CHAPTER XXVIII

A Clear Trail

Colonel Hallibut sat before the fire smoking and dreaming. The monotonous winter had proven drear enough for him, accustomed as he was to out-of-doors exercise, and now the splash of rain upon the roof fell on his ears like the tinkle of music. Every morning for three months the Colonel had told himself that he would visit those outlaws as soon as the trail was clear, and demand that the man who burned his schooner give himself up. But for three months the trail remained choked and the frost promised death to anyone venturing any distance from shelter. However, spring would now soon come bounding in, so the big man nursed his wrath and said, “To-morrow.”

During the long waiting-time he walked between his house and stable, or stalked among his dogs with scolding voice. Dick, the man-of-all-work, kept out of his master’s way as much as possible, but sometimes the Colonel had him come into the big room and sit before him while he unburdened his mind.

“Those Bushwhackers have dared to burn my vessel and have threatened to kill me,” he would say. “Think of it—threatened to kill me! I wonder if the idiots have an ounce of sense or honor among them. They claim they have their own laws, but we’ll show them that their laws don’t go very far when it comes to firing men’s property. Here was I, ready to give in that they were in the right about wanting to hold their timber. I was fool enough to let myself be influenced by sentimentality. I was fool enough to think them a simple nature-loving people who were attached to their environment. Now I find them a low, lawless band of cut-throats, capable of any crime. That Big McTavish, their ring-leader, is bad enough, but he has a son who will stop at nothing, I understand. I have no doubt that it was he set fire to my boat.”

At such times Dick would listen attentively and vouchsafe no remark. Experience had taught him that silence was golden. The Colonel would shake his head, relight his pipe, and go on.

“I blame myself a whole lot for not going among the people and finding out just what they were, before allowing anybody else to run into danger. I know they never did like me on account of my hounds. They claim I slaughtered the deer and fox, and I thought it policy to keep out of their way. I have nothing in common with those people. When I took a notion to their timber I naturally thought that Watson and Smythe could deal better with them than I could. You know how well they’ve succeeded. Watson has been nearly killed and has been robbed of six hundred dollars. At least he says so. Well, you numbskull, why don’t you say something!”

Dick would grin foolishly and shake his head.

“I’m thinkin’, sir, as I don’t know hanythink t’ say,” he would remark. “I like t’ ’ear you talk about what you know to be a fact, sir, an’ beggin’ your pardon, prefer t’ listen, sir.”

“Lord,” the Colonel would murmur, “it’s awful to have only a thick-skulled Englishman to pour out my troubles to. But I must talk to somebody. Your mother, lad, is a good woman, with more brains in one bump than you have in your whole cranium. But she’s so deaf I’m afraid I’ll bite her ear off trying to make her hear me. Then, too, she has a nice way with her of thinking out loud. Of course, she can’t hear herself, but I can hear her, and when her thoughts turn to me I tell you I hear a lot that I would rather not hear. ‘Rough on the surface, but a good man at heart, God bless him.’ That’s the kind of bouquets I get from your mother, Dick, whenever I open up and tell her what I intend to do with those Bushwhackers. ‘He wouldn’t hurt a baby, the kind gentleman. He’s a Hallibut, every inch of him, and I carried him about when he was a baby.’ That’s the kind of rubbish I get when she’s in the room. By George! if she wasn’t an old family servant I’d fire her and I’d fire you, too, you good-for-nothing, you. Why, fellow, just you watch those dogs get down and crawl when I speak to ’em. Does that look as though I was a kind-hearted gentleman? Does it?—answer me, sir.”

“It do not, sir. You surely are ’ell, sir, yes sir.”

“Only sensible remark you have made since this cursed winter set in. Yes, I’m a rough ’un, I guess. I’m a match for that big hairy McTavish, or any of them, eh?”

“You are, sir.”

“And you think they’ll find it out,—you do, don’t you?”

“They’ll find they have t’ deal with a tartar, sir. They’ll wish th’ ’eavens would fall an’ cover ’em, sir, I’m thinkin’.”

Dick would answer solemnly and the Colonel would slap him on the back and tell him that there was some hope for him yet.

