THE GUARDED ROAD
Vane told Jard Hassock of his meeting with poor Pete Sledge but not a word about their engagement for eleven o’clock that night. He spoke of Pete’s illusion to the effect that he killed Amos Dangler with an axe.
“Sure, that’s his crazy idee,” said Jard. “An’ Amos Dangler keeps out of his way. That ain’t hard to do, for Pete sticks pretty close ’round home. He’s crazy—but he’s still got a heap of ordinary horse-sense left, has Pete Sledge.”
“What’s become of the girl they fought about?”
“Kate Johnson? She married Amos Dangler eighteen years ago an’ is still alive an’ hearty up Goose Crick, far’s I know.”
“Pete thinks she is going to marry him in the spring. It seems that he has not kept a very close watch on the flight of time.”
“He’s crazy. Sometimes he talks as if his shack on Squaw Brook was burned down only a week ago. An’ he’s everlasting’ly beggin’ matches. Keeps every pocket of every coat he owns full of matches. But he’s still got streaks of sanity. He has brains enough, but some of them’s got twisted, that’s all. Nobody can best him at a game of checkers nor at raisin’ chickens an’ gettin’ aigs. It’s a queer case. Now what do you reckon would happen if the truth that he didn’t ever kill Amos Dangler was to pop into his head some day?”
“I was wondering the same thing. What do you think?”
“I guess he’d rectify his mistake without loss of time—an’ that he’d do it with an axe. Maybe he’d even chase Amos up a tree first an’ then chop him down, jist so’s to have everything right. Folks who’ve been demented, crazy, lunatic as long as Pete has ain’t always practical. They like to do things their own way, but they sure like to do ’em. How do you cal’late to set about gettin’ a horse out of old Luke?”
“Speaking of lunatics, what?”
“Well, sir, you got to use the best part of valor, that’s a sure thing.”
“I agree with you. One or the other of us should think of a way in a few days. There’s no particular hurry.”
The hotel had only two guests at this time, Vane and the person whom he had heard snoring on the night of his spectacular arrival. The snorer was the manager of the “Grange” store, an elderly, anxious looking man who always returned to the store immediately after dinner and retired to his room immediately after supper.
The afternoon passed without sight or further word of old Dave Hinch; but Tom McPhee appeared after supper with a budget of intelligence that was well received by the Hassocks. Old Hinch was ill—so ill that he had sent Tom down to Rattles for the doctor—so ill that his conscience was troubling him for having parted with his granddaughter.
“If he don’t feel better by mornin’ he’ll send for her,” said McPhee. “And a good thing, too. That young skunk Steve Dangler’s sweet on the girl; an’ Dave knows it. Now that he’s feelin’ real sick he don’t like it. He ain’t a bad sort of old man when he’s scart he may die any minute.”
“Maybe Luke Dangler won’t sent Joe back ag’in. He’s as much her grandpa as Dave Hinch himself,” said Jard.
“But Dave’s her guardeen, which Luke ain’t,” returned McPhee.
At eleven o’clock that night Robert Vane rattled his fingernails on the glass of Pete Sledge’s dark window. Nothing happened. He tapped again, louder this time, and waited expectantly for the sudden flare of a match behind the black panes. Nothing flared; and he was about to rap a yet louder summons on the window when a slight sound behind him caused him to jump and turn in his tracks. There stood Pete Sledge a few paces off, with an axe on his shoulder.
“Reckon I give you a start,” said Pete in a pleased tone.
“You did,” returned Vane. “I was looking for you in front.”
“I stopped inside long’s I could after ma went to bed, an’ then I come out an’ waited behind the woodpile.”
“Why behind the woodpile?”
“No harm intended, but yer a stranger to me. But I reckon yer all right. Which way d’ye want to go?”
“What about Goose Creek?”
Pete Sledge stepped close to Vane at that and peered keenly into his face for a moment.
“Friend of them Danglers?” he asked.
“I’ve never set my eyes on a Dangler in my life, but I’ve heard of them from Jard Hassock and I’m curious about them,” replied Vane.
“Why don’t you go over to Goose Crick with Jard?”
“He won’t go. He seems to be afraid of the place—and the people.”
“And you ain’t?”
“Not worth a cent!”
Sledge showed signs of embarrassment. “I ain’t what you would properly call scart, but I don’t jist hanker after that there section of country,” he said. “Oh, no, I ain’t scart! Ain’t I fell out with them Danglers an’ bested ’em? But Goose Crick don’t interest me none. But what is it you want of them folks?”
“I feel a curiosity concerning them which I think is quite natural. I want to see where they live—the people who have thrown a scare into the whole countryside. If you won’t come along, I’ll go alone. They must be very remarkable people.”
