Brent stooped and lifted the board gingerly. A stifled cry escaped his lips as he flung it awkwardly from him. For in that act, he had unwittingly laid bare the opening of the grave.
Speech was impossible! We stood transfixed, humbled, on that ground that death had hallowed.
There seemed to be something unholy in letting our curious, mortal eyes peer down into that dark tomb. But on the other hand, ours was a curiosity born of mercy, whereas our unknown predecessor had come to despoil and desecrate what should have been a chamber of eternal peace.
Our eyes were dazzled and blurred from the bright sun. Gradually though, we became accustomed to the darkness and beheld the coffin lying opened, the lid standing against the side of the grave.
It was empty!
Tom laid the board reverently over it. My head was aching and Brent make a queer gurgling noise in his throat.
We picked up our things and started back to Camp.
“That board,” Tom said, listlessly, “is the one that Heinie tried his paints out on. He told me he laid it up against the eats shack, night before last. It was gone in the morning, so I had to hunt him up another board.”
“It’s all too ghastly to talk of,” I said. “I feel I can’t stand many more horrifying disclosures.”
“We all feel that way,” Brent said, “and that’s all the more reason why we ought to get at the bottom of this before anything else happens.”
“How?” I asked.
“And why not?” Tom put in. “Sometimes it’s these deep mysteries that are the simplest ones to solve. We can only try.”
“Carry on, my boy,” I said, encouragingly. “I’m afraid I can’t.”
“If you ask me,” said Brent, “I think it’s the work of that hermit. Also, I think he’s a trifle cuckoo.”
“I agree with you, Brent,” Tom said, “but then, how do you account for the body in the gully?” He was still persistent in his belief that it couldn’t possibly be anyone else.
“Tomasso,” Brent said, “I account for nothing! Hereafter, I shall believe only that which I see. And I mean to see that soon.”
“Explain all that, Brent!” I said.
“The sooner we get into action, the better it will be. We’ve got to see whether this hermit is dead or alive. He must have had some kind of a bunk up there and we’re going to find it, if it’s possible.”
“What about his pet lynx?” Tom asked.
“Don’t worry about that, old man,” Brent answered, reassuringly. “We’ll take Rivers along and tell him we’re going for the express purpose of getting the animal. That job will be for him and I rather think he’ll enjoy it immensely. But as for the long-haired one—I’ve an idea if he is still alive we won’t have to hunt him out.”
“Why so?” I queried.
“Because, if we get Rivers to watch for the lynx and we see him, I’m sure the hermit will pop along too.”
“What of the other fellows?” I asked. “Shall we ask them along?”
“No,” answered Brent, “I don’t think they’d care about it anyhow. Rivers is the only gunman we have.”
“A pretty quiet sort of gunman, though,” I mentioned.
“When do we go?” Tom asked. “I’ve got to go to Harkness and then up the line to-morrow morning. Heinie told me of a good repair man that keeps a garage up that way. His place is about fifteen miles up the state road.”
“Lizzie troubled with her appendix again?” Brent asked.
“No,” said Tom, refusing to let Brent ruffle him. “It’s the engine. Knocks.”
“As usual?” Brent queried.
“As usual,” Tom answered.
“Well then, we better set it for day after to-morrow. Start out around five or so, huh? We can’t hunt that lynx in the daylight you know. He’s trained too well.”
“I know. Six o’clock’s time enough, Brent.”
“Perhaps. Still, I’d like to see the sunset in the mountains and if I remember rightly, I think I’ve picked a beautiful spring moonlight night for our adventure.”
“How do you know it will be moonlight?” Tom queried.
“My almanac tells me so. It’s worth its weight in gold to me. Never fails. Got it when I bought some grippe tablets the beginning of the winter, with a sample box of cough drops thrown in.
It was good to hear Brent talking in this humorous vein once again. We were cheered. Perhaps it was the expectation of bringing the Mystery of our Camp out into the light of day and thus settling it for all time. In fact, I felt quite elated over our proposed moonlight sleuthing.
“After all’s said and done,” Brent remarked, “there’s nothing so exhilarating as Mystery!”
The next day, after Tom had gone, Brent and I went out and helped the boys.
It was peacefully devoid of all mystery to hear the chop, chop of the axe ringing in the air and the hum of men’s voices about their work.
Even the lake seemed rippling with joy under a cloudless, blue sky. Surely, that morning long ago had never been. Or it was only a hideous dream when that young man’s life was so suddenly brought to a close while the thick gray mist hung over the water!
Toward late afternoon, just before we finished, Rivers passed by. I hailed him. He bore the same inscrutable look as always; said nothing and waited for me to speak. His manner seemed to be that of one who was doing us a favor because he had condescended to stop and listen.
“Charlie,” I said, as cheerfully as I could, “do you know anything about mountains?”
“Sure do,” he answered, resting his arm on the low limb of the tree under which we were standing.
“Know anything about Hogback?” I inquired.
“No. Think I told yer afore, I wuz a stranger here.” I felt squelched.
“So you did, Charlie. My mistake. I suppose mountains are a good deal alike though, aren’t they?”
“Suppose so.”
