THE FIRST SNOW.
THE FIRST SNOW.
THE FIRST SNOW.
Rodney Grant seemed to take genuine pleasure in showing his disdain and defiance of public opinion by openly associating with Lander and Davis, and he was seen often in their company. Even Roger Eliot, naturally broad-minded and liberal, could but deplore this; and Stone found himself quite alone in any effort to defend or justify the actions of the singular boy from Texas. It was generally believed and proclaimed that Grant had found associates to his liking, and more than once the old saw, “A person is known by the company he keeps,” was applied to him.
The young people of Oakdale were making the most of the skating when, after a slight warning flurry, a slow, steady downfall of snow set in, growing heavier with the passing of a cloudy afternoon.
“No more fun on the lake for us,” moaned Chub Tuttle, standing more than ankle deep outside the academy as the scholars came trooping forth. “This snow has fixed the skating all right.”
“Snow doubt about it,” punned Chipper Cooper, turning up his coat collar and pulling his cap down over his ears. “We’ll have to take to another line of sport, and it’s likely there won’t even be any sliding worth while for some time to come.”
Nearly all night long it snowed, but with the coming of another dawn the storm ceased, the sky cleared, and the sun beamed cheerfully on a world wrapped in a mantle of white, gleaming with the prismatic colors of millions of diamonds.
At an early hour, having eaten breakfast, Rod Grant was viewing the scene with admiration and pleasure when he discovered two dark figures tracking across the open fields toward the cottage of Miss Priscilla Kent. Immediately he recognized Lander and Davis, watching them with curiosity and interest as he perceived that they were walking on snowshoes. They hailedhim as they drew near, and, with his trousers laced into the tops of high, heavy leather boots, he waded out knee-deep to meet them.
“Top of the morning, Roddy,” cried Bunk, in his familiar way. “What are you doing with yourself?”
“Morning, Lander. Morning, Davis. I was just getting ready to turn myself into a human steam-plough and wield my aunt’s big shovel. Got to open up the path as far as the road, you know.”
“That’s work,” grinned Davis, two missing front teeth in his upper jaw giving him anything but an appearance of comeliness. “Work was made for slaves.”
“But you Yanks took away our slaves,” reminded Rod jovially, “and so we have to bend our backs like common people.”
“Eh?” grunted Spotty in surprise. “Your slaves? Why, Texas—why, I’ve always thought of Texas as a Western State, and——”
“We’re right proud to be called Southerners,” said Rod. “Find any sport walking on those things?”
“Oh, it’s sport in a way,” answered Lander. “Besides, a feller can get around almost anywhere on ’em, no matter how deep the snow is. I and Spot have been talking about going over to my camp Sat’day. Without snowshoes we’d have to do some tall wading. If we can get a dog, and the snow packs down some, perhaps we’ll try the rabbits a crack—andthat’ssport. Ever shoot rabbits?”
“Jacks.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard about them. Our rabbits are different; they’re good to eat. Say, it would be fun to shoot a few and have a rabbit stew over at my camp. I can make the stew, too.”
“That wouldn’t be so bad,” admitted Grant, who had a taste for hunting.
“Want to come in on it? Come ahead. I’ve been telling Spot I thought we might borrow old Lem Sawyer’s hound, Rouser. He’s a good dog, though, like Lem, he’s getting rather old. Lem’s laid up with the rheumatism this winter, and I don’t believe he will do much rabbitin’.”
“I’d have to have some snowshoes and a gun,” said Rod.
“Bet we could get them of Sawyer. You know how to shoot?”
“A little,” smiled the boy from Texas, “but I don’t know much about using snowshoes, though, watching you fellows, it seems easy enough.”
Spotty chuckled. “Try it,” he invited. “Try mine. Go ahead.”
Obligingly he slipped his toes out of the straps and stepped off into the snow. Grant was willing enough to make the trial and, wading alongside, he mounted on Spotty’s snowshoes. Having inserted his toes beneath the straps, he started off with a confidence that was soon upset, as he was himself by stepping on one snowshoe with the other, which plunged him to the full length of his arms, burying his face in the snow. Nor could he rise until he had succeeded in getting his feet free from the snowshoes, after which he floundered part way over and stood up to discover Both Davis and Lander convulsed with laughter.
“Looks easy enough, don’t it?” cried Bunk hilariously.
“Hang the things!” growled Rod, his face flushed with chagrin. “They seem contrary as an unbusted bronch. You fellows don’t have any trouble managing them.”
“There’s a little trick to it that you’ll have to learn,” explained Lander. “To begin with, those boots of yours are too stiff and heavy. You see, I’ve got on moccasins, and Spotty’s wearing some limber-soled shoes. You’ve got to lift the front end of the snowshoes with your toe and let the heel drag, slipping the shoe forward as you step, this fashion. Watch me and get wise.”
Grant watched Bunk walk around easily in a broad circle, which brought him back to the starting point.
“I see,” nodded the boy from Texas, “and I reckon I can catch onto it after a little practice. Where can I get a pair of moccasins?”
