DISCOVERY OF THE THIEF.
The state of mind of the Seven cannot be described. A moment before
they had been upon a pinnacle of success and happiness. And now it
seemed that they had climbed but that their fall might be all the more
unbearable. All their ambitions and plans, all the fun they meant to
have--it was too terrible to be true!
It was half with a feeling of incredulity that one after another they
climbed up to the opening and went in. Not one of them could quite
bring himself to believe that the whole thing was not a horrible
delusion, a nightmare. But when they got inside they found that it was
too true.
There was the deep trench that Parson Stanard had dug; there was the
spade he had dug it with, the tracks of the others who had gathered
anxiously about to watch him. There was even one of the bright
glittering gold pieces half hidden in the dirt, a horrible mockery, as
it appeared to them; for the big wooden chest that had been full to the
brim with gold pieces, was gone, and the money with it. And all the
hopes of the Banded Seven were gone, too.
At first they stood and stared, gasping; and then they gazed about the
place in horror, thinking that surely they they must find the chest
lying somewhere else. But it was not there. They dashed around the
room, hunting in every corner of the place, even in the locked cell,
where the ghastly skeletons lay grinning at them as if in delight. But
there was not a sign of the chest, nor of any one who could have taken
it.
And then suddenly Mark noticed a footprint in the soft earth just
underneath the entrance that told him the story.
“They’ve taken it out!” he cried.
Feverish with disappointment and impatience, the Seven scrambled out
again through the hole. There on the ground was the same footprint,
larger than any of theirs. It did not take half an eye to see that.
There, too, was a great three-cornered dent in the ground, showing
where the chest had been dropped. And there were finger marks of the
hand that had scooped up the fallen coins to put them back into the
chest.
Texas, plainsman and cowboy, had often told stories of how he had
followed a half-washed out trail for miles across an otherwise
trackless prairie. He was on his knees now studying every mark and
sign, his eyes fairly starting from his head with excitement. And
suddenly he sprang to his feet as he noticed a trail a short way off, a
deep, smooth rut worn in the earth.
“A wheelbarrow!” roared he.
A wheelbarrow it was, for a fact. And the track of it lay through the
woods to the river. Texas had started on a run, without saying another
word, and the rest were at his heels.
The men who had taken that heavy chest down that steep forest slope to
the river must have had hard work. Any one could see that as he looked
at the mark of the wheel. It would run down a slippery rock and plunge
deep into the soft earth at the bottom. It would run into a fallen log,
or plunge through a heavy thicket. And once, plain as day was written a
story of how the chest had fallen off and the heap of scattered coins
all been gathered up again.
These things the plebes barely noticed in their haste. They ran almost
all the way. It was perhaps two hundred yards to the river, and there
was a steep, shelving bank, at the bottom of which was a little pebbly
beach. Down the bank the wheelbarrow had evidently been run, half
falling, upsetting the box once more, and necessitating the same labor
of gathering up the coins. One of them had been left in the sand.
The poor plebes realized then how hopeless was their search. Deep in
the sand was the mark of a boat’s keel, and they knew that the work of
trailing was at an end. Their treasure was gone forever, stolen during
the few hours since they had left it last.
“There’s no use shedding any tears about it,” said Mark at last, when
the state of affairs had had time to be realized. “We’ve simply got
it to bear. Somebody probably saw us leave the camp last night and
followed us up here. And when they saw that treasure they just helped
themselves.”
There is little that will make most people madder than to be told
“never mind” when they feel they have something to be very much
worried over. The Seven did mind a great deal. They sat and stared at
each other with looks of disgust. Even the Parson (who ought to have
been happy) wore a funereal look, and the only one who had a natural
expression was Indian, the fat boy from Indianapolis. That was because
Indian looked horrified and lugubrious always.
