# Moosemeadows/Chapter 7

pp. 19–24.

### VII

UPON rising next morning, I immediately inspected the contents of the Gladstone bag. The papers that had been absent were back in their places. The iodined fly-leaf from the old book was gone.
After breakfast, Deblore asked, "Did you notice old Glashner?"
I replied that I had looked at him several times during breakfast, hoping to see him swallow his knife, but had noticed nothing unusual.
"He's mad with excitement," Tom whispered. "He was shaking with it. I thought he'd bite the side out of his cup. And he didn't talk. He knew that if he talked he'd say too much. Is your trap sprung?"
"Yes; and the bait is gone."
"That's it! We won't see much of him today; and Lion will be off duty. That was smart of you. Giddy. We'll find him amusing—and that's a thing I never dreamed of. He and his confederate will be kept busy all summer, clawing around in the woods and the hardhack, looking for hidden marks and counting their steps. It was a bright idea."
"Who is his confederate?" I asked.
"I haven't the faintest notion. It might be any of a dozen of the people of the settlement. There are a few who wouldn't stoop to associate themselves with Ruben unless they were sure there was money in it. He's not highly respected, you know. But even Deacon Trim would go into partnership with him if he was sure that there was money in it and a chance of injuring a Deblore into the bargain. But I suspect that his confederate is half-witted, like himself. The general, opinion is that the treasure, if any, has been found by Henry."
"I think I'll visit around among our delightful neighbors today. I may hear something."
"You'll wish you hadn't, Giddy. If you hear anything, it'll be unpleasant. You'll find yourself to be as unpopular in the settlement as I am. You'll be insulted, lad. Better keep away from them."
"Do you know Jacques Jeanbard?"
"Jules Jeanbard's son. Yes, I've seen him; and I believe he's the best of them. A returned soldier. Jules isn't a bad fellow, either—Old Jules the Fiddler. The Jeanbards are French. They haven't the hatred of the Deblores in their blood, as the others have."
The Jeanbard farm lay on this side, above the junction of Deadhorn Brook and Wicklow Creek, and nearer the Deblore estate than any other farm in the settlement by several miles. Tom told me this, and of landmarks to recognize it by; and he advised me to go by canoe and not to intrude any farther into the settlement than the house of Old Jules the Fiddler, I went away in the patched bark canoe from the bushes beside the steep path.
I was curious about Ruben Glashner's confederate. I was curious to know if one of my two shots had found a mark. I had heard no cry, I had found no bloodstain, but a suspicion that I had nicked something more than sappy wood was growing in me.
The creek still ran high and strong, though it had fallen several feet since my ascent in company of Stack Glashner. I plied a lazy paddle, but made good time. I had food in my pocket, in case the Jeanbards should fail to invite me to dinner. I hoped that they would not fail. I wanted friendliness, and a chance to swap yarns about the war with another old soldier. Six miles slid easily along, and I picked up the landmarks without difficulty—a lightning-gashed hemlock on one bank, and opposite it a big cedar bowed almost to the water. I saw a path, but no sign of a clearing. I ran the old canoe into the mud, climbed the path and followed it through a belt of big spruces and thick underbrush; and there lay a little clearing with a little house squatted in the middle of it. The house was of big squared timbers, white-washed. The door and window trimmings were red. There was also a barn of squared logs with a red door. The butt of a straw-stack, a gigantic pile of wood, and a gaily-painted bird-house on a tall pole completed the farmstead. About half the clearing was plowed and newly harrowed, smoke rose from the chimney of the house and hens scratched in the barnyard, but there was no human being in sight. I advanced from the screen of underbrush, hoping for the best. Knowing my pride and temper as I did, I feared the consequences of any sort of incivility on the part of the Jeanbards.
The door opened while I was yet twenty paces from it, and a little yellow dog came dashing out, barking furiously. But I paid no attention to the dog, for a woman stood in the doorway; and I had not reckoned on meeting a woman. I did not like it, for what can a man do when a woman is uncivil; and even as I raised my cap I tried to think of an excuse for turning around and retracing my steps. Then a second glance heartened me. The woman did not look unfriendly. She whistled to the dog, who was now yapping at my heels. The dog paid no attention to her whistle and I continued to ignore the dog.
