“Maybe it was the scouting craze that made him tell the truth,” said a bystander, evidently a city boarder in the neighborhood. “It seems a queer thing that a young boy should break the law and shoot big game and then go and give himself up.”
“No, ’tain’t nuther,” said Farmer Sands. “He got sceered, that’s why he confessed. He was sceered outer his skin soon as he clapped eyes on me an’ Terry. You can’t fool me, by gum! I see jes haow it was the minute I set eyes on the little varmint!”
But he hadn’t seen how it was at all. Nor had Terry seen how it was. For the explanation of this whole business was locked up in that dungeon of mysteries in Mr. Martin’s library. It had been under their very noses and they had not so much as examined it. And now it was in that closet of dark traditions away off in Bridgeboro, under the grim and autocratic guard of Westy’s father. And there it remained until a stronger man than Mr. Martin ordered him to bring it out.
CHAPTER XXIV
CLEWS
Ira ambled along through the woods, emerging at Barrett’s where the dubious rumors of his past career always assured him a ready welcome. He had never been of the Barrett’s set, preferring the quiet of the farm, and the adventurous game of quietly plaguing Aunt Mira. But they knew him for a former sailor and soldier of fortune (or ill-fortune) and they respected him for the dark traditions which were associated with his name.
He sauntered along the shabby little street till he came to the house of Luke Meadows. He had no better plan than just a quiet tour of observation and inquiry. He intended to chat with Luke. But his curiosity had been greatly enlivened since he had seen the deer.
But at Luke’s house he was doomed to surprise and disappointment. The alien had gone away with his little girl. There had been no furniture worth moving and the westerner’s few portable belongings (so the loiterers said) had been taken in a shabby bag.
Luke had not vouchsafed his neighbors any information touching the cause of his departure or his destination. There was a picture, unconsciously and crudely drawn by “Missie Ellis,” the neighbor to whose care Meadows had consigned his little daughter just before the scout had saved him from arrest and jail. She seemed a motherly person, well chosen by the man who, in his extremity, had thought only of his little daughter.
“I see them go,” said Mrs. Ellis, “and he was carryin’ her in one arm and the bag in the other. They went up the road toward Dawson’s and I says to my man, I says, sumpin is wrong and they’ve gone to git the train. The county men was allus after him, houndin’ him and houndin’ him; Lord knows, I never knew him to do no harm but shoot game. And the little kiddie, she was the livin’ image of her mother. I nursed the poor woman when she died of the flu and Luke he jes stood there by the bed and lookin’ at her and sayin’ not a word. Even after she went not a word did he say.
“She was out of her head, she was, and she was sayin’ how they were back in Cody where they came from and he says, ‘Yes, mommy, we’ll go back; soon as you can travel we’ll go back.’ They was strangers here; I guess they was allus thinkin’ and frettin’ about their big wild west. He says once how he could see miles of prairies, poor man. Sech eyes as he had! Seemed as if he could see across miles of prairies.