“Do you suppose for one moment that Glade and Wildrick—”
“Yes! Yes! They are devils! And if an accident happens, and if Kathleen tells, somebody will find her on the rocks in the glen with her face all battered in! Hal said so!”
“Did he?”
“Yes! Take off your red Mackinaw! Please do it — if you — care anything — for — me — now Trembling with fear she was plucking at the belted coat; his right arm closed around her, tightened, drew her against him.
She was whimpering and still plucking at the Mackinaw when he kissed her.
“Take it off!” she gasped. “Take it off — take it off if you care for me at all! It is red — they’ll kill you — by accident. Oh — couldn’t you care for me enough to do what I ask?”
So he released her, slipped off his Mackinaw, flung it over a stump, pushed forward the safety on his rifle, and, passing one arm around her, drew her down once more into the pit full of brilliant autumn leaves.
“Lie down, close,” he whispered. “Don’t stir, dear, whatever happens to me. Do you promise?”
“Yes,”
“And don’t be afraid.”
“No.”
Then he walked a few paces to the left and crouched at the foot of a great oak, his leather shooting jacket and breeches harmonizing with the trunk, his face well shadowed by his felt hat.
Moment after moment passed; the uncanny tumult of the dog-men drew nearer and nearer until the thud and scuffle of feet among the leaves became audible.
Suddenly a rifle cracked; another spoke; and the red Mackinaw on the stump twitched twice. A third shot, very near, rang out; again the Mackinaw twitched.
Then the owner of the Mackinaw threw up his rifle and fired three shots in rapid succession into the air. Very far away three shots answered in quick succession.
A dead silence fell upon the forest, broken suddenly by Glade’s shrill voice, frightened but furious:
“You gol-darned thing!” he screamed. “What ye shootin’ them signals for? An’ who the hell ye shootin”em to?”
And Wildrick bawled angrily from the slope below: “What are you a-doin’ of onto this here knoll what’s bein’ barked lawful an’ peaceable in broad daylight?”
“Back out!” replied the young man in a voice dangerously calm. “The deer are in the blue-coat, Hal Glade — and my Mackinaw is red. There are three bullets in it. Back out! You pair of weasels!”
“Who be you?” bawled Glade, his voice quavering and shaking in spite of him.
“Yes, who the hell be you!” roared Wildrick. “Sneakin’ up onto this here knoll what was bein’ lawfully barked by hones’ an’ law-abidin’ men—”
“Let it go at that, Wildrick, but hit a back trail. Do you hear what I say?”
“Be you one o’ Burling’s men?” shouted Wildrick. “Get off this knoll!” came the amused reply.
“Gor-a’ mighty!” whined Glade. “Ye don’t think we plugged that there red Mackinaw a-puppus, do ye? Ye don’t think we was aimin’ fur to plug it, do ye?”
“Come, clear out,” replied Burling’s young man contemptuously. “There’ll be warrants ready for you both next week, but not on that charge!”
It may have been the contempt in his careless voice; it may have been a lively recollection of the three signal shots that decided Glade and Wildrick. If they had any further desire for murder in their hearts it was now very evident that the indulgence of that desire was to be postponed.
For a long time the young man stood by his oak tree and listened to the retreating trample of Wildrick and Glade.
After a while he walked over to the pit full of scarlet autumn leaves.
The girl lay there, quite still, looking up at him. When he knelt at the pit’s edge and held out his hands, she rose to her knees, still looking at him, and put both arms around his neck.
So he lifted her out of the brilliant pit and into the painted world of silence. But the magic of it all was fast dissolving for her. On the edges of her vision vanishing, the lonely spectre of life appeared. She recognized it and trembled. She said, still in her lover’s arms, still looking up at him:
“Are you going away?”
“Yes.”
“And what am I to do — now that you have — kissed “Will you go with me?”
“Yes,” said the child, “if you want me.”
“I want you. There will be three of us in camp when Kent comes up.”
She said nothing, but her face began to flame against his shoulder.
“Dear,” he said in a low voice, “have you any regrets?”
