THE DANGEROUS DANGLERS
Jard Hassock and Robert Vane talked horses. Jard now did most of the
talking. The glorious pedigree of Willoughby Girl had affected him as
the bray of trumpets affects old cavalry horses, as the piping of a high
wind in tree tops reawakens life and longing in the arteries of retired
mariners dozing in cottage gardens. His memory flashed pictures
appealing and glamorous to his mind’s eye, of cheering crowds and
white-fenced tracks and satin-coated horses speeding with outstretched
necks. His experiences had been entirely with harness racing—but the
horses who trot and pace are of the same strains of blood as those who
run. He remembered only the tingle and rush of victory. The dust of
defeat was forgotten. He lamented Lady Firefly’s extreme youth; and for
a moment he considered the advisability of approaching old Luke Dangler
in his stronghold on Goose Creek. But only for a moment. He knew Luke.
Luke had some promising youngsters in his stable—all presumably of the
old blood—but he knew by experience all the drawbacks to doing business
with that violent and cunning old crook. He knew that Luke had something
better than the little filly Lady Firefly. The fact that Luke had parted
with the roan filly, even on the amazing terms which he had forced upon
Jard, was proof enough for Jard that he held something better of the old
blood in reserve.
Jard was not proud of the terms on which he had gained possession of the
roan filly. He was heartily ashamed of them; and he had kept them
strictly to himself until, in the excitement produced by the perusal of
Willoughby Girl’s pedigree, he showed his copy of the agreement to
Robert Vane. He had paid four hundred dollars for Lady Firefly as a
foal, and had pledged his word (written and witnessed) that he would not
part with her without Luke Dangler’s permission, that Luke was to have
one-half of the price if a sale were made, and that if she were bred
from while in Jard’s possession Luke was to have a half-interest in all
offspring.
“And you agreed to this?” queried Vane, in astonishment.
“It was my only way of gettin’ her; an’ I got to have a bit of speed
comin’ along in my stable—simply got to! It’s the way I was made. Life
ain’t worth gettin’ out of bed for without it. I’ve tried. An’ I’ve
tried other strains of blood, but I never won a race with anything but
what I got from Luke Dangler.”
“But what about the others, the Willy Horse and Strawberry Lightning?
Did you own them on the same conditions?”
“No. I owned the Willy Horse hoof an’ hide, an’ I bred the mare myself.
But I had to sell the horse to Luke Dangler for four hundred.”
“Had to?”
“Had to is right, mister. Them Danglers an’ old Dave Hinch work
together. Dave’s a money-lender—one of the real old-fashioned kind—and
a note-shaver. He got hold of some of my paper once. ’Nough said! An’
the Danglers! Say, mister, any man who gets in dead wrong with a Dangler
of Goose Crick had best clear out of this section of woods, or he’ll
find himself dead in it some day. Yes, mister, they squoze the Willy
Horse out of me an’ sold him down in Maryland for three thousand; an’ he
was sold in New Orleans a year after that for twenty thousand; an’ when
Luke an’ Dave seen that on the sportin’ pages they was mad enough to
bite horseshoes. An’ it was for fear of them two old crooks I sold
Strawberry Lightnin’. As soon as she won a few races they got after me;
an’ they’d of got her, too—or me—if I hadn’t sold her quick acrost the
line.”
“Where’s this Goose Creek?” asked Vane.
“What d’you want to know for?” countered Jard.
“I’m going there to-morrow to have a look at this old ruffian Dangler
and his horses.”
“Take a few days to think it over,” advised Jard. “If you walk right up
to old Luke’s house an’ say you want to look over his horses with the
intention of buyin’ one, he’ll size you up for a millionaire an’ act
accordin’. So far, except for the few deals he’s made with me, he’s done
all his business down in the States. The farther away from home he sells
a horse of the old blood the better he’s pleased. Maybe he’s still scart
of the law gettin’ him somehow for what his pa did ninety-nine years
ago, or maybe it’s nothin’ but the plain hoggishness of his nature, but
he keeps mighty quiet an’ secret about his business in this province. He
loses money by it, for you can bet he don’t get what he asks down there
among them lads, with three or four days of railroadin’ behind him, but
ends in takin’ what he can get. Away from his own stampin’ ground, an’
among men maybe as crooked as himself, but with more brains an’ better
manners, I guess he gets the light end of the deal every time. So I
reckon he’s scart. If he wasn’t he’d show a certified pedigree for the
horses he sells, with Willoughby Girl played up big in it—but nothin’
of the kind! If you was to mention that stolen mare to him he’d pertend
he didn’t know what you was talkin’ about—but you’d want to get a long
ways off from Goose Crick before dark jist the same.”
