November Joe/Chapter 5
Chapter V
The Black Fox Skin
You must understand that from this time on, my association with November Joe was not continuous but fitful, and that after the events I have just written down I went back to Quebec, where I became once more immersed in my business.
Of Joe I heard from time to time, generally by means of smudged letters obviously written from camp and usually smelling of wood smoke. It was such a letter, which, in the following year, caused me once more to seek November. It ran as follows:
Mr. Quaritch, sir, last week I was up to Widdeney Pond and I see a wonderful red deer buck. I guess he come out of the thick Maine woods to take the place o' that fella you shot there last fall. This great fella has had a accident to his horns or something for they come out of his head thick and stunted-like and all over little points. Them horns would look fine at the top of the stairs in your house to Quebec, so come and try for them. I'll be down to Mrs. Harding's Friday morning so as I can meet you if you can come. There's only three moose using round here, two cows, and a mean little fella of a bull.
November.
This was the letter which caused me to seek Mrs. Harding's, but owing to a slight accident to the rig I was driven up in, I arrived late to find that November had gone up to a neighbouring farm on some business, leaving word that should I arrive I was to start for his shack and that he would catch me up on the way.
I walked forward during the greater part of the afternoon when, in trying a short cut through the woods, I lost my bearings and I was glad enough to hear Joe's hail behind me.
"Struck your trail 'way back," said he, "and followed it up as quick as I could."
"Have you been to Harding's?"
"No. I struck straight across from Simmons's. O' course I guessed it were probably you, but even if I had n't known you was coming I'd a been certain you did n't know the country and was town-bred."
"How?"
"You paused wherever there were crossroads, and had a look at your compass."
"How do you know I did that?" I demanded again; for I had consulted my compass several times, though I could not see what had made Joe aware of the fact.
"You stood it on a log once at Smith's Clearing and again on that spruce stump at the Old Lumber Camp. And each time you shifted your direction."
I laughed. "Did you know anything else about me?" I asked.
"Knew you carried a gun, and was wonderful fresh from the city."
In answer to my laugh Joe continued:—
"Twice you went off the road after them two deer you saw, your tracks told me that. And you stepped in under that pine when that little drop o' rain fell. There was n't enough of it to send a man who'd been a day in the woods into shelter. But I have always noticed how wonderful scared the city makes a man o' a drop o' clean rain-water."
"Anything else?"
"Used five matches to light your pipe. Struck 'em on a wore-out box. Heads come off, too. That don't happen when you have a new scraper to your box."
"I say, Joe, I should n't like to have you on my trail if I'd committed a crime."
Joe smiled a singularly pleasant smile. "I guess I'd catch you all right," said he.
It was long after dark when we reached November's shack that evening. As he opened the door he displaced something white which lay just inside it. He stooped.
"It's a letter," he said in surprise as he handed it to me. "What does it say, Mr. Quaritch?"
I read it aloud. It ran:—
I am in trouble, Joe. Somebody is robbing my traps. When you get home, which I pray will be soon, come right over.
S. Rone.
"The skunk!" cried November.
I had never seen him so moved. He had been away hunting for three days and returned to find this message.
"The darned skunk—" he repeated, "to rob her traps!"
"Her? A woman?"
"S. Rone stands for Sally Rone. You've sure heard of her?"
"No, who is she?"
"I'll tell you," said Joe. "Sal's a mighty brave girl—that is, she's a widow. She was married on Rone four years ago last Christmas, and the autumn after he got his back broke to the Red Star Lumber Camp. Did n't hump himself quick enough from under a falling tree. Anyway, he died all right, leaving Sally just enough dollars to carry her over the birth of her son. To make a long story short, there was lots of the boys ready to fill dead man Rone's place when they knew her money must be giving out, and the neighbours were wonderful interested to know which Sal would take. But it soon come out that Sal was n't taking any of them, but had decided to try what she could do with the trapping herself."
"Herself?"
"Just that. Rone worked a line o' traps, and Sal was fixed to make her living and the boy's that way. Said a woman was liable to be as successful a trapper as a man. She's at it near three year now, and she's made good. Lives with her boy about four hours' walk nor'west of here, with not another house within five miles of her. She's got a young sister, Ruby, with her on account of the kid, as she has to be out such a lot."
"A lonely life for a woman."