"He won't bite you," she said. "He doesn't mean anything—but he hasn't been trained right."
"I'm sure he is all that a dog should be," I said, with my best smile, and wishing at the same time that I had shaved that morning. "Is Mr. Jacques Jeanbard in—or anywhere about?"
"He is working back, and so is father," she replied. "But please come in. They'll be home by half-past eleven,"
"I'm from Moosemeadows Park," I said.
She blushed slightly, and replied, "You are Captain Swayton, I know. Stack Glashner was here and told us about you."
300px|thumb|right When the male Jeanbards arrived on the scene, I was grinding the mangle at the edge of the washtub while the lady of the house was feeding it with the last items of the family wash. Both the men were tall and dark, the father bearded, the son clean-shaven. They halted just inside the kitchen and stared. Rose laughed. (Rosamund was her name.) I had my coat off, my sleeves rolled up and a checked apron tied round me; and I felt that I looked a bit of an ass.
"My name is Swayton," I said.
They shook hands with me cordially. Then Jacques turned to his sister and whispered something, with an air of protest. She laughed lightly and glanced at me.
"I smell somethin' burnin'," said the father.
Jacques strode to the stove, opened the oven door and retreated before a cloud of pungent smoke.
"Four apple pies!" cried Miss Jeanbard. "The last of the real apples! All burned to cinders!"
Jacques pulled them out one by one with the poker. They filled the kitchen with biting smoke. The little dog went out, and Jacques sneezed.
"It's the first mess of cookin' she's burned since she come home to keep house for us," said the father.
"It's my fault," I said. "I smelled something some time ago, and should have mentioned it; and I should not have called in the morning."
"It ain't your fault, Captain," said Jacques sternly. "You didn't put the pies in the oven. You didn't even know they were there. I don't give a hang about the pies, but she shouldn't have set you to mangling the wash; not the first time she met you, anyhow. That's being too darned informal."
"But I wanted to help," I protested. "It made me feel that I was not in the way—not a stranger—at home."
"Did you do the washing at home, sir?" asked Jacques.
I was silent and Miss Jeanbard laughed at me. Then Jacques and I got to exchanging war yarns, and I learned he had come out of it with a commission.
We dined on cold roast beef and pickles, and the burned pies were replaced by strawberry preserves and cream. After dinner, I went back to a farther clearing with the men and horses. I spoke of old Ruben Glashner to Jacques, who replied that he had heard that the old bum was stopping at the big house. I assured him that Glashner wasn't welcome there, and that Deblore would throw him out but for fear of the hostility of the settlement. Jacques nodded his head gravely.
"Old Deblore is dead right," he said. "There are folks hereabouts who'd make even Ruben Glashner an excuse for harmin' him. That's what the most of them live for, it seems to me, though Tom Deblore never done—did—any hurt to anyone round these parts, that I've ever heard about. Pa and I don't hold with them in that. Ruben Glashner's the worst liar and thief in the province, and a nitwit into the bargain."
"He dipped into a bag of mine and carried off some of my private papers," I said. "He carried them off the premises, but afterwards returned them. He can't read a word. What's his game, do you suppose?"
"The devil only knows. He was born crooked, and he's put a few more twists in himself."
"I was wondering where he took the papers, to be read."
"Search me. He's crazy, you know. He must think you have some dope on that old treasure. If that's what he's hanging round the old place for, it's sure proof he's ripe for a madhouse."
"Was there ever a treasure? Deblore says that there has always been talk of one."
"If there ever was, something happened to it before Henry Deblore left the country, you can bet a month's pay on that, Captain. I don't remember much of Henry myself, except that I was scart stiff at the sight of him; but the old man knew him an' says he wasn't one to go away an' leave anything behind him."
"Do you know Sol and Amy Bear?"