“Stickney carries ’em; he carries everything. Mebbe Lem Sawyer’ll have an old pair he’ll sell cheap, for he’s hard up and needs the money. I’ll find out if you want me to.”
“Go ahead. I’ve never yet mounted anything I couldn’t master, and, having been bucked off by a pair of snowshoes, I’m right eager to get busy in proper fashion with the things. Think I’ll get the shovel now and go at it opening the path. I won’t have much more than time to finish that job before school.”
Having watched them depart, he went at his task, making the snow fly with a pair of lusty arms, which, in spite of the heavy work, betrayed no weariness until he had finished.
At noon that day Davis informed him that Lander had succeeded in borrowing Sawyer’s dog, gun and snowshoes for the following Saturday, and that Sawyer had agreed to sell his moccasins at a bargain if they were what Rod wanted.
“We’ll show you some fun,” promised Spotty. “We’re going over to Bunk’s old camp to-night to see if everything is all right there. If it is, we’ll have the stuff ready for a stew Saturday, and as sure as we can start any rabbits we’ll give you a feed that will be good for a hungry man. Watch for us in the morning. We’re going to show you how to navigate on snowshoes.”
They came the following morning, bringing the snowshoes and moccasins, and Rod had his first lesson. As soon as he caught onto the knack of it, he made satisfactory progress, and was praised by both Spotty and Bunk, although he found it impossible to get over the snow for any distance with as much speed and ease as they could.
“You’re coming all right, old man,” assured Lander. “I’ve seen lots of fellers try it who didn’t get along half as fast. Just you keep practicing, and you’ll break in fine.”
Rodney continued to practice, and by Saturday he had thoroughly mastered the art of getting around with considerable skill and ease upon snowshoes.
Friday night about an inch of light snow fell on top of the other, which had settled beneath the rays of the sun, giving a perfect opportunity for rabbit tracking, as Lander joyously explained when he and Spotty appeared at an early hour. They were leading Sawyer’s old black-and-tan hound, and, besides their own guns, they brought the man’s double-barreled breech loader for Rodney.
And so, thoroughly equipped, the boys set off for the day’s sport.
RABBIT HUNTING.
RABBIT HUNTING.
RABBIT HUNTING.
Standing amid the clustered alders which lined the banks of an ice-bound stream that flowed through a little valley, Rodney Grant listened with a tingling thrill to the musical baying of a hound running a rabbit. Rouser had struck a scent, and now, after circling some distance into the deeper woods, the sound of his voice, growing more and more distinct, indicated that he was coming back. Holding Lem Sawyer’s gun ready for use, Rod changed his position somewhat, in order to get a better view through a little break or opening in the alders. The snow crunched softly beneath his feet, and a few light, feathery flakes, dislodged as he brushed against the bushes, floated down around him. A chickadee, undisturbed by the baying of the dog or the presence of the boy near at hand, performed some amazing evolutions amid the branches afew feet away, keeping up the while a constant friendly chatter in a ludicrously hoarse and husky tone. Up the bank behind Rod, some distance to the right, the snow crunched a little and a dark figure appeared at the edge of the spruces.
“’St! ’st!” came a double hiss of warning. “Watch out, Grant! He’s coming! He’s coming! You may see him first.”
It was Spotty, who had sought a more favorable position, only to be led back that way by the baying of the dog. Lander had gone still farther up stream.
Hearing the hound coming in full tongue, Rod did not even turn his head, but crouched a bit to peer through the opening down which the dog’s voice floated from the shadowy woods beyond the stream. His eyes were keen for the first glimpse of the running rabbit, and his finger was ready for the trigger.
Whit-ker-whit—whirr!
Spotty, moving again, had sent a partridge out from beneath the shelter of some low-hanging evergreens. With a gasp, he swung half round and blazed away, almost blindly, at the flittingbird, which went soaring over the alders toward the cover of the dense woods beyond the stream. He knew he had missed, even as he fired.
Grant, straightening up as if jerked by an electric shock, saw the brown bird flash against a bit of gray sky. There was no time to bring the butt of the gun to his shoulder. He fired, seemingly without taking aim, and the partridge crashed down through the alders, falling with a “plump” to the snow.
“Get him—did you get him?” palpitated Spotty.
“I reckon I did,” answered the young Texan coolly, stooping to peer through the bushes and perceiving the bunch of brown feathers that lay so still some distance away.
But the rabbit was still coming, if the approaching staccato of the hound was to be accepted as positive evidence, and Rod, satisfied that the partridge would remain where it had dropped, again turned his attention to the business from which it had been temporarily distracted.
“By, jinks!” muttered Spotty. “I guess he can shoot, all right.”
Over in the woods beyond, the fleeing rabbit had stopped short at the crashing report of the gun, sitting straight up on its haunches for a fleeting moment, its whole body aquiver with terror. Only for a moment did it linger. The clamoring dog on its track was coming, filling the whole woods with a racket which plainly told that the scent was rapidly growing warm. Ahead silence had followed that double burst of terrible sound, but behind was the relentless pursuer, who was making the forest ring. The hunted thing seemed to know where the crossing of the stream could most easily be made, and beyond the stream, up the bank, were the thick firs and the deep, sheltering shadows.
