacco, already a
foot high, stretched back over land reclaimed from the swamp, its broad
green leaves bright in the sun. Among the plants the growers were at
work, men, women, and children.
In front of a cabin two women were fashioning baskets of willow withes.
Before another an elderly, white-bearded man was making a hickory
chair. In front of the small store, in the morning sunshine, a handful
of Swampers, sighting the approach of the strange launch, ceased their
gossip and lounged unhurriedly down the path. Somehow, Pud felt a dim
sense of disappointment. This was not the Swamp Hole of his imaginings.
This was merely a pleasant, peaceful, and peaceable little village
which no more suggested dark deeds and villainy than Millville itself!
Harmon, who, in spite of a brave front, had been secretly alarmed at
the prospect of bearding the desperadoes of Swamp Hole, regained his
poise and put his head a little higher over the edge of the boat.
Protected by the presence of a policeman in uniform, a sheriff, and a
detective, he could, he believed, show himself with impunity. Tim was
at once relieved and, like Pud, disappointed. He guessed Pud hadn’t
done anything so startlingly daring after all!
The police boat eased to the few posts and old planks that served as
a pier, and the sheriff hailed one of the loungers cheerily. ‘Howdy,
Jeff! How you-all?’
‘Fair to middlin’, Sheriff.’ The man addressed was tall, lanky, very
blue of eye, and with tow-colored hair. He wore cotton trousers and the
remains of a blue calico shirt. Head and feet were bare. He smoked a
pipe as he ambled nearer, followed by his companions, and slowly let
his gaze travel from one end of the launch to the other.
‘Say, Jeff,’ went on the sheriff, ‘we picked up this skiff down yonder
on the Run. Least, these boys did. Thought it might belong to some o’
you folks in here. Happen to know it?’
Jeff viewed the skiff leisurely, walking back along the path to obtain
all particulars of its appearance. The others viewed it likewise, in
silence. Finally, ‘Well, now I dunno as I do, Sheriff,’ said Jeff. He
spoke guardedly and turned inquiringly to a neighbor. ‘You ever see it
afore, Joe?’
Joe shook a large, shaggy black head, darting a speculative glance at
the sheriff. Other heads shook, too.
‘Well, might’s well take it along then,’ announced the sheriff. ‘Reckon
these boys can find a use for it. Thought maybe, though, it belonged in
here. Saw one of your power-boats down below when we came up. Reckon it
was yours, Tolliver, wasn’t it?’
A squat, bent-backed man at the back of the gathering looked startled,
but shook his head with some vigor. ‘’Twan’t mine, Sheriff. I ain’t got
me no power-boat now.’
‘That so? Well, whose you reckon it was, Jake? I’m plumb sure it was a
Swamp Hole boat.’
The countenances of the group regarded him blankly. Jake Tolliver shook
his head again. ‘Reckon ’twan’t none of ourn, Sheriff. Ain’t but
three-four here, an’ they was all in creek this mornin’.’
‘Well, ’tain’t important. We’ll run along. These young fellows got lost
and their folks sent me to bring ’em back. All right, Casey.’
‘Sheriff,’ drawled Jeff, ‘I ain’t sure but that there’s Tally Moore’s
skiff, now I get me another look at it. It sort o’ favors Tally’s.
Hank, you take a good look, will you? You recollec’ that old skiff o’
Tally’s, don’t you?’
‘Reckon that’s Tally’s,’ answered the man addressed promptly and with
no more than a glance at the rowboat. ‘Heard him tell awhile back as
how he’d lost it.’
‘Tally Moore?’ said the sheriff. ‘Don’t believe I recall him, Jeff.
Where’s his place?’
‘’Round on backwater yonder. Second house on farther bank. Reckon
that’s his boat, Sheriff. Reckon he’ll be powerful obliged to you.’
The sheriff nodded, waved good-bye. The launch slipped forward again.
The group about the landing watched it silently, and along the creek
old folks and children in front of the cabins or shanty-boats drawn
back on the banks stopped at their tasks or play to look as silently.
The sheriff chuckled. ‘I said it wasn’t any use. They hate to answer
questions. Wouldn’t even say about the skiff till they was mighty sure
we wasn’t in here to make trouble.’
‘Looked peaceable enough,’ commented Mr. Kinsey.
‘Yes, they’re peaceable enough so long’s you don’t rile ’em,’ agreed
the other tolerantly. ‘Don’t like strangers much; ’specially when they
happen to be collectin’ taxes. They’ve got a mean way of shootin’ from
cover, too. Mighty difficult to tell where they’re located. Ain’t
much taxes goes out o’ the Hole! It ain’t a right healthy job, sir,
collectin’ in here. Some o’ these fellows ought to be in jail, but, by
and large, they’re fairly law-abiding.’
The backwater proved to be the stream that Pud had glimpsed last night,
turning off to the left just past the last cabin on the creek-bank. It
was shallow and muddy and came to an end not far distant where a cedar
thicket massed itself closely and darkly. There were three cabins along
it, one on the left side and two on the right. Good-sized patches of
tobacco or corn flanked them and spread back for some way. Getting to
the last landing, a log raft tied to stakes in the muddy bank, was
skittish work for the launch, but she finally came within hailing
distance of the small cabin and a shout from the sheriff brought a
thin, stooped, pale-faced man around a corner of it.