TUG'S RETURN.
A month had passed since Allan Dorris was found floating over the mounds in Hedgepath graveyard, and the waters having gone down in the bottoms, the people were busy in rescuing their homes from the ooze and black mud beneath which they were buried. There had been so much destruction in the bottoms, and so much loss of trade in the town, that the people were all mourners like Annie Dorris and Silas Davy, and it did not seem probable that any of them would ever be cheerful again.
Silas Davy was the only person in the town, save Annie Dorris, who knew the secret of the murder, and he kept it to himself, believing that Tug was on the trail of the culprit, and that nothing could be gained by making the people aware of the mysterious man and his mysterious visits. He was sure that Tug would return finally, when, if he saw fit, he might tell the people what he knew; otherwise they might continue their conjectures, which generally implicated Tug. From the day of the murder he had not been seen in the town, and while it was not openly charged that he had fired the fatal shot, a great many talked mysteriously of his disappearance, and believed that he had something to do with it, for about this time it became known that he had frequently been seen around The Locks in the middle of the night, carrying a gun.
Silas had gone down to the old house by the river, to see if the bed gave any signs of having been occupied, as there was a possibility that Tug had returned, and was ashamed to make his presence known, not having accomplished his purpose. But there was no sign. The dust upon everything was proof enough that the owner was still away, and Silas was preparing to blow out the light, and return to the hotel, when his friend came walking in at the door; ragged, dirty, and footsore, and a picture of poverty and woe, but there could be no doubt that it was Tug, for he carried in his right hand the old musket that had so long been his constant companion. His clothes hung in shreds about him, and bare skin appeared at his elbows and knees; his tall hat was so crumpled that it looked like a short hat, and his hair and whiskers were long and unkempt. There were bits of hay and twigs clinging to his clothing, and Silas was sure that he had been sleeping out at night, and creeping through the brush during the day.
"Tug, my old friend!" Silas said, in a voice trembling with excitement and pleasure. "God bless me; how glad I am to see you!"
Tug sat down wearily in a chair, and laid the gun down at his feet. He was certainly very tired, and very hungry, and very weak, and Silas thought how fortunate it was he had brought a lunch with him, although he had only hoped that Tug would eat it. This he placed before his friend, who pulled his chair up to the table at sight of the sandwiches, and said in a hoarse voice,—
"I've caught an awful cold somewhere. Do you starve a cold, or stuff it? I've been starving it for several days, and I think I'll try stuffing. You don't mean to tell me you have brandy in that bottle, do you?"
It was brandy fortunately, which Silas had been saving for his friend since his departure, but he seemed so tired now that he could not enjoy it with his old relish, for he did not look at it with his usual eagerness, and there was a melancholy air about him which was very distressing to the little man by his side. As Silas watched him, he thought that he discovered that he had grown a dozen years older within a month, and that he would never again be the contented, easy-going man he was before. He was a serious man now, too, a thing he had always despised, and it did not seem possible that he could ever recover from it.
When he had finished his meal, he walked slowly and painfully over to the bed, and, stretching out upon it, remained silent so long that Silas feared he had washed his voice down his throat with the brandy.
"How is Missus Pretty?" he inquired at last, turning to Silas, who sat beside him.
"Very poorly, I am sorry to say," Silas replied, in a husky voice.
This did not encourage Tug to talk, for he became silent again, and although Silas was keen to hear where his friend had been, he was silent, too.
"Have you told her that we were to blame?" Tug asked, after a long pause.
"Yes, I told her everything, but she does not blame us, and asked me to bring you up immediately after your return."
There was the click in the ragged man's throat that usually distinguished him when he was about to laugh, but surely Tug had no intention of laughing now, though he wiped his big eye hurriedly, and in a manner indicating that he was vexed.
"I might have known that it was wrong not to tell Allan Dorris of this enemy," Tug said. "I am usually wrong in everything, but I hoped I was doing them a favor in this matter; for who wouldn't worry to know that they were constantly watched by a man who seemed to have come a long distance for the purpose? They were so happy that I enjoyed it myself, and I wanted to protect them from The Wolf, and though The Wolf was smarter than I expected, I meant well; you know that."