On it came once more, with great bounds, long ears flattened back. Gray almost as the snow itself, it leaped forth into the little opening.
This time the butt of the gun in Rodney Grant’s hands was pressed to his shoulder for an instant. The left barrel belched smoke, and the rabbit, shot-riddled in the midst of a leap, was practically dead when it struck the snow.
“Get him—did you get him?” yelled Spotty once more.
“I sure did,” laughed Grant, breaking down the gun to eject the empty shells. Blowing through the barrels, he slipped in fresh cartridges, snapped the gun together, pushed through the bushes to pick up the partridge, and had almost reached the rabbit when Rouser came bellowing forth from the woods to stop in surprise and sniff around the furry, blood-stained body.
“Say, you’re a holy terror!” spluttered Davis, as he came crunching and crashing through the alders. “You can shoot some, can’t you?”
“It’s a cinch with a shotgun,” laughed Rod. “I’ve always done most of my shooting with a rifle.”
“Don’t believe Bunk thought that rabbit would circle back this way,” confessed Davis. “If he had, he wouldn’t have gone up-stream. He’ll be coming pretty soon, now that Rouser’s quit talking after that shooting. We had better go meet him.”
Already the dog was sniffing around in the bushes for a fresh scent. Spotty called the animal, and they pushed up-stream, soon discovering Lander approaching.
“Get anything?” asked Bunk.
“I didn’t,” acknowledged Spotty. “I put up a biddy, but I missed her. Rod brought her down, though, and he got that rabbit, too.”
His gun tucked under his arm, Lander looked at the partridge and the rabbit in evident surprise.
“Great luck,” he commented, with an evident shade of chagrin. “Good work for a greenhorn. Sometimes it happens that way; the feller who’s green gets all the chances.”
“Greenhorn!” snickered Spotty. “You should see him shoot. Here, Rouser, come back here! Come back, sir!”
The old dog had been slipping away into the woods, but he returned at the command.
“Well, we’ll have our stew all right,” said Lander. “That’s a consolation for us, Spot.”
They moved on, Bunk leading and directing the dog. After a time another track was picked up, and again Rouser went baying off into the woods.
“We’ll wait a while and see which way he turns,” said Bunk, who hoped to pick the lucky location for himself this time.
“Hark! What’s that?” cried Davis suddenly, as the distant report of a gun drifted to their ears.
“Somebody else out for rabs, I guess,” growled Lander. “Yes, there’s their dog. Listen!”
Another hound, much farther away than Rouser, was heard giving voice.
“Bet the feller that fired made a miss,” grinned Spotty. “It takes old Deadeye Grant from Texas to bring ’em down.”
With his ear cocked, Lander listened. After a time he said:
“This is a good place, Grant. You stay here. Spot, you can go farther up this time. I’m going to cross over.”
Watching them hurry away, Grant said nothing, although he knew Bunk was trying to secure for himself the chance of the next shot.
For some moments after they vanished his keen ears heard an occasional distant sound, like the cracking of branches or the rustling of bodies pushing through thickets; but this gradually died out, and something like a lonely hush settled over the winter woods. He could still hear the distant baying of the dogs, but this seemed even to accentuate the stillness in his immediate vicinity.
“I reckon it was more by accident than anything else, that Rouser turned the rabbit back my way before,” muttered the lad from Texas, “and I don’t judge it will happen again. If I stay here I won’t get another shot. Bunk and Spotty count on doing the rest of the shooting themselves. By the sound, I should say Rouser will be over in the next township before he stops.”
The inactivity swiftly became irksome to him, and finally, with gun tucked under his arm and game bag containing the rabbit and partridge slung from his shoulder, he set forth, guided by the barking of the dogs. At times he was forced to stoop to make his way through thelow, scrubby growth, and once he paused to tie a red silk handkerchief about his neck, down which the snow had an uncomfortable way of sifting from the overhanging bushes which he disturbed as he pushed along. He made no attempt to follow either Lander or Davis, but finally, to his satisfaction, the sound of the dogs grew more and more distinct, and he came to a swamp growth where rabbit tracks and paths were plentiful. This swamp covered an extensive territory, and in its depth the hounds seemed to be pursuing the twisting, turning, circling game.
“I’ll bet something that both Bunk and Spotty are here somewhere,” laughed Rod softly. “They tried to leave me picketed over yonder where there wasn’t a show for me to do a whole lot of shooting. Perhaps they think I’ve done enough already.”
“Whoo!” came a hoarse shout, which sounded almost in Rod’s ear and caused him to give a ludicrously startled jump. Ere he could recover and shoot, a fluffy gray thing shot out of the shadows at one side and was gone into the still deeper shadows of another thicket.
“An owl,” muttered Grant, with a short laugh and a feeling of foolishness over his alarm. “He was sitting right there on the broken branch of that old dead stub. Owls aren’t good to eat, but, mounted, he would have made a good trophy for my room.”
