"Cheer up, Dick," returned Rayton, and laughed heartily. "You mustn't let Davy Marsh's bad manners hump you. Take a drink and forget it." He offered the flask.
Goodine shook his head. "I guess not, thank'e all the same," he said. "I know your liquor is good. I've drunk it before, and there's no man in the country I'd sooner take asmilewith than you, Mr. Rayton; but I'm leavin' the stuff alone, now."
"Right you are, Dick," replied the other, returning the flask to his pocket without quenching his own thirst.
"You see," said the trapper, "it makes a beast of me. If I got a taste of it, now, I'd go out to the settlement and get some more, and keep at it till I was a regular beast. So I reckon I'll cut it out." He looked keenly at the Englishman. "Last time I was cornered," he continued, "shesaw me!"
"Ah!" exclaimed Rayton. "Who saw you?"
"Nell Harley—the whitest woman on top the earth!Shesaw me when I was more like a hog than a man. I was shamed. I'm sick with the shame of it this very minute."
Rayton looked embarrassed.
"Oh! I'm a fool to be talkin'," continued the other bitterly; "but I can't keep wrestlin' with myself all the time. She's treated me right—but I know she don't care a damn for me. And why should she? Oh! I ain'tquitea fool! But I want her to think well of me—I want to show her that I'm as decent as most men 'round these parts, and decenter than some. Yes, I want her to see that—and Icanbe decent, if I try. I'm poor—but that's no disgrace in this country, thank God! My old man was a drunkard; but my mother is a good woman, and honest. She is French, from up Quebec way. I reckon some folks 'round here think that's something for me to be ashamed of."
"Thinkwhatis something to be ashamed of?"
"Bein' half French."
"The devil!" exclaimed Rayton indignantly. "Then they show their ignorance, Dick. French blood is glorious blood. I'm pure English myself, but I say that and stick to it. What was your mother's name?"
"Julie Lemoyne was her maiden name."
"That was a great name in Quebec, in the old days," replied Rayton enthusiastically; "and it may still be, for all I know. There have been great soldiers by that name, and some famous scholars, too." He clipped a hand on the trapper's knee. "So cheer up!" he cried. "Very likely you are descended from soldiers and scholars. Take it for granted, anyway, and act accordingly—and you'll be the equal of anybody in this province. Never mind Davy's bad manners, but take them for a warning. And if—if you care for some one you consider to be too good for you, just show her, by your actions—and by your life—that it is an honor to enjoy your regard and friendship."
Dick Goodine looked at the speaker with glowing eyes. "You've done me good!" he cried. "I feel more like a man, already. You're a wonder, Mr. Rayton—a livin' wonder. Shake on it! I'm your friend, by damn! from now till hell freezes over."
"Thanks. And I'm your friend," said Rayton, shaking the proffered hand vigorously. "And I hope you'll forgive me for preaching," he added.
"Forgive you? I'll bless you for it, more likely," returned Dick.
They were about to part—for the trapper meant to spend the night in the woods and the farmer wanted to get home before dark—when Goodine turned again, a daring and attractive figure with axe and pack on his right shoulder and the rifle in his left hand. "But don't think that I'm even expectin' to be good enough for her," he said. "I'll try to be decent, God knows!—but I'll still be just a poor, ignorant bushwhacker. You are more the kind she ought to marry."
"Me! What are you thinking of, Dick?" cried Rayton.
"That's all right," replied the trapper, and vanished in the underbrush.
Rayton tramped and scrambled along with his mind so busy with thoughts of Dick Goodine, of Nell Harley, and of David Marsh that, when he arrived at his own pasture fence shortly after sunset, he discovered that he had not added so much as one bird to his bag.
"The devil!" he exclaimed. "That comes of woolgathering. But never mind, Turk, we'll do better to-morrow."
When he reached the house he found Doctor Nash's buggy in front of the door, and the doctor inside.
"I thought I'd drop in and have a talk over that queer business of a couple of nights ago," said Nash.
This dealt a blow to Rayton's suspicion. "Drive 'round and we'll put the nag under cover, and give her a feed," he said.
Doctor Nash was a gentleman blessed with the deportment of early and untrained youth, and with the years of middle age. His manners were those of a first-year medical student, though he considered himself to be a polished and sophisticated man of the world. He had practised in four different parts of the country, but had nowhere impressed the people favorably by his cures, or his personality. He was a bachelor. He was narrow and lanky of build, but fat and ruddy of face. His hair was carroty on top of his head, but of a darker shade in mustache and close-trimmed beard. His eyes were small and light, and over the left, the lid drooped in a remarkable way. Whenever he happened to remember the dignity of his profession he became ridiculously consequential—and even when he forgot it he continued to make a fool of himself.
These traits of character did not endear Doctor Nash to Mr. Rayton, but they did not mar the perfection of the farmer's simple hospitality. He produced a cold venison pie for supper, made coffee and buttered toast, and flanked these things with a decanter of whisky on one side and a jug of sweet cider on the other.
"Cold meat pie," remarked Nash slightingly—and immediately began to devour it. After saying that he had never heard of such a thing as buttered toast for supper he ate more than half the supply. He lost no time in informing the other that he had alwaysdinedin the evening before fate had thrown him away on a backwoods practice.
Rayton haw-hawed regularly, finding this the easiest way of hiding his feelings.
"Whisky!" exclaimed Nash, after his second cup of coffee with cream. "I believe you live for it, Rayton. I never have it in my own house except for medicinal purposes." Then he helped himself to a bumper that fairly outraged his host's sense of proportions.
"I saw Miss Harley to-day," he said. "She told me that Jim had been to see you, last night."
"Well?" queried Rayton, puzzled. "She does not object, does she?" His mind had been furtively busy with the young woman throughout the meal.
"So I thought that he may have explained his queer behavior to you," said the other.
"Yes, he did."
"What did he say?"
"Really, Nash, I don't know that I have any right to repeat what he told me."
"Did he ask you not to?"
"No; but perhaps he intended to do so and forgot."
Nash laughed uproariously. "You are the limit!" he exclaimed. "You beat the band! Why should he tell you a thing that he would not want me to know?"
Rayton suspected several reasons; but he did not want to offend his guest by advancing them.
"Have you seen Jim since that night?" he asked.
"No."
"But saw his sister?"
"Yes. Jim wasn't at home."
Rayton lit his pipe, reflected for half a minute, and then gave his guest a brief and colorless version of the story. He told it grudgingly, wishing all the while that Harley had asked him not to repeat it.
Nash straddled his long, thin legs toward the fire. "So that's the yarn, is it?" he sneered. "And do you believe it?"
"Believe it? What Harley told me?"
"Yes."
"Certainly I do."
"Then you are more of a fool than I took you for. Don't you see it's all a game of Harley's to keep that young cub away from his sister? He doesn't want to have such a lout hanging 'round all the time for fear it may scare some one else away—some one who'd be a better catch. So he rigged the card and invented the fine story."
Rayton withdrew his pipe from his lips and stared at his guest blankly.
"Oh! that was easy," continued Nash complacently. "I thought, until you told me that yarn, that I really had hold of a problem worth solving. But it is easy as rolling off a log. Here is the marked card. See, it is marked in red chalk. A man could do that in two winks, right under our noses." He handed the card to Rayton—the cross-marked six of clubs. Rayton took it, but did not even glance at it. His gaze was fixed steadily upon his guest.