Pete Sledge said nothing to that, did nothing. Vane went out to the road and up the hill. He had expected better of Pete Sledge in the way of courage—though why, considering the fact that the poor fellow had already been frightened half out of his wits, it is difficult to say. At the top of the rise above Forkville he turned into the side road which Pete had indicated to him that morning. It was a well pounded track which cut through snowdrifts at some points, and humped itself over them at others. For a mile or two it passed through white clearings broken by groups of farm buildings and scattered groves, and beyond that it slipped into obscurity between black walls of second-growth spruce and fir.
Vane walked alone, to the best of his knowledge and belief; and he felt lonely. He felt uneasy. Rifts in the marching ranks of the forest admitted pale glimmers of starshine to the road here and there, discovering the depths of the darkness and queer lumps of shadow and weird blotches of pallor right and left to his exploring glances. He wondered just why he had come, not to mention what he would do when he arrived. He remembered that it is recorded somewhere that curiosity killed the cat. It is doubtful if he would have felt any better if he had known that Pete Sledge was behind him, within fifty paces of him. He didn’t know it, but it was so.
Here and there a narrow clearing widened the outlook slightly without enlivening it. At the edge of one of these crouched a little deserted lath mill, its fallen tin smokestack and sagging roof eloquent of failure, disillusion, the death of a petty ambition. This was at least six miles from Forkville, at a rough guess; and as soon as he was past it Vane began looking eagerly into the gloom ahead for a glimpse of the clearings of the Dangler settlement; but before he had gone two hundred yards beyond the deserted mill he heard a piercing whistle behind him. He jumped to the side of the road and crouched there, every sense alert and straining. There had been no possibility of mistaking the significant character of the shrill sound. It had been a warning and a signal. And within ten seconds it was answered, repeated, at a point in the darkness two hundred yards or so farther along in the direction of the Goose Creek settlement.
Vane realized that, with an alert sentry behind him and another in front of him, now was the time for quick action. He didn’t even pause to wonder what the sinister Danglers could be about to make the posting of sentries on the road worth their while. Noiselessly and swiftly he shifted his snowshoes from his shoulders to his feet; and then, after a moment given to sensing his position in relation to the river and Forkville, and the lay of the land, he slipped noiselessly into the thick and elastic underbrush.
The second sentry, the man who had repeated the shrill warning of Vane’s approach was Hen Dangler, one of the middle-aged members of the gang, a nephew of old Luke. Having passed along the signal and heard it answered from the nearest house, he grasped a sled-stake of rock maple firmly in his right hand and closed swiftly upon the point on the road from which the first whistle had sounded. This was according to plan. He ran silently, listening for sounds of a struggle or of flight and pursuit. He heard nothing; and he encountered nothing until he found the first sentry, the original alarmist, flat on his face in the middle of the road and blissfully unconscious of his position.
The unconscious sentry was Steve Dangler, Hen’s son, the very same Steve who was “sweet on” his second cousin, Joe Hinch. After a face massage with snow and a gulp from Hen’s flask, he opened his eyes and sat up.
“What happened?” asked Hen. “Why the hell didn’t you leave him pass you an’ git between us, like we planned? You must of blowed yer whistle right in his face.”
“Face, nothin’. He passed me, all right. Then I whistled—an’ got yer answer—an’ started after him—an’ then—good night!”
“Hell! Say, there must be two of ’em.”
“Wouldn’t wonder, onless I kicked up behind an’ beaned meself with me own foot.”
“Who was it—the one you seen go past you?”
“Dunno. Stranger to me. Rigged out like a sport, far’s I could see—blast ’im! Last time he’ll ever git past this baby!”
“Maybe so. If you feel up to steppin’ out we’d best be headin’ along for home. Take a holt on my arm.”
They made what speed they could toward the clearings and habitations of Goose Creek, probing the shadows about them with apprehensive eyes, and questioning the silence with anxious ears. Clear of the wood at last, they drew deep breaths of relief. They felt better, but only for a brace of seconds. Fear of immediate physical attack was gone, only to be replaced by anxiety for the future.
“Don’t it beat damnation!” lamented the father. “Here we been layin’ out ’most every night for two months an’ nothin’ happened an’ then the very first time there’s any need for it you go an’ git fooled an’ beaned into the bargain! Say, I wisht I’d been where you was.”
“Same here.”
“Zat so? Keep in mind that ye’re talkin’ to yer pa, Steve Dangler. It wouldn’t of happened like that if I’d been there. My wits wouldn’t of been wool-pickin’ after no danged girl. I’d been watchin’ out behind.”
“All right, pa. You tell old Luke all about it.”
After a long journey on a curved course, and much thrusting through tough underbrush and climbing up and plunging down, Robert Vane came out on the highroad at the top of the hill above the village. He halted there to remove his webs, and was there confronted by poor Pete Sledge who appeared out of the vague starshine as if by magic.