Still, with the sound of the dogs drawing nearer, he spent little time in regretting the escape of the owl. Once the hounds were so close that he stood half crouching, peering into the shadows of the swamp, fully expecting to see the hunted rabbit come bounding forth into view; but suddenly the baying swept away to one side and passed on to the north, denoting that the furry fugitive had made a turn in the effort to baffle the clamoring animals that would give him no rest.
“It’s right plain he’s sticking to this swamp tract,” thought Rod, “and so I judge he’ll come round this way again if some one doesn’t pop him over.”
He moved on a few rods, found a spot that seemed favorable, placed himself with a tree at his back, and continued to wait, as motionless and rigid as the tree itself.
It was quite warm down here in the swamp, where no breath of air stirred. If other living creatures there were in the immediate vicinity of the young hunter, it appeared that they were also hypnotized into stony silence by the baying of the dogs, now drawing near, now receding, growing faint, becoming plainer again, and finally seeming swiftly to approach.
“If I get this fellow, too, I’ll sure have the laugh on Bunk and Spotty,” whispered Rod, holding his gun ready to clap it instantly to his shoulder.
The dogs came straight on. Unless they changed their course soon, they must certainly pass within easy shooting distance. The wild, blood-thrilling music of their voices made the whole swamp ring. Once the waiting lad fancied he heard a slight crashing off at the left, but, thinking it might be Lander or Davis approaching, he did not turn his eyes in that direction. Now it seemed that the passing of any second might bring the hounds into view. Beyond question they were close upon the rabbit, and——
Up went Rod’s gun. His eye caught the sights, his finger pressed the trigger. Following the report of the piece, the smoke, drifting slowly upward on the heavy air, unveiled the rabbit kicking in its last throes upon the blood-stained snow.
“Another!” exulted Rodney Grant, as, ere advancing, he extracted the empty shell and slipped a fresh one into the gun.
A black-and-tan dog flashed into view, reached the slain rabbit and nearly lost its footing in the attempt to stop promptly.
“You’re pretty lively for an old dog, Rouser,” chuckled Rod. “You certainly seem to have amazing good wind.”
But, still baying frantically, another dog was coming, and within ten feet of the rabbit Grant stood still, uttering an exclamation of surprise, his eyes fixed on the hound that was yet sniffing around the dead game.
“It’s not Rouser!” he muttered. “It’s——”
“What in blazes do you mean by shooting a rabbit ahead of my dog?” cried a voice.
Rod twisted the upper part of his body round and gazed over his shoulder at two lads with guns who were hurriedly approaching on snowshoes.
AN ENCOUNTER IN THE WOODS.
AN ENCOUNTER IN THE WOODS.
AN ENCOUNTER IN THE WOODS.
The one in advance from whose lips that angry question had been flung, was Berlin Barker. Phil Springer was following. Barker’s face was almost snow-white, made thus by the rage that was consuming him. Springer looked greatly disturbed, and he muttered to himself:
“Now there’s sure to be tut-trouble.”
“What do you mean by it?” again demanded Berlin, as he faced Rod a short distance away, his gun gripped tightly in his glove-protected hands.
“I didn’t know it was your dog.” Slowly and awkwardly he shifted his position, in order to face Berlin.
“You lie!” retorted Barker; and every nerve in Grant’s body went taut as a bowstring.
With excited yelps, old Rouser came bursting forth from the woods.
“There’s the dog I reckoned was running this rabbit,” explained the young Texan, his voice a trifle husky, yet remarkably steady.
“That old has-been!” sneered Barker. “Why, he isn’t worth a charge of shot to put him out of the way; and he’s been bothering Silver Tongue. Of course you heard both dogs running.”
“Yes, but——”
“If you know anything at all, you certainly knew old Sawyer’s cripple wasn’t leading.”
“I saw Rouser take up a track. It’s your dog that mixed in and interfered—if that is your dog.”
“You bet he’s mine! Just bought him for a fancy price, too, and I don’t propose to have him spoiled by Sawyer’s worthless brute. I’ll settle it. Come here, Silver Tongue—come away and give me a chance.”
His gun half lifted and ready for use, Barker attempted to call his own dog away from the other. Divining the fellow’s purpose, Rod Grant took three hasty strides, placing himself between Rouser and Barker.
“Get out of the way!” snarled Barker. “If you don’t you’ll have a chance to pick some shot out of your legs.”
The brown eyes of the boy from Texas glowed strangely, and he also held his shotgun ready for use.
“If I were in your place, my friend,” he said, “I wouldn’t try to shoot old Rouser; for just as sure as you do you’ll have a chance to bury your own dog.”
He meant it, too; there could be no doubt about that. Nor was he in the slightest degree intimidated by the menacing weapon in Barker’s hands. Shivering, Springer held his breath and watched those two lads gazing steadily into each other’s eyes. At length Phil managed to speak.
“Quit it, bub-both of you!” he spluttered. “Be careful with those guns!”