"Yes," agreed November. "And now some skunk's robbing her and getting her frightened, curse him! How long ago was that paper written?"
I looked again at the letter. "There's no date."
"Nothing about who brought it?"
"No."
November rose, lighted a lantern, and without a word stepped out into the darkness. In five minutes he returned.
"She brought it herself," he announced. "Little feet—running—rustling to get home to the little chap. She was here afore Thursday morning's rain, some time Wednesday, not long after I started, I guess. . . . I'm off soon as ever I can stoke in some grub. You coming?"
"Yes."
Not much later I was following November's nimbly moving figure upon as hard a woods march as I ever care to try. I was not sorry when a thong of my moccasin gave way and Joe allowed me a minute to tie it up and to get my wind.
"There's Tom Carroll, Phil Gort, and Injin Sylvester," began November abruptly—"those three. They're Sally's nearest neighbours, them and Val Black. Val's a good man, but—"
"But what?" said I absently.
"Him and Tom Carroll's cut the top notches for Sally's favour so far."
"But what's that got to do with—"
"Come on," snapped November, and hurried forward.
I need say no more about the rest of the journey, it was like a dozen others I had made behind November. Deep in the night I could just make out that we were passing round the lower escarpments of a great wooded mountain, when we saw a light above glimmering through the trees. Soon we reached the lonely cabin in its clearing; the trees closed about it, and the night wind whined overhead through the bareness of the twigs.
Joe knocked at the door, calling at the same time: "It's me. Are you there, Sally?"
The door opened an inch or two. "Is it you, Joe?"
November thrust his right hand with its deep scar across the back through the aperture. "You should know that cut, Sal, you tended it."
"Come in! Come in!"
I followed Joe into the house, and turned to look at Sally. Already I had made a mental picture of her as a strapping young woman, well equipped to take her place in the race of life, but I saw a slim girl with gentle red-brown eyes that matched the red-brown of her rebellious hair, a small face, pale under its weather-tan, but showing a line of milk-white skin above her brows. She was in fact extremely pretty, with a kind of good looks I had not expected, and ten seconds later, I, too, had fallen under the spell of that charm which was all the more powerful because Sally herself was unconscious of it.
"You've been long in coming, Joe," she said with a sudden smile. 'You were away, of course?"
"Aye, just got back 'fore we started for here." . . . He looked round. "Where's young Dan?"
"I've just got him off to sleep on the bed there"; she pointed to a deerskin curtain in the corner.
"What? They been frightening him?"
Mrs. Rone looked oddly at November. "No, but if he heard us talking he might get scared, for the man who's been robbing me was in this room not six hours ago and Danny saw him."
November raised his eyebrows. "Huh! That's fierce!" he said. "Danny's rising three, ain't he? He could tell."
"Nothing at all. It was after dark and the man had his face muffled. Danny said he was a real good man, he gave him sugar from the cupboard!" said Sally.
"His hands . . . what like was his hands? . . . He gave the sugar."
"I thought of that, but Danny says he had mitts on."
November drew a chair to the table. "Tell us all from the first of it . . . robbing the traps and to-night."
In a few minutes we were drinking our tea while our hostess told us the story.
"It's more'n three weeks now since I found out the traps were being meddled with. It was done very cunning, but I have my own way of baiting them and the thief, though he's a clever woodsman and knows a heap, never dropped to that. Sometimes he'd set 'em and bait 'em like as if they were never touched at all, and other times he'd just make it appear as if the animal had got itself out. I would n't believe it at first, for I thought there was no one hereabouts would want to starve me and Danny, but it happened time after time."
"He must have left tracks," said Joe.
"Some, yes. But he mostly worked when snow was falling. He's cunning."
"Did any one ever see his tracks but you?"
"Sylvester did."
"How was that?" said Joe with sudden interest.
"I came on Sylvester one evening when I was trailing the robber."
"Perhaps Sylvester himself was the robber."
Mrs. Rone shook her head.
"It was n't him, Joe. He could n't 'a' known I was comin' on him, and his tracks was quite different."
"Well, but to-night? You say the thief come here to-night? What did he do that for?' said Joe, pushing the tobacco firmly into his pipebowl.
