The young man turned away and crossed the bare floor with light steps and drew the door softly shut after him as he went out. No one might look upon her as she slept, with less reverent eyes. Some distance away, where the road began to ascend toward the river bluff, he seated himself on a stone overlooking the little schoolhouse and the road beyond. There he took up his lonely watch, until he saw Betty come out and walk hurriedly toward the village, carrying a book and swinging her hat by the long ribbon ties; then he went on climbing the winding path to the top of the bluff overlooking the river.
Moodily he paced up and down along the edge of the bluff, and finally followed a zigzag path to the great rocks below, that at this point seemed to have hurled themselves down there to do battle with the eager, dominating flood. For a while he stood gazing into the rushing water, not as though he were fascinated by it, but rather as if he were held to the spot by some inward vision. Presently he seemed to wake with a start and looked back along the narrow, steep path, and up to the overhanging edge of the bluff, scanning it closely.
“Yes, yes. There is the notch where it lay, and this may be the very stone on which I am standing. What an easy thing to fall over there and meet death halfway!” He muttered the words under his breath and began slowly to climb the difficult ascent.
The sun was gone, and down by the water a cold, damp current of air seemed to sweep around the curve of the bluff along with the rush of the river. As he climbed he came to a warmer wave of air, and the dusk closed softly around him, as if nature were casting a friendly curtain over the drowsing earth; and the roar of the river came up to him, no longer angrily, but in a ceaseless, subdued complaint.
Again he paced the top of the bluff, and at last seated himself with his feet hanging over the edge, at the spot from which the stone had fallen. The trees on this wind-swept place were mostly gnarled oaks, old and strong and rugged, standing like a band of weather-beaten life guardsmen overlooking the miles of country around. Not twenty paces from where the young man sat, half reclining on his elbow, stood one of these oaks, and close to its great trunk on its shadowed side a man bent forward intently watching him. Whenever the young man shifted his position restlessly, the figure made a darting movement forward as if to snatch him from the dangerous brink, then recoiled and continued to watch.
Soon the young man seemed to be aware of the presence and watchful eye, and looked behind him, peering into the dusk. Then the man left his place and came toward him, with slow, sauntering step.
“Hullo!” he said, with an insinuating, rising inflection and in the soft voice of the Scandinavian.
“Hallo!” replied the young man.
“Seek?”
“Sick? No.” The young man laughed slightly. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, I yust make it leetle valk up here.”
“Same with me, and now I’ll make it a little walk back to town.” The young man rose and stretched himself and turned his steps slowly back along the winding path.
“Vell, I tank I make it leetle valk down town, too,” and the figure came sauntering along at the young man’s side.
“Oh, you’re going my way, are you? All right.”
“Yas, I tank I going yust de sam your way.”
The young man set the pace more rapidly, and for a time they walked on in silence. At last, “Live here?” he asked.
“Yas, I lif here.”
“Been here long?”
“In America? Yes. I guess five–sax–year. Oh, I lak it goot.”
“I mean here, in this place.”
“Oh, here? Yas, two, t’ree year. I lak it goot too.”
“Know any one here?”
“Oh, yas. I know people I vork by yet.”
“Who are they?”
“Oh, I vork by many place–make garten–und vork wit’ horses, und so. Meesus Craikmile, I vork by her on garten. She iss dere no more.”
The young man paused suddenly in his stride. “Gone? Where is she gone?”
“Oh, she iss by ol’ country gone. Her man iss gone mit.” They walked on.
“What! Is the Elder gone, too?”
“Yas. You know heem, yas?”
“Oh, yes. I know everybody here. I’ve been away for a good while.”
“So? Yas, yust lak me. I was gone too goot wile, bot I coom back too, yust lak you.”
Here they came to a turn in the road, and the village lights began to wink out through the darkness, and their ways parted.
“I’m going this way,” said the young man. “You turn off here? Well, good night.”
