BOB’S PLANS.
BOB hardly knew what to do with himself. He ran down the lane at the top
of his speed until he was out of breath, and then seated himself on a
log in a fence corner to think over his situation. All his bright dreams
had vanished like the mists of the morning. His friend Lester had
overthrown all his air-castles by the confession he had made, and worse
than that, he had placed Bob in a predicament such as no boy had ever
been placed in before.
“I will never speak to him again as long as I live,” said Bob, shaking
his fist at some imaginary object. “The three hundred and sixty dollars
a year that I had hoped to earn will be sure to go into the pockets of
that Dave Evans, for there is no one to run against him now that I am
off the track. And while he is riding about the country, holding his
head high in the air and sporting his fine clothes and hunting and
fishing outfit (Bob thought David would spend the money he earned just
as he himself would have spent it had he been fortunate enough to secure
the position of mail carrier), what will I be doing? I might as well be
in the swamp with Godfrey, for I shall never dare to look anybody in the
face again. And Lester promised faithfully to stand by me, too.”
Bob had one lesson yet to learn, and that was, if he wanted a friend who
would stand by him in any emergency, he must not look for him among boys
like Lester Brigham.
“My thirty dollars a month have gone up in smoke,” continued Bob, who
was more enraged when he thought of his defeat than he was when he
thought of the damaging disclosures Lester had made, “and what hurts me
is the knowledge that Dave will get them. I hope somebody will rob him
the very first time he rides out with that mail-bag. If I get a good
chance I’ll do it myself.”
If Bob had only known it, he was gradually working himself into a very
dangerous frame of mind. The feelings to which he had given utterance
were like those that had led Clarence Gordon and Dan Evans into so much
difficulty. If Bob had been able to look far enough into the future to
see the trouble that they were destined to bring him into, he would have
banished them with all possible haste, angry and reckless as he was at
that moment. He remained seated on his log for two hours, growing
alarmed every time he recalled the incidents connected with the burning
of the shooting-box and the attempt to rob the negro cabin, and furious
whenever he thought of the cowardice of his trusted friend; and when he
had thought the matter over without having made up his mind to anything,
he arose and walked toward the house.
“I must go home some time, and I might as well go now as an hour later,”
thought he. “Of course the family know all about it, and I’d rather be
whipped than see my mother, but it can’t be helped. I wish to goodness
one of those bears up in Michigan had made an end to that cowardly
Yankee before he ever came down here to get me into this mess. I don’t
believe he ever saw Michigan. I know he never saw a wild bear until this
morning.”
With a dogged resolution to face the consequences of his misdeeds,
whatever they might be, Bob settled his hat firmly on his head, clenched
his hands, and walked rapidly along the lane, until he reached the
house. He slammed the gate behind him, ran up the steps that led to the
porch, and after hanging his hat on a nail in the hall, opened the door
that gave entrance into the sitting-room. Its only occupant was his
father, who sat by the fire reading a newspaper.
“Ah! Bob, there’s something else I wanted to tell you,” said the latter,
in a tone of voice which would have led a stranger to believe that he
and Bob had just been conversing on some agreeable subject. Mr. Owens
never held a grudge against his son, as a good many fathers do. When he
had said what he had to say in regard to any of Bob’s misdeeds, that was
the end of the matter.
“I once heard you make a remark which leads me to believe that the news
I have to tell will please you,” added Mr. Owens.
“I hope it will,” answered Bob. “I ought to hear something pleasing
after all the hard things I have listened to to-night.”
“Well, you have sense enough to know that you alone are to blame. I am
sorry enough that you allowed yourself to be led away, but it can’t be
helped now. Your wish has been gratified. David Evans has lost every
cent of the money he received for his quails.”
Bob, who sat on the other side of the fire-place, with his eyes fastened
on the floor, started up and became all attention when these words fell
upon his ear. He looked surprised for a moment, and then settled back in
his chair with a sigh indicative of the greatest satisfaction. “Why, how
did he lose it?” he asked, as soon as he could speak.
“His father took it away from him,” was the reply.
“Good!” cried Bob.
“It seems that both he and Dan were concerned in the matter,” continued
Mr. Owens. “Godfrey is hiding somewhere in the swamp, you know, and Dan
has been acting as a sort of scout between his camp and the village, and
keeping him posted in all that was going on.”
