We looked all about before returning to the lodge and entered all the
completed cabins, but no sign was there of anything amiss. We thought
that one tree sheltered a lurking presence, and I saw Tom’s hand reach
around to his hip pocket as we approached it. But it was only the shadow
of a wind-blown branch that we had seen, and it dissolved as we drew
nearer. We even went down to the lake, but there was nothing unusual
there.
“I think that Weir Lake is a good name for it,” I said as we went back.
“It’s so black and still.”
“Oh, that isn’t the reason for the name,” Tom said. “The old gent named
it; it’s named after his wife; her maiden name was Weir. It didn’t have
any name when he blew in here. Right about where we were standing is
where Mr. Weston stood when he aimed and shot. Then he came up to the
lodge and looked in the room you’re going to have, to see if young
McClintick was there. Must have been an awful suspense to him, just that
little while before he could muster up courage to take a peek and be
sure of the truth.”
I just shook my head.
“Guess it was only a reflection of the fire you saw,” he said. “But it
looked kind of funny, didn’t it? Moved sideways instead of jumping up
and down. I don’t suppose any bandits would push in here. It’s just as
well to be careful.”
We found Brent sitting in the middle of one of the long sides of the
table; he looked ridiculously like a business man attending to his
correspondence. He had lighted another lantern and with his spectacles
half-way down his nose was studiously scrutinizing one of the many
sheets of paper he had gathered from the floor.
“Did you find him?” he asked casually, never looking up.
“Guess it wasn’t anything,” I said. “What have you got there?”
“Targets,” he answered. “They’re very interesting.”
I saw then that the sheets of paper were of uniform size, about a foot
square. Printed on each was a series of graduated circles with the
bull’s-eye, so called, in the center. They were the regular practise
targets familiar to all. I later found in the cupboard a board like a
drawing board containing a screw eye by which to hang it on a tree.
These targets had evidently been fastened to the board by thumb tacks.
“You say it was a year ago last fall they were here?” Brent asked,
somewhat preoccupied. “And that was the finale, huh? One of these is
dated November two, three of them are dated November three. They all
seem to be dated, and when there were several used in a day, they’re
numbered one, two, three. Here’s five of them that were used in one day.
When was what’s-his-name killed, anyway? The young fellow, I mean.”
“Oh, how should I know that?” laughed Tom.
“In November, huh?” Brent said, soberly sorting over the old targets. He
seemed to put Tom and me in the position of waiting clerks. He amused
me, as he always did, he was so slow and businesslike.
“The hunting season, that’s all _I_ know,” said Tom.
“That would be November. Let’s see, here’s one--here’s two--wait a
second, here’s another for November thirteen. Those are the last. Maybe
November thirteen was the unlucky day, huh?”
“Very likely,” I said. “And what of it?”
“He’s found something to beat crossword puzzles,” Tom laughed. “Come on,
what do you say we turn in?”
“What I’d like to know,” Brent said calmly preoccupied, “is who the
other chap was. I’ve only heard of three. There were four here in camp
at the end. There was the old geezer,” (Brent always spoke of people
with nonchalant disrespect), “and the young one, and Mr.--what d’you say
his name was--Weston? Well, there were four here practising rifle
shooting. You can see for yourselves.” He held up one of the targets as
Tom and I leaned over the table, our interest suddenly caught. “Four
shots,” said Brent, pointing a lanky finger at one after another of the
bullet holes. “Here’s another--_four holes_. Here’s another--_four
holes_. Every blooming one of them has _four holes_. Seems as if they
might have been keeping a kind of score. Hmph,” he drawled. “What do you
make of it? Each one took a crack, then they’d take another target.
There’s not a single one with three holes, or a single one with five
holes. Is there anything about a gun, or is there anything about a man,
that would make him shoot just four times? Do they have such things as
four-shooters? Were there any guns left around here?”
“Sure, there are a dozen or more,” Tom said. “They left everything.
Brent, old boy, you’ve got me guessing. No, I never heard of a
four-shooter, as you call it.”
“Well then, there were four people here,” Brent said. “I don’t know if
that’s the usual way to practise or not----”
“_It is_,” interrupted Tom. “Boy, _oh boy_, you’ve got me guessing! How
the dickens did you ever stumble on _that_ discovery?”
“When I was a boy scout,” said Brent, “I learned that I must never allow
papers to be littered about. So I picked these up while you were chasing
shadows. Well, I suppose there was no harm in four people being
here----”
“Oh no, I heard there were only three,” snapped Tom. “That doesn’t go at
all; I heard there were only three. Of course, this doesn’t really,
definitely _prove_ anything--these targets--but it’s gol blamed funny!
It _looks_ as if there were four people here that November, doesn’t
it?... What do _you_ say?” he added, addressing me. He seemed to be
quite aroused.
“Does it make any difference how many were here?” I asked.
“No, but a mystery is rather nice,” drawled Brent.
“I don’t understand it at all--I don’t,” Tom said. “You ask anybody in
Harkness, or up at Keeseville, how many were here and they’ll tell you
three. That’s what the surveyors told me. That’s what Hick Collison, the
game warden, told me. That’s what Mr. Temple understood from Mr.
McClintick and his broker--that there were only just the three men here,
for a little hunt. Why I’ve heard it a hundred times!”
“Well, I don’t suppose these targets really prove anything,” I said. “We
might have known that Brent would find something to engage his attention
up here. Now he can play Young Sleuth, the boy detective, while the rest
of us are working.”
But Tom would not accept this view, and he refused to take a humorous
squint at what seemed to me a matter of no importance.
“I can’t understand it at all,” he said, as he fell to looking at the
targets again. “It’s got me.”
“I have a suggestion,” said Brent.
“Yes, what is it?” Tom snapped.
“Let’s retire for the night.”
“Second the motion,” I laughed.