“Vell, goot night.” The Swede sauntered away down a by-path, and the young man kept on the main road to the village and entered its one hotel where he had engaged a room a few hours before.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE SWEDE’S TELEGRAM
As soon as the shadows hid the young man’s retreating form from the Swede’s watchful eye, that individual quickened his pace and presently broke into a run. Circling round a few blocks and regaining the main street a little below the hotel, he entered the telegraph office. There his haste seemed to leave him. He stood watching the clerk a few minutes, but the latter paid no attention to him.
“Hullo!” he said at last.
“Hallo, yourself!” said the boy, without looking up or taking his hand from the steadily clicking instrument.
“Say, I lak it you send me somet’ing by telegraph.”
“All right. Hold on a minute,” and the instrument clicked on.
After a little the Swede grew impatient. He scratched his pale gold head and shuffled his feet.
“Say, I lak it you send me a little somet’ing yet.” He reached out and touched the boy on the shoulder.
“Keep out of here. I’ll send your message when I’m through with this,” and the instrument clicked on. Then the Swede resigned himself, watching sullenly.
“Everybody has to take his turn,” said the boy at last. “You can’t cut in like that.” The boy was newly promoted and felt his importance. He took the soiled scrap of paper held out to him. It was written over in a clear, bold hand. “This isn’t signed. Who sends this?”
“You make it yust lak it iss. I send dot.”
“Well, sign it.” He pushed a pen toward him, and the Swede took it in clumsy fingers and wrote laboriously, “Nels Nelson.”
“You didn’t write this message?”
“No. I vork by de hotel, und I get a man write it.”
“It isn’t dated. Been carrying it around in your pocket a good while I guess. Better date it.”
“Date it?”
“Yes. Put down the time you send, you know.”
“Oh, dat’s not’ing. He know putty goot when he get it.”
“Very well. ‘To Mr. John Thomas,–State Street, Chicago. Job’s ready. Come along.’ Who’s job is it? Yours?”
“No. It’s hees yob yet. You mak it go to-night, all right. Goot night. I pay it now, yas. Vell, goot night.”
He paid the boy and slipped out into the shadows of the street, and again making the detour so that he came to the hotel from the rear, he passed the stables, and before climbing to his cupboard of a room at the top of the building, he stepped round to the side and looked in at the dining room windows, and there he saw the young man seated at supper.
“All right,” he said softly.
The omnibus sent regularly by the hotel management brought only one passenger from the early train next day. Times had been dull of late and travel had greatly fallen off, as the proprietor complained. There was nothing unusual about this passenger,–the ordinary traveling man, representing a well-known New York dry-goods house.
Nels Nelson drove the omnibus. He had done so ever since Elder Craigmile went to Scotland with his wife. The young man he had found on the river bluff was pacing the hotel veranda as he drove up, and Nels Nelson glanced at him, and into the eyes of the traveling man, as he handed down the latter’s heavy valise.
Standing at the desk, the newcomer chatted with the clerk as he wrote his name under that of the last arrival the day before.
“Harry King,” he read. “Came yesterday. Many stopping here now? Times hard! I guess so! Nothing doing in my line. Nobody wants a thing. Guess I’ll leave the road and ‘go west, young man,’ as old Greeley advises. What line is King in? Do’ know? Is that him going into the dining room? Guess I’ll follow and fill up. Anything good to eat here?”
In the dining room he indicated to the waiter by a nod of his head the seat opposite Harry King, and immediately entered into a free and easy conversation, giving him a history of his disappointments in the way of trade, and reiterating his determination to “go west, young man.”
He hardly glanced at Harry, but ate rapidly, stowing away all within reach, until the meal was half through, then he looked up and asked abruptly, “What line are you in, may I ask?”
“Certainly you may ask, but I can’t tell you. I would be glad to do so if I knew myself.”
“Ever think of going west?”
“I’ve just come from there–or almost there–whereever it is.”
“Stiles is my name–G. B. Stiles. Good name for a dry-goods salesman, don’t you think so? I know the styles all right, for men, and women too. Like it out west?”
“Yes. Very well.”
“Been there long?”
“Oh, two or three years.”
“Had enough of it, likely?”
“Well, I can scarcely say that.”
