Читать книгу Tom Slade: Forest Ranger - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 7

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The young schoolmaster of Watson’s Bend climbed into the car and sat beside Tom. “I don’t meet many people from the great world,” he said. He seemed to offer this as an excuse for causing Tom to linger. “It’s like a circus come to town.”

“Oh, I’m in no hurry,” Tom said. “Half the time I can’t get the blamed old thing started anyway,” he added, in his happy-go-lucky way. “Go ahead, shoot. We often tell ghost stories around the camp-fire. I’m connected with the Scouts.”

“Oh, I thought maybe you were in the service,” Dennison said. It seemed to Tom that he was just a trifle reassured by this intelligence.

“Scouts, eh,” Dennison said. “We boast of one of those youngsters here; sort of near scout, I guess he is. It was his father who used to be up at the lookout station; Vollmer, his name was. That was before my time. You know there are always feuds in a little place like this. Folks think all is peace and quiet in these simple, little rustic hamlets, but believe me it’s just in little places like this that quarrels become feuds. I suppose that’s because there isn’t any social life to feed on. So they feed on quarrels. Why, the war isn’t over here yet.”

Tom glanced sideways at this friendly and intelligent young man who seemed to understand the ignorant village life so thoroughly and was yet so respectful of the absurd local superstition.

“They feed on ghosts, too,” Tom said.

“The war has awakened many people to truths they never dreamed about,” Dennison said, lighting a cigarette. “Who are you and I to say that there is nothing in spirit manifestation? You’re not interested, that’s all.”

“I’m more interested in where you throw that lighted match,” Tom said. He jumped out of the car and trampled down a tiny area of dry grass which had become ignited.

“My fault,” said Dennison.

“As long as there’s no one up at the station we might as well be careful,” Tom laughed, as he climbed in again. “How about Vollberg or whatever his name was? Was he scared away?”

The young schoolmaster slid down on the seat and stuck his feet up on the frame of the broken windshield. He smoked and seemed friendly and at home. Tom did not wonder that an educated young man, marooned in such a place, should encourage a passer-by to pause and chat.

“Don’t mind my making myself at home?”

“Go to it,” Tom said. “As long as we’re going to know each other better we might as well start in now.”

“Oh, you won’t be back here,” Dennison laughed. “I guess you’re sort of adventurous, hey? Well, I’ll tell you about Vollmer. Did you notice a big white house around the Bend—opposite the store? Only decent house in the place. Well, old man Peck used to live there; Wolfson Peck, his name was. Place is closed up now, but I heard he’s coming back to fix it up or sell it or something. Well, there’s an old story about how—don’t you smoke?”

“Not now,” Tom said.

“Most troubles in little villages start on account of land disputes, do you know that? Somebody or other puts a fence a sixteenth of an inch beyond where he ought to put it, or something like that. Well, when old Peck built his place he put his fence so as to just bring Vollmer’s well on the Peck side of the fence. That’s what started it. I don’t know who was wrong or who was right. Only all of a sudden Vollmer couldn’t get any more water. Maybe he was wrong and maybe he was right, but anyway he went thirsty. Peck had a lot of money and he beat him in court. Then Vollmer carried it higher and I guess it must have looked as if he was going to win out. And then this country got into the war and Vollmer made a break——”

“He had charge of the lookout station, you say?” Tom interrupted.

“Oh, yes, he was up there. He said that in Germany a rich man couldn’t beat a poor man like that. That was old Peck’s cue. He came out and said that Vollmer had a wireless on the mountain and all sorts of stuff—no truth in it at all as far as I can make out. But that little break about the poor man’s chances in Germany queered him. Peck got him interned for disloyal utterances and poor Vollmer died in jail. War’s rotten anyway you look at it, isn’t it?”

“It’s no pink tea,” Tom said.