"I am sure of it," Davy replied.
"A man who has been bad all his life cannot become good in an hour, and while I meant well, I did not know how to protect them from this danger. We should have taken them into our confidence when The Wolf first appeared; I can see that now, after it is too late. It was my fault, though; you always wanted to. I'll have more confidence in you in future."
Both men seemed to be busy thinking it all over for several minutes, for not a word was exchanged between them until Silas inquired,—
"Do you suppose there is any danger of the shadow molesting Mrs. Dorris?"
Tug was lying on his back, and putting his hand under him he took from his pistol-pocket a package wrapped in newspapers, which looked like a sandwich. Handing this to Davy, he said,—
"Look at it."
Going over to the table and the light, Davy began the work of unwrapping. There was a package inside of a package, which continued until a pile of newspapers lay on the table. At last he came to something wrapped in a piece of cloth, and opening this he found a human ear, cut off close to the head! He recognized it in a moment,—the ear of the shadow, with the top gone!
He hurriedly wrapped the horrible thing up as he had found it, and while he was about this he felt sure that Tug's journey had not been in vain; that somewhere he had encountered the shadow and killed him, bringing back the ear as a silent and eloquent witness.
When the package had been returned to Tug's pocket, he turned on his side, rested his head on his hand, and told his story.
"Out into the river like a shot; that's the way I rowed that misty morning when I found that Allan Dorris had gone into the bottoms alone. I had no idea where to go to find him, so I pulled over toward the hills on the east shore, where there was a slow current, and concluded to float down the stream. It may have been an hour later, while in the vicinity of the big bend, that I heard a shot below me. Rowing toward it with all my might, I soon came upon Allan Dorris lying dead in the bottom of his boat. Only stopping to convince myself that he was stone dead, I pulled out after his murderer. I knew who it was as well as if I had seen the shot fired, and I knew that he would be making down the river to escape, so I made down the river myself to prevent it. He had the start of me, and seemed to know the bottom better than I did, for when I came into the main current I could see him hurrying away, a good half mile ahead of me. But I was the best rower, and within an hour I was coming within shooting distance, when he suddenly turned under the trees, near the island where we saw him the first time. I lost track of him here for several hours, but at last I came upon his boat, a long distance up the creek, and just when I heard a whistle down at the station. Had I thought of this before, I might have found him there, and brought him back alive, for I have since found out that he signalled the train and went away on it; but it was too late then, so I could do nothing but go over to the station and wait for the next train."
The narrator's hoarseness became so pronounced that Silas brought him the remaining brandy, which he tossed off at one swallow.
"A lonely enough place it was," Tug continued, "and nobody around except the agent, who told me there would not be another train until a few hours after midnight, so I occupied myself in studying maps of the road. I had no money, of course, but I felt sure I could make my way to a certain big town several hundred miles away, which I had once heard Dorris mention, and it had been in my mind ever since that he came from there. Of course his enemy lived in the same place, and the certainty that The Wolf came to the Bend on that road once, and went away by the same route, and the probability that he always came to the Bend from that station by rowing up the river, made me feel certain that the course I had mapped out was right.
"I need not tell you that I had trouble in travelling without money, for there are many people who cannot travel comfortably even when supplied with means in abundance; but in course of time I arrived in the city I once heard Dorris mention, very tired, dirty, and hungry, as you will imagine, but not the least discouraged; for the more I heard about the place,—and I inquired about it of every one who would listen to me,—the surer I was that I would find The Wolf there. The people with whom I talked all had the greatest respect for the city, as they had here for Dorris; this was one thing which made me feel sure he came from there, but there were a great many other evidences which do not occur to me now. I arrived in the morning, and there was so much noise in the streets that it gave me the headache; and so many people that I could not count them, therefore I cannot tell you the population of the place.