“Mean to stay east now?”
“I may. I’m not settled yet.”
“Better take up my line. If I drop out, there’ll be an opening with my firm–good firm, too. Ward, Williams & Co., New York. Been in New York, I suppose?”
“No, never.”
“Well, better try it. I mean to ‘go west, young man.’ Know anybody here? Ever live here?”
“Yes, when I was a boy.”
“Come back to the boyhood home. We all do that, you know. There’s poetry in it–all do it. ‘Old oaken bucket’ and all that sort of thing. I mean to do it myself yet,–back to old York state.” G. B. Stiles wiped his mouth vigorously and shoved back his chair. “Well, see you again, I hope,” he said, and walked off, picking his teeth with a quill pick which he took from his vest pocket.
He walked slowly and meditatively through the office and out on the sidewalk. Here he paused and glanced about, and seeing his companion of the breakfast table was not in sight, he took his way around to the stables. Nels Nelson was stooping in the stable yard, washing a horse’s legs. G. B. Stiles came and stood near, looking down on him, and Nels straightened up and stood waiting, with the dripping rags in his hand.
“Vell, I tol’ you he coomin’ back sometime. I vaiting long time all ready, but yust lak I tol’ you, he coom.”
“I thought I told you not to sign that telegram. But it’s no matter,–didn’t do any harm, I guess.”
“Dot vas a fool, dot boy dere. He ask all tam, ’Vot for? Who write dis? You not? Eh? Who sen’ dis?’ He make me put my name dere; den I get out putty quvick or he ask yet vat iss it for a yob you got somebody, eh?”
“Oh, well, we’ve got him now, and he don’t seem to care to keep under cover, either.” G. B. Stiles seemed to address himself. “Too smart to show a sign. See here, Nelson, are you ready to swear that he’s the man? Are you ready to swear to all you told me?”
“It is better you gif me a paper once, vit your name, dot you gif me half dot money.”
Nels Nelson stooped deliberately and went on washing the horse’s legs. A look of irritation swept over the placid face of G. B. Stiles, and he slipped the toothpick back in his vest pocket and walked away.
“I say,” called the Swede after him. “You gif me dot paper. Eh?”
“I can’t stand talking to you here. You’ll promise to swear to all you told me when I was here the first time. If you do that, you are sure of the money, and if you change it in the least, or show the least sign of backing down, we neither of us get it. Understand?”
Again the Swede arose, and stood looking at him sullenly. “It iss ten t’ousand tallers, und I get it half, eh?”
“Oh, you go to thunder!” The proprietor of the hotel came around the corner of the stable, and G. B. Stiles addressed himself to him. “I’d like the use of a horse to-day, and your man here, if I can get him. I’ve got to make a trip to Rigg’s Corners to sell some dry goods. Got a good buggy?”
“Yes, and a horse you can drive yourself, if you like. Be gone all day?”
“No, don’t want to fool with a horse–may want to stay and send the horse back–if I find a place where the grub is better than it is here. See?”
“You’ll be back after one meal at any place within a hundred miles of here.” The proprietor laughed.
“Might as well drive yourself. You won’t want to send the horse back. I’m short of drivers just now. Times are bad and travel light, so I let one go.”
“I’ll take the Swede there.”
“He’s my station hand. Maybe Jake can drive you. Nels, where’s Jake?”
“He’s dere in the stable. Shake!” he shouted, without glancing up, and Jake slouched out into the yard.
“Jake, here’s a gentleman wants you to drive him out into the country,–”
“I’ll take the Swede. Jake can drive your station wagon for once.”
G. B. Stiles laughed good-humoredly and returned to the piazza and sat tilted back with his feet on the rail not far from Harry King, who was intently reading the New York Tribune. For a while he eyed the young man covertly, then dropped his feet to the floor and turned upon him with a question on the political situation, and deliberately engaged him in conversation, which Harry King entered into courteously yet reluctantly. Evidently he was preoccupied with affairs of his own.
In the stable yard a discussion was going on. “Dot horse no goot in buggy. Better you sell heem any vay. He yoomp by de cars all tam, und he no goot by buggy.”