“Which is right good advice for your friend,” said Rod, without permitting his glance to waver for an instant from Barker. “If he should shoot up old Rouser, it sure would be a shame to retaliate on his innocent dog. I admit I’d feel much more like letting him have it himself.”
“You hear that, do you, Phil?” cried Berlin.
“Yes,” answered Springer, “and bub-by jingoes, he looks like he might dud-do it, too!”
In spite of himself and his intense rage, Barker wavered. For once, at least, he had found no symptom of faltering or timidity in the fellow he bitterly detested.
“Hey, what’s the matter over there?” cried a hoarse voice, and Hunk Rollins, breaking forth from a thicket, came shuffling toward them on snowshoes, carrying a gun. They were now three to one against Grant, but still Rod stood his ground unmoved.
“He shot a rabbit in front of Berlin’s dud-dog,” hastily explained Springer, “and Berlin’s blazing mad about it, too.”
“What’s he doing here, anyhow?” questioned Rollins contemptuously.
“I allow,” said Rodney, something like a faint smile flitting across his face, “that I have as much right to hunt rabbits hereabouts as you fellows.”
“Take his gun away from him!” roared Hunk. “Knock the packing out of him!”
But he stopped short with his first step toward the boy from Texas, for the muzzle of Grant’s gun swung toward him, and Springer shouted a warning.
“Look out! He’ll shoot!”
“Gee!” gasped Rollins. “He don’t dast!”
“Don’t make any mistake about that,” advised Rodney. “It would be a clean case of self-defense, and only a fool would let you take his gun away from him and beat him up.”
“Ginger!” gurgled Hunk. “I believe he means it!”
At this juncture Lander and Davis put in an appearance and came forward, wondering at the tableau they beheld. Grant laughed aloud as he saw them.
“Now we’re even as far as numbers are concerned,” he observed, suddenly at his ease.
“What’s the row?” questioned Bunk, glaring at Barker. “We heard you fellers chewin’ the rag half a mile away, I guess.”
“Oh, there isn’t any row to speak of,” said Rodney. “Both of these dogs were running the rabbit yonder, which I happened to shoot. It chanced that Barker’s dog was ahead of Rouser,and so Mr. Barker foolishly got a trifle warm under the collar. He made some silly talk about shooting old Rouser, but I don’t reckon he really meant it.”
“Oh, he did, hey?” shouted Lander, getting purple in the face. “Threatened to shoot Rouser, did he? Well, say! I’d like to see him try it!”
“He won’t try it,” assured the boy from Texas. “He got all over that inclination some time before you arrived, Bunk; but I had to tell him what would happen to his own dog if he didn’t hold up.”
“What a set of cheap skates!” sneered Berlin.
“Cheap skates, hey?” rasped Lander. “Well, if there’s anybody around these parts cheaper than you are, he can be bought for less than a cent. I know you pretty well of old, Barker. It was you who helped turn the fellers against me, and you was mighty rejoiced when I got into that little scrape two years ago. I don’t forget them things. Now you and your friends better chase yourselves and take your dog along with you, if you care anything about him. We’re hunting here in this swamp, and we don’t propose to be bothered by you. Git!”
“We don’t cuc-care about hunting around here,” said Springer hastily. “Come on, Berlin.”
Although reluctant to be driven away, Barker, having cooled down somewhat, began to entertain apprehensions for the safety of Silver Tongue should he remain in that vicinity.
“Mr. Grant is very courageous—when he has a gun in his hands,” he sneered. “At any other time he’s a——”
“You’ve said that before,” interrupted Rod in a tone that made Berlin start a bit in spite of himself. “Be careful that you don’t say it once too often.”
Barker shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “I don’t have to say it; every fellow in Oakdale knows what you are. Come, Silver Tongue—come, sir. Come on, fellows; there are plenty of other places to run rabbits.”
“And, counting yourself and your friends, you make a fine bunch of dogs for the purpose,” Lander flung after them.
In a few moments Barker and his companions disappeared into the woods, and soon the muttering of their voices died out in the distance.
“How’d you get here, anyhow, Roddy?” questioned Bunk, with a grin. “We left you ’way back yonder.”
“Yes,” nodded Grant; “but I reckoned there wouldn’t be much shooting over there, so I pulled my picket pin and moved. Here’s another rabbit for that stew.”
“By jinks! Bunk,” said Spotty, “we ain’t shot one yet. We took him out to show him how ’twas done, and he’s showed us.”
“He showed Barker, too, I guess,” chuckled Lander. “Say, it done me good making that bunch turn tail and dig out. ’Tain’t more’n a mile to my camp, if it’s that fur; let’s strike over that way, for I’ll have an appetite by the time we can dress the rabbits and the partridge and get the stew cooked.”
“I’ve an appetite now,” declared Rod. “I’ve enjoyed the sport this morning very much indeed.”
A SUNDAY MORNING CALLER.
A SUNDAY MORNING CALLER.
A SUNDAY MORNING CALLER.
On Sunday morning, between the hours of nine and ten, Spotty Davis knocked at the door of Miss Priscilla Kent. The spinster, dressed in plain black alpaca, admitted him when he asked to see Rodney.
