THE RAID
The sun was up when Pete Sledge knocked on the kitchen door of Moosehead
House. The door was locked. He knocked with his knuckles, then with a
stick of stove-wood. It was Jard who at last unlocked and yanked open
the door, but Miss Hassock wasn’t far behind him.
“What the devil?” cried Jard; and then, in milder tones, “So it’s
yourself, Pete! Glad to see you, but what’s your hurry so early in the
mornin’?”
“They got ’im!” exclaimed Pete. “They’ve got the stranger—them
Danglers. I seen it, so I come a-jumpin’.”
“What’s that? Who? What stranger? Come along in here an’ set down an’
tell it right.”
“The sport. The lad with the trick pants. The feller who drug Joe Hinch
out of bed the night of the fire. That’s who. I seen it.”
“Vane? Yer crazy! He’s in bed in this house, or if he ain’t he’d ought
to be.”
“You’d better go see,” said Miss Hassock, turning to the stove and
setting a match to the kindlings.
Jard ran. Pete sat down. Jard returned at top speed.
“He ain’t there!” he cried. “What was that you said, Pete? When did it
happen? What did they do with him?”
“They picked him up, but I didn’t wait. Reckon they’re totin’ him back
to Goose Crick this very minute. That’s where they’ll hide him—till
they think up some slick way of losin’ him in the woods.”
“Say, Pete, you got this all straight now, have you? You ain’t been
dreamin’ or nothin’ like that?”
“Don’t be a fool, Jard Hassock!” exclaimed Liza. “You got to do
something now—simply got to—you and every man in this village. If you
don’t, there’ll be murder done. Go tell the McPhees, and the Joneses and
the Browns and the Wickets and the Haywards and the McKims and old man
Pike—the whole bunch. Get your guns and pistols and light out for the
Crick with a couple of teams quick’s the Lord’ll let you! But send
Charlie McPhee, or some other lad with a fast horse, to Jim Bell’s to
fetch him along too—and tell him to tell Jim to telephone over to
Lover’s Glen for the deputy-sheriff. I’ll have coffee ready when you get
back, Pete, you go too and help Jard stir ’em up. It’s got to be done
this time, Jard—done and done for good and all—so it’s no use you
scratchin’ your nose about it.”
“Reckon ye’re right, Liza,” admitted Jard reluctantly, “if Pete ain’t
mistaken. But durn that Vane! Out runnin’ the woods all night, hey!
Couldn’t he wait? Couldn’t he keep still till I’d thought out a way? Why
the hell couldn’t he’ve let sleepin’ dogs lay?”
“Get out!” cried Liza. “Tell us that to-night. I’ll load your gun while
you’re gone to scare up the men. Scare’s right.”
Half an hour later, Charlie McPhee set out in a red pung, behind a
sorrel mare, for Jim Bell’s place a few miles below the village. Mr.
Bell was the nearest constable. Half an hour after that again, two sleds
set out for the Dangler settlement on Goose Creek. Each sled was drawn
by a pair of horses, and crowded with men armed with many kinds and
patterns of explosive weapons in their pockets and their hands. Snow was
falling thick and soft and steady. There was not a breath of wind. The
bells had been removed from the harness of both teams. The men whispered
together, and peered nervously ahead and around into the glimmering,
blinding veils of the snow. They spoke with lowered voices before the
top of the hill was reached, as if those dangerous Danglers could hear
their usual conversational tone across a distance of seven miles. They
were not keen on their errand, not even the most daring and independent
of them—but Liza Hassock had driven them to it. Liza had talked of
murder, disgrace, and cowardice. She had threatened the most reluctant
with ridicule, the law and even physical violence. She had sneered and
jeered.
“I know your reasons for hanging back,” she had cried. “I know what’s at
the bottom of all this ‘live and let live’ slush you’ve been handing
out. One’s a reason of the heart—and that’s saying you’re afraid of the
Danglers, that you’re cowards! An t’other is a reason of the gullet. Oh,
I know! Now I’ll tell you men straight what’s going to happen if you
don’t all crowd up to Goose Crick and save Mr. Vane. I’ll go to
Fredricton, and if that’s not far enough I’ll go to Ottawa, and I’ll put
such a crimp into that gin-mill up to Goose Crick that you’ll all be
back to drinking lemon extract again, including Deacon Wicket. That’s
what will happen! That will fix the moonshining Danglers, and then
you’ll have to go farther and pay more for your liquor. That’ll fix
’em!—the whole b’ilin’ of them; murderers and moonshiners and
bootleggers and all!”