They wandered disconsolately about the spot where the boat had landed
for perhaps five minutes, gazing longingly at the trace of the boat in
the sand and wishing they could see it in the water as well, before any
new development came. But the development was a startling one when it
came. It took no detective to read the secret; it was written plain as
day to all eyes in an object that lay on the ground.
Mark was the first to notice it. He saw a gleam of metal in the sand,
and he thought it was one of the coins. But a moment later he saw that
it was not, and he sprang forward, trembling with eagerness and sudden
hope.
A moment later he held up before his startled companions a handsome
gold watch. They sprang forward to look at it. Crying out in surprise
as they did so, and a moment later he turned it quickly over. Written
upon the back were three letters in the shape of a monogram--a monogram
they had seen before on clothing, worn by a yearling, and that yearling
was----
“Bull Harris!”
The scene that followed then precludes description. The Seven danced
about on the sand, fairly howled for what was joy at one moment, anger
at another. There was joy that they had found a clew, that they knew
where to hunt for their treasure; and anger at that latest of the many
contemptible tricks that yearling had tried.
What Bull Harris had done scarcely needs to be mentioned here--at
least, not to old readers of this series. He had tried every scheme
that his revengeful cunning could suggest to even matters with that
hated Mark Mallory. He had tried a dozen plans to get Mark expelled, a
dozen to get him brutally hazed. And they had all been cowardly tricks
in which the yearling took good care to run no danger. This was the
last, the climax; he had stolen their treasure by night, and what was
almost as bad had he found their secret cavern. And as Mark stood and
stared at that watch he clutched in his hand he registered a vow that
Bull Harris should be paid for his acts in a way that he would not
forget if he lived a thousand years.
And then he turned to the others.
“Come on, fellows,” he said. “We can’t gain anything by standing here.
Let’s go back and watch Bull Harris like so many cats until we find
out what he’s done with our money.”
The Seven turned and made their way through the woods once more,
talking over the situation and their own course as they went. They had
room for but one idea in their heads just now. They must find out where
that money was and get it back, if it was the last thing they ever did
in their lives.
It was clear that the hiding place could not be very far away, and
that Bull and his cronies must go to it again. The Seven had left the
place at about one in the morning, and réveille came at five; that gave
but four hours in which Bull, who it was presumed, had watched them
digging, had returned to West Point, gotten a boat and wheelbarrow and
taken the treasure away. He could not have taken it a great distance in
that time.
Another question was, who had helped him? Probably some of his gang,
Mark thought, until he chanced to remember that Bull had another ally
just then. He had a cousin, a youth even less lovely than he staying
at the hotel. And then came another vague idea--perhaps he had the
treasure there. Bull could surely not have it in his tent, and perhaps
he had been afraid to bury it.
That was but a faint hope, yet Mark decided in a moment to follow it
up. He thought of a scheme. Grace Fuller was at the hotel, and also
George, the Fuller’s family butler. George was a merry, red-faced
Irishman, who had once fired off some cannon at night for the plebes
and scared West Point out of its boots. Mark determined after a
moment’s consultation that George was the man to investigate this clew
for them.
As I said, it was only a possibility, a very bare one. Mark strolled
around near the hotel late in the afternoon when he returned, keeping a
sharp lookout for the man just mentioned. When he saw him he whispered
to him and strolled slowly away.
“George,” said Mark, hurriedly, when the other joined him, “do you know
which is Cadet Harris’ cousin, the young man who’s staying in the hotel
there?”
“Yes, sir,” said the butler. “His name’s Mr. Chandler. Why?”
“I’ve got a secret,” said Mark, briefly. “It’s something important, and
I want you to help me, without saying a word to any one. Get one of the
women, his chamber-maid if you can, to find out if he’s got a box in
his room.”
And the butler chuckled to himself.
“Bless you, sir,” he said. “I can tell you that now. It’s the talk of
the place, among the help. One of the girls saw Mr. Harris and his
cousin carrying a heavy box up to his room just before réveille this
morning.”
And as Mark turned away again he was ready to shout aloud for joy.