Very often the big man would prefer to be alone, and there in his great chair he would sit listening to the wind moaning through the bare trees. Very often his thoughts would stray away back to the far-away days when he roamed the hills and valleys of the land where he had held and lost his happiness. And as he dreamed, his head would bend lower on his breast and his hand would unconsciously tighten on the arm of his chair. And after his dream he would awaken slowly, and, sighing, arise and stand before the portrait on the wall. All men have their little flower-gardens of memory—Colonel Hallibut’s lay away back among the far hills.

“If she only had not gone,” he would murmur. “If she only had not gone, or if only I had gone with her. Dear little Phoebe, my heart gets hungry for you, and now I can only lead you along the old paths in fancy, girl.”

And the pictured face would grow wistful and he would whisper:

“The part you knew and owned of me is all right, girl. I’m not such a bad chap; I’m a big bluff, just a big bluff. I remember, dear, even though the joy of memory is painful. Glimpses are all I can stand, my little sister.”

Then the shadows would flicker and the Colonel would creep back to his old place and snooze and forget. Sometimes, very late, as he groped his way from the room, his eyes would seek the face in the frame, and all bitter thoughts would melt away from him. He would speak “Good-night” from the door and the portrait would smile upon him. But many and many nights these questions would arise to trouble him:

“Why did they burn my boat! Why should they threaten my life?”

And now the first spring rain was falling, whispering a promise of clear trails and open weather. There was the very essence of spring in the soft voice and damp smell. The Colonel sat before the fire thinking of what he would do, and how he would act, now that the weather permitted his going forth to show the Bushwhackers just how greatly they had erred. And he intended to show them that he had the law behind him. If they refused to give the incendiary up to justice, then he would get the machinery into motion which would speedily make them. He did not believe for a moment that they would refuse to give over the men who had broken the law. They well knew that he, Colonel Hallibut, wasted no words, and made no promise he could not fulfill. As for their threat to shoot him on sight, he hooted the idea as absurd. They might be murderers, but they were not fools. Nor would he, as he had first decided to do, take anyone else with him when he sought an explanation from and made a demand of the Bushwhackers. To take a body-guard would lead them to think that he was afraid.

All night long the Colonel sat listening to the rain, anticipating that of which the elements had deprived him for three long months. As the night advanced he grew more restless, and only when the tardy day began to dawn did his eyes close in sleep. The old housekeeper found him asleep in his big chair. This was nothing unusual, and she simply replenished the fire noiselessly and slipped out to prepare breakfast. Dick came in, when it was ready, and gently shook his master’s arm.

“Breakfast, sir,” he apologized; “it’s ready, sir.”

The Colonel arose and stretched his huge person. Then he went over to the window. Not a single patch of snow was visible. He threw open the door and stepped outside. From the ground arose a smoky haze that tasted of earth and roots, and he breathed it into his lungs with long, grateful breaths. He quickly prepared himself for breakfast and passed into the dining-room.

“After you have finished your meal, Dick, put the saddle on bay Tom,” he commanded. “Don’t ask any questions, now. Fact is, I’m going down to have it out with those murderers in Bushwhackers’ Place. I’m going alone, but I’m going loaded for trouble. I’ll take my pistols and the double-barreled rifle. If I don’t come back in two days you had better come and look for me.”

“Lor’!” breathed Dick, starting.

“There, now, you needn’t get scared,” laughed the Colonel. “I’m going out now to say good-by to the dogs. Get Tom out as soon as you can.”

Hallibut walked to the dog-kennels. Yelps and whines besought him as he passed along, but his head was bowed and he did not call out, as was his fashion, to his friends. Instead, he bent and patted each of those wistful-faced brutes that nosed and rubbed against him, speaking to each in an undertone of forced jollity.

“Sprague, you old beggar, you’re glad it’s spring, aren’t you? Hello, Nell, what are you doing away from your puppies at this time of day? Poor old Jep—come on, old chap. Ha, ha, he’s a good-for-nothing old codger, he is.”

He walked over to the corner of the yard, the pack following him, and, seating himself on a bench, called the dogs in close beside him.