Liza had won. Even Deacon Wicket had joined the rescue party with a
double-barrelled shotgun.
Jard Hassock drove the leading team. The big, mild horses jogged along
without a suspicion of the significance of their errand. Perhaps they
wondered mildly why so numerous a company rode each ample sled—but it
isn’t likely. Certain it is that they did not so much as guess that they
were taking part in an historic event, lending their slow muscles and
big feet to the breaking of a century-old tyranny, bumping forward
through the obscuring snow to the tragedy that was to flash the modest
names of Forkville and Goose Creek before the eyes of the world. Well,
what they didn’t know, or even suspect, didn’t hurt them. Perhaps they
missed the cheery jangle of their bells, and so sensed something unusual
in their morning’s task—but if so they showed no sign of it.
The leading team drew up at the nearest Dangler farmhouse and the second
team passed on silently toward the second house. Jard opened the kitchen
door, and beheld Jerry Dangler and his wife and children at table eating
buckwheat pancakes.
“Seen anything of a stranger round here named Vane?” asked Jard.
“Nope,” replied Jerry. “Never heard tell of him. What’s he done?”
“He’s got himself in a nasty mess, an’ there’s a bunch of us out
a-lookin’ for him. He’s been hit on the head an’ drug away somewheres.
We got to hunt through your house an’ barn, Jerry.”
“Go to it. You won’t find no stranger here. I’ll show you round the
barns.”
“You set right there an’ go ahead with your breakfast, Jerry. Sammy, you
keep an eye on him, and see that he don’t disturb himself. Hold your gun
like this. That’s right. But don’t shoot onless you got to. Hunt around,
boys. Four of you out to the barn. Upstairs, some of you.”
Pete Sledge was not in evidence among the searchers. He had slipped from
the sled and vanished into the murk of snowfall, all unnoticed, just
before the house had been reached.
The first farmstead was searched without success. The men of the second
team drew a blank at the second house. Jard and his crew drove on to the
third house of the settlement. There he found a Dangler with two grownup
sons and a hang-over; and but for his firmness there would have been a
fight.
“We got you cold, boys,” said Jard. “We mean business. Set still an’ be
good or there’ll maybe be a funeral you ain’t figgerin’ on.”
The retort of the householders sounded bad, but there was nothing else
to it. Young McPhee and the constable drove up at about this time. The
snow was still spinning down moist and thick through the windless air.
The searchers went from house to house, appearing suddenly out of the
blind gray and white weather at the very door, as unexpected as
unwelcome. No warning passed ahead of them. Even old Luke Dangler was
caught in his sock-feet, smoking beside the kitchen stove, all unbraced
and unready. When he realized the nature of Jard’s visit and the
futility of physical resistance, the swift darkening of his eyes and the
graying pucker of his mouth were daunting things to behold. He denied
all knowledge of the whereabouts or fate of the stranger. He denied it
with curses which caused profound uneasiness to the spirits of several
of Forkville’s substantial citizens. Doubts assailed them as to the
soundness of Miss Hassock’s judgment and the wisdom of their course.
They wondered if the life of any one stranger could possibly be worth
the risk they were taking. They and their fathers had put up with the
habits and customs of the Danglers of Goose Creek for over one hundred
years. This attitude had acquired the dignity of a tradition. Was it
wise to break with tradition now on the question of whether or not a
stranger in trick pants and a fancy mackinaw were dead or alive?
Nothing of Vane was discovered on or about old Luke’s premises. Then the
deputy sheriff of the county appeared suddenly in the midst of the
searchers. He drew Jard Hassock aside and asked for a description of the
missing stranger. Jard complied; and the official nodded his head
alertly.