She slowly lifted her clear, young eyes to her lover, shook her head, looked out around her at the real world, undaunted, and saw the grim, grey shape of life gazing at her, unmasked.
Her lover’s gay voice was sounding pleasantly in her ears again, but for a moment she did not comprehend what he was saying:
“Three bullets through that Mackinaw, had I been wearing it, Janet — and what good would a brand new husband be to you?”
Then, understanding, she looked up at him, white as a flower. She had not asked that: she had not expected it. Suddenly her eyes filled and her arms tightened convulsively around his neck.
Kent, creeping up on moccasined feet, came to a sudden and astonished halt. Incredulously he surveyed the scene, then discreetly turned his back and sat down on a log to wonder why on earth three signal shots for help should have been fired by the young man behind him.
A LYNX PEAK PASTORAL
ALWAYS the memory of her remained with Kent as he prowled about his business — a fresh, sweet memory, fragrant as the summer woodland where he had first encountered her.
In the beginning it had been a mere lifting of his shooting cap as they passed each other in silence; then it became a grave good-morning on the narrow trail; and afterward it was the faintest of smiles from her, making her timid good-morning exquisite.
Recollections of her, now, always caused him to think of something white and fragrant and dewy — like blackberry vines in blossom, long, snowy sprays of them curving and crisscrossing the trail — perhaps associated with her in his mind because it was early summer when he first saw her in his district.
At the edge of the territory allotted him stood the log schoolhouse where she taught, haunted by the supple, quick-moving offspring of the shiftless forest derelicts — wild, shy, ragged little things, sun-browned, bright-eyed, darting under cover at the approach of a stranger, popping up like rabbits to look after him when he had passed.
But school ended, and the spawn of the forest returned to it and vanished in the undergrowth like partridge chicks; and now the schoolmistress, Kathleen Glade, came no more into Kent’s district.
He had, however, little leisure to sentimentalize over her absence or to haunt the closed schoolhouse where the wooden shutters remained closed and the flag no longer floated from its unpainted staff. For Burling, the new chief, was tremendously in earnest, and though the men he had sent out to watch and to collect evidence were trained foresters and woodsmen, they had their hands full the minute they entered the districts assigned them under a new policy and a new administration.
Here in this vast country of forests, mountains, lakes, and tumbling rivers there was but one formidable, treacherous, and destructive beast to watch, to follow, to circumvent — Man!
Even some of the game protectors had proven unfaithful — party henchmen appointed through sordid political considerations. The proportion of misdemeanor and crime to the scanty population interested the new Commissioner. And now in every county his men were out.
All summer long Kent haunted that part of Sagamore County in which his district lay, camping contentedly alone, scornful of wayside rumours or halfveiled hints from road house and tavern, never denying his identity nor ever admitting it, foraging for himself, aided by purchases from some lonely, crossroad store.
Every week he flagged a train on the U. A. R. R. and forwarded his report to Albany,
then sauntered off across the track into the woods, an object of burning curiosity to crew and passengers.
Sometimes, sitting in some rough tavern, apparently dozing in his wet fishing garments, he heard very plainly the vague muttering and threats of the barroom oafs and loafers. But, as far as they could see, he dozed on, unconcerned.
So for a long while Sagamore County remained uncertain as to his name and business, and many finally accepted him as an ordinary city man, camping and fishing for his own pleasure. But rumours came from other counties of other men behaving in a similar manner, and not to be accounted for save as the first symptoms of a new Commissioner and a new policy.
Still, nothing unpleasant happened to Kent. Once, at the opening of the deer season, three signal shots from a confrère had brought him across the forest in haste, only to find that same confrère in sentimental juxtaposition with a pretty and preoccupied young girl whom he married next day.
But although Kent had learned that his comrade’s sudden wife was Kathleen Glade’s sister, he was obliged to postpone further inquiries and to return to his own district as soon as his duty ended along Lynx Brook. And, anyway, Kathleen Glade had a husband, despite her virginal allure and her eighteen years — one Hal Glade, local game protector, already under deep suspicion at Albany.