“The reason I asked is because we’d like you to go up with us. To-morrow night. Tom, Brent and myself. Will you?”
“Guess so.” It was hard to tell if he were pleased or not.
“We’re going to try and find that pesky lynx, Rivers,” Brent said, taking up the threads where I left off.
“Yes!” he said, with quite a faint purr of pleasure at hearing that. I thought he even smiled slightly.
“Like to hunt, eh Charlie?” I felt that at last I had struck the right note.
“Betcha!” He really stirred one foot.
“That’s fine. We’re going around six. Brent wants to see the sunset in the mountains.” I laughed.
“And the moonlight!” Brent added. Rivers grinned again and moved off.
“That chap would make an excellent teacher in a deaf and dumb school.” Brent called out to me, some time later. We were washing up for supper.
“You mean Rivers?”
“Yes, he’s almost too patient to be human.”
Just as supper was ready, Tom came in. His face was flushed and his voice sounded eager as he greeted us.
“Knocks all taken out, Tommy?” Brent asked.
“Yeh,” he answered, breathlessly. Then, “Wait’ll you hear what I have to tell you!”
“Fallen heir to a fortune or something?” I queried.
“Naw. Sh-sh! Listen! The boys are coming in. I’ll tell you later.”
We had a cheerful meal that evening. Everyone was pleasantly talkative and the Lodge was so warm we had to open the doors and windows. The odor of pine and approaching summer was in the air that floated about us.
“Charlie’s going to help us kill that lynx,” Brent said to Tom, across the table.
“That’s fine, Charlie,” Tom said. “I guess he means you’ll do the killing, if it comes to that.”
“Won’t make me mad!” Rivers said. He certainly was pleased.
“What a pleasant supper we had,” I remarked, after the boys had bidden us good-night.
“Yes, didn’t we!” Tom assented.
“In fact,” Brent said, “there was something almost brutally pleasant about the way Rivers spoke of killing that animal. You know, I don’t really mean that he should kill it at all. It’s just a hoax to try and find the hermit.”
“Why did you suggest asking him then?” Tom asked.
“Because,” Brent answered, “if he should get vicious, then it will be all right. But if he doesn’t, why I thought we could stop Rivers at the last minute.”
“Well, I’m afraid you won’t be able to stop him at the last moment at all,” Tom told him.
“Rather him than me,” I said.
“Oh,” said Tom, “a woodsman thinks nothing of that. It’s great sport for him. Why, Brent couldn’t feel as comfortable sitting at the movies.”
“Horrors! Tom! I pray then, hereafter, that I shall be delivered from ever thinking of Rivers when I’m at the movies. The thought would make me decidedly uncomfortable.” Somehow, I liked Brent for saying that!
“What was the dark secret?” I asked Tom, a few moments later.
“It is dark too!” Tom answered. “Sit down here, Brent,” (he indicated the willow rocker in front of the hearth) “while I tell you something mighty interesting.”
“Ah,” said Brent, “a bedtime story.”
“Nothing of the kind,” Tom said. “But I went up to that garage. Mighty nice country fellow has it. Just keeps a helper during the day so the job was handed over to him. There wasn’t much the matter with it and the owner said the kid could do it as well as he.”
“Didn’t I tell you a child could fix your car?” Brent teased.
“Aw, hold on, Brent. This fellow that owns the garage—his name is Joe something or other. It doesn’t matter. Well, he took me into his little office while I was waiting. We got talking together.
“He has one of those old-fashioned roll-topped desks. I was sitting in the chair that goes with it and he in another one close by.
“I happened to glance at the desk casually. Saw a newspaper on it. Picked it up like anyone will. Was a New York paper. Opened it up and for a minute or so looked through it while we talked.
“As I went to put it back again, I noticed Mr. McClintick’s picture and a small headline beneath. Just a review of the case. No new clues. Police as much in the dark as ever, it said.
“This fellow Joe, saw me looking at it and told me he never saw a picture of McClintick in the paper that he didn’t think of one night when he got the fright of his life.”
“Another ghost story, Tommy?” Brent asked. “I won’t sleep again to-night if it is.”
“Wrong again, Brent,” Tom replied. “No ghost at all. A real live person!”
“Go on, Tom!” I said.
“Joe is single. He has a little room back of the office we were sitting in, where he sleeps and eats.
“He explained to me that he is a very heavy sleeper. Consequently, he leaves a dim light in the office all night and doesn’t lock the doors. He said he never keeps much money around and what he has is always in a safe place.”
“That reminds me,” Brent interrupted, “of the Scotchman who tied strings around his pennies. And—”
“Joe’s not Scotch,” laughed Tom. “One evening about a year ago in November, he said he was taken with a severe attack of neuralgia. First time he ever had it, so he took some kind of a sedative and he said he felt so drowsy in a little while that he went to bed.
“He said he imagined he had been sleeping for a few hours. Must have been around midnight when he was aroused by the sound of a male voice outside in his office. He listened and heard the ’phone receiver clicking. Then the voice again saying: ‘Yes, that’s right. One hundred! O-n-e-h-u-n-d-r-e-d. Hurry, please!’