"He had a good reason," replied Sally with bitterness. "Last Thursday when I was on my way back from putting my letter under your door, I come home around by a line of traps which I have on the far side of the mountain. It was n't anything like my usual time to visit them, not but what I've varied my hours lately to try and catch the villain. I had gone about halfway to Low's Corner—when I heard something rustling through the scrub ahead of me, it might have been a lynx or it might have been a dog, but when I come to the trap I saw the thief had made off that minute, for he'd been trying to force open the trap, and when he heard me he wrenched hard, you bet, but he was bound to take care not to be too rough."
"Good fur, you mean?"
"Good?" Sally's face flushed a soft crimson. "Good? Why I've never seen one to match it. It was a black fox, lying dead there, but still warm, for it had but just been killed. The pelt was fair in its prime, long and silky and glossy. You can guess, November, what that meant for Danny and me next winter, that I've been worrying about a lot. The whooping-cough's weakened him down bad, and I thought of the things I could get for him while I was skinning out the pelt." Sally's voice shook, and her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Joe, it's hard—hard!"
November sat with his hands upon the table in front of him, and I saw his knuckles whiten as he gripped it.
"Let's hear the end of it!" he said shortly, man-like showing irritation when his heart was full of pity.
"The skin was worth eight hundred dollars anywhere, and I come home just singing. I fixed it at once, and, then being scared-like, I hid it in the cupboard over there behind those old magazines. I'd have locked it up, but I've nothing that locks. Who has on this section? Once or twice, being kind of proud of it, I looked at the skin, the last time was this morning before I went out. I was proud of it. No one but Ruby knew that I had got it. I left Ruby here, but Mrs. Scats had her seventh yesterday morning, and Ruby ran over to help for a while after she put Danny to bed. The thief must have been on the watch and seen her go, and he knew I was due to visit the north line o' traps and I'd be late anyway. He laid his plan good and clever. . ."
She stopped for a moment to pour out another cup for Joe.
"Where's Ruby now?" he inquired.
"She's stopping the night; they sent over to tell me," replied Sally. "Well, to go on, I had a lynx in one of my traps which got dragged right down by Deerhorn Pond, so I was more than special late. Danny began at once to tell me about the man that came in. I rushed across and looked in the cupboard; the black fox pelt was gone, of course!"
"What did Danny say about the man?"
"Said he had on a big hat and a neckerchief. He did n't speak a word; gave Danny sugar, as I have said. He must 'a' been here some time, for he's ransacked the place high and low, and took near every pelt I got this season."
Joe looked up. "Those pelts marked?"
"Yes, my mark's on some—seven pricks of a needle."
"You've looked around the house to see if he left anything?"
"Sure!" Sally put her hand in her pocket.
"What?"
"Only this." She opened her hand and disclosed a rifle cartridge.
Joe examined it. "Soft-nosed bullet for one of them fancy English guns. Where did you find it?"
"On the floor by the table."
"Huh!" said Joe, and, picking up the lamp, he began carefully and methodically to examine every inch of the room.
"Any one but me been using tobacco in here lately?" he asked.
"Not that I know of," replied Sally.
He made no comment, but continued his search. At last he put down the lamp and resumed his chair, shaking a shred or two of something from his fingers.
"Well?" questioned Mrs. Rone.
"A cool hand," said November. "When he'd got the skin, he stopped to fill his pipe. It was then he dropped the cartridge; it came out of his pocket with the pipe, I expect. All that I can tell you about him is that he smokes 'Gold Nugget'"—he pointed to the shreds—"and carries a small-bore make of English rifle. . . . Hello! where's the old bitch?"
"Old Rizpah? I dunno, less she's gone along to Scats's place. Ruby'd take her if she could, she's that scairt of the woods; but Rizpah's never left Danny before."
Joe drained his cup. "We've not found much inside the house," said he. "As soon as the sun's up, we'll try our luck outside. Till then I guess we'd best put in a doze."
Mrs. Rone made up a shake-down of skins near the stove, and disappeared behind the deer-skin curtain. Before sleep visited me I had time to pass in review the curious circumstances which the last few hours had disclosed. Here was a woman making a noble and plucky struggle to wring a living from Nature. In my fancy I saw her working and toiling early and late in the snow and gloom. And then over the horizon of her life appeared the dastardly thief who was always waiting, always watching to defeat her efforts.
