I had made no progress in solving these mysteries when, on the second
evening after my startling discovery, Tom and the others returned. The
weather was cold for that time of year and I had been writing all day in
the lodge with a fire blazing in the chimney-place. I had begun to think
of another long evening in that uncanny place when I heard the honking
of that familiar horn and presently the voices of the returning party as
the rattling little flivver emerged from the forest trail into the
clearing. I had often ridiculed that rickety and clanking flivver, but
on that evening its every squeak was like music to my ears.
They had a fine catch of fish and a big piece of ice which they had
brought from Harkness to keep the welcome delicacy fresh if it should
last more than a day or two.
“Do you wish ice to-day?” Brent asked, as he approached the door where I
stood waiting like some fond mother ready to welcome a long lost son.
“I almost think it will be cold enough without ice,” I commented, as
they entered, stretching themselves and setting down their burdens.
“Home again,” I said gladly. “And how is the Ausable Chasm?”
“Ask Brent,” said Tom; “most of his hunting was done there. I don’t
think he missed a post card stand.”
“When I go hunting in the wilds, I never come back empty-handed,” said
Brent. “I have post cards, booklets, rustic canes, pennants, ash trays,
paper weights, Indian moccasins, buckskin pocket-books, pine cushions,
and I have been in Smugglers’ Pass in the Chasm where I found a spark
plug, left there by one of the hardy old buccaneers, I suppose.”
“He didn’t catch one fish,” said Tom.
“That was because they didn’t bite on my hook,” said Brent.
“Well, I want to hear all about it,” I said. “It’s been pretty lonesome
here. I’m half sorry I didn’t go.”
“Your place is in the home,” said Brent.
We made a hearty supper of fresh bass and the most delicious perch I
ever tasted. The cheery, bantering voices of the company enlivened me
beyond measure. One look at Totterson Burke, in his worn old corduroy
suit and all one’s illusions about ghosts were dispelled; he was so very
_real_. The very sight of Skipper Tim in flannel shirt with sleeves
rolled up was a hearty refutation of every superstitious conjecture. The
merest glimpse of Heinie Sheffler eating his supper was enough to
resolve all the perplexities resulting from my weird experience. I felt
at last that I was on firm ground, and that phantom apparitions and
ghostly footprints could not long withstand this wholesome atmosphere.
Still, I said nothing about my experience until Brent and Tom and I were
left alone. And before this (which happened in half an hour or so, for
the boys were sleepy and tired) something occurred which rather startled
me. I did not give it any connection with my experiences while alone
except that every strange occurrence had begun to seem part of a single
mystery.
As the four were about to withdraw to their own sleeping quarters, I
chanced to notice the shabby old black overcoat, belonging to Charlie
Rivers, where it still lay as I had thrown it across an end of the long
table. In a way of mock servility, I proffered Brent his umbrella and
then said, “Don’t forget your coat, Charlie.” I never felt altogether at
ease with Rivers, he did not encourage familiarity, but in a sort of
playfully cordial spirit, I held the coat up, saying, “The easiest way
to carry it is to wear it.”
Now I must tell you that during the several days of his absence, Rivers
had remained unshaved and this fact, I dare say, helped to complete the
picture which he presented when he slipped on his coat. I had never
before seen him thus clad and unshaved, and instantly there sprang into
my mind a very vivid picture of the man who had accosted me in the
street on that same day of Tom’s visit to me when he first told me of
Leatherstocking Camp. You will recall that on that day a man lingered in
the street before my home and that later, while on my way to see Mr.
Temple, this same man accosted me, asking if Leatherstocking Camp had
been sold, and saying that he would like to get a job there.
Well, seeing Charlie Rivers unshaved and in an overcoat which, like
magic, seemed to transfer him from the woods to city streets, I
recognized with a shock the same man who had tried to get into
conversation with me in Bridgeboro so long ago. The revelation struck me
between the eyes. So striking and memorable is the appearance of one
when clad in unwonted raiment. Charlie Rivers was a man of the woods; in
an overcoat he stood apart. “Good night, Charlie,” I said.
As soon as they had gone, I exclaimed, “Tom, Charlie Rivers is the same
man whom we saw while we were sitting on the porch in Bridgeboro; he is
the same man who spoke to me later in the street and asked about a job
up here.”
“What makes you think that?” he asked.
“I know it,” I said. “All that was needed was to see him unshaved and in
an overcoat. Don’t ask me, _I know he’s the same man._”
“I can’t imagine what he was doing down there,” Tom said.
“All I know is what he said,” I answered. “He wanted to know if the
property here had changed hands and spoke of a job--that’s all I know.”