"I've passed the time o' day with Sol once or twice. Old Tom's got friends in those two. They came to his house starving an' sick one winter night, from the Lord-knows-where, without a cent or a rind of bacon, with their snowshoes wore to a frazzle; and he took them in an' nursed and fed them. That was a good many years ago. Pa got the story straight from Sol himself, but Sol didn't tell where they come from, nor why."
An hour later, I left the men, after promising to call again before long, and headed back toward my canoe. Is it necessary for me to say that I did not pass the little house? As I issued from the woods onto the back of the clearing in which it stood, I saw that the wash was on the line. The next thing I saw was a stooped figure with a pack on its shoulder moving swiftly away from the house at an angle that would bring it to the creek slightly below my canoe. For a moment I thought it was Ruben Glashner. No, it was shorter than Ruben.
I found Rose Jeanbard in a rocking-chair by the window, reading. "I had a visitor," she said. "He asked me not to mention his visit to anybody, but I told him I'd tell the first person I saw, just to put him in his place. He is saucy. He gave me a terrible look."
"I saw him," I replied. "An old Johnny, wasn't he, with a pack?"
"Yes, he's old, and a peddler. He has been here before, within the past two weeks, selling things—but he called today for surgical aid."
"Surgical aid?"
"With a wound to be dressed. It was in his left hand."
"What sort of a wound was it? A cut?"
"No, a bullet wound. He was cleaning his pistol, which was loaded. I fixed it up for him, but I don't like him. He talks broken English. There is something queer about him—something false and dangerous, I don't know what it is."
I asked her if the peddler could read English, and she said that she did not know. After a moment's hesitation, I told her about old Ruben Glashner's spying around, of his liberties with my private papers, my visit to the nearest edge of the nearer moosemeadow, my nervous shock and my two hysterical shots at the shaking alder. "I may have potted that old bird," I concluded.
"You think that he may be old Ruben's confederate?" she queried.
"It is possible," I replied. "And if so, he'll have enough of that game before it is finished." And I told her of the trick I had played with the ancient fly-leaf and the iodine, and of how Ruben had bitten. She agreed with me that it was a bright idea. She said that she hoped the old peddler was really Ruben's confederate, for she would like to think of him, picture him, toiling fruitlessly in the hardhack.
I moved on at last, found the canoe where I had left it and headed upstream. Is it necessary for me to state in so many exact words that Rose Jeanbard was not the sort of young woman I had expected to meet on Wicklow Creek? Consider it said.
Paddling with Wicklow Creek is one thing and paddling against it is another. I had to put my shoulders into the stroke. I did not strain myself, however, as I was not in a particular hurry. I thought a good deal in an agreeable, but confused vein which led to nothing but a feeling of friendliness toward the world in general and this part of it in particular.
When I got back to the old house, Ruben was abroad. Amy told me that she had seen nothing of him since nine in the morning. He turned up for supper, however, with a line fishing story and two dozen trout. He appeared to be deafer than ever to Deblore's snorts and sneers. I felt the probing glance of his single eye on me frequently during the meal.
I went to bed early, but was wakened at midnight by a hand on my shoulder. There was Tom Deblore in his nightshirt, with a candle in his hand and a twinkle in his formidable eyes.
"The old spy has sneaked out again, Giddy," he exclaimed. "I had a suspicion he would, so I went to see. He's left his warm bed. You've got him on the hook, lad. Left his warm bed to go wading round in the hardhack on a fool's errand! Thought you'd like to know. Too good to keep till morning. Hope he steps into a bog hole."
He went away chuckling, and I sank back to my dreams.
First thing next morning, I opened the Gladstone bag. All my papers were there, including the artful expression of my bright idea. I examined that example of creative art proudly—and then moved to the window with it, where the light was better. It had been tampered with. I had to refer to my notebook from the pocket of my coat to be sure of it. A 260 had been altered to 480. It was cleverly done. Old Ruben's confederate was a craftsman of superior skill and lightness of touch. This evidence of the serious spirit in which my little effort at deception had been received filled me with pride.
