“That’s two times I’ve got the better of you when you reckoned you had me cornered, ain’t it? Whoop-pee! Luck’s comin’ my way ag’in, sure enough. Now I’m all right. I’ll take Jake’s old canvas canoe, if I can make out to put him together, ’cause he’s light to handle an’ won’t bother me none if I have to take to the bresh. The other boats I’ll hide so’t nobody won’t never find ’em ag’in. But first I’ll hunt me a good quiet place an’ have a tuck-out. There’s grub an’ coffee an’ sugar an’ sich in the lockers of this skiff, an’ I’m hungry for some of it.”
The country about was full of little waterways, and Matt, being perfectly familiar with every one of them, had no trouble in finding the “quiet place” he sought. He paddled over to the farther side of the creek, kept along close to the bank for a mile or so, and then pushed the skiff into the bushes. The overhanging branches shut out every ray of light, and it was so dark that I could not see what sort of a place we had got into even when we stopped; but I heard the squatter moving around on the bank, and saw by the aid of a match which he struck on his coat-sleeve that he was lighting a fire. When the dry leaves and sticks he had gathered in the dark blazed up, I could see nothing but a solid mass of hemlock boughs above, and other masses, equally impervious to light, on all sides of me. It was a better hiding-place than the cove, and the squatter went on building a roaring fire, knowing full well that the blaze could not be seen from the other side of the creek where the discomfited guide and his puzzled young allies were standing, wondering what had become of their boats.
Having gathered wood enough to keep the fire going as long as he had use for it, Matt drew the bow of the skiff high upon the bank and proceeded to overhaul the lockers. With a contemptuous grunt he caught up Fly-rod, who was lying on the locker beside me, and tossed him into the bushes. A second later he sent Arthur’s rod and Roy’s to keep him company. The cartridges, which were intended for the boys’ double-barrel shot-guns, and which he could not use in his old muzzle-loader, Matt incontinently dumped overboard; also the lemons, three gun cases, and as many portfolios filled with writing materials; but the pocket hunting knives and one double-bladed camp ax he laid aside for his own use. At last he came to the articles he was looking for—half a side of bacon, a whole johnny-cake, two canisters containing tea and coffee, another filled with sugar, and about half a peck of potatoes. He felt in every corner of the lockers in the hope of finding a supply of smoking tobacco; but that was something that never found a place in Joe Wayring’s outfit.
Having provided himself with an excellent supper, Matt went ashore to cook it. First he opened the valises and placed them where he could feast his eyes upon their contents, and then he cut off several slices of bacon which he proceeded to broil with the aid of a forked stick. For a platter he used a piece of bark; and every time he put a slice of the meat upon it he would grab a handful of coins from one of the valises and allow them to run slowly through his fingers, laughing the while and shaking his head as if he were thinking about something that afforded him the greatest gratification. He spent an hour over the meal, then replenished the fire and laid down for a nap, covering himself with Roy Sheldon’s warm blankets. When he awoke he cooked and ate another hearty supper, shook himself together, and declared that he felt better and in just the right humor to begin his lonely journey to Sherwin’s Pond.
His first task was to put me together; and to my surprise and disgust he accomplished it with very little trouble. Then, in order to make sure that he had not overlooked any thing that he could use, he gave the skiff a second examination, and took possession of all Mr. Swan’s provisions. Every other article belonging to the rightful owners of the boats he dropped overboard or flung into the bushes.
“Mebbe they’ll find ’em ag’in some day an’ mebbe they won’t,” muttered the squatter, as he extinguished the fire preparatory to shoving off in the canvas canoe. “But if they do it will be long after I am safe outen their reach. They’ll never think of lookin’ for me so nigh Mount Airy as Sherwin’s Pond is, an’ there I’ll hide as snug as a bug in a rug till my grub’s gone, an’ then—why, then I’ll have to steal more, that’s all.”