Kent came into contact with Glade a few days later, in company with a wall-eyed boon companion, notorious for crooked dealing in pelts and illegally taken game. They were squatting on a fallen tree, whispering together, and Kent’s silent appearance made them jump.
“Hey!” exclaimed Glade, plainly flustered, and jumping up from his log. “Hey you got a license for that there gun, Mister?”
“Are you a warden?” inquired Kent amiably.
“Pm Game Protector Glade,” blustered that rat-eyed individual, “and I’ll be much obliged if you’ll just show me that there license o’ your a, Mister.”
“Here it is,” said Kent, good-humouredly.
While Glade scanned it, Kent inspected the other man, whose only remarkable feature was a wall-eye, not seared and whitened, but of a bright golden colour, like the metallic and lustrous iris of a bird of prey. “Any luck?” inquired Kent affably.
“No,” said the wall-eyed one. But Kent knew he had drawn a deer within the hour, judging from his soiled sleeves and hands.
Glade handed back the license and his little, mean eyes seemed to bore into Kent’s:
“Had any luck?” he inquired.
There were a couple of grouse bulging Kent’s pocket; he touched them with a shrug.
“Hain’t seed no deer sign, hev ye?” demanded the wall-eyed one, in a thin, nasal voice.
“Plenty. Nothing very fresh.”
“You can believe me, young man,” said Glade, “there hain’t no deer around here. They’ve run ’em all off, hain’t they, Hank?”
“B’ gosh, they hev,” said the wall-eyed one.
“Lemme tell you what to do,” urged Glade, becoming loquaciously familiar; “you go over to the hotel behind Lynx Peak an’ hire a guide. That’s the only way to git a buck in Sagamore County — an’ he can bet on that, can’t he, Hank?”
“S’ help me, God,” admitted Hank, piously.
“I understand there is a man around here who guides hunters — a man called Jim Wildrick—”
“Wildrick? Naw! He don’t do no guidin’,” returned Glade hastily. “Say, who told you that, Mister?”
“Oh, I’ve heard it,” replied Kent, carelessly. Then, glancing at Hank: “Don’t you guide hunters?”
“Me? No! Say, what put that idee into you, Mister? Why, I ain’t never shot a deer in my hull life, hev I, Hal?”
“Naw,” said Glade. “If you seed a doe into these here woods you wouldn’t know her from a mewl.”
Kent shrugged and turned away. Then, as at an afterthought, he glanced back at Glade:
“By the way,” he remarked, “somebody very carelessly spilled a bag of salt down by the brook, yonder. I thought, since you are a warden, it might interest you.” A dead silence fell on the group; Kent leisurely lighted his pipe, extinguished the match with care, tossed his rifle to his shoulder, and strolled off without another glance behind him, perfectly aware that he was going to be trailed.
But rocky slopes and new ankle moccasins left him small need for mental alacrity or physical exertion. So contemptuous was he of the precious pair sneaking after him that, doubling without effort, he yawned in sheer ennui as they lumbered past, like two headlong and ferocious hogs on a truffled trail.
But that was neither the point nor the problem; to evade these two notorious men was easy enough; but to secure evidence against them and to destroy the fierce and corrupt alliance between them presented a case bristling with difficulties.
A flat stone, a trip-stick, and a bait of corn or winter grapes was evidence, truly enough, but to connect these phenomena with Glade and his crony, wall-eyed Hank, had so far been beyond Kent’s power, even when a dead hare or grouse or squirrel lay there in mute corroboration and appeal.
On Kent’s information, men were watching all express and parcel post packages, and had seized some; but so far all discoveries involved others, and not Glade and his wall-eyed chum.
Glade’s ice house had been entered and ransacked in vain; his truck garden probed without result, his movements watched by the forester in charge of the district — and nothing discovered to incriminate this Protector, who every honest man knew was probably faithless to his trust.
And finally Kent’s confrère concluded that Glade’s field of operations lay elsewhere, and notified Kent that his own district might possibly be the territory.