Tom just sat on the edge of the table whistling. “That’s blamed funny,”
he commented.
“Are we going to do the dishes to-night?” Brent asked.
“Do you think it would be all right to speak to him about it?” I asked.
“Why not?” Tom said.
“He was glancing at your flivver--remember?”
“Well, there wasn’t anything so extraordinary about that,” Brent said,
as he gathered up the supper dishes. “Many people have paused to inspect
it. I will presently announce a new surprise myself. Meanwhile, shall we
do the dishes, or leave them till we’ve returned from the movies?”
“Well,” I said, “that’s that. Maybe there’s nothing so mysterious about
it. But I have other matters to tell you about.”
“I’ll tell you how it is about Rivers,” Tom said. “He’s always been a
kind of a wandering adventurer, as I gather. He might have drifted to
Bridgeboro and heard about this camp business and asked you about it.”
“Very likely,” I acknowledged.
Still, Tom seemed thoughtful as he sat on the uncovered end of the
table, whistling and swinging his legs. “When Charlie drifted in here I
never asked him much about himself; I was glad enough to get anybody. I
understood he came from Canada. You can see yourself how he works.”
“And that’s that,” I said.
“That’s that,” said Tom. “I don’t know anything about Heinie either, if
it comes to that.”
“I think he is remotely descended from Germans,” Brent said. And we all
laughed.
“Then there’s another thing,” I said. “Have you got those targets,
Brent?”
“They’re on the shelf in the closet,” said he.
“They are not,” I shot back at him; “they have disappeared.”
We all looked at each other, but there was no opportunity for comment.
“And now,” I said, “I am going to tell you what happened while you were
away; you may explain it as you will. I had an experience which almost
unnerved me. And I will show you the visual proof of at least part of
what I tell you.”
“It sounds good,” said Brent. “Shall we sit down before the cheerful
blaze? That’s a good word--_visual_.”
Seated before the fire, I told them of my experience as you know it; of
my difficult ascent of the mountain, of the footprint, and the word I
had seen crazily scratched on the rock. I told them of my supposed dream
and of the footprint. Then of my assurance that no one had entered the
Lodge. And of the disappearance of the newspaper account of Harrison
McClintick’s end. “I saw the face of McClintick, yet it couldn’t have
been actually the face of McClintick for he is dead,” I said. “Yet there
was an actual footprint left by some one who must have entered the
Lodge. Yet no one entered the Lodge. The targets are gone. The folded
newspaper clipping is gone. Now, unless you believe I am crazy, what do
you say?... Wait a minute, before you say anything. Let’s go upstairs
and look at the footprint. And first look at this one in the hearth.” We
returned downstairs silently. Even Brent’s air of levity was noticeably
absent as he and I resumed our seats while Tom on his own account went
about, inspecting the windows and the door. He returned, shaking his
head in utter bewilderment, and flung himself into one of the big easy
chairs, while Brent thoughtfully poked the fire.
“This blamed place is haunted,” said Tom. “It’s a spook camp, that’s
what it is.”
“Well, let’s talk things over,” Brent drawled, lazily throwing one leg
over an arm of his chair and poking the other in the direction of the
fire. He removed his old-fashioned spectacles and held them toward the
blaze, then cleaned them with his handkerchief and replaced them on his
nose. “Let’s start on the assumption that you are not crazy.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Now before we go any further,” he drawled, “let me throw in my little
contribution to the mystery. It isn’t much, but it’s the best I can do.
Then we’ll see if we can’t get a working hypothesis. This camp is better
than I thought it would be. I’m really getting interested.”
“Yes and you’ll get burned if you don’t pull your foot away from the
fire,” said Tom.
“My error,” said Brent, leisurely withdrawing his charring shoe, and at
the same time taking an envelope from his pocket. “I didn’t mention this
before the boys, not even to you, Tommy. You remember about the targets;
how each one had four bullet holes? And I said there must have been four
at camp--at the finish? Clever, I thought. Well, here’s a letter in an
old battered envelope, postmarked--let’s see--last November--yop,
November three--and that would be about a year or so after the place
here was closed up. Well, the postmaster in Harkness gave this to me
when we came through this evening and asked me if we had anybody of this
name up here. Peter Northrop. It’s addressed to _Peter Northrop, care
McClintick’s hunting camp, Leatherstocking, New York_. You’ve got to
hand it to Uncle Sam for finding people. This letter has been all over
creation--came here from Leatherville, New Jersey. Well, the envelope
was all falling to pieces--see? So I dumped the letter out and took a
squint at it. I think it shows there were four people here. Funny, huh?
Want to read it?”