“I wish I had known it,” said Bob. “I would have given Dan more than one
hint.”
What would Bob have thought had he known that Dan was the one who set
Don Gordon’s hounds on him, and defeated the attempt he had made to
break into the cabin and liberate David’s quails? He would have been
very likely to give him something besides hints.
“Dan found out enough without help from anybody,” returned Mr. Owens.
“How he did it I don’t know; but he managed matters so skilfully that
Godfrey dropped down on the cabin at the only time he could have secured
the money. If he had waited until the next morning the greenbacks would
have been safe in the hands of Don Gordon, who, I believe, acts as
David’s banker, and Godfrey might have whistled for them.”
“I am glad of it,” exclaimed Bob. “I am glad of it,” he repeated, as he
pictured to himself the despair that must have taken possession of the
Boy Trapper when he saw his hard earnings thus unexpectedly snatched
from his grasp. “It serves him just right; for if it hadn’t been for him
I should have had a nice little breech-loader hanging on the pegs in my
room in a few days more. I hope he will be served in the same way every
time he gets out of his place, and tries to shove himself up among white
folks. I hope, too, that they’ll not catch Godfrey.”
“You need not lose any sleep worrying over that,” said Mr. Owens, with a
smile. “Godfrey knows every nook and corner of the swamp, and all the
constables in the county couldn’t find him. Besides, what could they do
with him if they did find him?”
“Couldn’t they do anything with him?” asked Bob.
“Of course not. He is David’s father, and the law gives him the right to
take every penny the boy earns up to the time he is twenty-one years
old.”
“Good again,” cried Bob. “It is the best news I ever heard, and will
give me the best night’s rest I have had for three weeks. Good-night,
father.”
Mr. Owens picked up his paper again, and Bob went to his room and
tumbled into bed.
“I tell you it makes me feel easier to know that that ragamuffin will
never enjoy the money he has cheated me out of,” thought Bob, who, in
the satisfaction he felt at David’s loss entirely forgot the injury
Lester Brigham had done him by his confession, “but at the same time I
am sorry to hear that that worthless Godfrey has come into possession of
it. I ought to have it—the whole of it, now that Lester has gone back on
me, and if there was any way that I could think of to outwit Godfrey and
get hold of it—By gracious!” exclaimed Bob, in great excitement, “that’s
a bright idea!”
Bob settled his head into a comfortable position on his pillow and lay
for a long time thinking over something his father had said during their
recent conversation. Mr. Owens had remarked that Godfrey knew every nook
and corner of the swamps, and that all the constables in the county
could not find him. Bob told himself that he knew every inch of the
swamps, too, and that if anybody could trace Godfrey to his
hiding-place, he was the one. But he did not believe that the fugitive
was in the swamp. He thought that Godfrey’s camp could not be very far
away—in fact, that their plantation must be nearer to it than any other,
or else the man would not have come to Mr. Owens’s smoke-house to steal
bacon. After Bob had reasoned in this way for a while he must have
arrived at some conclusions that delighted him, for he suddenly raised
himself upright in bed and struck his open palm with his clenched hand.
“Perhaps all the constables in the county can’t find him,” said he to
himself, “but I believe I can. At any rate I’ll start out in search of
his camp in the morning just as soon as I have eaten my breakfast, and
if I discover it I’ll find some way to get hold of that money or my name
is not Owens.”
Bob lay down again and rolled over to think about it; and he thought
about it for hours. The longer he turned the matter over in his mind,
the more excited he became; and, although he had told his father that he
could enjoy the best night’s rest he had had for three weeks, he did not
fall asleep until about two hours before he was called to breakfast. The
first things he thought of after he opened his eyes were the hundred and
sixty dollars Godfrey had in his possession, and the plans he had
determined to put into execution in order to get them into his own
hands. It never occurred to him then that he was about to act the part
of a thief, for he was so wholly engrossed in thinking about the fine
hunting and fishing outfit that he intended to purchase with the money,
if he got it, that he could not bestow a thought upon anything else. His
chances for success seemed so bright that he became excited while he
dwelt upon them, but he succeeded in controlling himself so that the
members of the family did not notice it; and when he had eaten a hearty
breakfast and put a generous lunch into his game-bag, he shouldered his
father’s rifle and left the house.