“You’ll find my nephew in his room right up at the head of the stairs,” she said. “Rap on the door. I don’t think he’ll have much time to talk to ye, though.”
Spotty’s knuckles on the door panel brought Grant, half dressed and wondering.
“Hello!” he exclaimed in surprise. “You? I wondered who it could be. My visitors are sure getting amazing plentiful.”
Davis walked into the room.
“Kinder thought I’d come round and chin with ye this morning,” he grinned. “Sunday’s always a punk day fur me. I hate the sound of church bells. Went to see Bunk, but he’d gone off somewhere a’ready.”
“So you accepted me as a last resort,” laughed Rod. “Well, I’m afraid I won’t have much time to chin.”
“Why not? What you doin’? I see you’re dressin’ all up in your best bib and tucker. Goin’ somewhere?”
“Yes, to church.”
“What-at?” cried Spotty incredulously. “You don’t mean it!”
“I sure do.”
“Why, I didn’t know you ever ’tended church.”
“I haven’t as much as I should since coming to Oakdale,” admitted Rodney; “but you see my aunt is very peculiar, and she seldom goes. This morning she conceived a sudden desire to attend, and asked me if I’d go with her. That’s why I’m shifting over into my glad rags now.”
“Priscilla Kent in church’ll make folks rubber sure enough,” said Spotty, who had seated himself comfortably on the easy chair. “But say, I bet I know why she’s goin’. They’ve got a new minister, a young feller that ain’t married, andevery single girl and widder and old maid in town is jest flockin’ to hear him. They say he’s perfectly lovely. Hee! hee! I guess your aunt is gittin’ the fever.”
Rod smiled. “Perhaps you’re right,” he admitted; “but really, I doubt if she’s even heard there has been a change of ministers, for you know she is something of a recluse, and doesn’t gossip with the neighbors. You’ll excuse me if I keep on with the adornment of my person.”
“Oh, go ahead,” nodded Davis, producing a pack of cigarettes. “I’ll have a coffin nail and be sociable while you’re toggin’ out. Say, that stew was rippin’ good, wasn’t it?”
“First rate,” agreed Rod, searching for a suitable necktie in a drawer. “I allow I enjoyed it, all right.”
“What do you think of Bunk’s old hang-out?”
“It’s a right comfortable place.”
“It’s great. We ought to have some fun over there this winter. We three make a pretty good crowd. Of course it would be better if we had another feller, but the right kind can’t be found around here. You didn’t seem to feel much like playing cards yesterday.”
“Not for money, and that was what Bunk proposed.”
“And I was busted,” chuckled the visitor, “so there wasn’t anything doin’. Bunk’s pretty slick with the pasteboards. You’ve got to keep your eye peeled for him. All the same, he needn’t think he knows it all; there is others.”
“Playing cards for money is bad business,” was Grant’s opinion. “I’ve seen trouble come of it. I’m willing enough to play for sport.”
“But there ain’t much sport in it unless there’s a little money up. If I’d had some loose change in my clothes, I’d tackled Bunk yesterday. Say, I’ve been thinking how we bluffed Barker and his bunch, and it makes me laugh.”
Grant frowned. “Berlin Barker wants to put a curb on his tongue, or it’s going to get him into trouble some day.”
“Oh, he don’t love you a bit, and he’ll love you less since you give him that call. Gee! I didn’t know what was goin’ to happen when I and Bunk heard you chawin’ and come out where we could see ye standin’ there holdin’ your gun jest as if you meant to use it any minute!”
“I should have used it if Barker had carried out his threat to shoot Sawyer’s hound,” declared Rod; “but I’d been sorry afterward, for I meant to shoot his dog the instant he fired at old Rouser. That would have been a right nasty thing for me to do.”
“I don’t see why.”
“Silver Tongue wouldn’t have been to blame for the act of his master.”
“Oh, a dog’s only a dog,” said Davis, letting thin dribbles of smoke escape from his mouth as he spoke, “and you’d been justified in it.”
“I don’t see it in that light—now. I should have been revenging myself on a dumb animal that had done me no harm. At the time, however, I didn’t stop to consider that any. Stir a Grant up right thoroughly, and he isn’t liable to take consequences into consideration. It’s best for me to look out not to get riled, though that isn’t easy sometimes.”
“To hear you chin like that,” grinned Davis, “anybody’d think you a red-hot proposition; but around here they’ve got the idee you’re mild and docile and all your talk is hot air.”
“Something may happen sometime,” returned Rod, “to satisfy them that it’s not all hot air—though I hope not.”
The voice of his aunt called him from the foot of the stairs, and he stepped outside the door to answer her. She wished to know if he was nearly ready, and he replied that he was.
“It will take some time to get to the church, Rodney, and the second bell will commence ringin’ pretty soon. We’d better start in a few minutes.”
“I’ll be down right soon,” was his assurance as he turned back into the room.
Spotty had abandoned the butt of his cigarette and risen to his feet; he was standing with his hands in his pockets, seeming deeply interested in one of the pictures hanging on the wall.