"It was so big and gay, though, that I am certain that the Ben's City people would have been impressed as much as I was, though they put on airs over us. A Ben's City man would have felt as much awe there as a Davy's Bend man feels in Ben's City, and it did me a great deal of good to find out that Ben's City is nothing but a dirty little hole after all.
"For two weeks I wandered about the streets, looking for that ear. There were crowds of people walking and riding around who were like Allan Dorris in manners and dress, and I was sure that they all knew him, and respected him, and regretted his departure, for I knew by this time that he came from that place to Davy's Bend. There was an independence and a rush about the town so unlike Davy's Bend, and so like Allan Dorris, that I was certain of it. Several times I thought of approaching some of the well-dressed people, and telling them that I was looking for the man who had murdered Allan Dorris, feeling sure that they would at once offer to assist me in the search; but I at last gave it up, fearing they would think he had taken a wonderful fall in the world to be friends with a man like me.
"One day, about three weeks after my arrival, I met The Wolf on a crowded street. I tapped him on the shoulder, and when he turned to look at me, he trembled like a thief.
"'That matter of killing up at Davy's Bend,' I said, 'I am here to attend to it.'
"He recovered his composure with an effort, and replied,—
"'What's that to me, vagrant? Keep out of my way, or I'll have you jailed. I do not know you.'
"'You are a liar,' I replied, 'and your manner shows it. I am dressed this way as a disguise. I have as good clothes as anybody when I choose to wear them. I am a private detective.'
"I had heard that a great many vagrants claim to be private detectives, so I tried it on him, and it worked well; for he at once handed me a card with an address printed on it, and said,—
"'Call at that number to-night; I want to see you.'
"He had probably heard of private-detectives, too, for I knew he wanted to buy me off; so I consented to the arrangement, knowing that he would not run away.
"When it was dark, I went to the street and number printed on the card, and The Wolf met me at the door of a house almost as big as The Locks, but land seemed to be valuable there, for others were built up close to it on both sides. There was a row of houses just alike, as far as I could see, but different numbers were printed on all of them to guide strangers. The Wolf led the way up stairs, after carefully locking the door, and when we were seated in a room that looked like an office, and which was situated in the back part of the house, he said,—
"What do you want?'
"'I want to kill you,' I replied.
"He was a tall, nervy man, but I was not afraid of him; for I am thick and stout. He laughed contemptuously, and replied,—
"'Do you know this man's offence?'
"'No,' I answered, 'but I know yours.'
"He sat near a desk, and I felt sure that under the lid was concealed a pistol; therefore I found opportunity to turn the key quickly, and put it in my pocket.
"'Now you are in my power,' I said to him. 'You killed Allan Dorris, and I can prove it, and I intend to kill you.'
"A very cool man was The Wolf; and he watched me from under his heavy eyebrows like a hawk, taking sharp note of everything I did, but he did not appear to be afraid. I couldn't help admiring the fellow's nerve, for he was the coolest man I ever saw, and there was an air of importance about him in his own house which did not appear when he was crawling around Davy's Bend. There was something about him that convinced me he was a doctor, like Dorris, though I heard nothing and saw nothing to confirm the belief.
"'I have had enough trouble over this affair already,' he said, 'and I am willing to pay for your silence. You don't know what you are about, but I do, and I know there is more justice in my cause than there is in yours. I have been actuated by principle, while you are merely a vagrant pursuing a hobby. You are interfering in the private affairs of respectable people, sir, and I offer you money with the contempt that I would throw a bone to a surly dog, to avoid kicking him out of my way.'
"'I am not a respectable man myself,' I answered, 'but I know that it is not respectable to shoot from behind. I give you final notice now that I don't want your money; I want your life, and I intend to have it. Back in the poor town I came from there is a little woman whose face I could never look upon again were I to take your money, and I intend to be her friend and protector as long as I live. I believe the money you offer me belongs to Dorris; for you look like a thief who believes that every man is as dishonest as yourself, and has his price. Even my rags cry out against such a proposition.'