His game-bag was not a very handsome or expensive article. It was made
of a piece of thick cloth, cut square and sewed together on three sides,
and was slung over his shoulder by a leather strap. This strap, where it
crossed his breast, was formed into a rude sheath in which Bob carried
his hunting-knife. The bag answered the purpose for which it was
intended—that of carrying the squirrels, quails, and other small game
that fell to Bob’s rifle—but it did not suit the boy. He wanted
something better, and felt angry every time he looked at it.
“I’ll have one like Don Gordon’s before many days (somehow all the boys
in the settlement who did not like Don envied him and wanted things just
like his), with a net to hold the game and leather pockets to carry my
knife, cartridges and matches in,” said Bob to himself, as he put his
lunch into the bag. “I’ll have a breech-loader, too, just as good as his
own; and when I get it I’ll take pains to meet him somewhere in order to
let him see that there are boys in the settlement who are just as well
off as he is, and just as able to throw on style. Look out for yourself
now, Godfrey Evans! I am on the trail of those greenbacks!”
Bob made his way in the direction in which Godfrey fled on the night he
was discovered in the smoke-house, and after crossing an extensive
cornfield, plunged into the woods and turned his face toward a certain
locality that he believed to be one of the places in which Godfrey would
be most likely to make his camp. Bob knew that Godfrey had a
hiding-place on Bruin’s Island, in which he had concealed himself while
the Union forces were passing through that part of the state, and he
knew, too, as everybody else in the settlement did, that he had gone
there as soon as his connection with the affair of the buried treasure
became known. It was also noised abroad in the settlement that the
fugitive had been driven off the island by Don Gordon’s hounds, and
everybody wondered where he was now. Bob thought he knew. There were
numerous hills and gullies on the main shore in the vicinity of Bruin’s
Island, and in one of these gullies he expected to find the man of whom
he was in search.
The moment Bob entered the woods he threw his rifle into the hollow of
his arm and slackened his pace to a very slow and stealthy walk. His
experience had taught him that hunters sometimes run upon the game of
which they are in search before they know it; and, although he believed
Godfrey’s camp to be five miles and more away, he was as cautious as
though he expected to find it in the very next thicket. The sound of
rustling branches and dropping nuts, accompanied by an occasional squeal
of alarm, told him that the squirrels were at work on all sides of him;
but Bob paid no attention to them. He was in pursuit of larger and more
profitable game. He made his way slowly through the woods, stopping now
and then behind a tree or thicket of bushes to listen and look about
him, and at one o’clock found himself standing on the bank of the bayou.
The bank, at this point, was in reality a bluff, and rose to the height
of a hundred feet or more. On each side of it was a densely-wooded
ravine, one of which extended back into the forest, and the other, after
running parallel with the bayou for a short distance, turned abruptly to
the left and was finally lost in the swamp. They were both excellent
hiding-places, and while Bob stood leaning on his rifle, wondering which
one he ought to explore first, he saw a thin, blue cloud rising from the
bushes which covered the bottom of the ravine on his right. Most boys
would not have noticed it; but Bob was on the lookout for just such a
sign, and he knew at once that it was the smoke of a camp-fire.
“There he is,” said he to himself, taking a hurried survey of the ridge
in the hope of finding a path that led into the ravine. “It must be
Godfrey, for no one else would be likely to make a camp in such a place.
Now, if he is at home I must come upon him before he knows it, for if he
hears me he’ll run off, and that wouldn’t suit me at all.”
Failing to find the path of which he was in search, Bob selected a place
where the bushes grew the thinnest, and throwing himself on his hands
and knees, crept quickly but noiselessly down the ridge, pushing his
rifle in front of him as he went. Before starting he fixed the direction
of the camp-fire in his mind, so that it was not necessary for him to
stop and take his bearings. He kept straight ahead, working his way
along with such caution that he scarcely caused a leaf to rustle, and
finally raising his head above a huge log behind which he had crept for
concealment, he saw the camp-fire close before him. Godfrey was at home,
too. He was lying on a bed of boughs beside the fire, his head resting
on his hand, the stem of his pipe tightly clenched between his teeth and
his eyes fixed upon the glowing coals. The boy looked at him in
surprise. Godfrey had never been noted for his neat appearance, at least
since Bob became acquainted with him, but the young hunter had never
seen him look as he did now. His clothes were all in tatters, his hair,
which was not concealed by a hat, was disheveled, and his face was very
pale and haggard.