"I don't quite follow you," he said—"or, at least, I hope I don't."
"Hope you don't follow me? What do you mean?"
"I mean just this, Doctor Nash. When you happen to be in my house be careful what you say about my friends."
Nash stared. Then he laughed unpleasantly. "Are you bitten, too?" he asked.
Rayton got to his feet. "See here, Nash, I don't want to cut up rusty, or be rude, or anything of that kind," he exclaimed, "but I warn you that if you don't drop this personal strain there'll be trouble."
"Personal strain!" retorted the other. "How the devil are we to talk about that card trick, and the cause of it, without becoming personal?"
Rayton was silent.
"But you know what I think about it," continued Nash, "so you can make what you please of it. I'll be going now. I'm not used to be jawed at by a—by a farmer."
The Englishman laughed, helped his offended guest into his overcoat, followed him to the stable, and hitched-in the nag for him.
"A word of advice to you," said Nash, when he was all ready to drive away. "If you have your eye on Miss Harley, take it off. Don't run away with any idea that Jim is trying to scare young Marsh out so as to clear the road for you."
Then the whip snapped and away he rolled into the darkness.
Rayton stood in the empty barnyard for a long time, as motionless as if he had taken root. "I'll keep a grip on my temper," he said at last. "For a while, anyway. When Idolet myself out at that silly ass it'll be once and for all."
Then he returned to the sitting-room fire and thought about Nell Harley.
"Goodine, Marsh, and Nash—they're all in love with her," he muttered. "So it looks as if some one was up to some sort of dirty game with that marked card, after all; but who the devil can it be? It's utter nonsense to suspect poor Dick Goodine—or Jim; but it will do no harm to keep my first idea about Nash in my mind. If he did it, though, I don't believe it was in the way of a joke, after all."
Now to go back to the morning, and David Marsh. At break of day the guide had started the horses and wagon back along the muddy twelve-mile road to the settlement, in charge of a young nephew. They had been gone an hour when Dick Goodine appeared. At that appearance it had immediately jumped into his mind that the trapper was spying on him; but he had kept the thought to himself. He had been greatly relieved, however, to get away from the trapper's company and unsolicited assistance. There was plenty of water in the brook, so he paddled swiftly down the brown current for a mile or two. Then, feeling that he had got clear of Goodine, he let the heavily loaded canoe run with the current and filled his pipe.
"The more I see of that Goodine," he reflected, "the more I mistrust him. And the cheek of him, poor and shiftless, to think about Nell. I bet it was him put the marks on that card, somehow or other. The dirty French blood in him would teach him how to do them kinder tricks. Why, he ain't much better than a half-breed—and yethetalks about bein' above cookin' for sports, and lookin' after them in camp. He's too lazy to do honest work, that's what's the matter. So long's he can raise enough money to go on a spree now and then, he's happy. I don't trust him. I don't like them black eyes of his. I bet he's been spying on me ever since I got to the camp last night. Let him spy! He'd be scared to try anything on with me; and if he thinks a girl like Nell would have anything to do with a darn jumpin' Frenchman like him, he better go soak his head."
So as the stream carried him farther and farther away from the spot where he had left the trapper, his indignation against that young man increased and his uneasiness subsided.
"I wish I'd up and asked him what the devil he wanted," he muttered, "I'd ought to let him see, straight, what I think of him. But maybe he was just lookin' for trouble—for a chance to get out his knife at me. He wouldn't mind killin' a man, I guess—by the looks of him. No, he wouldn't go so far as that, yet a while. That would cook his goose, for sure."
Three miles below the camp, the Teakettle emptied into a larger stream that was known as Dan's River. It was on the headwaters of this river that Marsh had his second and more important sporting camp in a region full of game. On reaching Dan's River, Marsh swung the bow of his canoe upstream, keeping within a yard or two of the right bank. He laid his paddle aside, took up a long pole of spruce, and got to his feet, perfectly balanced. For the first quarter of a mile it was lazy work, and then he came to a piece of swift and broken water called Little Rapids. This was a stiff piece of poling, though not stiff enough under any circumstances to drive an experienced canoe man to portaging around it. David Marsh had mastered it, both ways, at all depths of water, more than a dozen times. The channel was in midstream. The canoe shot across the current and then headed up into that long rush and clatter of waters. The young man set his feet more firmly and put his body into his work.
The slim, deep-loaded craft crawled upward, foot by foot, the clashing waters snarling along her gunwales and curling white at her gleaming bow. Now David threw every ounce of his strength, from heel to neck, into the steady thrust. The long pole bent under the weight, curved valiantly—and broke clean with a report like a rifle shot. David was flung outward, struggling to regain his balance; and, at the same moment, the canoe swung side-on to the roaring water and then rolled over.
David Marsh fought the whirling, buffeting waters with frantic energy. He was struggling for his life. That was his only thought. He struck out to steady himself, to keep clear of the boiling eddies where the black rocks seemed to lift and sink, and to keep his head above the smother. The beating, roaring, and slopping of the rapids almost deafened him, and filled him with a shuddering dread of those raging, clamorous surfaces, and silent, spinning depths. Now he saw the clear, blue sky with a hawk adrift in the sunshine—and now he glimpsed one shore or the other, with dark green of spruce, and a spot or two of frost-bitten red—and now black sinews and twisting ribbons crossed his vision, and torn spray beat against his sight with white hands. The deathly chill of the water bit into blood and bone.
It seemed to him that he was smothered, spun and hammered in this hell of choking tumult for hours. At last the roar and clatter began to soften in his ears—to soften and sweeten to a low song. Wonderful lights swam across his eyes—red, clearest green and the blue of the rainbow. A swift, grinding agony in his right arm aroused him. He was among the rocks at the tail of the rapids. For a minute he fought desperately; and then he dragged himself out of the shouting river and lay still.
Marsh was young and strong, and had not swallowed a serious amount of water. For ten minutes he lay under the leafless willows, unconsciously struggling for his breath. Then he sat up, swayed dizzily, and screamed suddenly with the pain in his arm. It was that excruciating pain, burning and stabbing from wrist to shoulder, that brought him fully to his senses. He staggered to his feet and gazed up and down the bright course of the river. He shivered with cold and weakness.
"Arm smashed!" he cried, almost sobbing. "Outfit lost! My God!"
He sank again, easing himself to the ground by the willows with his left hand. With the bandanna handkerchief from his neck, a piece of cord from his pocket, a few handfuls of dry grass, and a thin slip of driftwood he made a rough support for his arm and fastened it securely to his side. This took him fully half an hour, and caused him intense pain and severe nervous fatigue. He was shaking and gasping by the time it was done—yes, and on the verge of tears.
"The pole broke," he whimpered. "And it was a good pole—the best I could find. It never happened before."
He got to his feet again, and started painfully along the shore. The bank was steep, with only a narrow fringe of rocky beach. In some places the overhanging thicket forced him to wade knee-deep in the water. He stumbled along, groaning with the pain of his arm. His cheeks were bloodless under the tan, and there was a haunted look in his eyes. Fear still gripped him—not the violent, sickening horror that he had felt while struggling in the eddies of the rapid, but a quiet, vague fear that he could give no name to.
