I retraced my difficult way down the mountain, scratched, soaking, and
utterly weary. The lodge, which had seemed gloomy enough before, was a
cheery refuge now. I was all but unnerved by a sense of mystery and of
things dark and inexplicable. Some strange, brooding shadow hovered over
this camp; the place was uncanny. I aroused myself and ascribed it to
the storm, to the rain-swept wilderness. After all, where was there any
mystery?
Some one at camp had once inadvertently stepped on the hearth before the
concrete was dry. That it was the imprint of a bare foot had no
significance. One about to go in the lake, or returning from it, might
have carelessly stepped on the new hearth. And might not that same
habitue of camp have gone exploring up the mountain. But barefoot? That
seemed unlikely. And how about the rustic brace upon the tree? Could
that have been there two or three years and retained its freshness and
pliancy? And the targets with their telltale bullet holes; four on each
target? And their disappearance? Had all these things a relation to each
other?
I roused myself to the wholesome conviction that the haunting specter of
the tragedy and the demon of the storm were playing pranks with my
fancy, and to confirm this sensible thought I stood in the window as the
twilight deepened the gloom of the already cheerless scene. The new
cabins, the piles of timber, the circular stone enclosure for campfire,
were very real and diverted my thoughts from the past to the cheerful
future and the new life which would soon throng Leatherstocking Camp. If
I attached some tragic meaning to every idle scratching on fence or wall
or sidewalk, I should soon be as absurd as my adventurous young friend,
Pee-wee Harris, of whom you may have heard. That is what I told myself.
By way of dealing with worth-while realities, I prepared my supper. Tom
says I am utterly useless except in wielding a fountain pen. But I think
I make very good applesauce and my poached eggs have a beauty of form
which I dare not aspire to in the field of literary art. I need not
detain you with my reveries before the blazing logs after my lonely
supper. I thought of my work and studiously avoided any speculations
about the past at Leatherstocking Camp. Nothing really strange or
suspicious had occurred there. It was the scene of a tragic accident,
that was all. If there had indeed been four persons there instead of
three, what of it?
After my last log had burned out the place began to grow cool and I
gathered up my papers and the smelly lamp, and went to my little room on
the balcony to write until I should become sleepy. The warmth ascending
lingered still in that small apartment. Some strange feeling (I cannot
otherwise describe it) caused me to ascend on tiptoe, for I could not
bear the echoing sound of my own footfalls on the uncovered stair. I
looked into Tom’s room and into Brent’s, and closed the doors of both. A
few dying embers, safely enclosed by a screen, still dimly lighted the
hearth and standing on the balcony I could just make out that footprint
stamped for all time in the imperishable concrete. There was something
weird, I thought, in such perpetuation of a casual footprint, something
akin to the preservation of a mummy. He who had carelessly stepped there
(young McClintick perhaps) might be dead. But here was this ghostly
likeness of a part of him remaining--stamped forever. I would not wish
to have in my home such a reminder of a dear, departed one. The cold
print of a foot that was no more! And that other duplicate footprint
(less clear but still identical) in that haunted pass on the gale-swept
mountain! I say _haunted_ for what rational human being would scratch in
crazy fashion such a word as _strangle_ in that wild, lonesome passage.
And the trail which had taunted and challenged me with its elusive and
changing course. Was it real? Here I was again letting my fancy
wander....
It was warm and cheerful in my little room, the streaming rain upon the
window only increased the sense of coziness and safety, and I sat me
down to finish my article about Stevenson. You will remember that on the
first evening of our sojourn in camp, Brent had noticed a space on the
wall where a picture had hung. This was a painting of Harrison
McClintick, for the leather king had not neglected to have his portrait
painted by a well known artist who had certainly succeeded in
perpetuating his hard features and dominant look. The eyes in that
portrait looked straight at the beholder. And it was for this reason (so
I understood) that the boys had taken the picture down after reading the
shocking news of Mr. McClintick’s death in the newspaper article I had
forwarded to Tom. I would not have supposed that any of them (certainly
not Tom) would be so susceptible as to be affected by the pictured gaze
of a murdered man. Yet perhaps Tom did not greatly care about the
portrait anyway.
At all events it had been taken down before my arrival and stood on the
floor against the wall of the room I was to occupy. I cannot say that
the sight of it distressed me. It meant so little to me that on the top
edge of the heavy frame my suitcase rested, and it served also as a
shelf for my writing case and used cigarette boxes. I did not like the
hard, drawn features of the leather king. The skin seemed to be
stretched tight over his face; the forceful mouth seemed almost cruel.
The head was massive at the top and narrow at the chin. The gray hair
was rather long and disheveled, which just saved the face from utter
coarseness. Seeing only the wide forehead and disordered gray locks one
might have fancied the man to have been distinguished and cultured. I
suppose the cunning artist had hit upon this picturesque disorder of the
whitening hair as the only means of saving his picture from
commonplaceness.
If I am to tell you just what happened on that frightful night, I must
tell you just how I felt. I have mentioned the strange feeling I had, as
of something impending. My adventure of the afternoon had not stilled
this vague feeling of something mysterious and dark. The feeling was not
clear and had no rational basis, but it was strong enough now to cause
me to be troubled by that face in the portrait with eyes gazing directly
at me. There was something creepy about it, the steady gaze of this
murdered man, and it affected me strangely. The eyes seemed to be
accusing me. Even while intent on my work I was disturbed by the feeling
that the steady gaze of that painted victim was fixed upon me.
Behind me I could _feel_ the door slowly open, its hinges creaking
slightly. I arose, stepped out on the balcony and looked down into the
large apartment where a few embers still burned. I told myself that
these should be extinguished and went down ostensibly for that purpose.
The footprint in the hearth showed clear in the adjacent glow; all else
was darkness. I told myself that I had made too much of that trifling
memorial of some one’s carelessness. Then I stepped over to the door of
the lodge and made sure that it was locked. This door, too, had an
uncanny habit of rattling, and to prevent this I took a paper from a
pile on the table, folded it into a sort of little wedge, and stuffed it
between the door and the jamb. From the shape and feeling of this paper
I knew it was the article about Harrison McClintick’s dreadful end,
which I had mailed to Tom and which had always lain with other papers
under a rusty old axe blade that we used for a paper weight.
I went upstairs again and into the room where my little lamp was
burning. Small as it was, it seemed cheerful. Since the door would not
stay closed I threw it wide open and resumed my work. Now and again I
glanced sideways at the portrait and by way of showing my disdain of the
effect it had on me, I lighted a cigarette and tossed the empty box upon
the wide frame. But still I turned, now and again, and glanced at that
intent face with its disordered gray hair, its resolute mouth, its cold,
searching eyes. Was it so that Harrison McClintick had looked at his
assailant? At last I could stand it no more; you may call it weakness or
silly fancy or what not. I arose and tumbling the odds and ends of my
belongings from the frame, I turned that haunting picture to the wall.
To give my action a cheerful aspect of comedy, I said, “I don’t like
people watching me so closely at my work.”
Just as I was trimming the lamp to resume my work, I heard a sudden
noise outside. It was not very loud and occurred in a gust of wind. I
tried to look from the window, but the streaming rain obscured the
glass. However, I was satisfied that a piece of planking leaning against
the unfinished cook shelf had blown down. Several of these boards which
had been selected for “eats boards” had been left there.