CHAPTER VIII

AN ODD LETTER

"Suppose he is dead?" faltered Fenn, as he stumbled along. "Will--will I be arrested."

"Don't worry until you see who it is, and how badly he is hurt," advised Frank. They were soon at the fence. Ned and Frank parted the bushes that grew higher than the topmost rail, and plunged on through. Fenn followed, but Alice was going farther up, where she knew there was a gate.

The sight that met the eyes of the boys was most reassuring. Standing up on his big wagon was Jed Sneed, calmly pitching off cord wood into a pile. The fuel was evidently for Bart's house.

"Were you--are you--that is--you aren't dead; are you?" gasped Fenn. "Is--is anybody?"

"Not that I know of," answered Jed, as he straightened up. "But I come pretty nigh bein'. As nigh as I want to. I just heard a bullet sing over my head, as I was stooping down to get hold of a stick. Who was shooting, anyhow?"

"I--I was," faltered Stumpy. "I missed the tin can I aimed at. Did I come very close to you?"

"I didn't take time to measure the distance," announced Jed dryly, "but it was close enough."

"We heard you yell," said Frank, "and we thought some one was killed. We didn't know it was you."

"I was hollering at the horses, partly," explained the man. "The pesky critters won't stand still when they hear shootin'. So it was you fellows; eh? Well, I ought to have knowed better than to come out with this load of wood to-day. Jest as I was startin' a black cat run right across the road in front of the horses, and that's one of the very worst kind of bad signs. I should have turned back, but Mr. Keene wanted this wood to-day, so I kept on. Then, as if one warnin' wasn't enough, I had another. Jest as I was turnin' in this back way, thinkin' it would be a little shorter, three crows flew over my head, goin' South. They must have stayed up pretty late, but there's no worse sign than three crows, unless it's to meet a snake with his tail toward you. But, as Mr. Keene wanted the wood, I come on, and look what was the result--I was nearly killed."

"Oh, I guess the bullet didn't come so near you as you thought," suggested Ned, partly for Fenn's benefit. "Fenn usually fires high, and he missed the can clean. Then, you're down in a sort of hollow here, and I guess it was well over your head."

"I hope so," remarked Jed. "A miss is as good as a mile, I guess. Still, it was partly my own fault, for not payin' attention to them signs. You can make up your minds I won't tempt fate that way again. I'll turn back next time when a black cat crosses in front of me. And then, too, I ought to have give you chaps warnin'. I heard you shootin' as I drove up, and then, when it stopped, I s'posed you was done. Then when that one shot came, and whizzed over my head, I thought it was all up with me. I hollered some, to let you know I was here, and to quiet the team. Then I went on tossin' off the wood."

Fenn breathed easier. Some color was beginning to come back into his cheeks. A moment later Alice came hurrying along, having found the gate.

"Is he badly hurt?" she asked. "Have they got him in the wagon? Perhaps you'd better drive right to the hospital Mr. Sneed," for she knew the teamster, who did odd jobs around town.

"Wa'al, I don't mind drivin' to the hospital for ye," announced Jed with a grin, "but there ain't no need for it."

"Don't tell me he's--" but Alice paused, not willing to utter the fatal word. Several rolls of bandages fell from her hands.

"Oh, I'm all right," went on Jed. "I'll live to be an old man if I wait to be shot, I guess. Whoa, there, ponies," this last to his team.

"Then isn't any one hurt?" asked Alice, and though she was undoubtedly glad of it, there was a distinct note of disappointment in her voice.

"No one," explained Ned, as he told how it had happened. Jed took part of the blame, for not announcing his presence, but, nevertheless, Fenn was a bit shaky for some time after the incident, and Ned and the others were nervous.

"The doctor will be right over!" suddenly cried Bart, bursting through the bushes. "Who is it, and is he badly hurt?" Then he had to be told how it was, and he hurried back into the house to countermand the order for the physician. Alice gathered up her bandages, and with her box of remedies retraced her steps. She had missed a chance to practice for her chosen profession, but she was glad of it.

A more careful investigation of how Fenn had stood when he shot, and a calculation of the angle at which he held the rifle, showed that the bullet must have gone well over Jed's head, so it was not so bad as at first thought.

"But it was mostly my own fault," concluded the odd man, as he drove away. "Never again will I keep on when I see a black cat--" He stopped suddenly, checked his team, and got out of the empty wagon.

"What's the matter now?" asked Frank.

"There's a horseshoe in the field there, and it's turned the wrong way for luck," explained Jed, as he picked it up. "I was drivin' right toward it--must have come off one of my horses when I was comin' around to get a good place to toss off the wood."

"Anyway it had the curved, or open side, toward me, and if you go toward a horseshoe that way it's a sure sign that you'll have no luck in a year. A mighty sure sign, too."

"What are you going to do?" asked Bart, as he saw Jed put the shoe back on the ground again.

"Oh, I just turned it around again. Now I can drive toward it right, and I'll have good luck--you see," which he proceeded to do, and, after his wagon had passed the shoe, he got out again, picked it up, and then went on, well satisfied with himself.

As the days went on the weather grew colder. There were frequent snow storms, and the snow did not melt. The Christmas holidays were approaching, and the boys were preparing for camp life, each lad having secured permission to take some time out of school.

One night, when the four chums were at Fenn's house, getting ready some things, and talking of the fun they expected to have, there came a knock on the front door. As the boys were the only ones downstairs, Fenn volunteered to answer it.

"Though I don't know who can be calling at this hour," he remarked, for it was nearly ten o'clock. He opened the door, and his startled exclamation brought his chums to his side.

"There's no one here!" cried the stout lad, "but I was sure I heard a knock--didn't you?"

"Sure," replied Bart, and the others nodded. "There has been some one here," went on Bart. "See the footprints in the snow. It's snowed since we came. Some one ran up, knocked, and ran away again."

"I wonder what for?" murmured Fenn, looking up and down the deserted street. "Probably a joke. Maybe it was Sandy Merton."

"Whoever it was, he left something," said Frank, suddenly.

"What?" asked Fenn.

"This letter," answered Frank, picking up a missive from the doorstep. The white envelope, so much like the snow, had not at first been noticed.

"Bring it in and see what it says," proposed Bart, and soon, under the light of the gas in the dining-room, the boys were perusing the strange missive.

"It's to me," said Fenn, as he rapidly scanned it. "But what in the world does it mean? And it has no signature. Listen to this fellows," and he read:

"'MR. FENN MASTERSON,

"'Dear Sir:--I understand you have quite a collection of mud turtles. Would you be willing to part with them? I mean for a consideration, of course. If you would kindly communicate with me. I will pay you a good price for all the turtles you have. But I must make this stipulation, which, at first may seem odd to you. But I have a reason for it. I can not meet you personally. If you are willing to sell your turtles will you write a note to that effect, and leave it in the dead sycamore tree on the edge of Oak Swamp? That is the only way in which you can communicate with me. Kindly let me hear from you soon.'"

As Fenn had said, there was no signature. He turned the strange letter over and looked at the back. It was blank.

"Well, wouldn't that jar you!" exclaimed Bart, as he took the note from Fenn's hand.