“Well,” he said, turning, “I guess I’ll skin along and leave ye. Jinks! you’re goin’ to look stylish to-day, Rod. Where’d you git all them good clothes?”
“My father blew himself on me when he decided to send me East. Reckon he wanted me to make a good appearance in the bosom of refined and cultured New England.”
“Even Barker doesn’t dress as swell as that. The only feller around here who ever did was Bern Hayden, and he certainly did put on the lugs; but he was a rotter. Hope you enjoy the sermon, old chap. Don’t let Aunt Priscil’ flirt with the new minister. Hee! hee! hee! So long.” With this final bit of pleasantry Davis departed, hurrying down the stairs and out of the house.
Grant finished dressing in a few moments and was ready to join his aunt. He paused to pick up his money and some keys and pocket trinkets which he had left lying on the table. Something caused him to hesitate as his fingers touched the little thin fold of bank bills, and he was suddenly struck with the idea that the money was not lying as he had dropped it. He counted it over, finding a five, two twos and two ones.
“Eleven dollars,” he muttered. “Why, I sure thought I had another two dollar bill. I would have sworn I was carrying thirteen dollars, besides the change in my pocket. It can’t be——”
He stood there frowning for several moments, plainly perplexed and undecided.
“Oh, I must be mistaken!” he finally exclaimed. “Spotty has had his lesson, and he wouldn’t do a thing like that again. Besides, he was put up to the first job; he didn’t do it of his own accord. I’ve bought skates and moccasins and things, and I must have made a mistake about how much I spent. Still, it might be right wise not to put temptation in the way of a fellow like Davis.”
Pocketing the money, he descended to join his waiting aunt.
WHAT SLEUTH PIPER SAW.
WHAT SLEUTH PIPER SAW.
WHAT SLEUTH PIPER SAW.
From the lips of Rollins and Springer the boys of Oakdale Academy learned something of the encounter with Grant during the rabbit hunt, but, naturally, even Springer colored his statements in a manner which did not place Barker in an unfavorable light. Save to sneer about the boy from Texas, Berlin himself had little to say. Nevertheless, the general impression went forth that Rod had first threatened to shoot Silver Tongue, and had been prevented from doing so only by Barker’s firm stand. This added to the almost universal dislike in which the young Texan was held.
Ben Stone refrained from questioning Grant directly, but he gave Rod a chance to make a statement, and was disappointed when the latter betrayed a disinclination to talk of the matter.
Grant still bore himself with unruffled independence, paying such attention to his studies that he stood high in his classes and received the outspoken approval of Prof. Richardson. This also, under the circumstances, did not conduce to his popularity. With Davis and Lander he continued friendly at all times, actually taking a sort of perverse satisfaction in the knowledge that his enemies were calling attention to his behavior as proof of their just estimate of his character.
A bit of “soft weather,” with cold nights, made excellent sliding, and evening after evening the double runners, loaded with laughing, shouting boys and girls, went shooting down Main Street through the very center of the town and over the bridge as far as the railway station. Although Rod was never caught watching them, more than once he paused at a distance to listen to their joyous cries, and, truth to tell, there was regret in his heart.
Thursday morning Sleuth Piper, reaching the academy, had a tale for the ears of a group of interested listeners. Mysteriously beckoning the boys around him in the coat room, Piper held up one finger for silence.
“’Sh!” he sibilated. “Perhaps some of you fellows observed that I was not out sliding last night. I struck a trail. Having noticed that one Rodney Grant and his two boon companions were not to be discovered around the village evenings, my astute mind led me to the deduction that they must be up to something of a dark and secret nature. Last night, from a place of secure cover, I watched with the patience of a redskin, and eventually I was well rewarded for so doing. I saw the miscreants meet secretly on High Street, near the foot of the path which leads to the home of Priscilla Kent. Under cover of darkness the beforesaid miscreants set forth to the westward, totally unaware that I was shadowing them. Of course, as there was no immediate cover for concealment, my task was extremely difficult, and when they reached the Barville road I lost them.”
“Is that all you’ve got to tell us?” asked Chub Tuttle, cracking a peanut. “I thought you’d caught them robbing a hen-roost or breaking into a bank.”
“I lost them for the time being,” continued Sleuth, undisturbed; “but, after meditating at the corner for some time, I was led to the deduction that they had gone north toward Turkey Hill, as it was not probable they would have chosen that roundabout course to turn the other way.”
“Great head, Sleuth,” complimented Cooper.
“They must have made haste,” said Piper; “for, though I hustled along all the way to the hill, my searching eyes failed to discover even a glimpse of them. Nevertheless, I was not baffled. Further meditation led me to decide that there could be only one destination for the aforesaid miscreants. It was awful dark in the woods over back of the hill, but my iron nerve remained unshaken. Setting my teeth firmly, I followed the course of Silver Brook all the way up to the swamp, into the vastness of which I boldly penetrated.”
“Daring deed,” murmured Cooper, in mock admiration.