“But what would happen if I saw his horses and made him an offer for one
of them?”
“I reckon you’d get the horse—if you offered twenty thousand for it, or
maybe if you offered ten.”
“No chance! But what if I made a reasonable offer?”
“He’d be sore as a boil; an’ he’d cal-late you’d come all the way from
New York jist to spy on him—an’ you’d be lucky if you got out alive.”
“But that’s absurd! Isn’t there any law in this country?”
“Plenty of it. Game laws an’ all sorts. There’s the law old Dave Hinch
uses when he gets hold of a bit of paper with your name on it, even if
you never saw the danged thing before, or have maybe paid it twice
already. But there ain’t no law ag’in a man losin’ himself in the woods.
That’s the Dangler way, but don’t tell them I said so.”
“Do you really know something, or are you only talking?”
“I know what I’m talkin’ about, an’ I’m talkin’ for your good, Mr. Vane.
I got a pretty clear memory more’n forty years long; an’ I can remember
quite a slew of folks who’ve fell out with the Danglers one way an’
another; an’ some of them cleared out, an’ four was lost in the
woods—five, countin’ poor Pete Sledge. Pete’s the only man I know of
who ever defied the Danglers and refused to run away, an’ is still alive
right here in Forkville. But you’d ought to see Pete. He’d be a lesson
to you.”
“What’s the matter with him?”
Jard tapped his brow significantly with a finger-tip.
“Lost an’ found ag’in,” he said. “But he was half-witted when they found
him, an’ he’s been that way ever since—an’ that was nigh onto twenty
years ago.”
“What happened to him?”
“He tells a queer story—but you can’t pin it on any Dangler, even if
you believe it. Pete an’ one of the Dangler men fell out about a girl.
Pete wiped up Gus Johnson’s chipyard with that Dangler. There was good
trappin’ country way up Squaw Brook in them days, an’ Pete used to work
it. He had a little shack up there, an’ that’s where he’d spend most of
the winter, tendin’ his traps. It was along in the fall of the year he
knocked Dangler down an’ drug him around; an’ it was along in the first
week of January he woke up in his bunk on Squaw Brook one night jist in
the nick of time to bust his way out an’ take a roll in the snow. He had
most of his clothes on, for he’d been sleepin’ in them; an’ he had his
top blanket, an’ his mackinaw with mitts in the pockets, which he had
grabbed up an’ brought out with him.
“The roof fell in before he could figure on how to save anything else
but his snowshoes, which stood jist inside the door. His rifle an’ pelts
an’ grub were all burned—all except a ham, which was roasted to a turn
when he raked it out with a long pole. His axe was in the
choppin’-block. He cut the blanket an’ tied up his feet in strips of it,
wonderin’ all the time how the shack come to catch fire. So he took a
look around, by the light of a half-moon, an’ he found tracks leadin’
right up to the smokin’ mess that had been his shack an’ right away
ag’in. But they were bear tracks. So he cal’lated it must of been the
stovepipe, for how could a bear set a fire? Where would he get the
matches? But he took another think; an’ then he put on his snowshoes an’
shouldered the ham an’ the axe an’ lit out after the bear. It was a big
bear, to judge by its paws; an’ he was mad enough to kill it with the
axe. He reckoned that would serve it right for not bein’ asleep in a
hole like a decent bear should of been, even if it hadn’t set fire to
his camp.
“For the best part of a mile he followed along jist as fast as he could
lift his webs an’ spat ’em down ag’in, until he had to stop an’ tie up
one of his blanket socks; an’ that give him a close-up view of the
tracks which he hadn’t taken since his first examination of them, an’ he
seen that the old varmint wasn’t usin’ his forepaws now but was
travelin’ on his hind legs only. Well, sir, that made him madder yet an’
kinder pleased with the way things were shapin’, too; so he tore off
enough of the roasted ham to fill his pockets an’ throwed away the rest
of it an’ lit out on the tracks of that queer bear ag’in like he was
runnin’ a race with the champeen snowshoer of Montreal.
“Dawn came up red, an’ still the bear wasn’t in sight. Pete kept right
on, but not quite so fast, chawin’ ham as he traveled. He cal-lated he
was makin’ better time than any bear could run on its hind legs, an’
would overhaul it in another hour at the outside. Pretty soon he picked
up a burnt match. Then he _knew_ he wouldn’t have much trouble skinnin’
that bear when once he’d caught it. But he wished harder’n ever he had
his rifle—for a bear that carries matches is jist as like as not to
tote a gun, too. The ham an’ the runnin’ give him a plagued thrist, an’
he went an’ et some snow instead of waitin’ till he come to a brook an’
choppin’ a waterhole. He et some more snow, an’ that kinder took the
heart out of him.