“Joe listened and then he sat up in bed and grabbed for his gun. He said he was scared all right. Then the voice fairly yelled, ‘Thank you! Hello! Father? It’s I. I’m safe.’
“Then, ‘O, Father? Can’t you think of some other way?’ Joe said the fellow talked as though he was crying, ‘Don’t communicate with me in Montreal unless you have to.’ Then there was a pause and, ‘Don’t go through with it! Don’t let him urge you! Please! Good-bye Father!’
“That was all. There came sounds of a chair being shoved across the floor and Joe got up and pushed the door open slowly.
“He saw a young man sitting in the desk chair, well dressed; and leaning over looking at his right foot which he was holding out at length.
“Joe went back to the bed and slipped the gun under a pillow and feeling a good deal easier in mind. Then he opened the door quite noisily this time. The young man looked up, startled.
“‘Oh, I beg your pardon!’ he said to Joe. ‘I tried to waken you, but you were sleeping too hard. Had to telephone someone, so took the liberty as long as you leave your doors open. Much obliged and sorry I disturbed you!’ he said, handing Joe a five dollar bill and telling him to keep the change.
“Joe thanked him and as the fellow got up to go he limped. Joe asked him if he had hurt his foot and the chap said yes. Probably sprained it. Seeming to be such a nice fellow Joe made him sit down and told him he’d bandage it. So he got some iodine and gauze and took the shoe and sock off, proceeding to fix it up the best he knew how.
“The chap was awfully pleased and thanked Joe many times over as he helped him out and into his car. Said he hoped they would meet again sometime and drove off.”
“I suppose your friend, Joe, did get quite a scare,” I said to Tom. “Waking up and hearing that strange voice shouting in his office. But why, when he sees McClintick’s picture in the paper—why, should it remind him of that particular night?”
“That’s where our turn comes in,” said Tom, with an air of having something up his sleeve.
“Ah, ha!” Brent said, quite tragically. “Where’s the dustpan? We need it for the dirt!”
“You know how much these country people make of small things,” Tom started to explain. “I mean, such as connecting perfectly irrelevant things with the relevant. For instance, one would say that they always remembered the day Johnny Jones fell through the ice and drowned, because it was only the night before that the cat walked over the piano keys and gave the whole household a terrible scare.”
“Country people aren’t alone in those matters,” I said.
“I know it,” said Tom. “But can you see the reason why this Joe is always reminded of that night by McClintick’s picture in the paper?”
“No, Tommy, I can’t!” Brent answered, in an indulgent manner. “I’ve been neglecting my crossword puzzles in the interest of the Scouts and I’m out of practice.”
“Well,” said Tom, “it’s just this: everyone within a radius of fifty miles up here knew of the McClinticks. Even though they never saw them and would probably never see them (and Joe was one of them), they were always interested to hear any gossip concerning them. More so because the McClinticks were so extravagant with their wealth.
“If they arrived at the Lodge on the first day of April at nine o’clock in the morning, it would be passed along from one to the other, until it finally reached Joe about twelve o’clock noon.
“The same with all their public comings and goings. From what Joe said, he always heard things before they were twenty-four hours old.
“Of course, when visitors came or went away from the Lodge, the country people took little notice of them. It was the ‘rich McClinticks’ they were concerned about. I suppose it was because they felt a certain pride in having people of such fabulous wealth for neighbors.
“At any rate, the day when the son was reported killed, the news spread like wild-fire. Joe said as soon as it reached him he felt right off that they wouldn’t hear much more of the McClinticks. He said everyone felt the same way and they regretted it.”
“I’m beginning to see light,” I said.
“You see,” Tom said and moved his chair nearer the fireplace, “what they regretted (Joe included) was the fact that the tragedy brought to a close the ever pleasant round of gossip which wealthy city people furnish with their extravagances.”
“You preach a fine sermon, Tom!” Brent put in.
“Aw, wait a second, Brent,” Tom said breathlessly. “I could tell by Joe’s manner that neither the young man’s midnight visit or Roland McClintick’s death had visibly affected his intelligence enough to connect the two really relevant incidents. And the murder of the elder McClintick, he discussed without feeling. They meant nothing to him; none of them. Except to make small talk and while away a pleasant hour or so with an amiable customer.
“But his love of small talk has proven a blessing. It’s given us a real clue!”
“How?” I asked, still in the dark.
“Well, you watch me unravel it,” Tom said proudly. “Joe remembers that night a year ago in November because he wasn’t feeling well. The fact that the young man gave him a shock on that same night freshens his memory as to the terrible attack of neuralgia he had. And being human he enjoyed telling about his sufferings.
“In other words he couldn’t tell me about his sufferings that night without telling me about the young man. They fit together because of the fact that he was sleeping so soundly with the sedative he had taken, he didn’t hear the young man calling him. And then the next day he heard about Roland McClintick which of course would serve to give him three things to talk of all happening in a few hours’ time. Consequently, every time he sees Mr. McClintick’s picture it makes him think of the day Roland was killed and his own scare and sufferings the night before.”
“That’s reducing it to its common denominator,” I admitted, “but still I fail to see the clue.”