"Old Ruben's friend is a cunning fellow," I reflected. "And he has a low opinion of my abilities as a treasure-hunter, and of my memory. So he sets me two hundred and twenty yards astray."
I returned the masterpiece to its place. Then I detached the rough draft from the notebook, burned it between my fingers and crumbled the thin flake of ash to powder. The joke was too good to spoil by the want of a little care. I was fully dressed when I discovered that my pistol was gone from the dressing-table, where I had laid it the night before. I searched around in other likely places, but failed to find it. This changed my mood. A joke was a joke; and would-be crafty old fools could take what liberties they chose with my papers, by night or by day, and fool themselves therewith to their heart's content—but a liberty with one's pistol is a very different thing.
"He can't get away with that!" I exclaimed, and made the long journey to the kitchen, where we always breakfasted heavily but informally. Deblore and the Bears were there.
"Our smart young friend is sleeping it off," Tom said to me. "He had a busy night. He'll have to rub a quart of grease into his joints if he keeps up this wild life much longer."
Amy's eyes twinkled, but Sol's face was impassive as wood.
Old Glashner appeared ten minutes later.
"I overslep'," he remarked as he sat down and reached for the fried trout. "Nothin' like fishin' to make 'e sleep."
"Work will do it, too," said Tom. "Are you going fishing again today? It looks like a good day for it."
"Sure I be," replied the other, forgetting his deafness. "We'll have trout for breakfust ag'in tomorrow."
"It seems to have helped your hearing," said Tom.
"I didn't git that," bawled Glashner. "What ja say?"
Tom laughed. The other wagged his head and returned his attention to the fried trout on his plate.
"It is of no use to you without the ammunition," I said suddenly, but in an ordinary tone of voice.
Everyone looked at me, including the deaf man.
"The ammunition is under lock and key," I continued.
Glashner resumed his knife-and-jaw work, and the others turned their inquiring glances from my face to his. I left my seat and went around to the other side of the table. I pulled the old man gently but firmly to his feet.
"I saw you fooling around my dressing-table," I said sternly. "But as the pistol is the only thing missing, I suppose it's the only thing you wanted. Well, you can't have it."
Many emotions shone and darkened in the old man's eye. Hate was there; and fear was there; suspicion, doubt, anger and disdain were there.
With one hand heavy on his shoulder, I felt his pockets with the other. I found the missing automatic and transferred it to my own pocket. He sneered, not a wit abashed.
"l only took it to look at," he said. "Yer welcome to it. I'd ruther have a rifle or a shotgun any day."
"It's a wonder you didn't take my watch," I said, with a fine show of indignation.
The look he gave me at that was almost pitying.
"I always knew you were a thief!" cried Deblore. "But I didn't think you'd try to put over such a raw deal as that. Rob my honored guest! That's a damn fine return to make me for my hospitality—and get caught with the goods right on you! I thought you were smart!"
Old Glashner resumed his seat and smiled. It was a knowing, disdainful and self-satisfied smile. He had failed to get away with my little gun, but he had confirmed his early suspicion of my simplicity.
"It wasn't nothin' but a friendly little joke," he cackled, and poured himself a second cup of coffee. "I wouldn't rob a smart young man, like the captain, not for a farm. But ye want to be real careful with that thar contraption, Captain. Ye might let it off accidental some time an' shoot yerself."
I DEVOTED that day to farming with Deblore and Sol Bear. Lion was with us, or about the house, all day, which was proof that Ruben was clear of the premises. But the old bounder came home in time for supper, with a string of fine trout. I locked my bedroom door that night and put the pistol under my pillow. In the morning, Tom informed me that Ruben had again spent the greater part of the night abroad.
"He's playing you for a sucker, Giddy," he said. "He's got a nasty shock coming to him. I guess he'll have a belly full of visiting me, and be content to go home, after he's spent a few more nights counting his steps out in the hardhack and digging for marks."
