Rayton: A Backwoods Mystery Part 10

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 a.s.sistance, shot a few brace of woodc.o.c.ks 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k 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!"