Brent’s discovery (if it was a discovery) did not trouble my slumber. I
could understand Tom’s reaction to what Brent had shown us. He was
familiar with the story of the camp, the reason and circumstances of the
sale. Certain things were fixed in his mind. To have any of these
details rudely upset jarred and puzzled him. I think he took Brent’s
casual discovery more seriously than Brent himself did. As for me, I
thought it of no importance at all.
You will recall that I mentioned three apartments as opening on a
balcony. I slept in one of these; Tom and Brent occupied the other two.
I was awakened in the morning by the clatter of dishes and descended to
find the oblong table which served so many purposes laid for breakfast
while the welcome aroma of coffee permeated the lodge. It was on that
day (or perhaps the next) that the young fellow they called Piker Pete
left us, but on that first morning after my arrival the whole eight of
us breakfasted together. It was fine to see how Tom hobnobbed with the
crew, laughing and joking and chatting about the work, without seeming
to lose any of his authority. He was, I thought, the ideal boss for just
such a job as was being done.
“What do you think of old Doc Gaylong here?” he said. “Looks over some
old targets and finds that there were four instead of three people here
when young McClintick lost his life. Tell ’em about it, Doc. Four shot
holes on each target. He and our fountain pen adventurer here,” (that
was myself), “are going to hunt for more evidence to-day while the rest
of us are out in the woods. They’re going to have supper ready for us
when we come back. I bet by to-night Doc Gaylong will know who the other
fellow was who was here.”
“He didn’t get no proof by dot,” said Heinie. “Dot’s no sign yet. Maybe
he would each shot four times--why not?”
“It would be more likely to be _three_ if they did it that way,” I
suggested. “It’s always three guesses, or three chances, or three shots.
Why four?”
“He’s right,” exclaimed Tom.
“I don’t see how a fourth person here two years ago is going to help out
with the work now,” Charlie Rivers said, never looking up from his
plate.
“And that’s true too,” Tom said cheerily.
Somehow (I may have been doing Rivers an injustice) I felt that what he
said was intended as a slur on Brent and me, because we were not of the
working force.
“How’d yer know them targets wasn’t put on the top shelf only a couple
of days ago?” Rivers drawled. “How’d yer know but what mebbe four of us
was target shootin’ afore you come?”
“That’s a good one on you, Doc,” Tom laughed.
“How did you know they were on the top shelf?” Brent drawled, addressing
Rivers. “You’re a kind of a detective, too,--huh?”
For just a second I fancied that Rivers was disconcerted. Perhaps he was
annoyed at being heckled by this lanky, bespectacled young fellow. It
seemed to me as if he had the woodman’s contempt for city drones.
“There you go, Charlie; how about that?” laughed Tom.
“They happen to be dated,” Brent said.
“Well,” Tom laughed, “you two make yourselves at home around here to-day
and get a good rest. We’re going to fell trees. To-morrow, if you want
to, you can give us a hand. Pretty soon we’re going to take a couple of
days off and go down the Ausable and see the Chasm. We’re going to get
some fish in a place where they hang out. Charlie will show you birds
how to play a trout, won’t you, Charlie?”
“I sure will,” Charlie said. So I knew there was no bad feeling
following the little duel of wits.
Left to ourselves that day, Brent and I enjoyed the freedom of the camp.
In the daylight I saw how the camp was situated on an area of flat
woodland between the somber lake and the great Hogback Mountain. This
frowning giant was steep and densely wooded. I longed to ascend it, yet
knew full well that I would not attempt the climb.
After luncheon (we had been given the absolute freedom of the larder) we
fell to making a casual sort of inspection of the cupboard and its
contents in search of evidence which might confirm the rather doubtful
evidence of the targets. But we could not find one thing which even
remotely suggested the number of persons at the camp in that last fatal
autumn. We found many mementoes of the former occupants; indeed, it
seemed as if they had taken nothing away. But not all of Brent’s
whimsical snooping around revealed a single sign which suggested
anything.
We examined the markings in the hearth, which had certainly been made by
the front part of a naked human foot before the cement had hardened. But
of course this imprint told us nothing. It might have been anybody’s
footprint. The fact that it was the print of a _naked foot_ was not a
matter for remark. A bather about to go to the lake, or returning from
it, could have inadvertently made that impress.
“It seems to me that we’re going a long way out of our course hunting
for a mystery,” I said. “What difference does it make whether there were
three or four persons here just before the place was finally deserted?”
“Not the slightest,” Brent said.
So there was an end of his little deductive triumph in connection with
the targets. It seemed bright and observant of him, but it signified
nothing. He and I fell into the busy life at camp, helping in our
unskilled way, to make the place ready for opening. We painted the new
rowboats, and after the men had widened the footpath in to camp, we
cleared away the roots and brush so that wagons and Tom’s precious Ford
could enter. I think I never worked so hard in my life, but I dare say
it did me good. It was amusing to see lanky Brent at these strenuous
labors.
In this wholesome, arduous work Leatherstocking Camp ceased to have any
pathetic associations. We were all too busy to think of the tragedy and
it was seldom mentioned. On an early stroll one morning, I paused on the
shore of the lake and my thoughts did wander back to the ghastly mistake
that to me had cast a shadow over the place. A gauzy cloud hung over the
lake and as I gazed out on the misty waters a bobbing object, probably
some drifting log, moved in the partial concealment of that hazy
curtain. I could not help torturing myself with the appalling thought of
how _I_ would feel if after an ill-considered shot I saw a human arm
raised up out of the water. How long would _I_ linger in torturing
suspense before going to the room of my young friend to learn the truth?
But, as I said, we were too busy to talk or even think of these things.
Even Harrison McClintick was seldom mentioned. We wondered how the
authorities in New York were progressing with the case. But we seldom
saw a New York paper, and that dreadful crime, like the mishap at camp,
was a thing of the past. On the other hand, Leatherstocking Camp was a
reality. Soon there were seven cabins up and enough logs hauled for two
more. We were waiting for planking from the sawmill in Rogers Gap, so
that we could begin work on the “grub” pavilion and the commissary shack
which were to be of a less primitive construction. I can say now that I
hope never to see another axe as long as I live. I still dream of
chinking spruce logs with sphagnum moss and laugh as I recall Brent
bringing in this growth in an improvised hod, with which he went
wandering about the neighboring forest. He was our hod-carrier,
humorous, leisurely, lanky. Sometimes he chipped the logs for binding
and he says now that he cannot play cards with any pleasure, because the
chips remind him of his “pioneer days” as he calls them.