Tom Akerley / His Adventures in the Tall Timber and at Gaspard's Clearing on the Indian River

by Theodore Goodridge Roberts

The old men exchanged glances and approving nods; and Tom got hold of Catherine’s hand under the edge of the table.

Life continued to go forward sanely and delightfully in the secluded world of Gaspard Javet’s clearings. A spirit of cheer and security possessed the big log house and the brown barns. Gaspard read his Bible with more hopeful eyes than of old. He was in fine form and full of brisk stories of his youth. He had learned to play chess—a game which, until recently, he had eyed somewhat askance as an intricate and laborious example of human vanity. Mick Otter spent much of his time in the woods, but went no farther northward than to Racquet Pond nor remained away from home for longer than four days at a time. He made one trip south to Boiling Pot and found the villagers blissfully ignorant and unsuspicious of the mysterious affair of Tom Anderson and Tom Akerley, the flying major. His cautious inquiries proved them to be equally ignorant of the whereabouts of Ned Tone. It was quite evident that the heaviest hitter had kept his suspicions and the story of his and the detective’s activities strictly under his hat.

Catherine and Tom were happy; but after that mutual declaration at supper on the night of Tom’s return from the north, they both avoided any further mention of the inspiration of their happiness. They knew that their position was not yet secure from the menace of the outside world. But they were not afraid, and they understood each other. Their brains cautioned them to keep a sharp look-out beyond the southern edge of the clearings and a firm grip on their dreams; and their hearts told them that their future happiness was as secure as if no fat colonel had ever been hit on the chin; and they heeded both their brains and their hearts and sailed a delightful middle course.

Tom attended to a string of traps near Pappoose Lake, but seldom allowed that business to keep him abroad all night. Also, he worked about the barns with Gaspard and cut out firewood and rails. Catherine often worked with him in the woods. The girl could swing an ax with the force and precision of an expert chopper. She also helped with the threshing of the oats and buckwheat, which was done at odd times; and in handling a flail the extraordinary grace of her swing detracted nothing from the force of her blow.

The necessity of making a journey to Boiling Pot, to obtain a supply of wheat and buckwheat flour, made itself undeniably evident in the last week of March. Mick Otter and Tom were both to go, for it was likely to prove a formidable expedition owing to the fact that the long road through the forests was entirely unbroken; but as Tom had done away with his disguising beard, it was decided that he should not venture all the way to the grist-mill in the village. Preparations were made during the day before the start. A track was broken across the drifted clearing, from the barn-yard to the mouth of the road. A few high drifts had to be cut through with shovels. On the road, itself, the snow was not more than knee-deep, for there had been a great deal of melting weather of late. But there was a stiff crust which would have to be broken for the safety of the horses’ legs. A light set of bob-sleds were fitted with a light body and loaded with ten two-bushel bags of buckwheat and rations of hay and oats.

Tom was up at four o’clock next morning, to water and feed the horses. Breakfast was eaten half an hour later, by lamplight; and the horses were hitched to the sled and a start made well before six. The air was still and cold and the horses lively. For a few miles Tom led the way, breaking the cutting crust ahead of the eager horses, and Mick held the reins. Then, for a few miles, Mick broke the crust and Tom teamed. So they toiled forward until noon; and as Tom was heavier and longer in the leg and stronger than the old Maliseet, he did more breaking than teaming. After a rest of two hours the journey was continued; and before dusk they struck a well-broken road and the impatient horses went forward at a trot. Tom dropped off a mile this side of the settlement, with blankets and provisions, and made camp about fifty yards in from the road.

Mick Otter did not reappear until noon. The return journey proved to be an easy and speedy affair compared to the outward trip, in spite of the heavier load. There was no crust to break, and Tom walked only occasionally, for the exercise. It was not quite seven o’clock when they issued from the forest into the clearing and saw the yellow lights of the big log house gleaming on the snow. Tom was holding the lines at the time and Mick was sitting hunched up beside him; and as the horses swung to the left and pulled for the barns with a sudden burst of enthusiasm, Mick slipped a small package into the pocket of Tom’s leather coat that was nearest to him.

A few minutes later, in the kitchen, when Tom was stuffing his mittens into his pockets, he felt the small package and produced it. He stepped toward the lamp on the table, holding the package extended on the palm of his hand.

“What’s this?” he said. “Where’d it come from?”

“Ye’d best open it an’ look, if ye don’t know,” suggested Gaspard, crowding against his left elbow.