"It must have been. No one was caught. The shock killed my mother. That is the story, Davy. There wasn't much money for Nell and me, by the time I was old enough to notice things—and we came here, as you know, nine years ago."
"But—who'd want to play the old trick on me?" asked Marsh anxiously. "And who is there here that knows anything about it? Jackson? What would he care about Nell and me?"
"Some rival, perhaps," suggested Harley. "The devil only knows! Perhaps some one who dislikes you knows the old story; but—don't ask me," he added nervously.
"There is Dick Goodine, the trapper," said Marsh. "He is sweet on Nell. But what does he know—and how could he do it? Hell! Jim, it beats me!"
CHAPTER III
DAVID MARSH DECIDES TO SPEAK—AND DOESN'T
Jim Harley decided, before morning, that he must tell the tragic story to Rayton. He also decided that there was no need, at present, of telling either Nell or his wife of the mysterious advent of the two red marks into Samson's Mill Settlement.
Young David Marsh spent a restless night, going over and over all that Jim had told him. He came to the conclusion, at last, that the red crosses themselves were harmless, and utterly foolish, and that the real danger and tragedy lay in the human fate that had always inspired their appearance. Then his active mind quested far and near in search of an enemy of his own to correspond with the Spanish count of the first tragedy, and with young Jackson of the second—and not only that, but he must find an enemy who was in love with Nell Harley, and who knew the story of the red crosses. He thought of every man he had ever met, young and middle-aged; but he soon saw that this was too wide a field to explore. He could only bring to mind one man who, to his certain knowledge, had paid any attention to Nell Harley—and this was Dick Goodine. Likewise, he could think of only one man in the community with whom he was not on fairly friendly terms—and this, too, was Goodine.
Goodine had French blood in his veins, and was known to be eccentric; but he had never been considered dangerous in any way. He was a good-looking young woodsman who spent his summers in idleness, and his winters in trapping furs. Sometimes he did a little business in David Marsh's own chosen field, and guided "sports" into the wilderness after moose and caribou. But this was not often, for Dick Goodine's pride was even quicker than his temper. "It's not white men's work," he had said to David, not long before, in the course of the very argument that had caused the coolness that now existed between them. "It's Injun's work—or nigger's. The guidin' is good enough; but when it comes to cookin' for them, and pullin' off their wet boots at night—oh, t' hell with it! It may suit you, but it don't suit me."