“That’s him, for sure,” he said. “The gent from Ottawa. I’ve been kinder
expectin’ him down this way a long time. Big man. One of the biggest. We
got to find him, Jard—an’ what he come lookin’ for, too. This is
serious. Old Luke Dangler guessed right.”
“Not on your life he didn’t! I know Vane. He’s half New York an’ half
London. He come to buy a horse of the old Eclipse strain of blood.”
“Say, you’re easy! You don’t know the big fellers, Jard. Maybe’s he’s
from New York and London, but that don’t say he ain’t from Ottawa, too.
This outfit’s been picked to be made a horrible example of, that’s
what—so I reckon it’s about time for me to start in doin’ my duty.”
So the deputy sheriff, fired with professional zeal which burned all the
more fiercely now for having so long lain dormant, searched for more
than the missing stranger, while the constable and the men of Forkville
stood guard over the men of Goose Creek. The hog-house had only one
chimney—but the deputy sheriff discovered a secret door, and a second
lead running into that chimney, and a distillery at the foot of the
second lead. Not content with that, he went ahead and found whisky from
Quebec in the haymows.
Old Luke Dangler was handcuffed. His tough old heart came within an ace
of clicking off with rage at the indignity of it. The firearms from all
the houses of the settlement were confiscated. The men were counted and
the tally was found to be two short. Henry Dangler and his son Steve
were missing. Everyone denied all knowledge of their whereabouts. More
than this, the young woman called Joe could not be found. When old Luke
was questioned about her, he answered with inarticulate snarls of his
gray lips and a flicker of derision and hate from his darkened eyes.
The leaders were in old Luke’s house, and the crowd stood in front of
it, with sentries posted all around it. Amos Dangler stood in the door,
jeering. Snow continued to spin down from the low gray clouds.
“We got to find Vane,” said Jard Hassock. “They’ve drug him back
somewhere—to lose him. That’s your old game, Amos. I don’t give a damn
about this rum, but we got to find the stranger.”
“My game!” sneered Amos. “You say so now, do you—an’ scart to open yer
mouth for nigh onto twenty years!”
“And what about Joe,” queried one of the McPhees. “I reckon she’s the
one we’re worryin’ about.”
“She’s run back to old Dave Hinch, that’s what she’s done,” said Jard.
“Nobody’s tryin’ to lose her. But it’s good night to Vane if we don’t
find him before dark. We’d best scatter an’ hunt the woods. I know their
dirty, sneakin’ tricks.”
“What do you know, Jard Hassock?” asked Amos, stepping from the doorway
and advancing slowly upon the proprietor of Moosehead House. “You’ve
found yer tongue all of a suddent, hey? Well, it’s a dirty tongue—an’ I
don’t like it—an’ I’m a-goin’ to knock it down yer dirty throat, along
with yer teeth.”
“Now that’s fightin’ talk,” said Jard.
“There’ll be no fightin’ here, Amos Dangler!” exclaimed the constable.
“You git back there into the house, Amos—an’ you keep quiet, Jard. The
law’ll do all the fightin’ that’s got to be done.”
Men closed in upon the angry voices, hoping that Amos and Jard might
clash with fists and teeth despite the professional attitude of the
constable. They wanted to see a fight. They saw more than enough of that
sort of thing to last them a lifetime.
Pete Sledge appeared from the obscurity of the weaving snow. He had been
forgotten by all. He jumped in between Jard Hassock and Amos Dangler. He
had an axe in his hands. Amos retreated a step.
“My God! Didn’t I kill you once, long ago?” cried Pete.
“In yer eye,” sneered Amos, fumbling at the front of his coat with an
unmittened hand. “It’s daytime, you poor nut! Run home to bed.”
“But I killed you!”
“Maybe—in yer mind.”
Pete’s arms twitched even as Amos Dangler’s right hand came away from
the front of his coat. The axe flew even as the automatic pistol spat a
red jab of flame. The axe struck and the pistol spat again in the same
instant of time. Dangler staggered backward and screamed before he fell,
but poor Pete Sledge dropped without a sound. That was the end of that
old trouble—unless it has been continued elsewhere, beyond the field of
vision of Forkville and Goose Creek.