The Oxbow Wizard

by Theodore Goodridge Roberts

The sun was far below Young Dan’s narrowed field of vision, and the deep track of the stream was full of brown twilight when he reached the foot of the path that led back through the woods to Uncle Bill’s camp. The plaintive cry of a whippoorwill rang from an umber gloom of cedars; an owl hooted dismally in the tall spruces beyond; a fox barked on the darkening hillside. Night-hawks swooped on twanging wings high overhead against a sky of dulling green, and bats wove their flickering black threads of flight in the deepening dusk of the valley. Behind and through and over all lurked the spirit of the wilderness, watchful, waiting, still—a spirit of mystery and menace.

Young Dan’s heart was shaken by a vague dread. He felt fear as he had never felt it before, at any hour of the day or night, when alone in the woods. He started along the thread of path that was worn among the roots of the underbrush. He gripped his axe close to the blade and questioned the gulfs of shadow to his right and left with straining eyes. So he advanced for fifteen or twenty yards; and then, suddenly, he remembered the character in which he had undertaken his journey. He knelt, struck a match, cupped the flame in his hands and held it close to the trodden earth.

There was a track, fresh and deep, that he had not expected to find—the track of big soles thickly studded with blunted calks. Uncle Bill had been in moccasins that day; he never wore calked boots in the woods; and these tracks pointed only one way—forward.

After a moment of reflection, Young Dan continued to advance. He was puzzled. When he reached the edge of the little clearing he saw that the camp was occupied. Yellow lamp-light streamed from its one small window. He hesitated, staring forward and around, then dropped on his hands and knees and crawled from the shelter of the woods. His right hand still gripped the axe close up to the heavy blade. So he moved among mossy hummocks and blackened stumps toward the lighted window, pausing often to listen and peer about him. As he drew near he noticed that the door was shut; and as he drew still nearer he heard the murmur of a voice from within. He crawled close to the log wall of the cabin, directly beneath the open window, and crouched there motionless.

One voice was talking within—a thick, unpleasant voice that he did not know. And this is what it was saying:

“So he’ll be home to-night, will he? He’ll be home to-morrow, that’s when he’ll be home. An’ here I be, an’ you’re goin’ to hand over all the money you’ve got tucked away in this shack. Fust of all ye was sassy an’ now ye’re sulky. Have a drink! This here is good stuff an’ powerful hard to git these days. Here, pour yerself a drink an’ swaller it down—or I’ll open yer mouth an’ make ye take it.”

“If my husband were here he’d open that door and kick you out!” replied another voice—a voice known to Young Dan. “If you belonged to these parts and knew him you’d go now before he comes back and kills you, you drunken brute!”

“D’ye reckon to scare me?” sneered the other. “Then ye gotter think of somethin’ bigger an’ better than this here Mister William Tangler ye’re yappin’ about. I reckon I’ll stop right here till he comes home, and then ye’ll know who’s the best man of the two of us. But ye ain’t took yer drink yet! Take it, d’ye hear! It’ll loosen yer tongue.”

The dazed boy beneath the open window heard a clink of glass, a scream and sounds of scuffling. He raised himself and looked into the cabin. A lamp stood among dishes on the table in the middle of the little room. Beyond the table, against the wall, a man struggled with a woman. The man had his back to the window. He was big and a stranger. The woman was Miss Carten.

Young Dan’s quick eyes spotted a wooden rolling-pin on a corner of the table. He laid his axe on the ground and went through the window as quick and as noiseless as thought. Two swift and silent steps brought him to the corner of the table. He grasped a handle of the rolling-pin, advanced two more paces, judged the distance, swung his arm and struck. One strike meant out in that game.