“I’ll say it isn’t. Well, after poor Vollmer died you can imagine how his folks felt. This kid, Henny, he swore he’d kill Peck if he ever came back to the Bend. You know how kids talk. But this little devil kept it up. He didn’t forget. Why, even after I came here I kept that little rascal in school one day for insolence. I told him to make a sentence and write it a hundred times—punishment. What do you think the little rascal wrote? I’ll kill Wolfson Peck. He wrote it one hundred times.

“Of course all these front-porch patriots here were against the Vollmers and they’re sore at the kid yet; he’s sixteen now. They cherish their grudges here and pass ’em down from father to son.”

“Is that the kid that’s a sort of a near scout as you say?” Tom asked.

“Yes, he got hold of some sort of a manual book, but I guess it isn’t doing him much good; keeping him from his lessons, that’s about all,” Dennison laughed. “He says he’s got to be loyal to his dead father; he says there’s a law about that. Which means he’ll kill old Peck if he ever sees him, I guess. I suppose that’s what you’d call the German mind, hey?”

Tom smiled, but he was thoughtful. “How about the ghost?” he finally encouraged.

“Well,” said Dennison, “they went up to the station one night after Vollmer had died to see if they could find any signs of a wireless. Of course the Secret Service men had visited the place and found nothing. But these woodland patriots had to go up and snook around just the same. They got a good scare for their pains.

“Vollmer’s face (he had a round face and blond hair all matted) appeared up in that little house and stared at them. They couldn’t get out of the place quick enough and they were crowding down the spiral stairs when they heard a dog baying at the foot of the tower. They had to do one thing or the other, so they went on down and there wasn’t any dog there. But still the baying kept up right close to them. There was the baying, but there wasn’t any dog. They recognized it for the baying of Vollmer’s dog.

“Nobody ever went up there again till Chevy Ward got the job. He laughed just as you’ve been laughing and went up there to take charge. They found him dead one day at the foot of the tower and there wasn’t any trace of another human presence to be found there. Stuck in his pocket was a piece of paper with a few words of writing on it. The paper had been wet and they could hardly make the words out. But the matter ran something like this: I jumped on account of his face—it’s horrible—the dog is yelping, but I can’t see him—he came close——

“Well, it ended like that,” Dennison said. “I don’t remember if those were just the exact words, but that was about the way we made it out. I was one of the party that went up to see what was the matter with Ward; he hadn’t been down for several days. We found him lying there with both his legs broken. He must have lived and been conscious for a while at that, or else he couldn’t have written the note. You listen down here any windy night and you’ll hear Vollmer’s dog baying up there. Nobody’s ever been up to the place since we brought Chevy down and as for me, well, you can laugh, but I’ve had enough of it.”

Tom sat whistling in an undertone.

“You couldn’t get anybody around these parts to go up there,” Dennison said.

“Well, I’m going up there,” said Tom; “that is, I am if I can get the job.” And by way of demonstrating his resolution he started at once, as it were, by pushing the starter button on his little Ford.

But the Ford did not start. Tom’s act was a hint to young Mr. Dennison to vacate the seat where he had been lolling and he stood beside the car waiting for it to depart. But Lizzie would not back out into the road.

“I’ll give her a shove,” said Dennison, pushing against the radiator. “Out she goes,” he added.

“Do you know who’s warded around these parts?” Tom asked, pausing while the engine rattled uproariously.

“Barrett, I think his name is,” Dennison said, “Harley Barrett; he’s in Chesterville. But I guess you’ll think better of it,” he laughed.

“Chesterville?” Tom queried.

“Yes; here, I’ll write it down for you.”

“Got a slip of paper?” Tom asked. “Here’s a card.”

“No, here’s a piece,” Dennison said, tearing a page from a notebook.

When Tom drove away he carried in his pocket the slip of paper on which was written the name of Harley Barrett, Forest Warden, Chesterville.

And it was through the influence of this man (to whom he wrote) that he was given the anything but desirable and far from lucrative position of fire lookout at the lonely station with all its dismal traditions, which stood in the dense wilderness on Tempest Peak.