“He was jist on the p’int of quittin’ an’ turnin’ off to shape a
bee-line for the nearest clearance, when his nose caught a whiff of cold
tobacco smoke on the air. That told him Mister Bear wasn’t far ahead,
an’ he broke into runnin’ ag’in jist as tight as he could flop his webs.
But he didn’t get far that time. What with thirst an’ bellyache an’ the
bum riggin’ he had on his feet instead of moccasins, he tripped an’ took
a hell of a tumble. An’ when he got himself right-end-up an’ sorted out
he found a pain in his right ankle like a knife an’ one of his snowshoes
busted an’ the sun all grayed over. He was in a nasty fix. He tried
travelin’ on one foot, but that soon bested him. His ankle was real bad.
Atop all that, he was in a bit of country he didn’t recognize an’
couldn’t get a glimpse of the sun.
“He got together some dry stuff for a fire—an’ then he remembered how
careful he’d been to take his matchbox out of his pocket an’ put it on
the table the night before—so’s he’d be sure to fill it chock-a-block
in the mornin’. But he found one loose match. He fumbled that the first
try, an’ at the second try the head come off it. Can you beat it? Well,
sir, he kinder lost his grip then an’ spent quite a while feelin’
through his pockets over an’ over ag’in for another match. Then he tried
hoppin’ ag’in. Then he tried crawlin’—but the snow was too deep for
that game. He let some more snow melt in his mouth, but his throat was
so sore already it was all he could do to swaller it. All of a sudden he
heard a kinder devilish laugh, an’ that started him rarin’ round ag’in
on one foot, though he didn’t see nothin’, till he fell down.
“After that he dug a hole in the snow an’ cut some fir boughs an’
snugged down. He heard that laugh plenty of times ag’in, an’ for the
first few times he crawled out after it; but pretty soon it scart him so
he couldn’t move. He says he don’t remember what he did after that, but
when Noel an’ Gabe Sabattis found him next day he had ten big spruces
felled an’ was whirlin’ into the eleventh an’ tellin’ the world he had
the devil treed at last. Crazy as a coot! He ain’t recovered yet, though
he’s quiet enough an’ talks sane now an’ then. He knows who set his
shack a-fire, anyhow.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Vane. “And do you believe it?”
“I don’t believe he had the devil up a tree.”
“That someone set fire to his camp?”
“Sure I do, an’ that Amos Dangler’s the man who done it, with the paws
of a bear on his feet an’ hands. But don’t tell anybody I said so, for
the love of Mike!”
After a brief but thoughtful silence Vane said, “If I should happen to
get in wrong with that bunch, I promise you I won’t run away.”
“I guess you want a horse real bad?”
“I do now—but it was more a sentimental whim than anything else that
brought me here. Your Danglers don’t scare me worth a cent, Jard. They
make me hot behind the ears. Now I’ll have the best animal they’ve got
of the old strain, if it takes me a year.”
“Maybe my filly’s as good as anything Luke Dangler’s got.”
“If that proves to be the case I’ll take her, too, if you’ll sell. But I
tell you frankly that it’s a Dangler horse I want now.”
Jard wagged his head.
Tom McPhee came in that evening with a face of concern.
“Joe’s gone,” he said. “Steve Dangler come for her, an’ took her out to
her grandpa’s. Goose Crick’s no place for a girl like Joe.”
“What the hell did you let her go for?” cried Jard.
“Wouldn’t you of let her go?” returned McPhee pointedly.
Jard sighed, and scratched his nose.
“Well, I wouldn’t of!” exclaimed Miss Hassock. “I wouldn’t of let all
the Danglers on the crick budge her an inch out of my house—and you men
can put that in your pipes and see how it smokes.”
Hassock and McPhee exchanged expressive glances and uneasy smiles.
“Did old Dave go, too?” asked Jard.
“He did not,” replied McPhee. “He’s comin’ here to-morrow. He says he’ll
take Joe back to keep house for him when he rebuilds next summer, but he
won’t pay her board to live in idleness.”
“That’s what you pulled out of the fire,” said Jard, turning accusingly
to Vane. Then, “What’s he comin’ here for?” he asked McPhee.
“To live till he rebuilds, that’s all. He says Molly’s biscuits ain’t
fit to eat.”
“He will find mine worse,” said Miss Hassock grimly. “But that ain’t the
point. It’s Joe I’m worryin’ about. Them Danglers is all rough an’
tough, men an’ women alike. It was a bad day for Joe old Dave Hinch’s
house burnt down. If I was a man I’d bust up that bunch on Goose Crick
if I was killed for it.”
