Читать книгу Rayton: A Backwoods Mystery - Theodore Goodridge Roberts - Страница 11

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Old Captain Wigmore returned to his lonely but well-furnished and well-painted house, ate a reflective breakfast, smoked a cigar, and then set out to find Jim Harley. Wigmore lived with a servant or companion—a very old, grizzled, silent fellow, who did not seem to be "all there." It was from this old chap, Timothy Fletcher by name, that the people of the settlement had learned to give Wigmore the title of captain. As to what kind of a captain he had been, opinions differed.

Wigmore found Harley in the farm-yard helping a teamster get away with a wagonload of pork, flour, and oats for his lumber camp on Harley Brook, five miles away. As soon as man and load were gone, the captain addressed the lumber operator.

"James," said he, slowly and with dignity, "I feel that you owe me an explanation of your strange behavior of last night."

Harley sighed. "I can't explain it to you, captain," he said. "It has to do with—with a purely family matter; but I beg your pardon for anything amiss that I may have said to you in my excitement."

"Granted, James! Granted!" returned Wigmore, with a fine gesture of the left hand. "But I am sorry, of course, that you—but it does not matter; I am old, more or less of a stranger, and of no importance. You explained your agitation to young Marsh, I understand?"

"Yes, I felt that I owed it to him."

"Very good, James. Of course I am anxious, and fairly itching with curiosity—but my curiosity does not matter in the least. It struck me as a most remarkable thing, though."

"I was foolish," said the other; "but should it happen that—that it turns out to be serious—to really mean anything—may I confide in you, captain? May I ask your advice?"

"Please do so, my dear boy," replied Wigmore cordially. "I shall be only too happy to do anything for you—or for any member of your family. But now I'll not keep you from your work any longer, James. If I may, I'll just step over to the house and pay my respects to the ladies. I have a new book in my pocket that they may be interested in."

"They'll be glad to see you, captain," said Jim sincerely. "They always are."

So the captain went to the house and Mrs. Harley and Nell were glad to see him, in spite of the fact that it was rather a busy time of day for them to receive a caller. But the captain could be very entertaining when he took the trouble to try—and he always took the required amount of trouble when he met the Harley women. Now he produced the new book from his pocket, and laid it on the table. It was a volume of literary essays; and Nell took it up eagerly. The captain talked a little of books, lightly and gracefully, and a little of travel and big cities. He had a pretty wit. Except for the gray in his beard and mustache and neatly brushed, thick hair, he did not look to be more than middle-aged while he talked. Though he always walked with a slight limp, now he stood very straight. His bright, dark eyes turned to Nell when she looked away from him. He remained for about twenty minutes, and then went away, leaving a very pleasant impression in the minds of both young women.

"What a catch he would be if he wasn't so old!" said Jim's wife, laughing.

Nell shook her head seriously. "He is very entertaining," she replied, "and has read a great deal and seen a great deal; but there is something about his eyes that—well, that is not attractive."

"Most eccentric people have eyes like that," returned Mrs. Harley—who, by the way, was not a native of the settlement—"and I do not think them unattractive. Now there is poor Dick Goodine. His eyes are like that, too—so bright and quick."

"But Dick's are honest—and Captain Wigmore's look sly."

"Oh! You like Dick's eyes, Nell? Well, I think you might find eyes to admire belonging to some one more worth while than Dick Goodine."

"Don't be silly, Kate, please!" cried Nell. "I am no more interested in the eyes of the young men of this place than you are."

"What about David Marsh?"

"Poor David. He is not amusing; and, though he looks so simple, I must say that I cannot understand him."

Jim Harley went to see Rayton, and found him bringing his horses in from the fields just at the fall of the dusk. The Englishman had been doing a last bit of fall plowing before the frost gripped the land in earnest. He was muddy, but cheerful; and as hospitable as ever. Harley stayed to supper—a very good supper of his host's own cooking. Then they lit their pipes and went into the sitting room, where a fine fire was crackling in the open stove. Harley told Rayton the same story that he had told, the night before, to young Marsh.

