PICKING UP THE THREADS
I turned my head slightly on the hard shuck pillow and gazed curiously
about. When my eyes had first opened all I could perceive was the
section of log wall against which I rested, but now, after painfully
turning over, the entire interior of the single-room cabin was
revealed. It was humble enough in all its appointments, the walls
quite bare, the few chairs fashioned from half-barrels, a packing box
for a table, and the narrow bed on which I lay constructed from
saplings lashed together, covered with a coarse ticking, packed with
straw. The floor was of hard, dry clay; a few live coals remained,
smoking in the open fireplace, while a number of garments, among them
to be recognized my own clothing, dangled from wooden pegs driven into
the chinks of the farther wall. I surveyed the entire circuit of the
room wonderingly, a vague memory of what had lately occurred returning
slowly to mind. To all appearances I was there alone, although close
beside me stood a low stool, supporting a tin basin partially filled
with water. As I moved I became conscious of a dull pain in my left
shoulder, which I also discovered to be tightly bandaged. It was late
in the day, for the rays of the sun streamed in through the single
window, and lay a pool of gold along the center of the floor.
I presume it was not long, yet my thoughts were so busy it seemed as if
I must have been lying there undisturbed for some time, before the door
opened quietly, and I became aware of another occupant of the room.
Paying no attention to me he crossed to the fireplace, stirred the few
smouldering embers into flame, placing upon these some bits of dried
wood, and then idly watched as they caught fire. The newcomer was a
negro, gray-haired but still vigorous, evidently a powerful fellow
judging from his breadth of shoulder, and possessing a face denoting
considerable intelligence. Finally he straightened up and faced me,
his eyes widening with interest as he caught mine fastened upon him,
his thick lips instantly parting in a good-natured grin.
"De good Lord be praised!" he ejaculated, in undisguised delight. "Is
yer really awake agin, honey? De docthar say he done thought ye'd cum
round by terday sure, sah. Enyhow I's almighty glad fer ter see yer
wid dem eyes open onct mor'--yas, sah, I sure am."
"The doctor?" I questioned in surprise, my voice sounding strange and
far away. "Have I been here long?"
"Goin' on 'bout ten days, sah. Yer was powerful bad hurt an' out o'
yer head, I reckon."
"What was it that happened? Did some one shoot me?"
The negro scratched his head, shuffling his bare feet uneasily on the
dirt floor.
"Yas, sah, Mister Knox," he admitted with reluctance. "I's sure
powerful sorry, sah, but I was de boy whut plugged yer. Yer see, sah,
it done happened dis-a-way," and his black face registered genuine
distress. "Thar's a mean gang o' white folks 'round yere thet's took
it inter their heads ter lick every free nigger, an' when yer done come
up ter my door in de middle ob de night, a cussin', an' a-threatenin'
fer ter break in, I just nat'larly didn't wanter be licked, an'--an' so
I blazed away. I's powerful sorry 'bout it now, sah."
"No doubt it was more my fault than yours. You are a free negro, then?"
"Yas, sah. I done belong onct ter Colonul Silas Carlton, sah, but
afore he died, just because I done saved his boy frum drownin' in de
ribber, de ol' Colonul he set me free, an' give me a patch o' lan' ter
raise corn on."
"What is your name?"
"Pete, sah. Free Pete is whut mostly de white folks call me." He
laughed, white teeth showing and the whites of his eyes. "Yer see,
thar am a powerful lot o' Petes round 'bout yere, sah."
I drew a deep breath, conscious of weakness as I endeavored to change
position.
"All right, Pete; now I want to understand things clearly. You shot
me, supposing I was making an assault on you. Your bullet lodged in my
shoulder. What happened then?"
"Well, after a while, sah, thar wan't no mor' noise, an' I reckoned I'd
either done hit yer er else ye'd run away. An' thar ye wus, sah, a
lyin' on yer back like ye wus ded. Just so soon as I saw ye, I know'd
as how ye never wus no nigger-hunter, but a stranger in des yere parts.
So I dragged ye inside de cabin, an' washed up yer hurts. But ye never
got no bettah, so I got skeered, an' went hoofin' it down fer de
docthar at Beaucaire Landin', sah, an' when he cum back along wid me he
dug the bullet outer yer shoulder, an' left som truck fer me ter giv'
yer. He's done been yere three times, sah."
"From Beaucaire Landing--is that a town?"