“You see, if it wasn’t that he loved small talk he wouldn’t have ever thought of remembering in such detail that the night of his sufferings and the other incident was just the night before Roland McClintick was supposed to have lost his life. And that is where our clue comes in.
“His simple country habit of connecting incidents with his own private life enabled him to tell me word for word the ’phone conversation of that young fellow, who mentioned Montreal and asked for the number one hundred. His talk to his father was lucid enough for us to know that the young chap was going away because of something dire about to happen. And he was pleading with his father not to do it. Who else could it be but Roland McClintick that ’phoned from Joe’s garage that night? And yet, the next morning when he was really in Montreal, his father reported him dead.”
“And six months later,” I said, “so Peters told us, he calls from Montreal. Minnie Schultz wasn’t having any idle dream, I guess!”
“Minnie’s my find!” said Brent, mockingly indignant.
“Last, but not least,” Tom concluded, “Joe mentioned to me quite casually that, when he raised the young fellow’s foot up to bandage it, he noticed something unusual about it.”
“What?” I asked, although sensing the answer.
“A long thick scar!” Tom said quietly.
Brent and I sat aghast!
“I think,” Brent said, soberly, “that Tom has given us conclusive evidence as to Roland McClintick being alive. That is up until a few nights ago, if we don’t find the hermit.”
“You think then, the hermit and Roland McClintick are one person?” I queried.
“Of course,” Brent said. “The scar proves it in every instance.”
“Still, lots of people have scars on their feet though,” Tom said.
“I suppose they have,” Brent agreed. “But what we want to find out is why Mr. McClintick identified the body that was taken from the lake as his son, when he knew his son to be in Montreal. Someone else was killed in his place and we want to find out why?”
“Could it have been Northrop?” Tom asked wonderingly. “Or Weston?”
“I don’t know,” Brent answered. “But I do know or rather hope, when we hear from Coover’s Falls that it will be something interesting and worth hearing.”
“Then the murdered and the murderer lies between Northrop and Weston?”
“I’m sure of it,” said Brent, “from what Tom has told us of that ’phone conversation. It was deliberate murder and whoever killed that unknown person out on the lake also murdered the elder McClintick. Both murders were committed for some cause, certainly.”
“What of the empty grave?” Tom asked. “Perhaps the murderer has been in fear of discovery and came back to completely destroy the body. In that way one could never find out who the culprit or victim was.” Brent was certainly uncanny in his new role of sleuth, yet his theories did fit together.
“That brings us back to the motive,” he went on. “They say murders are committed almost always for three reasons; money, hate or insanity.” I happened to think when Brent mentioned the three reasons, of my informant at Long Branch, the day I went to hunt up Mr. McClintick. Hadn’t he told me how Seven Towers and the other estate at Newport had been sold? His palatial New York home also? And if I remembered rightly he said he had heard that Mr. McClintick needed the money. I told all this to Tom and Brent.
“Well then,” said Brent, “the motive is clear. He needed the money. And he could get it by reporting that the body they found in the lake to be that of his son.”
We were startled out of our perplexing problems by a wild, moaning cry.
“The lynx!” Tom said. “I bet he misses the hermit.”
“How do you suppose he ever made a pet of that animal?” Brent asked me.
“As this seems to be a night of deductions, I would say that he must have gotten hold of him when he was a cub. I’ll also venture to mention that our friend Peters might not have killed his lynx cub after all. You never can tell.”
Two sharp knocks sounded on the door! Tom went forward quickly and flung it open. Rivers stood there.
“Whew!” Tom said. “You did give us a scare, Charlie. Why didn’t you come in? The door was unlocked.”
“It’s so late, I didn’t think you’d be up. Thought you forgot to put out your light!” Rivers came inside and Tom closed the door.
“Sit down, Rivers,” I said. “We’ve been so interested in our talk, we didn’t realize the hour.”
“Just as soon stand,” he murmured. “Going back to bed right away.” He turned to Tom.
“That pesky lynx woke me. Got up. Looked ’round ’n as I went ter go back ter bed, I could a’ sworn somethin’ passed the winder. Didn’t see nothin’ when I walked over here though. Guess it’s a’right.”
“Sure,” said Tom. “We’ll get that wild bird to-morrow night, eh Charlie?”
“Sure as I live,” he grinned. “Too much of a nuisance ter live,” he said walking toward the door; and said good-night.
“What a charming outlook that fellow has on life?” Brent said, after Tom had locked the door. “Charity to animals hasn’t a place in his scheme of things.”
“Aw,” Tom said, in a defensive tone. “You just don’t understand him, Brent, he’s a woodsman. They’re all that way.”
“Well you’re not,” Brent said, “and I’d say you were thoroughly woodsy.”
“No, I’m not! Not the way he is. He’s truly native and I’m just an artificial product. Too chicken-hearted to be a real born scout like Rivers.”
“Well, then, give me your chicken-hearted scouts, Tommy. Artificial products are ofttimes nicer than the real article and in this case I like the real human touch in a mere scout better than the real born scout in a mere human.”
“Very well said, Brent!” I applauded.