When I woke next morning it was to see, with some astonishment, that a new personage had been drawn into our little drama of the woods. A dark-bearded man in the uniform of a game warden was sitting on the other side of the stove. He was a straightforward-looking chap getting on for middle age, but there was a certain doggedness in his aspect. Mrs. Rone, who was preparing breakfast, made haste to introduce him.
"This is Game Warden Evans, Mr. Quaritch," she said. "He was at Scats's last night. There he heard about me losing fur from the traps, and come right over to see if he could n't help me."
Having exchanged the usual salutations, Evans remarked good-humouredly:—
"November’s out trailing the robber. Him and me's been talking about the black fox pelt. Joe's wasting his time all right."
"How's that?" I asked, rather nettled, for wasting his time was about the last accusation I should ever have brought against my comrade.
"Because I can tell him who the thief is."
"You know!" I exclaimed.
Evans nodded. "I can find out any time."
"How?"
"Care to see?" He rose and went to the door.
I followed. It was a clear bright morning, and the snow that had fallen on the previous day was not yet melted. We stepped out into it, but had not left the threshold when Evans touched my shoulder.
"Guess Joe missed it," he said, pointing with his finger.
I turned in the direction indicated, and saw that upon one of the nails which had been driven into the door of the cabin, doubtless for the purpose of exposing skins to the warmth of the sun, some bright-coloured threads were hanging. Going nearer, I found them to be strands of pink and grey worsted, twisted together.
What d' you think of that?" asked Evans, with a heavy wink.
Before I could answer, Joe came into sight round a clump of bush on the edge of the clearing.
"Well," called the game warden, "any luck?
November walked up to us, and I waited for his answer with all the eagerness of a partisan. "Not just exactly," he said.
"What do you make of that?" asked Evans again, pointing at the fluttering worsted, with a glance of suppressed triumph at Joe.
"Huh!" said November. "What do you?"
"Pretty clear evidence that, ain't it? The robber caught his necker on those nails as he slipped out. We're getting closer. English rifle, 'Gold Nugget' in his pipe, and a pink and grey necker. Find a chap that owns all three. It can't be difficult. Wardens have eyes in their heads as well as you, November."
"Sure!" agreed Joe politely but with an abstracted look as he examined the door. "You say you found it here?"
"Yes."
"Huh!" said Joe again.
"Anything else on the trail?" asked Evans.
November looked at him. "He shot Rizpah."
"The old dog? I suppose she attacked him and he shot her."
"Yes, he shot her—first."
"First? What then?"
"He cut her nigh in pieces with his knife.”
Without more words Joe turned back into the woods and we went after him. Hidden in a low, marshy spot, about half a mile from the house, we came upon the body of the dog. It was evident she had been shot—more than that, the carcass was hacked about in a horrible manner.
"What do you say now, Mr. Evans?" inquired Joe.
"What do I say? I say this. When we find the thief we'll likely find the marks of Rizpah's teeth on him. That's what made him mad with rage, and—" Evans waved his hand.
We returned to breakfast at Mrs. Rone's cabin. While we were eating, Evans casually brought out a scrap of the worsted he had detached from the nail outside.
"Seen any one with a necker like that, Mrs. Rone?" he asked.
The young woman glanced at the bit of wool, then bent over Danny as she fed him. When she raised her head I noticed that she looked very white.
"There's more'n one of that colour hereabouts likely," she replied, with another glance of studied indifference.
"It's not a common pattern of wool," said Evans. "Well, you're all witnesses where I got it. I'm off."
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"It's my business to find the man with the pink necker."
Evans nodded and swung off through the door.
November looked at Sally.
"Who is he, Sally?"
Mrs. Rone's pretty forehead puckered into a frown. "Who?"
"Pink and grey necker," said Joe gently.
A rush of tears filled her red-brown eyes.
"Val Black has one like that. I made it for him myself long ago."
"And he has a rifle of some English make," added November.
Mrs. Rone started. "So he has, but I never remembered that till this minute!" She looked back into Joe's grey eyes with indignation. "And he smokes 'Nugget' all right, too. I know it. All the same, it is n't Val!" The last words were more than an appeal; they were a statement of faith.
"It's queer them bits of worsted on the doornails," observed Joe judicially.
Her colour flamed for a moment. "Why queer? He's been here to see m― us more'n once this time back; the nails might have caught his necker any day," she retorted.