“Well, you’ve got to take him by the buggy, if he is no good. I won’t let Jake drive him around the trains, and he won’t let Jake go with him out to Rigg’s Corners, so you’ll have to take the gray and the buggy and go.” The Swede began a sullen protest, but the proprietor shouted back to him, “You’ll do this or leave,” and walked in.
Nels went then into the stable, smiling quietly. He was well satisfied with the arrangement. “Shake, you put dot big horse by de buggy. No. Tak’ d’oder bridle. I don’t drive heem mit ol’ bridle; he yoomp too quvick yet. All tam yoomping, dot horse.”
Presently Nels drove round to the front of the hotel with the gray horse and a high-top buggy. Harry King regarded him closely as he passed, but Nels looked straight ahead. A boy came out carrying Stiles’ heavy valise.
“Put that in behind here,” said Stiles, as he climbed in and seated himself at Nels Nelson’s side. The gray leaped forward on the instant with so sudden a jump that he caught at his hat and missed it. Harry King stepped down and picked it up.
“What ails your horse?” he asked, as he restored it to its owner.
“Oh, not’in’. He lak yoomp a little.” And again the horse leaped forward, taking them off at a frantic pace, the high-topped buggy atilt as they turned the corner of the street into the country road. Harry King returned to his seat. Surely it was the Scandinavian who had walked down from the bluff with him the evening before. There was no mistaking that soft, drawling voice.
“See here! You pull your beast down, I want to talk with you. Hi! There goes my hat again. Can’t you control him better than that? Let me out.” Nels pulled the animal down with a powerful arm, and he stood quietly enough while G. B. Stiles climbed down and walked back for his hat. “Look here! Can you manage the beast, or can’t you?” he asked as he stood beside the vehicle and wiped the dust from his soft black felt with his sleeve. “If you can’t, I’ll walk.”
“Oh, yas, I feex heem. I leek heem goot ven ve coom to place nobody see me.”
“I guess that’s what ails him now. You’ve done that before.”
“Yas, bot if you no lak I leek heem, ust you yoomp in und I lat heem run goot for two, t’ree mile. Dot feex heem all right.”
“I don’t know about that. Sure you can hold him?”
“Yas, I hol’ heem so goot he break hee’s yaw off, if he don’t stop ven I tol’ heem. Now, quvick. Whoa! Yoomp in.”
G. B. Stiles scrambled in with unusual agility for him, and again they were off, the gray taking them along with leaps and bounds, but the road was smooth, and the dust laid by frequent showers was like velvet under the horse’s feet. Stiles drew himself up, clinging to the side of the buggy and to his hat.
“How long will he keep this up?” he asked.
“Oh, he stop putty quvick. He lak it leetle run. T’ree, four mile he run–das all.” And the Swede was right. After a while the horse settled down to a long, swinging trot. “Look at heem now. I make heem go all tam lak dis. Ven I get my money I haf stable of my own und den I buy heem. I know heem. I all tam tol’ Meester Decker dot horse no goot–I buy heem sheep. You go’n gif me dot money, eh?”
“I see. You’re sharp, but you’re asking too much. If it were not for me, you wouldn’t get a cent, or me either. See? I’ve spent a thousand hunting that man up, and you haven’t spent a cent. All you’ve done is to stick here at the hotel and watch. I’ve been all over the country. Even went to Europe and down in Mexico–everywhere. You haven’t really earned a cent of it.”
“Vat for you goin’ all offer de vorld? Vat you got by dot? Spen’ money–dot vot you got. Me, I stay here. I fin’ heem; you not got heem all offer de vorld. I tol’ you, of a man he keel somebody, he run vay, bot he goin’ coom back where he done it. He not know it vot for he do it, bot he do it all right.”
“Look here, Nelson; it’s outrageous! You can’t lay claim to that money. I told you if he was found and you were willing to give in your evidence just as you gave it to me that day, I’d give you your fair share of the reward, as you asked for it, but I never gave you any reason to think you were to take half. I’ve spent all the money working up this matter, and if I were to go back now and do nothing, as I’m half a mind to do, you’d never get a cent of it. There’s no proof that he’s the man.”