Tom turned the lamp down and Brent and I started up the stairs and disappeared within the darkness of our respective rooms.
“Oh, Brent!” Tom called, as he came running up the stairs. “Do you think Charlie really saw anyone just now?”
“It might have been the hermit!” Brent answered tauntingly, “or his ghost!”
“Gosh,” I heard Tom say, as he passed my door, “if your theories aren’t enough to make a fellow’s head whirl!”
“Good-night, Tommy!” Brent said, in his most soothing manner.
“Good-night!”
Tom left for Harkness shortly after breakfast next morning. He didn’t expect to be gone long, so Brent and I set about straightening up the Lodge. With our activities and worries of the past few days a good deal of necessary housekeeping had been neglected.
I had just swept the dust out of the front door and turning around noticed Brent dusting up after me. It was hard to conceal my amusement when I beheld his long, lanky form bending down and his hands awkwardly flipping a dust cloth here and there.
“I’ll straighten up those papers on the table presently,” he said, and adjusted his spectacles after having dusted the bottom rung of the willow rocker. “We might as well leave things as we found them, in the event that we don’t get back after to-night!”
“You’re certainly consoling, Brent,” I said.
“One can never tell,” he said, laughing.
“Let’s hope,” I said, “that everything will be adjusted for the happiness of all those concerned. The Scouts, the Camp and Tom. It’s the dream of his life.”
“You bet it is,” Brent agreed, vehemently. “I know he won’t be happy until he sees the clouds lifted off this place and the sun shining through for all time.”
Before noon, Tom came bursting in, enthusiastic over something. He was always suggestive of clear, cool piney winds in that mood.
“Here we are fellows!” he called to Brent and me, holding an envelope in mid-air between two weather-brown fingers.
“Who is it from?” Brent asked.
“Coover’s Falls, North Dakota,” he answered.
“No!” I exclaimed.
“Sure as anything,” he said, taking the bulky looking letter out of its envelope and handing it to me.
“You’re elected to read it.” I unfolded it carefully. There were two letters, one enclosed in the other. The enclosed one I laid aside and started to read aloud the other, which was signed by Mrs. Boardman.
Coovers Falls, S. D.Leatherstocking Training Camp,
P. O. Address, Harkness, Clinton County,
N. Y.
Dear Sirs:—
Received your letter. Also Mrs. Northrop brought me over two letters she had got from your camp. She can’t see to read anymore so I do all that for her.
I couldn’t understand the one letter she got at all (that’s the one I’ve enclosed), so I called in Sam Tibbets, our postmaster and he read it for us.
The reason I’m sending it back to you is because I understood from what you said in your letter that it wasn’t likely you knew anything about anyone else in your camp writing to Mrs. Northrop and that they must be doing it behind your back. It came about three days after yours, Mrs. Northrop says, and as I was over at Redlands helping my married daughter who ain’t feeling so well, why Mrs. Northrop had to wait till I got back.
Anyhow I guess you must know by now who wrote that last letter and also that young Peter Northrop is dead so we won’t have to give you any information that way.
Sam Tibbets said he felt right terrible when he had to read that out to Mrs. Northrop, but we was surprised to see how calm like she heard the whole thing. All she said was she was so old it didn’t make much difference and it wouldn’t be long anyhow before she’d be with young Peter.
But what I wanted to say was that Mrs. Northrop wants me to tell you to thank whoever sent that last letter about her son (there was no name signed as you’ll see) also the reason I sent it back is because you’ll probably know the handwriting.
As I said before, she wants you to thank the party and also for the money that came in it. Sam says it was a dangerous thing to do to send a pile of money like that through the mail and only register it for twenty-five cents. I say so too. But it will help Mrs. Northrop right comfortable for the few years she has to live and she’s thankful to have it. She was very poor and it is a fortune to her. I wouldn’t mind having it myself, but of course not to lose my children to have it.
I guess that’s all except Mrs. Northrop said to say young Peter never had a scar on either of his feet that she knew.
Thanking you for your trouble and all,
Yours truly,(Signed) Mrs. Katie Boardman.
When I had finished, Brent was still standing with the dust cloth in his hand and Tom was sitting on the edge of the table swinging his legs.
“What else?” said Tom, the first to break the silence.
I had taken up the enclosed letter and was trying to decipher that outlandish writing. One could see at a glance it had been written under great stress. It looked like the Chinese alphabet to me so I handed it over to Tom. He scrutinized it carefully.
“Why hand it to me?” said Tom. “This crossword puzzle stuff is right in Brent’s line. He’ll make it out somehow.” Tom took the dust cloth out of Brent’s limp hand, shoved him down in the rocker and pulled both over to the window.
“While you’re about it, Tom,” Brent said, leisurely, “you might get me a clean handkerchief out of the top pocket in my coat, hanging on the rack. I’ll have to wipe the dust off my glasses.” After Brent had attended to all these preliminaries, he studied the letter through twice. We kept a respectful silence meanwhile, but I’ll own I was impatient for him to say something. Finally his sober features broke into a puzzled look, that was half frown and half smile.
