“That’s him, for sure,” he said. “The gent from Ottawa. I’ve been kinder expectin’ him down this way a long time. Big man. One of the biggest. We got to find him, Jard—an’ what he come lookin’ for, too. This is serious. Old Luke Dangler guessed right.”
“Not on your life he didn’t! I know Vane. He’s half New York an’ half London. He come to buy a horse of the old Eclipse strain of blood.”
“Say, you’re easy! You don’t know the big fellers, Jard. Maybe’s he’s from New York and London, but that don’t say he ain’t from Ottawa, too. This outfit’s been picked to be made a horrible example of, that’s what—so I reckon it’s about time for me to start in doin’ my duty.”
So the deputy sheriff, fired with professional zeal which burned all the more fiercely now for having so long lain dormant, searched for more than the missing stranger, while the constable and the men of Forkville stood guard over the men of Goose Creek. The hog-house had only one chimney—but the deputy sheriff discovered a secret door, and a second lead running into that chimney, and a distillery at the foot of the second lead. Not content with that, he went ahead and found whisky from Quebec in the haymows.
Old Luke Dangler was handcuffed. His tough old heart came within an ace of clicking off with rage at the indignity of it. The firearms from all the houses of the settlement were confiscated. The men were counted and the tally was found to be two short. Henry Dangler and his son Steve were missing. Everyone denied all knowledge of their whereabouts. More than this, the young woman called Joe could not be found. When old Luke was questioned about her, he answered with inarticulate snarls of his gray lips and a flicker of derision and hate from his darkened eyes.
The leaders were in old Luke’s house, and the crowd stood in front of it, with sentries posted all around it. Amos Dangler stood in the door, jeering. Snow continued to spin down from the low gray clouds.
“We got to find Vane,” said Jard Hassock. “They’ve drug him back somewhere—to lose him. That’s your old game, Amos. I don’t give a damn about this rum, but we got to find the stranger.”
“My game!” sneered Amos. “You say so now, do you—an’ scart to open yer mouth for nigh onto twenty years!”
“And what about Joe,” queried one of the McPhees. “I reckon she’s the one we’re worryin’ about.”
“She’s run back to old Dave Hinch, that’s what she’s done,” said Jard. “Nobody’s tryin’ to lose her. But it’s good night to Vane if we don’t find him before dark. We’d best scatter an’ hunt the woods. I know their dirty, sneakin’ tricks.”