“I wouldn’t be in his place for all the money there is in Mississippi,”
said Bob to himself, as he drew back behind the log to make up his mind
what he ought to do next. “It will not be long now before the cold
winter rains will set in, and then what will he do with himself? He’ll
freeze to death.”
Bob lay quiet behind the log for a minute or two and then suddenly
rising from his place of concealment, showed himself to the astonished
Godfrey, who let his pipe fall out of his mouth and started up in great
alarm. Bob was so close to him that flight was useless. He was
discovered and there was no help for it.
“Why, Godfrey, is that you?” exclaimed the boy, as if the meeting were
purely accidental. “Did you see a spike buck run this way about half an
hour ago?”
Godfrey slowly and almost painfully arose to his feet, bringing his
rifle up with him, and the boy heard the lock click as the hammer was
drawn back. He looked dangerous, and Bob began to fear that he had done
a very foolhardy thing, in following up so desperate a man as Godfrey
was known to be when he was aroused. “Hallo!” he cried. “What’s the
matter with you?”
“Ye can’t shet up my eyes with yer spike buck,” answered Godfrey, in
savage tones. “Ye’r on my trail.”
“On your trail?” repeated Bob, innocently.
“Yes, an’ I know it. Ye’r a follerin’ me; but it’ll take more’n one
_man_ to tote me to the calaboose. Ye hear me speakin’?”
“Why, I don’t understand you.”
“Wal, I reckon ye know thar was a furse in the settlement, an’ that they
blamed me fur it, don’t ye?” demanded Godfrey, impatiently.
“O, is that what you mean?” exclaimed Bob. He leaned his gun against the
log, and walking up to the fire warmed his hands over the coals. Godfrey
looked sharply at him for a moment and then dropped the butt of his
rifle to the ground. “No,” continued Bob, “I did not hear of any fuss in
the settlement. I knew that you and that city chap, Clarence Gordon,
played a good joke on Don, and kept him tied up in your potato cellar
all night; but that can’t be what you are staying out here in the woods
for? It has all blown over now. Nobody ever speaks of it.”
Godfrey looked suspiciously at Bob, and then his face brightened.
Perhaps things were not so bad after all, he told himself. His brow
became clouded again a moment afterward, however, when he thought of the
highway robbery of which he had been guilty. But he might have made his
mind easy on this score, for there was no one in the settlement who knew
anything about it, not even the general; for his brother had never
mentioned the circumstance in his letters.
“Is that all ye heared about me?” asked Godfrey.
“Well, no,” answered Bob. “I understand that you went home night before
last and took the hundred and sixty dollars Dave made by trapping
quails.”
“Wal, dog-gone my buttons, wasn’t they mine?” shrieked Godfrey, jumping
up and knocking his heels together. “Haint he my son an’ haint I his
pap? Haint I older an’ don’t I know more’n he does, an’ haint it the
properest thing that I should have the handlin’ of all the money what
comes into the family? Whoop! Don’t the law give me all the airnin’s of
my scamps of boys till they’re twenty-one years ole?”
“Hold on, now,” exclaimed Bob, who, although he was not a little
startled by Godfrey’s exhibition of temper, tried to look quite
unconcerned. “Don’t smash things. Everybody knows that it was your
money, and that you had a perfect right to take it.”
“That’s jest what makes me so pizen savage,” yelled Godfrey, throwing
down his rifle, burying both hands in his hair, and striding back and
forth like an insane man. “It’s mine, an’ I had oughter have it; but,
dog-gone it, I haint got it now.”
The last word was uttered with a wild shriek that made the words ring
again. Bob looked and listened in great wonder, and stepped back a pace
or two.
“Jest look a yer,” cried Godfrey, thrusting his hand into his pocket and
bringing it out through the hole which Dan had cut with his knife. “I
give half the money to that thar mean Dan o’ mine, but he got mad jest
kase I wanted to take keer on it fur him; so when I was asleep he cut
out the box an’ tuk hisself off to the swamp!”
Here Godfrey went off into another wild paroxysm of rage, and Bob sat
down on the log and looked at him.
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