"It's just possible, " agreed November in an unconvinced voice.
"It can't be Val!" repeated Mrs. Rone steadily.
We walked away, leaving her standing in the doorway looking after us. When we were out of sight and of earshot I turned to November.
"The evidence against Black is pretty strong. What's your notion?"
"Can't say yet. I think we'd best join Evans; he'll be trailing the thief."
We made straight through the woods towards the spot where the dog's body lay. As we walked I tried again to find out Joe's opinion.
"But the motive? Have n't Mrs. Rone and Black always been on good terms?" I persisted.
Joe allowed that was so, and added: "Val wanted to marry her years ago, afore Joe Rone came to these parts at all, but Rone was a mighty taking kind of chap, laughing and that, and she married him."
"But surely Black would n't rob her, especially now that he has his chance again."
"Think not?" said Joe. "I wonder!" After a pause he went on. "But it ain't hard to see what'll be Evans's views on that. He'll say Val's scared of her growing too independent, for she's made good so far with her traps, and so he just naturally took a hand to frighten her into marriage. His case ag'in' Val won't break down for want of motive."
"One question more, Joe. Do you really think Val Black is the guilty man?"
November Joe looked up with his quick, sudden smile. "It'll be a shock to Evans if he ain't," said he.
Very soon we struck the robber's trail, and saw from a second line of tracks that Evans was ahead of us following it.
"Here the thief goes," said Joe. "See, he's covered his moccasins with deerskin, and here we have Evans's tracks. He's hurrying, Evans is—he's feeling good and sure of the man he's after!"
Twice November pointed out faint signs that meant nothing to me.
"Here's where the robber stopped to light his pipe—see, there's the mark of the butt of his gun between those roots—the snow's thin there. Must 'a' had a match, that chap," he said after a minute, and standing with his back to the wind, he made a slight movement of his hand.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Saving myself trouble," he turned at right angles and began searching through the trees. "Here it is. Hung up in a snag. . . . Seadog match he used." Then, catching my eye, he went on: "Unless he was a fool, he'd light his match with his face to the wind, would n't he? And most right-handed men 'ud throw the match thereabouts where I hunted for it."
Well on in the afternoon the trail led out to the banks of a wide and shallow stream, into the waters of which they disappeared. Here we overtook Evans. He was standing by the ashes of a fire almost on the bank.
He looked up as we appeared. "That you, Joe? Chap's took to the water," said the game warden, "but he'll have to do more than that to shake me off."
"Chap made this too?" inquired November with a glance at the dead fire.
Evans nodded. "Walked steady till he came here. Dunno what he lit the fire for. Carried grub, I s'pose."
"No, to cook that partridge," said Joe. I glanced at Evans, his face darkened, clearly this did not please him.
"Oh, he shot a partridge?"
"No," said Joe; "he noosed it back in the spruces there. The track of the wire noose is plain, and there was some feathers. But look here, Evans, he did n't wear no pink necker."
Evans's annoyance passed off suddenly. "That's funny!" said he, "for he left more than a feather and the scrape of a wire." The game warden pulled out a pocketbook and showed us wedged between its pages another strand of the pink and grey wool. "I found it where he passed through those dead spruces. How's that?"
I looked at Joe. To my surprise he threw back his head, and gave one of his rare laughs.
"Well," cried Evans, "are you still sure that he did n't wear a pink necker?"
"Surer than ever," said Joe, and began to poke in the ashes.
Evans eyed him for a moment, transferred his glance to me, and winked. Before long he left us, his last words being that he would have his hands on "Pink Necker" by night. Joe sat in silence for some ten minutes after he had gone, then he rose and began to lead away southeast.
"Evans'll hear Val Black's the owner of the pink necker at Lavette Village. It's an otter's to a muskrat's pelt that then he'll head straight for Val's. We've got to be there afore him."
We were. This was the first time I had experience of Joe's activities on behalf of a woman, and, to begin with, I guessed that he himself had a tender feeling for Sally Rone. So he had, but it was not the kind of feeling I had surmised. It was not love, but just an instinct of downright chivalry, such as one sometimes finds deep-set in the natures of the men of the woods. Some day later I may tell you what November was like when he fell head over ears in love, but that time is not yet.