“To begin with,” Brent said, “the paper this is written on is the same stuff we had stuck up in the cupboard. Remember the stuff we bought in Harkness that one time and couldn’t use because the weave was so coarse the pen point would catch in it and blur?”
So we had. We’d used it all with the exception of a few sheets and had thrust those carelessly in the cupboard after we had gotten more of a better grade.
“Tom,” Brent said, “take a look in that cupboard and see if the paper’s there.” Tom looked thoroughly and shook his head in a negative manner.
“So much for that, then,” Brent murmured, as though it were serious business. Nevertheless, he looked to be enjoying his present role.
“Scotland Yard would appreciate you, Brent,” I said. “You’ve missed your vocation.”
“I know it,” he said, and went on, “Also, my fountain pen was used in writing this letter. I know its defects so well that I recognized them at once. I know it because it always blots in making punctuation marks. Especially periods.”
“How could he have gotten hold of your pen, for goodness’ sake?” Tom asked.
“I’ve been keeping it on the table standing upright in that little bud vase. It leaks if I don’t.”
“Well, Brent,” I said, “if that’s the case I’ll give you a new one for Christmas next year. Please go on and read that letter!”
“I don’t know that I’d care to part with it now,” Brent answered good-humoredly. “It’s thrown some light on this mystery already.”
“And ink,” Tom remarked.
“Ink then,” Brent came back, “and be thankful for its blessings. Well, here goes—”
“Just a minute, Brent,” I said, “Do you think it possible he could have written the letter here?”
“I think it’s quite possible. He had the key to get in before, didn’t he? Made away with the newspaper clipping; the targets? Furthermore we’ve been mighty careless leaving letters on that table. He’s found Mrs. Northrop’s letter there too, I’d bet my life. How else could he have known her address. And, if he had known it before, he surely would have written her.”
True, I hadn’t seen that letter of Mrs. Northrop’s that she had sent to her son, after the day it came.
Brent had started to read the letter in his hand, so I sat back to listen intently.
Leatherstocking Lodge,Harkness, N. Y.Dear Mrs. Northrop:—
In a most unusual manner your address has fallen into my hands.
Otherwise, I would have written you before to tell you that your son is dead. It grieves me to write this so bluntly, but I know of no other way.
He has, in fact, been dead now, over a year and a half and the enclosed money really belongs to him. In short, he had every right to claim it, had he lived, and you being the mother deprived of her only son, it goes to you.
At least it will give you the material comforts which your son’s death and long absence has probably deprived you of already.
Allow me to say that knowing your son Peter as I did, I can sympathize with you in your grief at this revelation of his death. I know it has blighted my life completely!
Perhaps it will console you a little to know that he lost his life for another, who was absolutely unworthy to breath the air that Peter Northrop did.
And his body, too clean to rest in a tainted grave, has reached the clear waters of which he seemed a very part.
By the time you receive this, let me assure you that he will have found his Paradise and God.
In telling you this and by your leave, dear lady, my own tortured soul will find some peace and be ready to face its maker.
Good-bye!
In the short silence following Brent’s reading, I felt that through it all I had seen revealed the naked soul of Roland McClintick.
Veiled though the wording of that letter was, we had understood, where the good, but ignorant, people in Coovers Falls had not. And what a blessing their ignorance was!
“How he must have suffered!” Tom murmured.
Brent sighed. “With all McClintick’s ability to make money,” he said, “and his supposed strength of will, the son, with his apparent weakness for gambling and draft-dodging, proved the stronger.”
“Yes,” I said, “he went through the acid test. Do you think he’s quite sane, though?”
“You mean, his reference to Northrop no longer being in a tainted grave?”
“Yes.”
“I think so. I think it’s his conscience working all through the whole thing, even the money. That’s probably why he came back to live in the mountains so he could save the money and send it to Mrs. Northrop sometime. I don’t think he’s crazy though. His lonely existence and deprivations may have affected his mind. But I don’t think he’s a maniac by far.”
“Well, it would be a wonder if he isn’t,” Tom said. “I wonder where he lives up there?”
“He must have a shack, I guess,” Brent answered. “All the hermits in the movies do.”
“Well, this isn’t a movie,” I said, “it’s too real, by far.”
“At any rate,” Brent said, “I guess that Weston chap is the murderer.”
“Yes,” said Tom, “but try and find him!”
“They say a murderer always comes back, Tom,” I reminded.
The rest of the day was spent in apprehension and odd jobs. Just trying to kill time and thought until half past five.
About four o’clock, I was raking up some shavings around one of the newly completed shacks. Brent was gathering them up and burning them. The sun had gone partly under a mischievous gray cloud which at once gave the earth a sickly appearance.
“Brent,” I said, looking skyward with squinting eyes, “you might possibly see the sunset in the mountains, but you’ll never see the moonlight to-night!”
“Why, what makes you think so?” he asked. I pointed to the sun.
“Just a passing cloud,” he said. “Be clear in another minute.”
Tom and Rivers ahead, and Brent and myself following, were walking along the first slope at just six o’clock that evening.