At first glance Kent’s district seemed unsuitable for such operations. Three-quarters of it was open country, patched with brush and the flimsy second growth incident to fire; and that portion was easily kept under surveillance.
But there was a hill — really a small mountain — called Lynx Peak, dominating it. Ancient apple orchards clung to its lower flanks — some of these clearings choked and almost obliterated by second growth, some still open under the gnarled and lichen-encrusted limbs of the abandoned fruit trees.
And, at the foot of Lynx Peak, Kent had discovered a sack of cattle salt.
To sit up over this was not his intention — which was why he deliberately spoke of it to Glade. But the matter of Lynx Peak caused him anxiety, as did the too frequent shots from the lower slopes at dusk. And twice he had seen a light shining up there for an instant; and half a dozen trees all splashed and filthy offered him the unpleasant information that some dead doe, buck, or fawn had hung on each, and had been drawn and quartered there.
To prowl around second growth and abandoned orchards at dusk, where sullen and lawless men might make “mistakes” with bullet and buckshot, was a ticklish matter. Twice, already, their heavy, low-power bullets had struck the tree behind which Kent lay flat, but no flanking skill of his could bring him nearer to the unseen riflemen, although their non-appearance in the bullet’s wake was sufficient to establish murderous intentions.
Pondering, perplexed, he lay on the mountain flank one frosty morning, curled up in the wild grass under the limbs of an aged apple tree. Autumn sunshine fell aslant the hoary bark and gilded the dead grass, warming him where he lay looking out and down at the woods and brush fields below. And there, for the first time since last summer, he saw the faded flag flying from its unpainted pole before the log school-house.
The heart of Kent gave a quick and unmistakable thump; and, perhaps it was the perfume from the sun-heated grasses amid which he lay — perhaps it was a lively imagination — but the still, pure air around him seemed to exhale a spring-like fragrance, and he thought of snowy sprays of bloom — and of her.
That afternoon he contrived to meet her on the forest trail, and her shyly startled greeting checked him in his valiant and carefully rehearsed resolve to speak to her. For where women were concerned Kent had little courage: the shyest of them possessed
more than he.
Whether Kathleen Glade, with no experience in matters sentimental — unless the dreadful parody with Glade were included — perceived in this young man her inferior in that sort of courage, there is no knowing. But it happened that, passing him again on the trail the next afternoon, she let her grey eyes linger on his a moment — something she had never before done — which scared the last remnant of pluck out of him.
Maybe the girl saw it go — or perhaps the pale ghost of a smile that edged her lips was bora of some inward and pleasant memory.
Anyway, poltroon that he had become, Kent stood still in the trail, looking after her. She did not turn. All the young woods were exquisitely eloquent of her passing; the scented silence glowed in the red splendour of the setting sun. Then the mousy dusk crept through the woods. And in that grey enchantment Kent still stood there, motionless, looking back along a trail invisible, trodden by a vague sweet phantom, fragrant and blossom-white.
All night long the girl lay awake; but before sunrise she fell asleep, and was aroused only by Glade kicking in the door of her bedroom.
“Say! What the hell! What kind of a schoolmarm be you!” he demanded. “Asleep at sun-up, an’ five mile to the school ‘us! An’ no vittles cookin’, an’ me needin’ your pay! What with this damn Burling an’ his doin’s takin, the bread out of hones’ folks’ mouths—”
Fury stifled him, and his rage grew blacker as his young wife, scarlet with the shame of his intrusion, covered herself to her chin with the ragged bedclothes.
“Quit that!” he said. “Lemme tell you I’m gittin’ damn sick of this here modesty an’ funny business. An’ it’s got to stop, do you hear?”
She said nothing.
“Air you my wife or air you not?” he roared. “Air you mine to do with as I’ve a mind to — or hain’t you, b’ gosh!”
“I don’t know,” she said with a shiver.
“Oh! You don’t know, don’t you? Yes you do. You know damn well you belong to me! That’s what you know!”
“How do I know, Hal?”
“Bec’us I tell you!” he shouted. “That’s how you know!”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 1175