Marsh rested for a few minutes on a little grassy flat at the mouth of the Teakettle. By this time the sun, and his own exertions, had warmed him a little; but still the shadow of fear was in his eyes. "It was a strong pole," he kept muttering. "I cut it myself—and tested it. How did it come to break!"
He found the footing along the smaller stream even more difficult than that which he had left behind. Both banks were flanked with impenetrable snarls of underbrush that overhung the gliding current, and so he was forced to wade, knee-deep. The bottom was rocky and slippery, and the swift water dragged mercilessly at his weary legs. He advanced slowly, painfully, a pitiful figure. Sometimes he stumbled, almost fell, and jarred his shattered arm in his recovery. Sometimes he groaned. Sometimes he cursed aloud. "My luck's gone!" he cried. "The pole broke on me—and it was a good pole. Never broke a pole before! Never got spilled before! Something damn queer about that!" He was forced to rest frequently, sitting on a stranded log or flat rock, or perhaps standing and clinging to the alders and willows. His arm ached numbly now. Now showers of silver sparks streamed across his vision, and again he saw little blue and red dots dancing in the sunlight.
It took him a long time to cover the three miles from the mouth of the Teakettle up to the little camp that he had sped so swiftly away from early that morning. It was long past noon when he dragged himself up the steep path, unfastened the door, and stumbled into the shack. After a few minutes' rest on the floor, he managed to light a fire in the stove and put a kettle of water on to boil. He needed tea—tea, hot and strong. That would pull him together for the twelve-mile journey that lay between him and Doctor Nash. But he'd lie down until the water boiled. He pulled off his moccasins and crawled into a bunk, drawing two pairs of heavy blankets over him. He was too tired to think—too tired even to continue his whimpering and cursing. After a minute he dozed off.
David Marsh was awakened shortly by a touch on his injured arm. He yelled with the pain of it even before he opened his eyes. Then he stared, for there stood a young woman named Maggie Leblanc, gazing at him in astonishment. She was a fine-looking young woman in a striking, but rather coarse red and black way. She was roughly dressed, and had an old muzzle-loading gun by her side, and five partridges hanging at her belt. She was the eldest of many children belonging to a worthless couple who lived about two miles from the Marsh farm, in a poor community called French Corner. It was in that same part of the settlement that Dick Goodine's mother lived.
"Hell!" exclaimed Marsh. "Where'd you come from, Maggie?"
"What are you yelling about?" asked the girl. "An' what are you layin' there for, this time o' day?"
"I'm hurt," returned David. "My arm is broke, I guess." Then he told her all about his morning's misfortune.
"And Dick Goodine was here, was he!" cried the girl. "He helped you load the canoe, did he! And then your pole broke! Are you good friends with Dick Goodine?"
David looked at her eagerly. "Not particular," he answered. "What are you drivin' at?"
"He's after your girl, ain't he?" she asked, her black eyes glistening.
"Look here, what are you drivin' at, Maggie?"
She came close to the edge of the bunk. "Maybe he knows what made the pole break! I've heard o' that trick before. He put it in the canoe for you, didn't he?"
"Yes!" cried the young man furiously. "Yes, he did. Damn him!—if he played that dirty trick on me."
"You lay quiet," said Maggie Leblanc. "I'll cook you a bite o' dinner, an' then I'll light out for Doctor Nash. You ain't fit to travel another step."
David drank tea, Maggie Leblanc holding the tin mug to his lips. The pain in his arm became more intense as his strength returned. His temper was raw. He refused the bacon which the girl fried for him.
"Hell!" he exclaimed, "I feel too bad to eat. I feel like the very devil, Maggie. Arm busted, canoe and outfit lost! Hell!"
"I guess that skunk, Dick Goodine, done you pretty brown," remarked the girl. "Dick's cute. Always was. He bested you just like he'd best a mink or a fox. You ain't no match for Dick Goodine, Davy."
David Marsh cursed bitterly.
"That durn half-breed!" he cried. "Me no match for him! You wait and see, Maggie. I'll get square with him, one of these days."
"Dick ain't no half-breed," retorted the girl. "He's French and English—and that mixture don't made a breed. Got to have Injin blood, like me, to make a breed."
"Injin blood's better'n his mixture," said David. "Hell, yes! Dick Goodine's pure skunk. But I'll do him yet. You just watch, Maggie. Arm busted! Canoe busted and outfit sunk! He'll pay me for that."
"You think a heap o' yer money, Davy," said Maggie Leblanc.
"You go get the doctor," returned the young woodsman sullenly, "and leave my affairs alone. Money? Well, I guess I make it hard enough. You go 'long now, Maggie, like a good girl, and get Doctor Nash—or maybe I'll never have the use o' this arm again. It's stiffenin' up terrible quick. I'll make it worth yer while, Maggie. Five dollars! How'll five dollars do?"
"I'm goin'," answered Maggie. "But you keep yer money. I don't want yer five dollars. I'll fetch the doc, and I'll help you get square with that skunk Dick Goodine, all for nothin'. You bet! Lay still, now, and I'll light out for the settlement."
"I thought you was sweet on Dick Goodine; but you don't seem much that way now, Maggie. What's he bin doin' to you?" asked David.
"Yer mind yer own business, Davy Marsh," retorted the young woman, "and don't you give none o' yer cheek to me. I'm helpin' you, ain't I? Then mind yer manners!"
Then, with a toss of her handsome head, she hurried from the shack.
Left alone under that low roof in the quiet forest, with the afternoon sunshine flooding in by open door and window, David gave his mind unreservedly to his accident, considering it from many points of view. He had accepted Maggie Leblanc's suggestion without question—that Goodine had caused the disaster by injuring his canoe pole in some way. Now, alone in the silent forest, he thought of the marks on the card, and remembered the story that Jim Harley had confided to him. It was foolishness, of course, to set any store by two red crosses on a playing card—and yet—and yet——
Queer things happen, he reflected. The devil still takes a hand in the games of men. The idea of the blow being the work of a supernatural agency, directed by the marked card, grew upon him. But even so, what more likely than that Dick Goodine had cut his canoe pole—had been chosen as the instrument of fate? One has strange fancies when lying faint and hurt in a silent wilderness, in a golden, empty afternoon.
The sunlight gradually died away from window and door. David thought of his loss and counted the money that would slip from his fingers, owing to the broken arm. This was bitter food for the mind of such a man as David Marsh. Mr. Banks, the rich and generous American sportsman, would soon be at Samson's Mill Settlement—only, alas, for the profit of some other than the unfortunate Davy. It was a hard fact to consider, but at last the sullen young man fell asleep with the weight of it on his mind.
He dreamed of a life-and-death struggle with a Spanish count, who looked like Dick Goodine dressed up in queer clothes. The Spanish nobleman ran a knife into his arm and the pain was sickening. The count vanished, and beside him stood a young man in a blue coat with brass buttons, whom they called Jackson. This Mr. Jackson had a terrible leer on his face, and a huge pistol in his right hand. Seizing David by the collar, he hammered him with the pistol upon the wound made by the Spaniard's knife. David yelled with the pain of it—and woke up! Above him leaned Doctor Nash, holding a lantern, and with a finger on the broken arm. "Quit it!" cried David. "Quit it, doc! That's the busted place yer pinchin'."
