SCENTING A MYSTERY.
That is how I chanced to be rolling city-ward on that phlegmatic,
oft-stopping, slow going, accomodation train, and that is why I was out
of temper, and out of tune.
My operation had been retarded. Instead of working swiftly on to a
successful issue, this must be a case of waiting, of wit against wit,
and I must report to my chief a balk in the very beginning.
Nevertheless, as I said in the outset, fifty miles of monotonous rumble,
together with the soothing influence of a good cigar, had blunted the
edge of my self-disgust; my arm was quite easy, only warning me now and
then that it was a crippled arm; I was beginning to feel phlegmatic and
comfortable.
I had formed a habit of not thinking about my work when the thinking
would be useless, and there was little room for effective thought in
this case. My future movements were a foregone conclusion. So I rested,
and fell almost asleep, and then it was that the single passenger of
whom I made mention, came on board.
I had not noticed the name of the station, but as I roused myself and
looked out, I saw that we were moving along the outskirts of a pretty
little town, and then I turned my eyes toward the new passenger.
He was coming down the aisle towards me, and was a plain, somewhat
heavy-featured man, with a small, bright, twinkling eye. Certainly it
was not a prepossessing countenance, but, just as certainly, it was an
honest one. He was dressed in some gray stuff, the usual "second best"
of a thriving farmer or mechanic, and might have been either.
By the time I had arrived at this stage in my observations, there was
rustle and stir behind me, and a man who had been lounging, silent,
moveless, and, as I had supposed, asleep, stretched forward a brown
fist, exclaiming:
"Hallo, old boy! Stop right here. Harding, how are ye?"
Of course the "old boy" stopped. There was the usual hand shaking, and
mutual exclamations of surprise and pleasure, not unmixed with
profanity. Evidently they had been sometime friends and neighbors, and
had not met before for years.
They talked very fast and, it seemed to me, unnecessarily loud; the one
asking, the other answering, questions concerning a certain village,
which, because it would not be wise to give its real name we will call
Trafton.
Evidently Trafton was the station we had just left, and where we took
on this voluble passenger. They talked of its inhabitants, its
improvements, its business; of births, and deaths, and marriages. It was
very uninteresting; I was beginning to feel bored, and was meditating a
change of seat, when the tone of the conversation changed somewhat, and,
before I could sufficiently overcome my laziness to move, I found myself
getting interested.
"No, Trafton ain't a prosperous town. For the few rich ones it's well
enough, but the poor--well, the only ones that prosper are those who
live without work."
"Oh! the rich?"
"No! the poor. 'Nuff said."
"Oh! I see; some of the old lot there yet; wood piles suffer?"
"_Wood piles!_"
"And hen roosts."
"_Hen roosts!_" in a still deeper tone of disgust.
"Clothes lines, too, of course."
"_Clothes lines!_" Evidently this was the last straw. "Thunder and
lightning, man, that's baby talk; there's more deviltry going on about
Trafton than you could scoop up in forty ordinary towns."
"No! you don't tell me. What's the mischief?"
"Well, it's easy enough to tell _what_ the mischief is, but _where_ it
is, is the poser; but there's a good many in Trafton that wouldn't
believe you if you told them there was no such thing as an organized
gang of marauders near the place."
"An organized gang!"
"Yes, sir."
"But, good Lord, that's pretty strong for Trafton. Do you believe it?"
"Rather," with Yankee dryness.
"Well, I'm blessed! Come, old man, tell us some of the particulars. What
makes you suspect blacklegs about that little town?"
"I've figured the thing down pretty close, and I've had reason to. The
thing has been going on for a number of years, and I've been a loser,
and ever since the beginning it has moved like clock-work. Five years
ago a horse thief had not been heard of in Trafton for Lord knows how
long, until one night Judge Barnes lost a valuable span, taken from his
stable, slick and clean, and never heard of afterwards. Since then, from
the town and country, say for twenty-five miles around, they have
averaged over twenty horses every year, and they are always the very
best; picked every time, no guess work."
The companion listener gave a long, shrill whistle, and I, supposed by
them to be asleep, became very wide awake and attentive.
"But," said the astonished man, "you found some of them?"
"No, sir; horses that leave Trafton between two days never come back
again."
"Good Lord!"
There was a moment's silence and then the Traftonite said:
"But that ain't all; we can beat the city itself for burglars."
[Illustration: "But that ain't all; we can beat the city itself for
burglars."--page 36.]
"Burglars, too!"
"Yes, _burglars_!" This the gentleman emphasized very freely. "And cute
ones; they never get caught, and they seldom miss a figure."
"How's that?"
"They always know where to strike. If a man goes away to be absent for a
night or two, they know it. If a man draws money from the bank, or sells
cattle, they know that. And if some of our farmers, who like to go home
drunk once in a while, travel the road alone, they are liable to be
relieved of a part of their load."
"And who do the folks suspect of doing the mischief?"
"They talk among themselves, and very carefully, about _having_
suspicions and _being_ on the watch; but very few dare breathe a name.
And after all, there is no clear reason for suspecting anyone."
"But _you_ suspect some one, or I miss my guess."
"Well, and so I do, but I ain't the man to lay myself liable to an
action for damages, so I say nothing, but _I'm watching_."
Little more was said on the subject that interested me, and presently
the Traftonite took leave of his friend, and quitted the train at a
station, not more than twenty miles east of Trafton; the other was going
to the city, like myself.
When quiet was restored in my vicinity, I settled myself for a fresh
cogitation, and now I gave no thought to the fate of Mamie Rutger and
'Squire Ewing's daughter. My mind was absorbed entirely with what I had
just heard.
The pretty, stupid-looking little town of Trafton had suddenly become to
me what the great Hippodrome is to small boys. I wanted to see it; I
wanted to explore it, and to find the mainspring that moved its mystery.
The words that had fallen from the lips of the Trafton man, had revealed
to my practiced ear a more comprehensive story than he had supposed
himself relating.
Systematic thieving and burglary for five years! Systematic, and always
successful. What a masterful rogue must be the founder of this system!
How secure he must be in his place, and his scheming, and what a foeman
to encounter. It would be something to thwart, to baffle, and bring to
justice a villain of such caliber.
After a while my thoughts turned back to Groveland. Certainly the
mystery there was quite as deep, and the solution of it of more vital
importance. But--Groveland was the mystery that I had touched and
handled; Trafton was the mystery unseen.
So my mind returned to the latter subject, and when, hours later, we
ran into the city, Groveland was still absent, and Trafton present, in
my thoughts.