The sun was beginning to set and looked like a huge balloon poised on the crest of old Hogback. Violet-colored shadows traced in weird shaped patterns spread across the sky. And from the valley below a purplish mist was rising, completely obliterating our view of the camp. Then the sun sank out of sight.
“Goin’ to rain!” Rivers said, as he adjusted his rifle over his shoulder. Tom also had his pistol (which I knew he didn’t intend using if he could help it), but Brent and I were unarmed except for a hatchet.
“What makes you think it will rain, Rivers?” Brent asked.
“Sun set too quick!”
“Then we’ll have a nice wet night!” Brent said, optimistically. Rivers looked back and grinned. He was going to enjoy the evening’s adventure, no matter what the weather.
Up on the second slope, the going was difficult. Tom, of course, was keeping ahead and watching the ground with a keen eye. A few drops of rain touched my cheek lightly, then a zigzag flash of lightning raced across the heavens.
“Let ’er rain,” Brent said, defiantly. “See if I care!”
We were pretty well clothed, so it didn’t make much difference except that the premature darkness would impede our progress.
“Better gather a little wood, fellows,” Tom said. “We may need it if we get stuck up here until morning.”
“That’s the stuff, Tommy,” Brent said. “Always looking out for a rainy day.”
It was raining in earnest at about eight o’clock, but we were deep in the forest and the thickly grown trees protected us from the storm. Tom and Rivers were lighting the way with two powerful searchlights. The tracks were still to be seen.
“I wonder if Tom sees the other tracks?” I asked Brent, in an undertone.
“I think so,” Brent replied.
“The tracks are turning again, boys!” Tom said softly. “I think out of these woods and around the cleft.”
“It’s jes’ prob’ly what the critter’d do,” Rivers murmured, “a night like this.”
We did emerge from the woods and out by the cleft. The brook below in the light of day seemed to strike a silver chord of happiness within me. Now, in the storm-ridden darkness, it echoed plaintively along the gully.
The swish of the water flowing so rapidly over the rocks gave me the ghostly thought that perhaps it was the phantom feet of Peter Northrop retracing his steps down there and not the swish of the water at all. Tom’s voice jolted me out of my eerie musing.
“Where shall we go from here, Charlie?” he asked.
“No place. We’ll stay. He’ll come sometime to-night, a’right.”
“My feet are cold,” Brent said, soberly. “Couldn’t we make a little fire in through the trees there somewhere?”
“Sure!” Rivers said. “We haint heard him howl yet. That’s time enough to watch.”
The campfire was a welcome sight and put to flight all my morbid thoughts. We were sheltered by the trees some twenty-five feet from the cleft.
For about an hour we sat and chatted pleasantly. Except Rivers. He seemed to have sunken back into his usual silence again, and as I glanced at his face, I thought I detected a look of cunning. One felt, glancing at his face, that he had an air of expectancy about him. As if he had been listening and waiting all through his life for just that moment.
A terrific clap of thunder broke and the mountains seemed to be crashing around us. As it rolled away, we heard that great mournful wail, now becoming so familiar to our ears.
Again it came and again. I suddenly felt terribly chilled. Rivers got up stealthily and in a whispered voice told us that he’d go out and keep under cover of darkness and for us to sit quiet and wait.
Above the whistling of the howling gales, the cry of the animal sounded nearer and nearer. We were rigid. Not a sound came from the darkness outside by the cleft, but we knew Charlie Rivers was watching—and waiting.
It must have been near midnight, I thought.
I was sorry I had come. I wondered if Brent was? And Tom? Why should that animal be killed? He wasn’t hurting anyone by howling at night. I would have gotten up and spoken my mind, if I had thought Rivers wouldn’t have laughed at me.
Then the cries ceased. But the fire hissed and seemed to make a terrific noise, just when I wanted to concentrate my whole mind on listening. Brent made a funny gurgling sound in his throat. What made him do that, I wondered. Tom glared at him.
A hush had fallen over the whole place. For at least five minutes I hadn’t heard a sound or a move anywhere. But I felt a presence of something. Without twitching a muscle, Tom, Brent and I looked first at each other then out into the darkness.
Two eyes like glittering bits of steel, peered intently at us. The rest of the body was enveloped in the night, like a shroud.
It moved slightly, pawing the ground and then settling back on its hind paws. Although the silence was deadly, the animal suddenly swung around. I knew it must be Rivers!
It was too late when I saw it! Rivers’ gun was on the ground near the tree where he had been sitting. How he had forgotten it, I don’t know. But it was too late for him to get it.
The animal stood halfway between Rivers and ourselves. Tom’s hand made a move toward his back pocket, but Charlie had rushed for the lynx!
Before I realized what had happened, the woodsman had his brawny fingers tightly clasped about the animal’s throat. In the struggle, he had forced it back nearer the fire and into the light, and it stood erect on its hind paws.
Standing full in the firelight, I was horrified to see the maniacal expression on Rivers’ face. His small eyes seemed riveted upon his victim and he held the powerful jaws taut with a sort of fiendish delight.
It wasn’t the face of the defenceless man, killing a dangerous animal. It was the face of a dangerous man, killing a defenceless animal. The beast uttered a few stifled gasps and started to sink to the ground.