"A sorter a town, sah; 'bout four miles down ribber."
The mentioning of this familiar word brought back instantly to my
darkened understanding all those main events leading up to my presence
in this neighborhood. Complete memory returned, every separate
incident sweeping through my brain--Kirby, Carver, the fateful game of
cards in the cabin of the _Warrior_, the sudden death of the Judge, the
mob anger I sought to curb, the struggle on deck, my being thrown
overboard, and the danger threatening the two innocent daughters of
Beaucaire. And I had actually been lying in this negro hut, burning up
with fever, helplessly delirious, for ten days. What had already
occurred in that space of time? What villainy had been concocted and
carried out? What more did the negro know?--something surely, for now
I remembered he had addressed me by name.
"Now see here, Pete," I began earnestly. "How did you learn what my
name was?"
"De docthar he foun' dat out, sah. I reckon' he thought maybe he ought
ter know; fearin' as how ye might die. He done looked through yer
pockets, sah, an' he took two papers whut he foun' dar away wid him.
He done tol' me as how yer wus an offercer in de army--a leftenant, er
sumthin'--an' thet dem papers ought fer ter be sint ter de Gov'ner et
onct. De las' time he wus yere he tol' me thet he wint down ter Saint
Louee hisself, an' done gif bof dem papers ter Gov'ner Clark. So yer
don't need worry none 'bout dem no mor'."
I sank back onto the hard pillow, greatly relieved by this information.
The burden of official duty had been taken from me. I was now on
furlough, and free to act as I pleased. I suddenly became conscious
that I was hungry. I expressed this desire for food, and the negro
instantly busied himself over the fire. I watched his movements with
interest, although my thoughts quickly drifted to other matters.
"Have you picked up any news lately from the Beaucaire plantation?" I
asked, at last.
He twisted his head about at sound of my voice.
"I heerd said dey done brought de body ob de ol' Jedge home, sah--he
died mighty sudden sumwhar up de ribber. Thet's 'bout all I know."
"When was this?"
"'Bout a week maybe mor'n dat ago. De _Warrior_ brought de body down,
sah."
"The _Warrior_? Did anyone go ashore with it?"
"Pears like thar wus two men stopped off at de Landin'. I disremember
de names, but one ob 'em wus an ol' friend ob de Jedge's."
I turned my head away silently, but only for a moment. The two men
were in all probability Kirby and his satellite, Carver. Evidently
they intended to lose no time. The accident, the period of my
unconsciousness, had left the villains ample opportunity in which to
carry out the details of their devilish plot. The silence had
convinced them of my death, leaving them nothing to fear, no opposition
to guard against. Doubtless the Beaucaire property was already legally
in Kirby's possession, and any possible chance I might have once had to
foil him in his nefarious purpose had now completely vanished.
To be sure I had reasoned out no definite means whereby I could
circumvent his theft, except to take legal advice, confer with Governor
Clark, and warn those threatened girls of their danger. But now it was
too late even to do this. And yet it might not be. If Kirby and his
confederate believed that I was dead, were convinced that I had
perished beneath the waters of the river, they might feel safe in
taking time to strengthen their position; might delay final action,
hoping thus to make their case seem more plausible. If Kirby was
really serious in his intention of marrying Beaucaire's daughter he
would naturally hesitate immediately to acknowledge winning the
property at cards, and thus indirectly being the cause of her father's
death. He would be quite likely to keep this hidden from the girl for
a while, until he tried his luck at love. If love failed, then the
disclosure might be made to drive the young woman to him; a threat to
render her complacent. The negro evidently knew very little as to what
had occurred, merely the floating gossip of the slave quarters, and
some few things the doctor had mentioned. But there was a man living
at the Landing who would be informed as to all the facts.
"I believe the Judge left two daughters, did he not?"
"Yas, sah--mighty pretty gals dey am too."
"And they still remain in possession of the house?"
"I reckon dey do, sah. Pears like the dochtar sed sumthin' 'bout
treating one ob 'em--Miss Eloise--one time he wus ober yere. Sure,
deys dere all right."
"Do you know a lawyer named Haines?"
"Livin' down at de Landin'? Yas, sah."
I lifted myself up in the bed, too deeply interested to lie still any
longer.
