Scott Morgan
Boys of Oakdale Academy

CHAPTER XXV.
SETTLEMENT DAY DRAWS NEAR

Once more Barker laughed, this time triumphantly, exultantly, for he felt sure that Rodney Grant had trapped himself by that admission.

“I think that’s sufficient, Mr. Pickle,” he said, addressing the man. “You’ve done very well.”

“Jest wait a minute,” advised the man, holding up his hand; “I ain’t quite through yet.” He turned, with a manner intended to be impressive and awesome, upon Rod. “My name is William Pickle,” he announced, “and I’m the deputy sheriff of this town.”

If he expected that this statement would cause the young Texan to quail or betray alarm, disappointment was his portion, for Rod remained wholly self-possessed and undisturbed.

“Permit me, Mr. Pickle,” he said earnestly, “to inquire how my handkerchief came into your possession. I sure think it’s about time you answered a few of my questions.”

“You sometimes wear that handkercher tied round your neck when you’re out gunnin’ – or fishin’ – don’t ye?”

“I may have done so,” admitted Rodney; “but you haven’t answered my question. How did you come to have it?”

“’Twas found this mornin’ over on Andrew Dodd’s land, back of Turkey Hill. I guess you must have lost it there, didn’t ye?”

“I don’t think so. In fact, I’m right certain I did not, for I don’t remember having it with me to-day. I don’t know precisely where Andrew Dodd’s land is located, but unless it takes in the swamp west of Turkey Hill I was not on his land to-day. I’m right curious to know what you’re driving at, Mr. Pickle, and I opine it’s about time for you to come out open and frank, so that I may get your drift.”

“I cal’late, young feller, you’d better come down to Lawyer Frances’ office with us and settle up with young Barker for killin’ his hound which you shot this mornin’.”

It was out at last. Grant, still completely self-possessed, looked the officer straight in the eyes.

“You’ve sure got another think coming to you,” he retorted indignantly. “Not knowing anything whatever about this matter you mention, I’ll not come to Lawyer Frances’ office and settle. I do not own a gun, and I haven’t had one in my hands to-day. If Barker’s dog was shot, somebody else did it, and you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“Of course he’ll say that,” cried Berlin; “but he caught himself foul when he owned up that the handkerchief was his. I found it hanging from a bush while, with Springer and Piper, I was following his tracks after he shot Silver Tongue. Phil and Sleuth both saw me pick the handkerchief off the branch, and they’ll swear to it.”

Grant’s steady, unflinching eyes were fixed on Barker now, and he seemed to be trying to read the thoughts and motives of this fellow, who since his arrival in Oakdale had so persistently and venomously harassed him. The limits of his endurance had about been reached; the strain was too much, and something threatened to snap. Nevertheless, he still struggled to maintain a desperate hold on himself – struggled to restrain and master the cyclonic Grant temper, which invariably wrought havoc when it broke loose. In his ears at that very moment seemed to echo his father’s words of warning, but the hammering of his outraged heart promised to drown those echoes into silence. Despite his outward appearance of self-control, his voice shook a little as he said:

“You’ve never let up on me an instant, have you, Barker? Well, you sure have no idea of the dangerous ground you’re treading on. I tell you now I can account for every minute of my time since leaving my aunt’s house this morning, and I can prove that I didn’t shoot your dog.”

“How will you prove it?”

“By Lander. He met me at the house, and we were together all the time until we returned from his camp after the storm began.”

“By Lander!” scoffed Barker. “Why, he’s the biggest liar I know – excepting you.”

“If you say I shot your dog, you’re a liar!”

Teeth set, fists clenched, Barker started; but Pickle’s gnarled hand gripped his collar, and the deputy sheriff snapped:

“Hold on, my boy! Go slow.”

Grant had dropped his shovel, and now his face was almost as white as the snow beneath his feet.

“Let him come,” he begged. “He may as well have it now as any time, and it’s plain he’ll never be satisfied till he gets it.”

“There won’t be no fightin’ here,” asserted Mr. Pickle, thrusting Bern back.

“If there’s any law, I’ll make him settle!” snarled Barker. “If the law isn’t sufficient, I’ll take the matter into my own hands!”

“You’ve been piling up a right stiff account, Barker,” Rod flung back; “and on settlement day you may get all that’s coming to you in a lump sum, which possibly will be some more than you’re looking for.”

“So you refuse to come down to Lawyer Frances’ office, do ye?” questioned the deputy sheriff. “Well, you’ll be li’ble to land in the lockup when I have the warrant to serve on ye. Come on, Barker, we’ll go see Frances and fix things up. That’s the proper way to proceed, now that you’re dead sartain of your ground.”

They turned back toward the village, leaving the boy from Texas gazing after them. As their dark figures melted into the fast deepening darkness, Grant spoke in a low, hard tone.

“Yes, settlement day draws near, Mr. Barker, and when it arrives there’ll be a clean wipe-out of the account between us.”

CHAPTER XXVI.
GRANT’S DEFIANCE

It was impossible for Rod wholly to conceal his disturbed state of mind from his aunt, but he skillfully evaded answering her questions, by which she sought to learn what was the trouble. If the implicating handkerchief had been found by Barker, Springer and Piper, as stated, he wondered how it had come to be where it was discovered, and slowly a suspicion and a possible solution crept into his mind. Nevertheless, he was not yet satisfied that a “job” had not been put up on him by Barker, and he felt a strong desire to question Springer and Piper. Later, if they persisted in corroborating Barker’s words, he would find the fellow on whom his suspicions had turned and give him a taste of the “third degree.”