A painful period of twenty minutes followed, and at the end of it David's arm was in splints and bandages, and David's face was absolutely colorless. Nash brought him 'round with a long drink of brandy.
"Hell!" said David. "That's all I want to see of you for the rest o' my life, doc."
The doctor grinned, mopped his heated brow, and set the lantern on the table. "Oh, that's nothing," he said. "Booh! I've done ten times as much as that before breakfast. Keep still, now, and give it a chance. Your arm will be as good as new in a few months."
David groaned. Nash built up the fire.
"I'm hungry," he said. "Where d'you keep your grub? Got anything fit to eat?"
"I reckon yes," returned the woodsman. "There's plenty of grub in this camp, and every durn ounce of it is fit for anybody to eat. Well, I guess! There's eggs in that there box on the floor, and bacon in the cupboard, and tea and coffee, and everything. Help yourself, doc. It was bought to feed Mr. Banks—so I guess you'll find it good enough for you."
"Don't get excited, David," retorted the doctor. "Keep your hair on, or maybe you'll keep your arm from knitting."
He cooked a good meal, gave a little of it to his patient, and devoured the choicer, and by far the larger, share of it himself. Then he lit his pipe and drew a stool close up to the bunk in which David lay.
"You are not fit to move to-night," he said, "so I'll stay here and take you in to-morrow morning. I managed to get my rig through the mud-holes without breaking anything, I guess."
David moved his feet uneasily.
"Guess you'll be chargin' me pretty heavy for this, doc," he returned.
"Don't you worry," returned Nash. "I'll only charge what's fair, Davy. Of course it was quite a serious operation, and a long drive—but don't you worry."
He drew at his pipe for a little while in silence. At last he said: "Maggie Leblanc tells me it was Dick Goodine who worked the dirty trick on you. Is that so?"
"I guess so. Don't see what else. The pole was a good one, far's I know."
"What's the trouble between you and Dick? I didn't know he was that kind."
"Well, we had an argyment a while back. Nothin' serious; but he's a spiteful kind of cuss. Dirty blood in him, I guess."
Nash nodded. "And perhaps you think the marks on that card had something to do with it. Isn't that so, Davy? I guess Jim Harley has told you what those marks mean."
"That's all durned foolishness. Marks on a card! How'd them little crosses break my pole and upset me into the rapids?"
"Sounds fine, Davy; but you are scared of that marked card, all the same. Don't lie to me—for it's no use. I think the marks on the card have something to do with your broken arm."
"How, doc? No, yer foolin'! Yer tryin' to make game of me. I ain't a scholar, like you, doc, but I ain't fool enough to believe in ghosts, just the same."
"I am not saying anything about ghosts, Davy. You just keep your hair on, and I'll tell you what I think. In the first place, just remember that I am a man with a trained mind and a wide knowledge of life."
"Guess yer right, doc. Fire away!"
"Jim Harley told you that long story of his about his grandmother?"
"That's so."
"Do you believe it?"
"Maybe I do—and maybe I don't. What's that to you?"
"Of course you believe it! That's because your mind is untrained, and you don't know anything of the ways of the world."
"You just leave my mind alone, doc. It ain't hurtin' you, I guess. You talk as if I hadn't any more brains than a sheep."
Nash grinned, and rubbed his long hands briskly together. He enjoyed this sort of thing.
"Right you are. You believe Jim's story—and I don't. What I think is this: Jim Harley marked the card, dealt it to you, and then invented the yarn. He is trying to scare you away—away from fooling around his sister."
"You just let his sister alone, doc! And mind yer own business, too!"
"Keep cool, my boy. Well, he scares you a bit with his story. Then he has a talk to Dick Goodine. He knows Dick and you are not very good friends. So he fixes Dick, and Dick fixes your canoe pole—and there you are! Jim and Dick do the busting, and I do the mending. What do you think of that?"
"Durned foolishness!" retorted David. "Maybe Goodine done it; but Jim didn't set him to it. I guess I know Jim Harley a durn sight better'n you do."
"Oh, yes! You are a devilish clever chap, David—in your own opinion. Just the same, my smart young friend, take the hint from me and stop thinking about Nell Harley. You are not wanted 'round that vicinity, and if Jim can't scare you away with his card trick and his silly story, he'll scare you with something else."
David Marsh was raging; but he was helpless in the bunk, with a broken arm to remember. He swore like the proverbial trooper—and Doctor Nash sat and smoked, with his sneering grin broad on his fat face. He did not say a word in reply to the woodsman's tirade. At last David lay back weakly, breathless, and empty of oaths. Nash re-filled his pipe.
"Think it over quietly," he said. "Are the red marks after you? Or is Dick Goodine after you, on his own trick? Or is Jim Harley working a game on you? Think it over, Davy, and don't swear at your friends."
David's reply was a grunt; but he spent half the night in thinking it over. The harder he thought the more hopelessly confused he became.
During the drive to the Marsh farm next morning, Doctor Nash carefully avoided the subject of the marked cards and his suspicions. As there was not much else to talk of in Samson's Mill Settlement, just then, the drive was a quiet one. After helping his patient into the house the doctor drove away.
Jim Harley came over to see David in the afternoon. The sufferer received him with open suspicion, but Harley's manner soon drove the shadow away. He listened to the story of the accident with every sign of distress, and was impressed by the fact that Dick Goodine had helped load and launch the canoe. He knew that David and the trapper were not on friendly terms, and he believed the latter to be dangerously quick-tempered; but he could scarcely bring himself to believe that he would carry a grudge so far as to endanger a man's life.
"Have you and Dick had words about anything else?" he asked, "anything more than that argument about guiding sportsmen?"
"I guess he holds something else against me," admitted the guide.
"What is it? What have you ever done to him?" asked Harley.
David shifted about uneasily in his chair, and became very red in the face. In the depth of his heart he feared Jim Harley.
"I ain't done anything to him," he said falteringly. "I—I ain't said one uncivil word to him, except that time we had the tongue fight. He just don't like me, that's all. He don't like me because I'm a smarter guide than him, and get hold of all the rich sports; and—and I guess he thinks—well, he thinks——"
"What? What does he think?" demanded Harley.
"Well, you see, Jim, he—I guess he kinder thinks I've got the—the inside track, so to speak."
"Inside track? You mean with the sportsmen? You have the best camps, and all that sort of thing. I guess he's right, Davy."
"That ain't just exactly what I mean, Jim. I ain't talking about guidin' and campin' now. Lookee here, you know as how I'm kinder—well, as how I am almighty fond o' Nell. You know that, Jim, for I've told you before. Well, Dick Goodine's struck a bit that way, too, far's I can make out. Durned cheek; but that's the truth. So I guess that's maybe why he's got an axe behind his back for me."
Jim Harley sighed and shook his head mournfully.
"I hadn't thought about that," he said; "but now that you mention it, Davy, I see that it may be so. I've always found Dick a good-hearted fellow—but I guess he goes on the rip now and again. Not extra steady—and not the kind to marry my sister. He's not steady, you see—and he's so danged ignorant."