"Now listen, Pete," I explained earnestly. "I've got sufficient money
to pay you well for all you do, and, just as soon as you get me
something to eat, I want you to go down to the Landing and bring Lawyer
Haines back here with you. Just tell him a sick white man wants to see
him at once, and not a word to anyone else. You might tell Haines this
is a private matter--you understand?"
"Yas, sah," the whites of his eyes rolling. "He done know ol' Pete,
an' I'll sure bring him back yere."
It was dark when they came, the fire alone lighting up the interior of
the dingy cabin with a fitful glow of red flame. I had managed to get
out of bed and partially dress myself feeling stronger, and in less
pain as I exercised my muscles. They found me seated before the
fireplace, indulging in a pot of fresh coffee. Haines was a small,
sandy-complexioned man, with a straggling beard and light blue eyes.
He appeared competent enough, a bundle of nervous energy, and yet there
was something about the fellow which instantly impressed me
unfavorably--probably his short, jerky manner of speech, and his
inability to look straight at you.
"Pete has been telling me who you are, Lieutenant," he said, as we
shook hands, "and putting some other things together I can guess the
rest. You came south on the _Warrior_."
"From Fort Armstrong--yes; who told you this?"
"Captain Thockmorton. I saw him in St. Louis, and he seemed deeply
grieved by your sudden disappearance. No one on board was able to
explain what had occurred."
"Yet there were two men on the boat who could have explained, if they
had cared to do so," I answered drily. "I mean Kirby and Carver; they
were the ones who threw me overboard."
He dropped into a chair, his keen, ferret eyes on my face.
"Kirby and Carver? They went ashore with the Judge's body at the
Landing. So there is a story back of all this," he exclaimed jerkily.
"Damn it, I thought as much. Was Beaucaire killed?"
"No--not at least by any violence. No doubt the shock of his loss
hastened his death. Surely you must know that he risked all he
possessed on a game of cards and lost?"
"Thockmorton knew something about it, and there were other rumors
floating about the Landing, but I have heard no details."
"You did not see the two men, then?"
"No, I was not at home, and they went on down the river the next day on
a keel-boat. You saw the play?"
"I saw the last part of the game and was convinced, as all the others
present were, that the Judge was deliberately ruined for a purpose. I
believe it was all planned beforehand, but of this we have no tangible
proof."
"His opponent was Joe Kirby?"
"And a fellow named Carver, a mere hanger-on."
Haines wet his lips, his eyes narrowing to mere slits, his professional
nature coming to the front.
"First, let me ask you why you believe Beaucaire was cheated?" he
piped. "I know Joe Kirby, and consider him quite capable of such a
trick, but we shall need more than suspicion to circumvent his scheme."
"I have every reason, Haines, to feel convinced that both Kirby and
Carver trailed Beaucaire up the river with the intention of plucking
him. Kirby practically confessed this to me, boastingly, afterwards.
All the way down he was bantering the Judge to play. That last night
he so manipulated the cards--or rather Carver did, for it was his
deal--as to deceive Beaucaire into firmly believing that he held an
absolutely unbeatable hand--he was dealt four aces and a king."
The lawyer leaned forward, breathing heavily.
"Four aces! Only one hand is better than that, and it would be
impossible to get such a hand out of one pack."
"That is exactly true, Haines. I am no card player, but I do know that
much about the game. Yet Kirby took the pot with a straight flush.
Now, either he, or Carver, slipped an extra ace into the pack, or else
Beaucaire did. In my opinion the Judge had no chance to work such a
trick. And that's the case, as it stands."
Haines jumped to his feet and began pacing the dirt floor excitedly,
his hands clasped behind his back.
"By God, man!" he cried, pausing suddenly. "Even if he did have a
chance, the Judge never did it--never. He was a good sport, and always
played a straight game. You say he bet everything he had?"
"To the last dollar--Kirby egged him on. Besides the money, a deed to
his land, and a bill of sale for his negroes were on the table."
"The field hands, you mean?"
"Yes, and the house servants. Kirby insisted that he write these
words, 'This includes every chattel slave legally belonging to me,' and
made Beaucaire sign it in that form."
Haines' face was white, his eyes staring at me incredulously.
"God help us, man! Do you know what that means?" he gasped.
"I am almost afraid I do," I answered, yet startled by his manner.
"That was why I sent for you. Would that include his son's daughter?"
He buried his face in his hands.
"Yes," he confessed brokenly. "To the best of my knowledge Rene
Beaucaire is a slave."