Rayton: A Backwoods Mystery Part 14

"I want to go up and take a look 'round," he said, "but I can't find Timothy anywhere. It may be a bear--and I am an old man. Will you come along with me, Benjamin?"

"Sure. If you can lend me a gun," replied Mr. Samson.

They found a shot-gun, slipped two cartridges loaded with buckshot into the breech, bade Mrs. Beesley sit quiet and be of good heart, and set out to investigate the little hillside clearing. It was now dusk. The sun had slipped from sight, and the shadows were deep in the woods. The captain carried a lighted lantern, and Benjamin the ready fowling piece.

They soon reached the poplar tree and the blanket-swathed figure bound against it. By lantern light it looked more grotesque and monstrous than by day, and Mr. Samson came within an ace of taking a snap shot at it, and then beating a hasty retreat. The captain was too quick for him, however, noticed the twitch of the miller's arm, and gripped him by the wrist.

"It's tied fast, whatever it is," he said.

"Don't you see the ropes? Come on, Benjamin, and keep a grip on your nerve. Here, let me take the gun!"

"I ain't scart," replied Samson thickly. "It gave me a start for a second, that's all."

They approached the shapeless figure cautiously.

"Who are you?" cried Wigmore.

The thing twisted and squirmed, and a m.u.f.fled, choking, b.e.s.t.i.a.l sound came from it.

"I'll bet a dollar it's a man," said Benjamin. "Now what kind o' trick is this, I'd like to know? Maybe there's bin murder done. There's bin too many queer tricks 'round here lately to suit me."

"It is tied up in a blanket," said the captain. "Feel it, Benjamin, and find out what it is."

"Not me," returned Samson. "I guess it's only a man, but I ain't particular about feelin' of it. You go ahead, cap'n. I'll hold the light for you."

Old Wigmore stepped closer to the blanketed form and touched it gingerly with his left hand. It squirmed beneath his fingers, and again gave utterance to that amazing sound.

"Yes, it's a human being," said the captain. And then, "Bless my soul, look at his feet! It's poor Timothy Fletcher, by Heaven! Quick, Benjamin, lend a hand here! Cut that rope, man!"

In less than half a minute old Timothy was free. Lacking the support of the rope that had circled his chest and the tree, he tipped forward and slid heavily to the ground. The captain knelt beside him.

"Run to the house and get some brandy," he ordered. "You'll find some in my bedroom, behind the wardrobe. Make haste, Benjamin!"

"Well," replied Benjamin Samson, "I reckon I don't have to, cap'n. Queer thing, cap'n, but I happen to have a drop o' rye whisky in my pocket.

Ain't carried sech a thing for years and years--but I've had a spell o'

toothache lately and t' only thing does it any good's rye whisky. I hold some in my mouth now and again--and always spit it out, of course. Here you are, cap'n, and welcome."

Wigmore twisted out the cork and held the bottle to Timothy's lips.

Timothy's eyes were shut, but his lips were open. His throat seemed to be in working order.

"He takes it like a baby takes its milk," said Benjamin. "I guess he ain't bin murdered, after all. There! I reckon he's had about all that's good for him. Wake up, Mr. Fletcher, and tell us all about it."

"Tell me who did this, my good Timothy, and I'll make it hot for him,"

said Wigmore. "When did it happen, my worthy friend?"

"This here country's gettin' that lawless it ain't fit fer honest men like us to live in no longer," said Mr. Samson.

Timothy growled and sat up. He glared at Benjamin, then turned his gaze upon his master.

"Ah! You feel better!" exclaimed the captain. "I am glad of it, my trusty friend. Tell me, now, when and how did this outrageous thing happen?"

"I'll trouble ye for another drop of that tonic, Mr. Samson," said Timothy.

"I reckon not," returned the miller. "Doctor Nash says as how too much is a long sight worse nor too little."

"Then where's my book?" demanded Timothy. "And my cigarettes?"

"You have not answered my questions, my dear fellow," said the captain.

"Chuck it!" returned the old servant. "I ain't in the mood for answerin'

fool questions."

"I fear his nerves are badly shaken," whispered the captain to the miller. "We must get him home and put him to bed."