“You no need spen’ dot money.”
“Can’t I get reason into your head? When I set out to get hold of a criminal, do you think I sit down in one place and wait? You didn’t find him; he came here, and it’s only by an accident you have him, and he may clear out yet, and neither of us be the better off because of your pig-headedness. Here, drive into that grove and tie your horse a minute and we’ll come to an understanding. I can’t write you out a paper while we’re moving along like this.”
Then Nels turned into the grove and took the horse from the shafts and tied him some distance away, while G. B. Stiles took writing materials from his valise, and, sitting in the buggy, made a show of drawing up a legal paper.
“I’m going to draw you up a paper as you asked me to. Now how do you know you have the man?”
“It iss ten t’ousand tallers. You make me out dot paper you gif me half yet.”
“Damn it! You answer my question. I can’t make this out unless I know you’re going to come up to the scratch.” He made a show of writing, and talked at the same time. “I, G. B. Stiles, detective, in the employ of Peter Craigmile, of the town of Leauvite, for the capture of the murderer of his son, Peter Craigmile, Jr., do hereby promise one Nels Nelson, Swede,–in the employ of Mr Decker, hotel proprietor, as stable man,–for services rendered in the identification of said criminal at such time as he should be found,–Now, what service have you rendered? How much money have you spent in the search?”
“Not’ing. I got heem.”
“Nothing. That’s just it.”
“I got heem.”
“No, you haven’t got him, and you can’t get him without me. Don’t you think it. I am the one to get him. You have no warrant and no license. I’m the one to put in the claim and get the reward for you, and you’ll have to take what I choose to give, and no more. By rights you would only have your fee as witness, and that’s all. That’s all the state gives. Whatever else you get is by my kindness in sharing with you. Hear?”
A dangerous light gleamed in the Swede’s eyes, and Stiles, by a slight disarrangement of his coat in the search for his handkerchief, displayed a revolver in his hip pocket. Nels’ eyes shifted, and he looked away.
“You’d better quit this damned nonsense and say what you’ll take and what you’ll swear to.”
“I’ll take half dot money,” said Nels, softly and stubbornly.
“I’ll take out all I’ve spent on this case before we divide it in any way, shape, or manner.” Stiles figured a moment on the margin of his paper. “Now, what are you going to swear to? You needn’t shift round. You’ll tell me here just what you’re prepared to give in as evidence before I put down a single figure to your name on this paper. See?”
“I done tol’ you all dot in Chicago dot time.”
“Very well. You’ll give that in as evidence, every word of it, and swear to it?”
“Yas.”
“I don’t more than half believe this is the man. You know it’s life imprisonment for him if it’s proved on him, and you’d better be sure you have the right one. I’m in for justice, and you’re in for the money, that’s plain.”
“Yas, I tank you lak it money, too.”
“I’ll not put him in irons to-night unless you give me some better reason for your assertion. Why is he the man?”
“I seen heem dot tam, I know. He got it mark on hees head vere de blud run dot tam, yust de sam, all right. I know heem. He speek lak heem. He move hees arm lak heem. Yas, I know putty good.”
“You’re sure you remember everything he said–all you told me?”
“Oh, yas. I write it here,” and he drew a small book from his pocket, very worn and soiled. “All iss here writed.”
“Let’s see it.” With a smile the Swede put it in Stiles’ hand. He regarded it in a puzzled way.
“What’s this?” He handed the book back contemptuously. “You’ll never be able to make that out,–all dirty and–”
“Yas, I read heem, you not,–dot’s Swedish.”
“Very well. Perhaps you know what you’re about,” and the discussion went on, until at last G. B. Stiles, partly by intimidation, partly by assumption of being able to get on without his services, persuaded Nels to modify his demands and accept three thousand for his evidence. Then the gray was put in the shafts again, and they drove to the town quietly, as if they had been to Rigg’s Corners and back.