"Good heavens! That is very tragic!" exclaimed the Englishman. "But I must say that I think last night's incident was nothing but chance. The card had become marked in some way, quite by accident—and there you are."

They talked for an hour or two, and Rayton would not give way an inch in his argument, that the affair of the previous night had been nothing but blind chance. He was much more impressed by the other's story of the past, and felt a new interest in Jim Harley.

"I wish I could look at it as you do," said Jim, as he was leaving for home. "But it seems to be more than chance to me—it looks like that same damnable hate that killed my father."

"But why should it descend upon young Marsh? Surely he is not—that is, Miss Harley does not——"

"I don't know," replied Jim. "I don't think so—but I don't know. The thing worries me, anyhow—worries me like the devil! I'll keep my eyes open, you may bet on that; and I'd consider it mighty friendly of you to do the same."

"I'll do it, then, Jim, though I must say I'm not much of a hand at solving mysteries or catching sinners. But I'll keep my peepers open, you may gamble on that."

Reginald Baynes Rayton returned to his warm chair by the fire, and fixed his mind, with an effort, on the solving of the mystery. He liked Jim Harley, so he'd get to the bottom of that card trick if it burst his brain. Suddenly he slapped his hand on his knee.

"I have it!" he cried. "By George, I have it! It's that blithering bounder, Nash. He's always up to some rotten joke or other; and he's heard that story about the mother and grandmother somewhere, and so marked that card to take a rise out of Jim. He hasn't enough sense to know if a thing is sacred or not. He's one of those dashed fools who enjoy jumping in where angels fear to tread. That's it. By George, it didn't take me long to work out that puzzle! But I'll just keep it to myself for a while—to make sure, you know."

So he put the incident of the previous night out of his mind, and thought of Harley's story, and of Harley's sister, instead. He knew Nell, of course, but had not talked with her more than half a dozen times. He admired her greatly; and now, since hearing this story of her parents and her grandmother, he felt an extraordinary stirring of tenderness toward her. He sighed, lit another pipe, and went up to bed. He wanted to be up in the morning at even an earlier hour than usual, for he had planned a long day in the woods. He had arranged with a lad on the next farm to tend the stock for him during the day.

Rayton gave the animals their morning feed and breakfasted himself by lantern light. Then, with the pockets of his shooting coat stored with sandwiches and a flask of whisky and water, and with his grown spaniel, Turk, wriggling about his feet, he set out for the big timber that crowded right up to his back pastures from the hundreds of square miles of wilderness beyond. A heavy frost had gripped the earth during the night. The buckwheat stubble was crisp with it.

Dawn was spreading over the southeastern sky as he came to the edge of the forest. He halted there, called Turk to heel, and filled and started his pipe. His equipment was remarkable, and it would bother some people to say what game he intended to go after with a dog and a rifle. But Rayton knew what he was about. He wanted to bag a few brace of ruffled grouse; but he did not want to miss any good chance that might offer at moose, caribou, or deer. And he could not carry both shot-gun and rifle. The dog was well trained and could be depended upon not to trail, rush, or startle any big game. So it was Rayton's method to let Turk flush the birds from the ground into the trees, from which he would then shoot them with the rifle. He always fired at the head. Of course, he missed the mark frequently, in which case the bird flew away uninjured, as it is almost impossible to catch sight of a flying bird in the high and thick covers of that country, this was a good and sportsmanlike plan; and then he always had his rifle with him in case he came across something bigger than grouse.

Rayton carried a compass, and was not above consulting it now and again. Men have been lost in less formidable wildernesses than that—and have never been found. By noon he had five grouse attached to his belt—each minus its head—and had failed to get a clean shot at a bull moose. He had crossed two small streams, and was now close to the Teakettle. He sat down on a fallen hemlock, and brought a bone for Turk, and half the sandwiches from his pocket. Suddenly the spaniel jumped to his feet with a low, inquiring yap. Rayton turned and beheld Dick Goodine.