“Boys,” he said, and his voice was not quite steady, “some people would think me either a fool or a crazy man if they saw me out here saying good-by to you. But some people don’t know dogs. I do. We’ve been good friends, old chaps, haven’t we? There, Jep, it’s just like you to speak first,” as the old dog lifted his head and whined, “but I guess you voice the sentiment of the whole pack.” The Colonel glanced about him. “For the first time in a long while,” he said, “I’m going on a journey without taking any of you along. I wish I didn’t have to go, but go I must. If I come back we’ll have many a good chase together. And if I don’t——”

“Your ’orse, sir,” cried Dick from the gate.

Ten minutes later the Colonel rode the trail once again.

It was just coming noon when he drew rein before Smythe’s store at Bridgetown and sent a hello out upon the air. The new spring day was still misty with sweet-smelling fog. The wind blew from the south soft and refreshing. Mr. Smythe opened the door and, seeing who his visitor was, came forward with an exclamation of pleasant surprise.

“Heaven be praised, it’s the dear Colonel,” he cried.

“Watson,” he called, “come out and greet our dear friend, Colonel Hallibut. Just please dismount, sir, and I’ll stable your horse.”

“I’ll dismount, but I’ll stable my own horse, I guess. I want to be sure that he gets fed. He’s got fifteen miles of bush travel before him,” grunted the Colonel.

Watson came forward with outstretched hand.

“How are you, Colonel Hallibut?” he said.

“Why, I hardly expected to see you, at least not in the flesh,” rejoined the Colonel, ignoring the hand. “Haven’t found that six hundred in any of your pockets, I suppose?”

Watson started.

“I have not,” he answered sullenly, a slow flush dyeing his face. “I don’t hope to, either. You know, of course, that the Bushwhackers stole the money.”

“So you said in your touching letter,” replied the Colonel, “but I expect you to repay it—every cent of it. I’ll give you two weeks. Smythe,” he asked, turning to that gentleman, “how is it Watson isn’t dead and buried! I understood you to say he was anxious to die and in a fair way of doing it.”

“Man proposes and God disposes,” said Smythe piously.

“Humph,” returned Hallibut, “it’s too bad the men who tried to dispose of Watson didn’t make a clean job of it.”

“Come into the other part,” invited Smythe, “dinner is all ready, sir.”

The Colonel sat down to the table, placing his rifle close beside his chair.

“A little liquor!” inquired the host, leaning toward the cupboard.

“Not any, thanks,” returned Hallibut. “Who’s smoking that rotten Canada-Green tobacco?” he demanded sharply. “’Tain’t you, is it?” as Watson turned quickly.

Watson shook his head and glanced at Smythe.

“Man by the name of Jamison was in here just before you came,” explained Smythe. “He smoked Canada-Green.”

“Funny,” murmured Hallibut, “it seems to be getting stronger.”

Smythe stamped gently upon the floor.

“What are you dancing about?” asked the Colonel, “isn’t it strictly against your religious code?”

“A touch of chilblain, my dear Colonel——‘ghost’s itch,’ my sainted mother used to call it.”

“Humph! it must be a ghost smoking that Canada-twist,” laughed Hallibut.

“If I thought it was,” declared Smythe, “I would bid him cease. I would,” he cried, raising his voice, “I would command him in this way: ‘Stop smoking immediately!’” Mr. Smythe enforced his command by another thump on the trap-door.

“You must be crazy,” grunted the Colonel, “guess I’d better be pushing along. I’m going over to let those Bushwhackers know just where they stand.”

“Dear Colonel, don’t go to Bushwhackers’ Place,” begged Smythe. “They’ll shoot you as sure as you are born.”

“They certainly will,” confirmed Watson.

The Colonel nodded.

“Let ’em,” he grated, and, picking up his rifle, he passed out followed by the distressed Smythe.

When they had gone Watson lifted the trap-door.

“You idiot,” he fumed, “you almost cooked our goose with your stinkin’ Canada-Green tobacco. I’ll be mighty glad to see the last of your red head, Amos. No, you mus’n’t come up yet. Be patient for five minutes longer; then, away you go. And may you not stop until you’ve crossed the border.”

“I’ll lose no time, don’t you fear,” whispered a hoarse voice from the darkness, and Watson let the trap-door fall with a shudder.