The afternoon was yet young when we arrived at Val Black's. At that period he was living in a deserted hut which had once been used by a bygone generation of lumbermen.
It so happened that Val Black was not at home, but Joe entered the hut and searched it thoroughly. I asked him what he was seeking.
"Those skins of Sally's."
"Then you do think Black . . ."
"I think nothing yet. And here's the man himself anyway."
He turned to the door as Val Black came swinging up the trail. He was of middle height, strongly built, with quick eyes and dark hair which, though cropped close, still betrayed its tendency to curl. He greeted November warmly; November was, I thought, even more slow-spoken than usual.
"Val," he said, after some talk, "have you still got that pinky necker Sally knitted for you?"
"Why d' you ask that?"
"Because I want to be put wise, Val."
"Yes, I've got her."
"Where?"
"Right here," and Black pulled the muffler out of his pocket.
"Huh!" said Joe.
There was a silence, rather a strained silence, between the two.
Then November continued. "Where was you last night?"
Val looked narrowly at Joe, Joe returned his stare.
"Got any reason fer asking?"
"Sure."
"Got any reason why I should tell you?"
"Yes to that."
"Say, November Joe, are you searching for trouble?" asked Black in an ominously quiet voice.
"Seems as if trouble was searching for me," replied November.
There was another silence, then Val jerked out, "I call your hand."
"I show it," said Joe. "You're suspected of robbing Sally's traps this month back. And you're suspected of entering Sally's house last evening and stealing pelts . . ."
Val fell back against the doorpost.
"Stealin' pelts. . . . Sally's?" he repeated. "Is that all I'm suspected of?"
"That's all."
"Then look out!" With a shout of rage he made at Joe.
November stood quite still under the grip of the other's furious hands.
"You act innocent; don't you, you old coyote!" he grinned ironically. "I never said I suspected you."
Black drew off, looking a little foolish, but he flared up again.
Page:November Joe.pdf/132 "Who is it suspects me?"
"Just Evans. And he's got good evidence. Where was you between six and seven last night?"
"In the woods. I come back and slep' here."
"Was you alone?"
"Yes."
"Then you can't prove no alibi." Joe paused.
It was at this moment that Evans, accompanied by two other forest rangers, appeared upon the scene. He had not followed the track, but had come through a patch of standing wood to the north of the hut. Quick as lightning he covered Black with his shotgun.
"Up with your hands," he cried, "or I'll put this load of bird-shot into your face."
Black scowled, but his hands went up. The man was so mad with rage that, I think, had Evans carried a rifle he would not have submitted, but the thought of the blinding charge in Evans's gun cowed him. He stood panting. At a sign, one of the rangers sidled up, and the click of handcuffs followed.
"What am I charged with?" cried Black.
"Robbery."
"You'll pay me for this, Simon Evans!"
"It won't be for a while—not till they let you out again," retorted the warden easily. "Take him off up the trail, Bill."
The rangers walked away with their prisoner, and Evans turned to Joe.
"Guess I have the laugh of you, November," he said.
"Looks that way. Where you takin' him?"
"To Lavette. I've sent word to Mrs. Rone to come there to-morrow. And now," continued Evans, "I'm going to search Black's shack."
"What for?"
"The stolen pelts."
"Got a warrant?"
"I'm a warden—don't need one."
"You'll not search without it," said November, moving in front of the door.
"Who'll stop me?" Evans's chin shot out doggedly.
"I might," said Joe in his most gentle manner.
Evans glared at him. "You?"
"I'm in the right, for it's ag'in' the law, and you know it, Mr. Evans."
Evans hesitated. "What's your game?" he asked.
Joe made a slight gesture of disclaimer.
Evans turned on his heel.
"Have it your way, but I'll be back with my warrant before sun up to-morrow, and I’m warden, and maybe you'll find it's better to have me for a friend than—"
"Huh! Say, Mr. Quaritch, have you a fill of that light baccy o' yours? I want soothin'."
As soon as Evans was out of sight, Joe beckoned me to a thick piece of scrub not far from the hut.
"Stay right here till I come back. Everything depends on that," he whispered.
I lay down at my ease in a sheltered spot, and then Joe also took the road for Lavette.