"He was as cool as ever, and looked at me impudently until I had finished, when he said,—
"'I want to step into the hall a moment.'
"He knew I was watching the door to prevent his escape, and acknowledged that I was master of the situation by asking my permission.
"'To call help, probably,' I said.
"'No, to call a weak, broken woman; I want you to see her. Whatever I have done, her condition has prompted me to.'
"I opened the door for him, and he stepped into the dark hall, where he called 'Alice!' twice. I was so near him that he could not get away, and we stood there until Alice appeared at the other end of the hall. It was the little woman we had here one night! But though she was dressed better than when we saw her, she was paler; and when she came down the dark hall, carrying a candle above her head to light the way, I thought I had never before seen such a sickly person out of a grave.
"When she came up to us I saw that she was panting from her slight exertion, and we stepped into the room together. She did not know me, and looked at me with quiet dignity, as if she would conceal from me that she was weak and sick.
"'Does he bring news of him?' she asked, looking from me to The Wolf.
"The woman was crazy; there was no doubt of it. Had she not been she would have fallen on her knees, and said to me, as she did the night she was in this room, 'Gentlemen, in the name of God!' for I was determined to make way with a person who was probably her only protector.
"'Does the gentleman come from him?' the pale woman asked again.
"She is the only person who ever called me a gentleman, and what little compassion I had before vanished.
"The Wolf paid no attention to her talk, and I thought he was accustomed to it; perhaps she was always asking questions to which no reply could be given. She was not a young woman, and there was something about her—probably the result of her sickness—which was so repugnant that I almost felt faint. If she had walked toward me, I would have run out of the house, but fortunately she only looked at me.
"'If you came here at his request,' the little woman said, as she stood in the middle of the room, 'take this to him for me. I have been writing it for two years; it will explain everything.'
"I thought the man was pleased because she had commenced the conversation so readily; for he appeared to be in good humor, as though she were saying exactly what he had desired she should to impress me.
"'When they told me he was contented in his new home,' she continued, 'I was satisfied, and I want him to know it. He had life, and vigor, and energy, and no one ever blamed him but Tom and me. This letter says so; I want you to take it to him. When I discovered that he disliked me, and would always neglect me, it was a cruel blow, though he was not to blame for it, for other men have honestly repented of their fancies. I could not think of him as a bad man for no other reason than that he was dissatisfied with me; for all the people were his friends, and he must have deserved their friendship. I suppose a man may form a dislike for his wife as naturally as he forms a dislike for anything else—I have reason to know that they can—and not commit a graver offence than one who happens to dislike any other trifle which displeases him. I would have told him this myself had he not kept out of my way so long; it is all written in this letter, and my name is signed to it. I commission you to give it to him.'
"She took from her bosom and handed me a crumpled piece of paper, on which nothing was written, but I carefully put it in my pocket, to humor her strange whim.
"'I am satisfied now, since I have heard that he is contented, and if Tom is willing we will never refer to the matter again. He is a good man; even Tom says that between his curses, and why not let him alone? Tell him that Alice gave you the letter with her own hands, and that she will not live long to annoy him. Tell him that Alice rejoices to know that he is contented; for Tom has told me all about it, and since my sickness it has been a pleasure for me to think that a worthy man—and he is a worthy man; for no one can say aught against him except that he could not admire me, which does not seem to be a very grave offence, for no one else admires me—has found what his ability and industry entitles him to,—peace. Peace! How he must enjoy it! How long he has sought it! I can understand the relish with which he enjoys it.'
"The Wolf was not pleased with this sort of talk; it was not crazy enough to suit him, and he looked at her with anger and indignation in his ugly face.