“It’s been there nigh onto a hundred years; an’ I reckon there’s as good
men hereabouts as anywhere,” objected McPhee. “If the law can’t fasten
nothin’ onto them, what can us fellers do?”
“The law!” exclaimed Liza derisively. “An’ what about the officers of
the law? The law’s no more than printed words if it ain’t worked by
human hands.”
Vane gave Jard Hassock the slip next morning and went for a walk. He
halted at the top of the hill above the upper end of the village and lit
his pipe and looked around. He saw black woods and white clearings up
hill and down dale, a few scattered farmhouses with azure smoke
ascending to a blue sky washed with sunshine, the roofs of the village
crawling down to the low black ruins that had been old Dave Hinch’s
house, and to the covered bridge across the white stream, and the
twisting road and climbing hills beyond the bridge. He saw the fork in
the river, above the bridge, after which the village had been named. He
thought of the queer chance that had brought him to this place just in
time to save the great-granddaughter of Mark Dangler from death by fire.
He saw a man issue from the back door of the nearest house, run to the
road and ascend the hill toward him at a brisk jog. He waited, under the
impression that he was the man’s objective. He was right. The countryman
came up to him, grinning apologetically.
“Can you spare me a few matches, stranger?” he asked.
Vane was surprised at the question, but instantly produced a dozen or
more loose matches and handed them over. They were gratefully received
and carefully tucked away in an inner pocket.
“I always carry a-plenty now, an’ pick up more ever’ chance I get, for
once I was caught with only one,” explained the villager. “An’ that one
was bad.” He smiled knowingly. “I reckon it ain’t likely I’ll ever be
caught with only one match ag’in.”
Vane saw something unusual about the fellow’s eyes. They were bright,
they were gentle, though intent in their glance, and yet in their
expression something expected was lacking, and something unlooked for
was present. The effect was disconcerting. Otherwise the man looked
normal enough. His full beard and heavy mustache were dark brown
streaked with gray.
“Can you point me the way to Goose Creek?” asked Vane.
The other faced the north, and pointed with his hand.
“It lays five mile upstream, but there ain’t no settlement at the
mouth,” he said. “They’re all Danglers on that crick, but some of ’em
has other names. It’s about seven mile by road straight through to their
main settlement from here. But if ye’re lookin’ for Amos Dangler ye’re
too late.”
“Is that the road?” asked Vane, pointing.
“That’s it, but if ye’re lookin’ for Amos you won’t find him. He come
snoopin’ ’round my girl—Kate Johnson’s her name—an’ I chased him into
the top of a big spruce an’ chopped him down an’ fixed him for keeps.”
“How long ago did that happen?”
“Quite a spell back. Maybe a month—maybe a year. It was winter time,
anyhow—an’ Kate an’ me figger to get married in the spring. Do you
happen to have a few matches on you more’n you need?”
Again a few matches changed pockets.
“I always make a p’int of pickin’ ’em up,” explained the collector.
“Good things for to keep handy, matches. When you do need ’em, you need
’em bad.”
“I believe you,” returned Vane. “A match is like a gun.”
“Somethin’ like, but not altogether. You can’t light a fire with an
axe—but sometimes you can make an axe do instead of a gun.”
“Yes, that’s so. You are Pete Sledge, aren’t you?”
“That’s me. How did you know?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Vane replied, “Jard Hassock spoke of you as
the smartest hunter and trapper in these parts. I put two and two
together.”
The other nodded, evidently quite satisfied,
“I suppose you know all this country for miles around as well as you
know this village,” added Vane.
Again Sledge nodded. “Like that,” he said, extending his left hand and
opening it palm upward.
“I’m interested in the country,” said Vane. “I wish you would take me
out sometimes. I can travel on snowshoes.”
“Any night you say, stranger. But no shootin’, mind you! It’s close
season.”
“I don’t want to shoot anything. But why night?”
“Night? I don’t run the woods in the daytime now, nor ain’t for quite a
spell—for a year, maybe—or maybe two. There’s a reason, but I can’t
jist agsactly recollect it. Maybe it’s because I stop to home an’ sleep
all day.”
“What about to-night?”
“Suits me fine.”
“Good! I’ll meet you here at eleven o’clock to-night.”
“No, you best give me a call. That there’s my window. You give a knock
on it with yer knuckles, an’ I’ll be right there.”
They retraced their steps as far as Pete Sledge’s little house in
company. Then Vane returned directly to Moosehead House. He heard from
Miss Hassock that old Dave had not yet put in an appearance.