During the hours through which I waited for his return I must acknowledge I was at my wits' end to understand the situation. Everything appeared to be against Black, the cartridge which fitted his rifle, the strands of the telltale neckerchief, the man's own furious behaviour, his manifest passion for Mrs. Rone, and the suggested motive for the thefts—all these things pointed, conclusively it seemed to me, in one direction. And yet I knew that almost from the beginning of the inquiry November had decided that Black was innocent. Frankly, I could make neither head nor tail of it.
The evening turned raw, and the thin snow was softening, and though I was weary of my watch I was still dreaming when I started under a hand that touched my shoulder.
Joe was crouching at my side. He warned me to caution, but I could not refrain from a question as to where he had been.
"Down to the store at Lavette," he whispered. "I was talking about that search-warrant—pretty high-handed I said it was, and the boys agreed to that."
Then commenced a second vigil. The sun went down behind the tree roots, and was succeeded by the little cold wind that often blows at that hour. Yet we lay in our ambush as the dusk closed quickly about us, nor did we move until a slight young moon was sending level rays between clouds that were piling swiftly in the sky.
After a while Joe touched me to wakefulness, and I saw something moving on the trail below us. A second or two of moonlight gave me a glimpse of the approaching figure of a man, a humped figure that moved swiftly. If ever I saw craft and caution inform an advance, I saw it then.
The clouds swept over, and when next the glint of light came, the dark figure stood before the hut. A whistle, no answer, and its hand went to the latch. I heard Joe sigh as he covered the man with his rifle. Then came his voice in its quiet tones.
"Guess the game's off, Sylvester. Don't turn! Hands up!"
The man stood still as we came behind him. At a word he faced round. I saw the high cheekbones and gleaming eyes of an Indian, his savage face was contracted with animosity.
"Now, Mr. Quaritch," said November suggestively.
I flatter myself I made a neat job of tying up our prisoner.
"Thank you. What's in that bundle on his back?"
I opened it. Several skins dropped out. Joe examined them. "All got Sally's mark on," he said. "Say, Mr. Quaritch, let me introduce you to a pretty mean thief."
| • | • | • | • | • | • | • | • |
I noticed that Joe took our prisoner along at a good pace towards Lavette. After a mile or two, however, he asked me to go ahead, and if I met with Mrs. Rone to make her wait his arrival, but he added, in an aside, "Tell her nothing about Sylvester."
I reached the village soon after dawn, but already the people were gathered at the store, where every one was discussing the case. Evans sat complacently listening to the opinions of the neighbours. It was clear to me that the public verdict was dead against Black. Some critics gave the rein to venomous comments which made me realize that, good fellow as Val was, his hot temper had had its effect on his popularity.
As I heard nothing of Mrs. Rone, I set out towards her house. When I met her I noticed that her gentle face wore a changed expression. I delivered my message.
"I'll never speak to November again as long as I live!" she said with deep vindictiveness.
I feebly attempted remonstrance. She cut me short.
"That's enough. November's played double with me. I'll show him!"
I walked beside her in silence and, just before we came in sight of the houses, we met with Joe alone. He had evidently left Sylvester in safe custody. Joe glanced from Sally to me. I read understanding in his eyes.
"We've got him trapped safe, Sally. Not a hole for him to slip out by."
Sally's rage broke from her control. "You're just too cute, November Joe," she blazed, "with your tracking and finding out things, and putting Val in jail! What do you say to it that I've been fooling you all the time? I never lost no pelts! I only said it to get the laugh against ye. Ye was beginning to believe ye could hear the muskrats sneezing!"
"Is that so?" inquired Joe gently.
"Yes, and I'm going into Lavette this minute to tell them!"
Joe stepped in front of her. "Just as you like, Sally. But how'll ye explain these?" He flung open the bundle of skins he carried.
Mrs. Rone turned colour. "Where did ye find them?" she gasped.
"On his back!"
She hesitated a moment, then, "I gave Val that lot," she said carelessly.
"That's queer, now," said Joe, "'cos it was on Injin Sylvester I found them."
Sally stared at Joe, then laughed suddenly, excitedly.
"Oh, Joe! you're sure the cutest man ever made in this world!" And with that she flung her arms round his neck and kissed him.
"I'd best pass that on to Val Black!" said Joe calmly.
And Sally's blushes were prettier than you could believe.
There is no need for me to tell how Black was liberated from the hands of the crestfallen Evans, who was as nonplussed as I myself had been at the breakdown of the case, which up to the last moment had on the face of it seemed indestructible.