Jim made these last remarks in a low, reflective voice, as if he were talking only to himself. Tone and words fanned David's old suspicions into sudden flame.
"Yes, he's danged ignorant!" he cried. "Danged ignorant, just like me. That's what you mean, ain't it? You don't want Nell to marry a bushwhacker like Dick Goodine—nor like me. That's about right, ain't it, Jim? My first guess was right t'other night, I do believe."
Harley stared at him in angry amazement.
"You are talking like a blasted fool!" he exclaimed. "You were on the same string before, and I went to a good deal of trouble to set you right. Too much trouble, I see now. But I tell you again, if I objected seriously to you, David, you'd damn soon know it. You make me tired."
"I didn't mean to rile you, Jim," returned the guide, "but what with the gnawin' pain in my arm, and—and that story you told me about them marks on the card—and them marks being dealt to me—I tell you, Jim, I don't feel easy. I feel jumpy as a cat. Here I am with my arm busted already, and a canoe and outfit gone clear to the devil. I never lost a canoe before—nor bust my arm before."
"I am sorry, David. I am mighty sorry," said Harley. "It is hard luck, no mistake about that, but all I can say is, I don't wish you any harm, and never have. If you think Goodine is laying for you, keep your eye on him. If you think there is anything in those marks on the card—well, you know the story. Act as you think best for yourself, Davy."
"Thankee. I'll keep my eye skinned; but I tell you now, Jim, I ain't scart o' them marks on the card. I believe all you told me—but I guess it was just luck that brought them marks to this settlement and handed them out to me. I don't think fer one minute they busted my arm or upset my canoe."
After the evening meal, Jim Harley visited Rayton. The Englishman was in his sitting room, writing letters before a good fire. He pushed his papers aside and received his visitor with that manner of perfect hospitality which was as natural to him as his frequent laughter. He had already heard rumors of David's accident, but when Jim told the full story, he replied in forceful terms that Dick Goodine had no part in it.
"But it looks queer," persisted Jim Harley.
"Looks!" retorted the Englishman. "My dear Harley, didn't a canoe pole ever break before? Is this the first man who ever smashed his arm? Rot! I know Goodine, and he's the right sort. He's a man."
Harley had great faith in Reginald Rayton's opinions; but he could not get his suspicions of the trapper out of his head.
"Don't think any more about it," urged his host. "You might as well suspect Ben Samson—or old Wigmore. Drop it—and have a drink."
So Jim dropped it and had a drink. But he was worried and preoccupied throughout the evening. When he was about to leave, however, he shook himself together.
"If you are ever lonely," he said, "come over and see us."
"Thanks very much," returned Rayton, gripping his hand. "I get a bit lonely, sometimes. Ah—perhaps you'll see me to-morrow night, if that will be convenient."
At that moment Turk jumped to his feet, uttered a low growl, and ran to the window. Rayton jumped after him and snatched the curtain aside. Nothing was to be seen, though a pale half-moon was shining clearly.
"That's queer," said Rayton. "Turk never gives false alarms."
Mr. Harvey P. Banks, of New York, was an angry and dejected man when he arrived at Samson's Mill Settlement, only to learn that his guide of several past seasons—in fact, the only available professional guide in the district—was laid up with a broken arm. He poured the full stream of his wrath upon the unfortunate David Marsh. He was a big man—tall, thick, broad, and big of face and hand, big of voice, foot, and outlook upon life—and his size seemed to fill the little farmhouse bedroom and press poor David against the wall. After expressing himself at length, he asked why the guide had not wired to him, so as to give him time to make other arrangements.
Now that was a question that David had asked himself, too late. He answered truthfully, his courage reviving as he realized that his excuse was a pretty good one. He told of his accident in detail, of his suspicion of Dick Goodine, and then, after another question or two, he went back and described the game of poker, the marked card, and told Jim Harley's story. Thus he explained a state of mind that had turned big business considerations into unimportant shadows and meaningless whisperings.
Through it all Mr. Harvey P. Banks sat in a splint-bottomed chair—bulging generously over the edges of the seat—smoking a long cigar, and gazing unblinkingly at the young woodsman. He nodded his big head when David finished, and flipped a two-inch white ash from the end of his cigar to the hooked mat at his feet.
"That's good enough for me, Marsh," he said. "I take back the hard names I called you a few minutes ago. No wonder you forgot to send me a wire."
He turned his head and gazed through the window at a field of buckwheat stubble, rusty-red, and a green-black wall of spruces and firs.
"Jim Harley told you the story, you say?"
"Yes, sir; Jim Harley. Doctor Nash don't believe it."
"Nash be blowed! And you say Jim acted very strangely when he saw the marks on the card in your hand."
"Yes, sir; he acted mighty queer. Doctor Nash says it was all a bluff, though."
"T'hell with Nash! How did the others take the sight of the red crosses?"
"Quiet enough, sir. They was all took up with Jim's queer look and words."
"And Rayton?"
"He just looked like an astonished horse, Mr. Banks. That's his natural look."
"And Captain Wigmore?"
"Oh, it didn't bother him none, you can bet yer hat on that."
Mr. Banks nodded again. "It wouldn't," he said reflectively. "A mark on a card wouldn't interest that old clam, I imagine, unless it was on the back, where it might be of some use to him."
He asked several more questions about the chances of obtaining good heads of moose and caribou in the Beaver Brook, Teakettle, and Dan's River country this season, talked of past adventures which he had shared with the young woodsman, and slipped in more than one query concerning Maggie Leblanc. Then, promising to see David again in a day or two, he lit another cigar and took his departure.
Ten minutes later, on the road, Harvey P. Banks met Reginald Baynes Rayton. The Englishman wore his oldest pair of breeches, but their cut was undeniable. Banks' eyes were sharp, though their expression was usually exceedingly mild.
"You are Mr. Rayton, who is farming the old Bill Hooker place, I am sure," he said.
"Yes. And you are Mr. Banks, of New York, I'm quite positive," returned Rayton, lifting a shabby felt hat, and laughing pleasantly. There was nothing to laugh at—but Reginald had a way of laughing politely at everything and nothing. It meant nothing, but it covered profound meanings.
Mr. Banks returned the unexpected salute with a fine gesture of his tweed cap, and then the two shook hands.
"I have just been to see poor David Marsh," said Banks. "I blew him up pretty high, at first, but I melted when I heard what he has on his mind."
"Yes, he seems to be in a funk about one thing and another," returned Rayton. "But it is rough on you, too. But—ah—I think I can help you—if you don't consider it cheeky of me to—to make a suggestion."
"Cheeky! My dear Mr. Rayton, I'll bless you for a likely suggestion."
"Then let me put you on to some good shooting. I know this country fairly well, considering I'm a new settler, and this is my slack season on the farm. I can help you to a couple of good heads, I'm positive. We can make my house our headquarters, for the game is very close in this year. The house is snug, and I am something quite special in the cooking line. What do you say?"
"It sounds mighty tempting, but—well, Mr. Rayton, I am a business man, and I like to see the business end of every proposition before I start in."
Rayton laughed freely, but politely.
"Of course," he said. "I am a farmer—and I see what you mean. The business end of some propositions is like the hinder end of a wasp, isn't it? Hah-hah! But—if you don't mind—well, I don't see how we can put any business end to this. Ah—if you will be so kind as just to consider yourself my guest. Hope you don't think it cheeky of me!"