“How d’you like them Danglers?” asked Pete.
“I haven’t met any of them yet,” replied Vane.
“Nor you don’t want to. Leave ’em lay, stranger, leave ’em lay. Run home quick an’ go to bed, an’ don’t tell a word of what happened to-night to Jard Hassock nor nobody.”
“What do you mean by what happened to-night?”
“Well, you got a scare, didn’t you? You didn’t come home the same way you went.”
“I’m not afraid of them.”
“But you took to the woods. You was scart enough for that—an’ smart enough. Leave ’em lay, stranger; an’ if I was you I’d get out of this here Forkville to-morrow an’ try somewheres else.”
“Try what somewhere else?”
Pete winked and asked for a match. He tucked the match away in his pocket.
“What is it you want of Goose Crick?” he asked. “Whatever you want, it’s nothin’ only trouble you’ll get—but jist tell me, an’ I’ll tell if you’re lyin’ or not.”
“That’s very good of you. I’ll think it over. Now I’m off for bed.”
“Hold yer hosses a minute! You can trust me. I love a Dangler like a lad goin’ a-courtin’ loves to meet a skunk.”
“So you say, but I’m not so sure of it as I was a while ago. To be quite frank with you, there was someone behind me to-night—and whoever he was, he was in league with the Danglers.”
“There was two behind you to-night. Two. An’ I was only one of ’em. T’other was young Steve Dangler. But Steve didn’t know I was there, which was a pity for him, but a good thing for me an’ you. I didn’t reckon you’d have sense enough to take to the woods, so I up an’ beaned Steve so’s to clear the road behind you.”
“Is that a fact?”
“It sure is. But come along away from here. Come with me.”
Pete led Vane to his own little barn behind his little house and up a ladder into a little hay loft. From this loft, through a crack between two weather-warped boards, one could watch the road from the top of the hill all the way down through the village to the covered bridge. Vane kept in close touch with his guide, ready for anything. They sat down on fragrant hay; and Pete kept his eye on the crack and Vane kept an eye on Pete.
“What was you expectin’ to find on Goose Crick?” asked Pete.
“A horse,” replied Vane, after a moment’s pause. “You are welcome to the information—and so is old Luke Dangler. Now what about it?”
“A horse?”
“That’s what I said—and it’s exactly what I mean.”
“A horse? Is that all?”
“That’s all—but it seems to be plenty—more than enough—to judge from the way Jard Hassock talks. Well, what about it?”
“You want to steal a horse? You figgered out to steal a horse from old Luke Dangler to-night? Say, stranger, that sounds jist about crazy enough to be true! Jumpin’ cats! Stranger, Jard Hassock’s right. It can’t be done.”
“I want to buy a horse, if he has one that suits me.”
“Buy a horse. Say, that’s different. That’s easy. All you need’s a million dollars—or maybe ten thousand—or maybe only five.”
“No fear! I’ll offer a fair price and not a dollar more.”
“Then you won’t get no horse—not of the trottin’ stock, anyhow—but trouble a-plenty. A horse? You must want one real bad. Now if it was a woman it would be different, but any man who’d go git himself mixed up with them Danglers for a horse—for the best durned horse in the world—ain’t got all his brains workin’, to my way of thinkin’.”
“You may be right. They seem to be difficult people to deal with, that’s a fact. I had no idea that they went so far as to post sentries on the road. Have many attempts been made to steal their horses?”
Pete turned his glance from the crack in the wall to Vane’s face. Vane could see the glimmer of the eyes and feel the searching of them.
“You don’t look like a liar,” said Pete.
“Thank you again,” said Vane.
“Nor like a fool,” went on the native in a puzzled tone. “But you must be one or t’other—or both.”
“But I don’t know why you should think so,” protested Vane.
“You ask Jard Hassock. Maybe he will tell you. I would, only I’m kinder side-steppin’ trouble with them Danglers these days. A man figgerin’ on fixin’ up with a wife come spring can’t be too careful.”
Vane returned to Moosehead House, entered the kitchen window and gained his room and his bed without detection. In spite of the hour, sleep did not come to him immediately.
He was excited and puzzled. The fact of the sentries on the road in to Goose Creek puzzled and excited him, and so did the talk and behavior of Pete Sledge. Why the sentries? Why the signals? Surely a man could breed a few horses without such precautions as these. And what would have happened to him if the Danglers had caught him? And what was Pete Sledge’s game—if any? The fellow talked about marriage to a woman who was already married, and about having killed a man who was still alive and hearty within a few miles of him, and made a point of begging matches and tucking them away like precious things—but was he as crazy as these things suggested? He doubted it.