I have never looked forward to any explanation, more than that which November gave to Mrs. Rone, Black, and myself the same evening.
"It was the carcass of Rizpah give me the first start," said Joe. "As soon as I saw that I knew it were n't Val."
"Why?" asked Sally.
"You remember it was hacked up? Now here was the case up to that. A thief had robbed Sally and all the sign he left behind was a few threads of his necker and an English-made cartridge. The thief goes out and old Rizpah attacks him. He shoots her. Then he cuts her body nigh to pieces. Why?" We all shook our heads.
"Because he wants to get his bullet out of her. And why does he want to get his bullet? Only one possible reason. Because it's different to the bullet he dropped on purpose in the house."
"By Jove!" I cried.
"From that it all fits in. It seems funny that the thief should drop a cartridge, funnier still that he should n't notice he'd left a bit of his necker stuck to the nails on the door. Still, I'd allow them two things might happen. But when it came to his having more bits of his necker torn off by the spruces where Evans found them, it looked like as if the thief was a mighty poor woodsman. Which he was n't. He hid his tracks good and cunning. After that I guessed I was on the right scent, but I was n't plumb sure till I come up to the place where he killed the partridge. While he was snaring it he rested his rifle ag'in' a tree. I saw the mark of the butt on the ground, and the scratch from the foresight upon the bark. Then I knew he did n't carry no English rifle."
"How did you know?" asked Sally.
"I could measure its length ag'in' the tree. It was nigh a foot shorter than an English rifle."
Val's fist came down on the table. "Bully for you, Joe!"
"Well, now, there was one more thing. Besides that black fox Sally here missed other marked pelts. They was n't much value. Why did the thief take them? Again, only one reason. He wanted 'em for making more false evidence ag'in' Val."
He paused. "Go on, Joe," cried Mrs. Rone impatiently.
"When Mr. Quaritch and I came to Val's shack we searched it. Nothing there. Why? 'Cos Val had been home all night and Sylvester could n't get in without wakin' him."
"But," said I, "was n't there a good case against Black without that?"
"Yes, there was a case, but his conviction was n't an absolute cinch. On the other hand, if the stolen skins was found hid in his shack . . . That's why you had to lie in that brush so long, Mr. Quaritch, while I went in to Lavette and spread it around that the shack had n't been searched by Evans. Sylvester was at the store and he fell into the trap right enough. We waited for him and we got him."
"O' course," continued Joe, "revenge on Val were n't Sylvester's only game. He meant robbin' Sally, too, and had his plan laid. He must 'a' first gone to Val's and stole a cartridge and the bits of necker before he robbed Sally's house. Last night he started out to leave a few cheap pelts at Val's, but he had the black fox skin separate in his pack with a bit o' tea and flour and tobacco, so if we had n't took him, he'd have lit out into Maine an' sold the black fox pelt there."
"But, Joe," said Sally, "when I came on Sylvester that evening I told you of when I was trailing the robber, how was it that his tracks and the robber's was quite different?"
"Had Sylvester a pack on his back?"
"Yes. Now I think of it, he had."
"Then I dare bet that if you'd been able to look in that pack you'd 'a' found a second pair o' moccasins in it. Sylvester'd just took them off, I expect. It was snowing, were n't it?"
"Yes."
"And he held you in talk?"
"He did."
"Till the snow covered his tracks?"
"It's wonderful clear, Joe," said Mrs. Rone.
"But why should Sylvester have such a down on Val?"
Joe laughed. "Ask Val!"
"Ten years ago," said Val, "when we was both rising twenty year, I gave Sylvester a thrashing he'd likely remember. He had a dog what were n't no use and he decided to shoot it. So he did, but he did n't kill it. He shot it far back and left it in the woods . . . and I come along . . ."
"The brute!" exclaimed Sally.
"He's a dangerous Injin," said November, "and he's of a breed that never forgets."
"When he gets out of prison, you'll have to keep awake, Joe," said Val.
"When he gets out, I'll have the snow in my hair all right, and you and Sally'll be old married folks," retorted Joe. "You'll sure be tired of each other by then."
Sally looked at Val and Joe caught the look.
"Leastways," he added, "you'll pretend you are better 'n you do now."
We all laughed.