"Well! 'Pon my word, Mr. Rayton, you are very kind. Why should you befriend me like this? It is astonishing."
"Not at all. We can have some good talks, you see. I am a bit lonely, sometimes. It is all serene, isn't it? Good. Where are your traps? Come along."
So they turned and walked side by side along the road and across the empty fields to Rayton's house. Mr. Banks glanced frequently and wonderingly at his new friend. Never before, in all his wide and active life, had his confidence been captured so quickly.
"And he seems to take me quite as a matter of course," he reflected.
That afternoon the two new friends, with Turk's assistance, shot a few brace of woodcocks and grouse, in quiet swales and corners around the outskirts of the farm. Then, together, they cooked supper. Shortly after supper, while they were playing a game of chess, and smoking two of Mr. Banks' long and superior cigars, old Captain Wigmore knocked on the front door, and entered without waiting for it to be opened for him. Rayton welcomed him as affably as if they had last parted on the most polite terms. He introduced the small old man to the big middle-aged one.
"We have met before," said the captain.
"Yes, I knew Captain Wigmore last year," said Banks.
Wigmore accepted a cigar from the New Yorker's bulging case.
"That is the real thing—the real leaf," he said. He looked at the chessmen.
"Reginald, when are we to have another game of poker? I am sure Mr. Banks plays the game of his nation. We must sit in again soon. We must not be frightened away from a harmless amusement by that silly trick Jim Harley played on us a few nights ago."
Mr. Banks feigned astonishment. "What was the trick?" he asked. "I should never have suspected Harley of playing a trick—especially a card trick. He has always seemed to me a very serious chap."
"Rather a queer thing happened a few nights ago, while we were playing poker, here," said Rayton. "Captain Wigmore thinks Harley was at the bottom of it; but I don't. Tell about it, captain."
So for the second time, Banks heard of the card marked with two red crosses and dealt to young David Marsh. He watched Wigmore throughout the telling as intently as he had watched the guide.
"Very interesting? Jim Harley is not such a serious fellow as I thought," he said, by way of comment. And that was all until after Wigmore took his leave, at half-past ten. Wigmore had not mentioned the tradition behind the two red marks. When the door had closed upon the queer old captain, Rayton and Banks talked for nearly an hour about Harley's story of the red crosses, and David Marsh's experience of them. The Englishman convinced the New Yorker that Dick Goodine had played no part in David's accident. Mr. Banks, like Jim Harley, found it natural to accept Rayton's readings of men and things.
Mr. Banks lay awake in his comfortable bed for a full hour after turning in, his mind busy with the mystery of Samson's Mill Settlement. He decided that whoever marked the card had known the tragic story of the Harley family. He did not take much stock in David's accident. That had been nothing more nor less than a piece of bad luck. Canoe poles break frequently, owing to some hidden flaw in the white wood. But he felt sure that the two red crosses on the face of the card were not matters of chance.
"I'll work this thing out if it drives me crazy. I have always had an itch to do a bit of detective work," he murmured.
Then he sank into deep and peaceful slumber.
When Banks entered the kitchen next morning, at an early hour, he found the porridge neglected and sullenly boiling over the brim of the pot onto the top of the stove, and his host standing with drooped shoulders gazing mournfully at a five-foot length of spruce pole that stood in the corner. Banks jumped ponderously and rescued the porridge.
"What's the trouble?" he asked. "Are you thinking of beating some one with that stick?"
Rayton laughed joylessly. "This is too bad!" he said. "Molly Canadian, the busy old idiot, brought this in to me only a few minutes ago. Silly old chump!"
"What is it? And who is Molly Canadian?"
"She's an old squaw—and a great pal of mine. This thing is a piece of a canoe pole."
"Ah! Piece of a pole. Why does it interest and depress you so?"
"She found it at the foot of the rapids in which young Marsh came to grief. Yesterday, she says. If you look at the broken end of it you'll notice that the surface is remarkably smooth for about halfway across."
"Ah! It has been cut! Cut halfway through! Do you think it is David's pole?"
"I am afraid it is the one he broke. It was found at the foot of the rapids."
Mr. Banks scratched his clean-shaven chin.
"Looks as if you had put your trust in a lame horse," he said.
"Yes, it looks that way," admitted the Englishman, "but I don't believe Dick Goodine cut that pole! I know Goodine—but I'm not so sure of this pole. Sounds silly; but that's the way I feel. I'm not much on reasoning things out, but I've a few pretty clear ideas on this subject. From what you tell me that Marsh told you, it is quite evident that Maggie Leblanc is anxious to get Dick into a mess. Well?"
"You think the girl cut the pole?"
"Yes. Why not? She has Maliseet blood in her, you know—English, French, and Maliseet. She is a fine looking girl, in her way and of her kind, but I've seen two devils shining in her eyes."
"Would she run the risk of killing one man, just on the chance of getting another into trouble?"
"I won't say that of her, Banks, but there'd be no need for her to run that risk. Finding David in his camp, with a broken arm, evidently suggested to her the chance of making trouble for Goodine. Then why shouldn't she travel over to the rapids and hunt for the pole—or a part of it? With luck, she'd find it. Then she could trim the broken end a little, and leave it where it would be most likely to be found."
"Where was it found? In an eddy?"
"No. High and dry on top of a flat rock."
"That certainly looks fishy!" exclaimed the New Yorker. "I'm with you, Rayton, no matter how severely you test my—my imagination. Shake on it, old man!"
They shook.
"I am greatly relieved," said the Englishman.
"You see, unless I get outside opinion, I am never quite sure if the things I think of all by myself have any sense in them or not. Well, I am mighty glad you see it the same way I do. As soon as Molly told me where she had found the piece of pole, I smelt a rat. Of course I'd never have thought of all that about Maggie Leblanc, except for my thorough belief in Dick Goodine. That set me to work. Now we had better have breakfast."
Mr. Banks nodded.
"Why don't you set seriously to work to straighten out the marked card business?" he asked.
"I have; but it just takes me 'round and 'round," said Rayton.
They had just finished their breakfast when Dick Goodine appeared, ready to take them into the woods for a day, after moose. He brought a boy with him to look after the place and the live stock, in case the sportsmen should be kept out all night. The three left the house shortly after seven o'clock.
Early in the afternoon Banks shot an old bull moose carrying a fine pair of antlers. They skinned and dressed it, and hung hide, flesh, and antlers in a tree; they pressed forward, for they were near a great square of barren land, where the chances of finding caribou were good. They reached the barren, sighted a small herd, and Rayton dropped a fair-sized stag, and after making packs of the antlers, hide, and the best cuts, they struck the homeward trail.
It was dark by the time the tree in which the remains of the moose was hung was reached, so they made camp there for the night. At the first break of dawn they were up and afoot again, and though heavily loaded, they made good time. They halted only half an hour for their midday meal, and reached Rayton's farm shortly after three o'clock in the afternoon. Old Captain Wigmore was there to welcome them. They found him in the sitting room, very much at his ease, with a decanter of the Englishman's whisky on the table in front of him. Rayton laughed good-humoredly, shook his hand cordially, and invited him to stay for the remainder of the day.