I remained at the table after Tom and Sol had left it and gone out. I was in no hurry to decide on my course for the day. I was reluctant to commit myself to a day of field work. Handling axe and bush-hook in a corner of a pasture is all very well under normal conditions—but I had other things on my mind. I felt a call from downstream; and, at the same time, my curiosity pricked me concerning the scene of old Glashner's midnight activities. I was smoking a cigarette with my last cup of coffee when the old rogue appeared. Though the table was cleared, Amy brought bacon and toast and the coffee pot from the stove and set them before the unwelcome guest without a word.
"How'd ye like to go fishin' with me to-day?" asked Ruben.
"No, thanks," I replied.
"Maybe ye be figgerin' on goin' by yerself?" he queried.
"Well, what about it? Do I have to ask permission of you?"
"I could tell 'e the likely places to git the big fellers."
"Is that so. Well, I'm not going fishing."
"Where be ye a-goin'?"
"None of your business!"
"0h, all right, but thar ain't no call for ye to be so short about it."
I left the table. Glashner immediately laid down his knife and pushed back and came after me.
"A young feller like yerself maybe wouldn't object to seein' a purty young woman now an' ag'in," he said. "If so, I kin tell ye of four or five as purty gals as ye'd find anywhars in the Province, right downstream in Guards Settlement. Now if I was a young feller with plenty of time on me hands, I'd know how to spend a fine day like this here. I'd take me a canoe an' I'd la'nch her——"
I shook his hand from my arm and walked away.
But that is exactly what I did. I hesitated several times, 'tis true, wondering what his game could be—why he had suggested this thing to me. Was it that he wanted me out of the way, so that he could pace the hardhack to the eastward with a sense of complete security from interruption by a rival pacer? That was it, most likely. Yes, that was it, undoubtedly. He wanted to place me well out of the way, so that he and his confederate might devote daylight and their undivided attentions to the unearthing of one of those hidden marks. This satisfied me; and yet, for some undefined reason, I hesitated even then. I went, however, after leaving word for Deblore with Amy Bear of my intended destination; and after stowing several spare clips of ammunition deep in a hip-pocket.
I swung out to mid-stream and kept to that course. Thus one catches the full run of the water. Keep close to a bank if you are working up, but if you are headed downstream take the crown of the road.
I plied a lazy paddle, leaving most of the work to the strong and willing water. I took things so easily that I did not even remove my coat. I was about three miles below the big house, or a little better than that, when the unexpected happened and snapped my mind awake from its pleasant wool-gathering. A splinter suddenly appeared on the right-hand gunnel of the canoe, standing straight up like a finger within a few inches of me, and at the same instant the thrill of swift impact went through my nerves and the report of a rifle smote my ears. But the splinter struck me as the most extraordinary thing of all. I stared at it, fascinated—but not for long, thank heaven! For long enough to count three, perhaps; and then my wits got to work. I rolled the canoe over, rolling myself with it. It was a cranky little craft. It rolled quick. I was under water in a jiffy. Then I kicked clear and swam down and out. I swam hard, anxious to make as much distance as possible before being forced to the surface for a breath. Now I felt indignation and horror. I saw that sudden, significant splinter of wood as if it were still under my eye and realized what would have happened to me if the man with the rifle had not shot a few inches ahead of his mark. I would have been pierced through from hip to hip—for I had undoubtedly been his mark.
I came to the surface, gulped air, glanced ahead and submerged again. The water was unpleasantly chilly. My boots and water-soaked garments were unpleasantly heavy. I was glad to find myself, when I came up for another gulp of air, in a little eddy against the bank, among bushes and loitering scraps of drift-stuff. I secured a slippery and quaking foothold on the inside of a screen of brush and then, with only my head out of water, turned and looked back—all this with the utmost caution. The opposite bank was bushed to the water's edge; and no one showed there, and nothing moved. The canoe was far downstream, drifting bottom-up and low. Very slowly, very cautiously, I retreated from the water into the bushes. I crawled up the bank, through the thick and adequate cover of alders and willows and young firs, and so into the edge of the forest.