"But you ain't intendin' to leave the ropes and blanket behind, surely!" exclaimed Benjamin. He stooped, picked up the blanket, and held it to the light of the lantern. "Hah!" he cried. "It's my blanket! It's my new hoss blanket, by gosh! I missed it fust, last Sunday. And the rope's mine, too--my new hay rope, all cut to bits. I'll have the law on whoever done this, sure's my name's Benjamin Samson."

"_Your_ blanket?" queried Captain Wigmore. "_Your_ blanket and rope? But no, Benjamin. I don't suspect you, my friend, for I know you to be an honest man. But others--people who don't know you as I do--might think you were the person who tied Timothy to the tree."

"Chuck it!" growled Mr. Fletcher, picking up the lantern and limping away.

Thanks to Mrs. Beesley and Benjamin Samson, the story of the mysterious attack upon old Timothy Fletcher soon spread to the farthest outskirts of the settlement. Some inspired person connected this with the burning of David Marsh's camp, and it became a general belief that some desperate character was at work in the country. Samson suggested an escaped convict, but where escaped from he could not say. Timothy looked more unpleasant than ever, and kept his jaws together like the jaws of a spring fox trap. He did not seem to enjoy his position in the limelight. Mrs. Beesley found herself a heroine for a little while, but this did not make amends for the speedy ruination of her dreams concerning Captain Wigmore.

She had expected a warm continuation and a quick and romantic development of the friendly--aye, more than friendly--relations commenced by that adventure. But, alas, it had all ended as suddenly as it had commenced. The poor woman sometimes wondered if she had made a mistake in sitting for so long in the captain's flower bed.

"Men are queer critters," she said. "The late Mr. Beesley was touchy as a cat about them little things, and maybe the captain's the same. But he was that friendly and perlite, I really did think his intentions was serious."

Mr. Banks was keenly interested in Timothy's adventure. He talked to Captain Wigmore about it for fully an hour.

Two days after the mysterious, and apparently meaningless attack upon Wigmore's servant, the first snow of the coming winter descended upon the wilderness. Jim Harley had two full crews of lumbermen in the woods by now, but was himself spending half his time in the settlement. David Marsh's arm was still in splints, and d.i.c.k Goodine had not yet gone out to his bleak hunting grounds, beyond the fringes of the made roads and buckwheat-stubble belt.

d.i.c.k spent much of his time with Mr. Banks and Reginald Rayton. As for Mr. Harvey P. Banks, he seemed to have forgotten both his business and his distant home. He had still one hundred of those long cigars, and a tin box of fat cigarettes--and he knew he was welcome to his bed and board. He felt a warm friendship for his host and the Harleys, and a deep interest in all the other people of the place. Captain Wigmore and his old servant excited his curiosity like the first--or last--volume of an old-style novel. They suggested a galloping story; but Benjamin Samson, David Marsh, and the others suggested nothing more exciting than character studies. Doctor Nash did not interest the New Yorker at all, but of course the doctor could not realize this fact, and persisted in considering himself to be Mr. Banks' only congenial companion in the neighborhood.

On the day of the first snow d.i.c.k Goodine walked over to Rayton's farm to borrow a drawknife. He was making an extra pair of snowshoes, and overhauling his outfit for the winter's trapping. Banks and Turk were afield, looking for hares and grouse; but d.i.c.k found the Englishman in his red barn, threshing buckwheat. Rayton threw his flail aside and the two shook hands.

"Have you sech a thing as a drawknife, Mr. Rayton?"

"Two of them, d.i.c.k. I use them mostly to cut my fingers with."

"Can I have the loan of one for a few days?"

"I'll give you one, d.i.c.k. You'll be doing me a kindness to take it and keep it, old chap, for I am a regular duffer with edged tools."

He found the knife and spent ten minutes in forcing it upon the trapper as a gift. At last d.i.c.k accepted it.

"But I tell you right now, Mr. Rayton," he said, "I'll git mad if you try givin' me a horse, or a cow, or your farm. You've already give me something of pretty near everything you own. It ain't right."

Rayton laughed. Then his face became suddenly very grave.