“By this time,” pursued Piper, unmindful of the interruption, “my keen intellect was satisfied beyond reasonable doubt that the destination of that trio of night prowlers was Lander’s old camp. You see, my perspicacity was alive and working.”
“Who’s he?” questioned Cooper.
“Who’s who?” snapped Sleuth, irritated.
“Why, Percy P. Cacity. Have there been rumors afloat concerning his death?”
“Shut up! You’re interrupting the flowing course of my thrilling narrative. Having decided beyond doubt that I would find them at Bunk’s camp, I stole onward through the silent depths of the gloomy swamp. Not a sound broke the deathly stillness.”
“Not even the bark of a dogwood tree?” questioned Chipper.
Sleuth glared at him. “If you don’t want to listen, go chase yourself and give others the chance. It was so dark there in the swamp that even I, with all my keen sagacity, found it difficult to locate that old camp. At length, however, I perceived a faint gleam of light, and my heart gave an exultant leap, although my nerves were steady as iron. Guided by the before-mentioned light, I made my perilous way onward. I had not been deceived, for the beacon gleamedthrough the window of the den I sought. I was within a rod of the place when a sudden terrible racket broke forth. The sound of loud and angry voices reached my ears, telling me beyond question that there was a commotion within. Knowing full well that while they were making all that racket the before-mentioned miscreants could not hear me, I dashed forward to the window, through which I peered, beholding a scene of strife and contention. The rascals were there; perhaps they had been there for half an hour or more while I was seeking to locate them. They had built a fire, and, by the light of an old kerosene lamp, I perceived that they had already engaged in a suitable diversion for such reprehensible characters. Briefly and concisely stated, they had been playing cards—for money.”
“I wonder where Spotty Davis got the money to play with?” muttered Sile Crane.
“There were cards scattered on the table before them, and I know I saw money also,” Piper declared, “Lander was wrought up to a white pitch of wrath. I give you my verbatim statement that I never saw a feller as mad as he was.From his angry words I instantly gathered that he had caught Davis cheating, and he was strenuously seeking to lay violent hands on the aforesaid Davis. Mr. Grant, of Texas, had interfered and was keeping them apart, though it was plain enough that Spotty wasn’t anxious to mix it up with Bunk. Just as I looked in Lander yelled at Grant to take his hands off, and when the last mentioned party failed to comply Bunk let him have a poke in the mug.”
“Oh, joy!” chortled Cooper. “That cooked Mr. Grant, didn’t it?”
“Cooked him!” exclaimed Piper. “It turned him into a raging whirlwind. Say, you should have seen him sail into Lander! Why, he had Bunk pinned up against the wall, shaking him like a rat, in less than two seconds. I never saw any human being as mad as Grant, and I give you my word he handled Bunk just like a feller might handle a baby.”
“Come, come!” scoffingly derided Barker, who had joined the group in time to hear part of this yarn. “What are you giving us, Sleuth? Why, that fellow wouldn’t fight, and, if he did spunk up enough courage to try it, Lander could whip him with one hand tied behind his back.”
“Don’t you believe it!” spluttered Sleuth. “I know better. I know what I saw, and he took the starch out of Bunk Lander in double quick order. He just fastened his hooks on Bunk’s woozle and choked him till his eyes stuck out, and I was beginning to think that would be the finish of the before-mentioned Lander. It was a tragic and terrifying spectacle. Davis was frightened into fits, and finally he rushed forward and tugged at Grant’s wrists, begging him to stop. Just as I was deciding that I had arrived in time to witness red-handed murder, Grant suddenly seemed to come to his senses; he let go of Lander, who dropped in a heap, as limp as a rag, gasping for breath. Davis was crying by this time; never saw anybody so frightened. Grant backed off a step or two, sort of shivering, his face pale as chalk. ‘Get some water, Spotty,’ says he. ‘I’m glad I didn’t kill him.’”
Barker laughed in his cold, sneering way. “You have a vivid imagination, Sleuth,” he said; “but you want to quit reading cheap novels.”
Piper resented this. “I’ve given you the plain, cold, unadulterated facts, Mr. Barker. I know what I saw.”
“Perhaps you dreamed it.”
“Nothing of the sort.”
“Perhaps you saw them playing cards, but this final sensational touch of your dramatic tale—this account of the fight—is preposterous. Grant wouldn’t any more dare buck up against Bunk Lander than against me.”
“Take my advice,” said Sleuth, “and don’t count on it too much that he wouldn’t dare tackle you.”
“Why, that has been proved to everybody’s satisfaction.”
“Not to mine since what I saw last night. I give you my word, I’d rather get a grizzly bear after me than that feller. Soon’s I saw Spotty getting a tin can to bring water, I sagely concluded it was time for me to move, and straightway I did so. I wasn’t nearly as long getting out of the swamp as I had been finding Lander’s camp.
“That’s the whole veracious narrative, faithfully given in the minutest detail. But let me add that the chap who wakes Rod Grant up and gets him real fighting mad is liable in less than ten seconds to find himself taken all to pieces and scattered over the immediate vicinity; I’ll stake my professional reputation on it.”