"Gladly, my dear boy," returned the captain. He seemed to be in a much better humor than was usual with him. The sportsmen washed, changed, and had a long and quiet smoke, and when the smoke was finished it was time to get the evening meal. Rayton and Dick Goodine went to the kitchen, and set to work. They were interrupted by Timothy Fletcher, the captain's reserved and disagreeable old servant. Timothy's wrinkled face wore an expression of intense anxiety and marks of fatigue.
"Cap'n here?" he asked, looking in at the kitchen door.
"Yes, he's here," replied Rayton, with a note of sharpness in his voice. The soul of politeness himself, he could not stand intentional rudeness in others.
"Glad to hear it. I've been huntin' over the hull damn country for him," remarked Timothy.
"Do you want to speak to him?" asked Rayton.
Before the other could answer, Wigmore himself darted into the kitchen.
"What the devil do you want?" he cried, going close up to his servant, and shaking a thin but knotty fist in his face. "Go home, I tell you."
His frail body trembled, and his very beard seemed to bristle with wrath.
"But—but I thought you was lost," stammered the old servant.
"Get out!" screamed Wigmore. "Go home and mind your own business."
Timothy Fletcher stood his ground for a few seconds, staring keenly into the captain's face. Then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the kitchen. Old Wigmore glared around, swore a little, mumbled an excuse, and followed his servant.
"That old captain is a character," said Mr. Banks. "He's worth watching."
"He's a queer cuss, and no mistake," agreed Dick Goodine.
"Not a bad sort at heart," said Rayton, dishing the fried potatoes. "He has had his troubles, I imagine, but when he is feeling right he is a very agreeable companion."
"I like his room better nor his company," said the trapper.
A couple of hours later, when the three were smoking lazily by the sitting-room fire, they were startled by the sounds of a vehicle and horse tearing up to the house at top speed. Rayton and Turk got quickly to their feet. The front door flew open and heavy boots banged along the uncarpeted hall. Then the door of the room was flung wide, and David Marsh burst in. His right arm was bandaged and slung, but in his left hand he held a heavy stick.
"Have you seen that skunk, Dick Goodine?" he cried. "My camp on Teakettle Brook's burnt to the ground! Oh, there you are!"
By this time Mr. Banks and Goodine were also on their feet. Marsh started forward, with murder in his eyes, and his mouth twisted. Rayton stepped in front of him.
"Kindly remember that you are in my house," said the Englishman quietly. "Just stop where you are, please, and explain yourself."
"Get to hell out of my way!" cried David. "I ain't talkin' to you. There's the sneak I'm after—the dirty coward who cut halfway through my canoe pole, and then set my camp afire, stores and all! Let me at him, you pie-faced Englishman!"
"What do you want of me, Davy Marsh?" demanded the trapper. "If you think I cut your canoe pole, yer a fool, and if you say so, yer a liar!"
"And what is all this about your camp?" asked Rayton, wrenching the club from David's hand. "Keep cool, and tell us about it."
"By——!" cried the guide, "I'd knock the stuffin' out of the two o' ye if I had the use o' my arm! You call me a liar, Dick Goodine? That's easy—now—with my right arm in splints. And as you are so damn smart, Rayton, can you tell me who burnt down my camp? And can you tell me who cut that pole? There's a piece of it standin' in the corner—proof enough to send a man to jail on!"
"This is the first I have heard of the camp," replied Rayton, "and I am very sorry to hear of it now. When did it happen?"
"Happen?" cried Marsh bitterly. "It happened this very day. Peter Griggs was out that way with a load of grub for one o' Harley's camps, this very afternoon, and it was just burnin' good when he come to it. Hadn't bin set more'n an hour, he cal'lated, but it was too far gone for him to stop it. So he unhitched one of his horses and rode in to tell me, hopin' I'd be able to catch the damn skunk who done it. And here he is, by hell!"
"You are wrong there, Marsh," said Mr. Banks. "Goodine has been with us since early yesterday morning, way over in the Long Barrens country—and we didn't get home till this afternoon."
"We made camp near the Barrens last night," said Rayton.
"Is that the truth?" asked Marsh. "Cross your heart! So help you God!"
"It is the truth," said Rayton.
"Damn your cheek, Marsh, of course it is the truth," roared Banks.
Dick Goodine nodded. "Cross my heart. So help me God," he said.
The flush of rage slipped down from David's brow and face like a red curtain. He moistened his lips with his tongue.
"Then it's the curse of them two marks on the card!" he whispered. "It's the curse of them two red crosses!"
"Rot!" exclaimed Mr. Banks. "Just because Goodine didn't fire your camp, you jump to the conclusion that the devil did it. Rot!"
"There's nobody else would do it but Dick Goodine," returned David sullenly, "and if you say he didn't, well then—but lookee here! Who cut half through that pole? Goodine did that, anyhow! Molly Canadian told me where she found it. You can't git out of that, Dick Goodine!"
"That's so?" replied Dick. "You'd best go home and take a pill, Davy."
"Molly told us where she found it, too," said Rayton. "I call it a mighty clever piece of spruce, to crawl out of the eddy at the tail of the rapid, and lie down on top of a flat rock. How does it look to you, Marsh?"
David frowned, and glanced uncertainly at Mr. Banks.
"That's queer," he admitted, "but I guess it don't alter the fact that the pole had bin cut. Look at it! It was cut halfway through! And there's the man who cut it, say what you please! He was the last but myself to take it in his hands."
"I was the last, but you, to handle it afore it was broke," replied Dick Goodine calmly, "but somebody else has bin at itsince it broke. Who fished it out o' the river and laid it on the rock, high and dry, for Molly Canadian to find? When you know that, David Marsh, you'll know who made the cut in it. But one thing I'll tell you—I didn't do it. If I'd wanted to smash yer durned silly arm, or yer neck, I'd have done it with my hands. So don't call me any more names or maybe I'll get so mad as to forget yer not in shape to take a lickin'. That's all—except I'm sorry yer havin' a run o' bad luck."
"Keep yer sorrow for them as wants it," replied Marsh, and left the house.
"That young man shows up very badly when things go wrong with him," remarked Mr. Banks mildly. "Trouble seems to rattle him hopelessly. Suppose we turn in."
"Guess I'll be steppin' home, gentlemen, if you don't mean to hunt to-morrow," said the trapper.
"Better stay the night, Dick. It is late—and a long walk to your place—and we want you to help us skin and clean Mr. Banks' moose head in the morning," said Rayton.
So Goodine remained.
On the following morning, while the New York sportsman and the trapper were busy over the intricate job of removing the hide from the moose head, and cleaning the skull, Rayton invented an excuse for going over to the Harley place. Since Jim Harley's pressing invitation he had made three visits and had talked with Nell Harley three times. Never before had he ventured to show himself in the morning. Those three visits, however, had fired him with recklessness. Clocks stop for lovers—and Reginald Baynes Rayton was a lover. He was not aware of it, but the fact remains. He did not know what was the matter with him. He felt a mighty friendship for Jim Harley. So, having told Banks and Goodine that he wanted to borrow a saucepan of a very particular size, he made his way across the settlement by road and field, wood and pasture. He was within sight of the big farmhouse when old Captain Wigmore stepped from a thicket of spruces and confronted him.