A screech and then a sort of hysterical laugh sounded shrilly through the trees. We stared with frightened eyes and pounding hearts.
Rivers released the dead animal and stood as if rooted to the spot.
Standing just between the darkness and the firelight, was the hermit! His long, unkempt hair and beard were dripping wet and the few rags that served to cover his poor, thin body were clinging to him.
The wild haunting eyes looked long at the prone beast, then at Rivers and ourselves. He seemed to see all and yet nothing. Then his long white bony fingers reached out toward Rivers. And he laughed—that horrible, terrible laugh. Charlie stepped back.
“So!” the hermit shrieked and moved nearer Rivers, “you don’t recognize me, eh, Weston?” Rivers flinched and drew himself up.
“It’s I, Weston!” he cried, “I, Roland McClintick! I see you don’t kill with the gun any more! You like strangling best, is that it?” Rivers had moved back toward us. And the hermit laughed, his voice breaking into a sob.
“You won’t get away from me, Weston! You killed Northrop and my father, and now my pet!” Tears were streaming down his cheeks. His voice was quiet when he spoke again.
“I intend to kill you!”
The pent-up grief, remorse and a desire to avenge his father’s death, must have given Roland McClintick superhuman strength that night. I don’t know!
With surprising agility for one so frail he really had the advantage over Rivers from the start, for Charlie had been too stunned to resist after the hermit had identified himself.
We were too horrified at Rivers’ cruelty to the lynx to feel moved to help him. Furthermore, McClintick’s accusations filled us with loathing for the man who had lived, walked and talked with us.
There were no more cries. Just the heavy breathing of two men fighting desperately for their lives. I heard a deep moan and then all was quiet.
The hermit stood in our firelight again, exhausted, his body shaking with deep emotion. But on his face was a look of peace. The wild, haunted expression had disappeared!
“He’s gone, fellows!” he said to us quietly. “Too good a death for him!” Then he knelt down at the dead beast’s side and stroked the coat affectionately.
“He was great company to me,” he explained, “strange as it may seem to you. I found him almost dying the first night I came up here. Some beast had shot his paw almost off. I’m glad he’s dead, though, he’d miss me if he lived after me.”
“We’ll bury him for you,” Brent said, and it seemed to please him.
“We’re terribly sorry, McClintick!” Tom said, huskily. “How can we help you?” McClintick looked up, his great eyes emphasized by the sunken cheeks.
“Fellows,” he said, as though it was an effort, “you’re real men, all of you. I’ve seen you at the Lodge. I’ve been stealing in there all this time. I had to live somehow until I found Weston. Now I can go too!” He straightened up for a second, then fell in a faint.
We worked over him and gradually he came to. Then he looked up, a sad, sweet smile. It was pitiful!
“You can help me,” he gasped faintly, “back to my Lodge. I’ll show you the way, if you’ll give me a lift.” He stood up between Tom and me, his long, thin arms encircling our shoulders. Then he glanced at the dead lynx as though he knew it was the last look he would take at the one thing left in life to him.
Tom and I had to carry him almost, he was getting so weak, and finally he told us that we had arrived. It wasn’t far from the cleft—just in a little way.
Brent had the searchlight and McClintick nodded toward a huge boulder. He said we’d have to crawl inside and then we could only sit up.
It proved to be a good-sized cave. The inside had been furnished with a few things from the Lodge, such as pillows and blankets, and odds and ends of things to make a fellow barely comfortable. We laid him down.
“I suffered terribly this winter,” he said, seeing us looking around. “Didn’t think I’d survive it, but I did. Prayed for strength till Weston came and I could give my money over to poor Mrs. Northrop. Insurance money, it was! Blood money, I called it!
“That’s why I took Peter out of my grave. The world thinks it’s mine and it will be. He was too fine to be buried under a McClintick name. WE’ve been tainted!”
The fellow’s eyes seemed to be gazing afar and his thin hands twitched at the blankets we had wrapped around him. Tom, Brent and I exchanged significant glances. Roland McClintick’s life was nearly ended!
“Don’t let anyone tell you my father thought up that ghastly thing. He was in Weston’s power!” he was talking very faintly. “It was on account of some government fraud that Weston got my father, and he wanted blackmail. Father didn’t have it.
“Weston knew how Pete had once taken the blame for me in a gambling mess. That’s how he conceived the idea. And he threatened to expose father unless he would consent to that means and get my insurance money. It was all the money father could lay his hands on just then.
“I pleaded with father. It wasn’t any use. Weston had him and father was weak enough to be afraid. And the morning after I left for Montreal they lured Peter out there. He died for me. I’ve been almost crazy!”
We tried to soothe him but soon he closed his world-weary eyes!
We stood outside the cave in the dim, wet dawn. The sad affair was ended!
“The debts are all paid,” Brent said. “Now Leatherstocking Training Camp can start its career with a clean slate, eh Tommy?”
“Sure thing!” Tom replied.
The rain had stopped, and away in the east a glint of pink light streaked the far horizon. The odor of wet pine filled the air.
Like two vast curtains, the dark heavens parted slowly and the sun, like the true scout smile, came shining through!