In a few minutes Matt had pushed the canvas canoe through the bushes into the creek, and was plying the double paddle with sturdy strokes. He could travel in the dark as well as by the light of the sun, and he did not go a furlong out of his course during the whole of the journey. Neither did he have a pleasant time of it. From the hour we started to the time we arrived within sight of Sherwin’s Pond the rain fell in torrents. This was a point in Matt’s favor, for it was not likely that sportsmen or tourists would venture abroad in such weather unless necessity compelled them; but the unusually high water that came with the rain was to his disadvantage. Indian River ran like a mill-sluice, and the current, strong at all times, became so turbulent and powerful, and its surface was so thickly covered with driftwood and trees that had been floated out of the lowlands, that canoe voyaging was not only difficult but dangerous as well. On one occasion I barely escaped being stove all to pieces. This frightened the squatter so that he gave up traveling by night, and took to the water only when he could see where he was going and what obstacles he had to encounter. More than that, he converted the stolen blankets into bags, put the cargo as well as the valises into them, and lashed them fast so that they would not spill out in case I were overturned by any of the floating débris. But that was a bad thing for Matt to do, as I shall presently show you.
The sight that met my gaze when we came where we could see Sherwin’s Pond was one I never shall forget. That little body of water had a way of getting ugly upon the slightest provocation, but I never saw it in so angry a mood as it was on this particular day. It was filled with currents which were running in every direction; at least that was what I thought after I had watched the erratic movements of the logs and stumps that were swimming on its surface. Its numerous inlets had filled the pond more rapidly than its single outlet could relieve it; consequently the pond looked higher than the river, and going into it was like going up hill. Joe Wayring, fearless and skillful canoeist that he was, would have thought twice before attempting to go any farther; but Matt had grown reckless, having journeyed nearly a hundred miles without a ducking, and all he did was to hug the bank a little closer and put more strength into his strokes with the double paddle. He got along well enough until he came to the place where the mouth of the river widened into the pond, and then came the very disaster I had been looking for. Before Matt could tell what his name was, the current seized me and whirled me out into the middle of the stream as if I had been a feather, sending me there, too, just in time to receive the full force of a terrific blow from the roots of a heavy tree which came rushing along with the torrent. Nothing that was ever made of water-proof canvas could remain afloat after a collision like that. I rolled over and began filling on the instant; and while the eddies were whirling me about, and the gnarled and ragged roots of the tree were enlarging the hole that had been torn in my side, and I was sinking deeper and deeper into the water, I heard Matt Coyle utter one feeble, despairing cry for help, saw him make a frantic grasp at the slippery trunk of the tree as it swept by, and then I settled quietly down to the bottom of the river, taking the blanket-bags and their contents with me. This, thought I, is the end of every thing with me. I had expected and hoped to go to pieces in the service, but not in the service of such a fellow as Matt Coyle, who had undoubtedly made way with himself as well as me, while trying to do a most foolhardy thing. There was not one chance in a thousand that I would ever be found, or that the Irvington bank would ever learn what had become of its money. When Joe Wayring and his friends went home they might pass directly over me, and I would have no power to attract their attention. I knew Joe would miss me sometimes, but I wasn’t so conceited as to think that he could not get another canoe that would more than fill my place. I thought of these things, and then I asked myself what had become of Matt Coyle. If he were a strong swimmer he might succeed in making a landing after the current had carried him a mile or so down the river, provided he could keep out of the way of the driftwood. One thing I was sure of. He would never find me or the money, either. Neither would any body else. If the squatter got ashore I did not see how he was going to live, for the rifle on which he depended principally to supply his larder during the winter was tied fast to my ribs. If he succeeded in evading the officers of the law, he would have to go to work. I didn’t see any other way for him to do.
While I was lying peacefully in my bed at the bottom of the river, wondering how long it would be before the never-ceasing friction of the current would annihilate me utterly, some events that have a slight bearing upon my story were happening in the world above.