"'I never said it before, Tom,' she continued, evidently frightened at his wicked look, 'but I must say it now, for I cannot remember the hate you tried to teach me; I can only remember that a man capable of loving and being loved buried himself with a woman he could not tolerate, all from a sense of duty, and looked out at the merry world only to covet it. I have forgotten the selfishness which occupies every human heart; it was driven out of my nature with hope and ambition, and I am only just when I say that he deserved pity as well as I. He was capable of something better than such a life; and was worthy of it. I might have been worthy; but I was not capable, and was it right to sacrifice him because I crept while he ran? Do we not praise men for remedying their mistakes? You know we do, and I only praise him for it; nothing more. The truth should always be written on a tomb; this house is like a tomb, it is so cold and damp, and I must tell the truth here. I am cold; why don't you build a fire?'
"She put her hand into the flame of the candle she carried, to warm it, but it did not burn, very much to my surprise; and she looked at me with quiet assurance while she warmed her hands in this odd manner. As I watched her I noticed that the wild look which marked her face when she first appeared was returning; her craze came back to her, and she put it on with a shiver.
"'Your feet are resting on a grave,' she said to me again, after staring around the room awhile, and as coolly as she might have called my attention to muddy boots. 'Please take them off. It may be his grave. I have brought flowers to decorate it; an armful. Stand aside, sir.'
"I did as she told me, and, advancing toward where I sat, she pretended to throw something on nothing out of her empty hands.
"'I came across a grave in the lower hall this morning, Tom,' she said to The Wolf, pausing; and she said it with so much indifference that I thought she must have meant a moth. 'Of course they would not be together: I have never expected that. The grave in the hall was shorter than this one, and it was neglected. But this one,—this shows care. And look, Tom! The flowers I threw upon it are gone already!'
"There was surprise and pain in the little woman's voice, and she pretended to throw other flowers from her withered hands on the mound her disordered fancy had created.
"'They disappear before they touch it!' she said. 'I almost expect it to speak, and protest against any attention from me. And it is sinking; trying to get away from me! How much his grave is like him; it shrinks away from me. I'll gather them up; I'll not leave them here!'
"Out of the air she seemed to be collecting wreaths, and crosses and flowers of every kind, and putting them back into her arms.
"'I will put them on the neglected mound in the lower hall, for no one else will do it. How odd the fair flowers will look on a background of weeds; but there shall be roses and violets on my grave, though I am compelled to put them there. Open the door, Tom; my strength is failing. I must hurry.'
"The door was opened, and she passed out of it, and down the dark hall, staggering as she went. When she reached the door through which she came at The Wolf's call, at the lower end of the passage, she turned around, held the candle above her head again, and said,—
"'Be merciful, Tom; I request that of you as a favor. You were never wronged by him, except through me, and I have never been resentful except to please you. Let the gentleman return and deliver the letter I gave him.'
"Opening the door near which she stood, she disappeared.
"So Tom was the cause of all the trouble? I resolved as we stepped back into the room that he should regret it, and I think there is no doubt that he does."
Tug turned on his back again, and seemed to be considering what course he had better pursue with reference to the remainder of his story. At last he got up from the bed slowly and painfully, and walked over to the cupboard where his law-book was kept, which he took down and opened on the table. After turning over its pages for a while, pausing occasionally to read the decisions presented, he shut up the book, returned it to the shelf, and went back to the bed.
"I am too much of a lawyer," he said, "to criminate myself, pardner, and you'll have to excuse me from going into further details. But I can give you a few conjectures. In my opinion the pale, ugly little woman without a mind, but who looked respectable enough, was once Allan Dorris's wife, but I don't know it; I heard nothing to confirm this suspicion except what I have told you. The Wolf was her brother (a man with an uglier disposition I never laid eyes on), and I shall always believe that Dorris married her when a very young man; that he finally gave her most of his property and struck out, resolved to hide from a woman who had always been a burden and a humiliation to him. It is possible that he was divorced from her a great many years before he came here, and that she lost her mind in consequence; it is possible that he had nothing to do with her; but I give you my guess, with the understanding that it is to go no farther. I am not in the habit of telling the truth; but this is the truth: I know no more about his past history than you do; but while in the city I came to the conclusion I have just given you."
There was another short silence, and Silas became aware of the fact that Tug was breathing heavily, and that, for the first time since he had known him, he was asleep in his own house at night.