"Good morning, Reginald," said the captain. "Where are you bound for so early?"
"Good morning," returned the Englishman. "I'm out to borrow a saucepan."
"So. Who from?"
"I think Mrs. Harley has just what I want."
"I haven't a doubt of it, Reginald. As I'm going that way myself, I'll step along with you. But it's a long walk, my boy, every time you want to use a saucepan. You had better buy one for yourself."
Rayton laughed, and the two advanced elbow to elbow.
"I hear," said the captain, "that poor young Marsh is up to his neck in the waters of tribulation. His luck, in the past, has always been of the best. It's a remarkably queer thing, don't you think so?"
"His luck was too good to last, that is all," replied Rayton. "One cannot expect to have everything work out right forever—especially a chap like Marsh, who has a way with him that is not attractive. I think he has an enemy."
"I saw him this morning," said Wigmore, "and what do you think he is worrying about now?"
"Heaven knows!"
"He has given up the idea that young Goodine is persecuting him, and now lays all his troubles to the score of the devil. He broods over those two little marks on that card that was dealt to him during our game of poker. I don't believe he slept a wink last night. Jim's story concerning the past history of those crosses has done its work. The poor fellow is so badly shaken, that when he is out he's afraid the sky may fall upon him, and when he's indoors, he is anxious about the room. He is a coward at heart, you know—and it does not do for a coward to consider himself in love with Nell Harley."
Rayton blushed quickly, and laughed his polite but meaningless laugh.
"I suppose not," he said. "None but the brave, you know."
"Exactly, Reginald. You are not such a fool as you—well, we'll say sound, for you don't look like a fool. No offense is meant, my dear boy. Fact is, I'm your very sincere admirer, and I should like to hear what you think of that marked card, that turned up the other night at your little party."
"I think it was nothing more than a queer chance."
"You believe Jim's story? You believe all that about his mother and grandmother?"
"Yes, of course; but I think what happened the other night was just chance."
"But you must admit, Reginald, that David Marsh, who received the marked card, has had a peck of trouble served to him since that night."
"Yes. That is more queer chance—a very strange coincidence."
"You are a firm believer in chance, evidently. Or is it that you call everything chance that you can't explain?"
Reginald sighed profoundly. "Chance," he said—"why, chance is chance. It was chance that you and I met this morning. It was just chance that David's luck should turn, or that some one with a grudge against him should get busy, just after that marked card turned up."
Old Wigmore smiled and nodded.
"I, too, am a great believer in what you call chance," he said. "But here we are, my boy. I see Miss Harley on the veranda, in a very becoming and seasonable jacket of red wool. No doubt she'll be able to find you a saucepan. Good morning, Reginald."
Captain Wigmore lifted his hat to the young woman on the veranda, and then turned aside and moved briskly away. Rayton also lifted his hat, but he continued to advance. Upon reaching the steps leading up to the veranda he uttered a choking sound of embarrassment and concern, for it was quite evident that Nell Harley had been weeping recently. But the right to refer to this lamentable fact was not his. He must hide his pity and tender curiosity.
"Good morning, Miss Harley. Isn't it a ripping morning for the time of year?" he said.
"I am afraid it is going to rain," she replied.
"Of course," agreed Rayton, somewhat abashed, and glancing up at the gray sky. "That's what I meant, you know. Rain's just what we need. It will keep the frost off for a while longer, don't you think so?"
"Oh,pleasedon't talk about the weather, Mr. Rayton. I feel too—too worried to talk about the weather."
"Worried!" exclaimed the young man. "I am sorry. Is there anything I can do, Miss Harley? If so, just name it, please. I'd be delighted, you know. May—may I ask what is the trouble?"
"Please come in. There is a fire in the sitting room. Come in, if you can spare the time, for I want to tell you all about it—though I suppose you know already."
Reginald followed her into the sitting room and took a seat across the glowing hearth from her. He felt torn by her undisclosed trouble, and bewildered by his own good fortune. He forgot to inquire after Jim and Mrs. Harley, and the saucepan of very particular dimensions fled from his mind. He sat in a low chair and gazed anxiously and expectantly at Nell Harley. She sat with her elbow on her knee, her round chin on the heel of her hand, and the shadow of retrospection over her bright, pale face. Her eyes were lowered, but presently, and it seemed to him as suddenly as a flash of lightning, she raised them to his glance.
"It is about that card I am worrying so," she said. "I have heard all about it—about the card that was dealt to David Marsh with the two little red crosses drawn upon the face of it. Already he has broken his arm, lost his canoe, and had his camp burned down. It is terrible—and I am frightened. I know the tradition, and believe it fully. Jim does not like to talk about it, and Kate thinks it is all nonsense, though she is too kind to actually say so. But Iknowthat every word of the old story is true. It frightens me. Do you believe that—that the curse is still following us—or does it all seem utterly ridiculous to you?"
Reginald turned his eyes away from her face with a visible effort, gazed into the heart of the fire for a moment or two, studied the pattern of the rug at his feet, and inspected the ceiling. His glance returned to her face, held for a moment, then veered in panic to the window.
"Of course I believe the story that Jim told to me," he said, "and I consider it a—a very remarkable story—and terribly sad, too; but it was the work of man, or men, of course. There was nothing supernatural about it. An enemy—a rival—used those red marks on a card in each case, as a warning. First it was the Spanish count, and next it was that Mr. Jackson. But now, in Samson's Mill Settlement—why, I feel quite sure it is nothing but chance. Nobody but Jim knew of that family story, and he certainly did not mark the card. And—and the conditions are not right. At least, that's how it looks to me."
"The conditions?" she queried softly.
Rayton shot a brief, but imploring glance at her.
"What I mean is—ah—why should David Marsh get the card? I hope—I mean I can't see—ah—I can't see any association between a chap like David and——"
He fell silent, became very red, and blinked at the fire.
"Please go on," she whispered. "Pleasetell me what you think, for I know you are honest, fearless and sane, Mr. Rayton. You must forgive me for speaking so frankly—but that is what Jim says of you. You were saying that you cannot see any connection between David Marsh and—and what?"
Reginald took a deep breath and squared his shoulders.
"Between Marsh and those others who received the marked cards," he said. "First, it was the young sailor, the chap in the navy—the Spaniard's winning rival. Next it was your father—a man of character and—and breeding. Now David Marsh gets the card! That seems absurd to me. It seems like a man going out to kill a partridge with an elephant gun. It—it does not look to me like a continuation of the—the same idea at all."
"Why not? Please be quite frank with me. Why does it seem different?"
"But really, Miss Harley, I—I have no right to air my—my opinions."
"I want you to. I beg you to. I am sure your opinions will help me."
"If anything I can say will make you feel easier, then I'll—I'll go ahead. What I'm driving at is, that the navy chap was the kind of chap your grandmother might have become—ah, very fond of. Perhaps she was. He was a serious proposition. So with your father. The others who were fond of your mother saw in him a real rival—a dangerous man. But—it is not so with Marsh. He is not big. He is not strong. The truth is, if you forgive me for saying so, there is no danger of—of your caring for a chap like David Marsh. There! So the case is not like the others, and the old idea is not carried out. Fate, or the rival, or whatever it is, has made a stupid mistake."