Unable to remain inactive while his enemy was at work, and really dreading the reappearance of Deputy Sheriff Pickle with a warrant for his arrest, Rod made an excuse to go for the mail and set his feet toward the village. He was hesitating about entering the postoffice when some one called to him from the shadows between two buildings.

“Davis!” he breathed. “Perhaps this is as good a time as any.”

“’St!” hissed Spotty. “Come here, Rod, old feller. Something doin’.”

Grant joined him. “What is it, Davis? What’s up?”

“I don’t know just what’s up,” answered Spotty; “but there’s something in the air, you bet. See that light in the winder over there?” He pointed to a lighted window over one of the stores across the street.

“Yes.”

“That’s old Shyster Frances’ office. They’ve got Bunk up there, and I guess they’re goin’ for him. Wonder what he’s done now?”

“Got Lander up there, have they? Who’s got him?”

“Old Pickle marched him up the stairs, and I see Berlin Barker and his father foller. Can’t be they’re doin’ anything about that old affair, and I’m guessin’ what Bunk’s been into lately.”

“I reckon I know what they’re trying to do,” growled Rod, “and I judge it’s about time I strolled in on them myself.”

He started, and Davis, springing forward, grabbed his arm.

“What are you goin’ to do, Rod?” palpitated Spotty. “It ain’t nothin’ to you. You better keep away.”

The boy from Texas shook him off. “Let go! Bunk stood by me when I was in a right bad scrape. Perhaps you’d better come along, too.”

“Not on your life!” said Spotty, hurriedly retreating in great alarm. “They don’t get me into no mess.”

Rodney crossed the street and unhesitatingly mounted the stairs leading to the door of Lawyer Frances’ office. Perhaps William Pickle was prepared with the warrant for his arrest, but that did not lead him to hesitate or falter for a second. He saw the lawyer’s name lettered in black on the ground glass of the door, through which the light from within faintly shone, and his steady hand found the knob.

The lawyer was sitting at his desk with his swivel chair turned sidewise so that he could face Lander, who, wearing a sullen look of defiance, stood a few feet away. Berlin Barker’s father was also seated, with Berlin standing beside his chair. Deputy Sheriff Pickle was posted within four feet of the office door. As that door swung open and the new arrival stepped boldly in, every eye switched from Lander, and Bunk, seeing Rod, uttered an exclamation of relief and satisfaction.

“Here he is!” he cried. “Now you can question him yourselves. This bunch has been trying to force me into lying about what was done this morning, Rod. Somebody shot Barker’s hound, and – ”

“Be quiet, Lander!” ordered the lawyer, bringing his knuckles down sharply on the edge of his desk. “Close the door, Pickle. It is rather fortunate this young man chose to come here at this time. Perhaps he has decided to make a confession, which is certainly the wisest course he can pursue.”

“I haven’t anything whatever to confess, Mr. Frances,” said Rodney boldly. “Hearing that Lander had been brought here, I knew well enough what you were trying to do with him, and so – ”

“And so he come running, for fear Lander would peach,” interrupted Berlin Barker.

“I didn’t have nothing to tell, and if I had I wouldn’t ’a’ told it,” said Bunk.

“You can see the disposition of the boy, Mr. Frances,” said Berlin’s father. “He brazenly acknowledges that he wouldn’t tell under any circumstances.”

“But,” put in Rod at once, “he states the truth when he says he has nothing to tell. Where are Springer and Piper? I’d like to ask them if they saw Berlin Barker find my silk handkerchief, as he claimed he did, somewhere back of Turkey Hill.”

“They have already made such a statement in my presence,” announced the lawyer. “The evidence is against you, young man, and the easiest way out of your trouble is to own up and settle for that valuable dog which you maliciously slaughtered.”

“I object to your language, sir. I know nothing whatever about the shooting of Barker’s dog.”

“Will you explain how your handkerchief came to be found where it was?”

“I can’t explain that – at present,” confessed Rod. “All I have to say is that somebody must have stolen it from me and lost it there.”

Berlin sneered, and his father, pulling a grieved and indignant countenance, said:

“Such a subterfuge is palpably puerile. According to all reports, young Grant, since appearing in this town, has plainly shown himself to be a vicious and undesirable character – such a boy as must contaminate those with whom he associates. He has likewise shown what he is by choosing as companions the worst boys of Oakdale.”

“Got your hammer out, old man,” growled Lander. “You’re one of the kind that don’t want to give a feller no show, and there’s plenty of ’em ’round here. Mebbe you think your own son is a little white saint, but – ”

“Silence, you young reprobate!” cried Mr. Barker, rising to his feet. “You’ve been watched since you came back here, and – ”

“Oh, yes, I’ve been watched – I know it. Give a chap a black name and then kick him is the way they do hereabouts.”

Grant’s calm defiance had stiffened Lander’s backbone, and he was not at all terrified by the aspect of Mr. Barker.

“Without no cause,” he went on, “your son’s tried to soak Rod Grant, and it’s made him madder’n a hornet ’cause he ain’t come out of his tricks with flying colors. If I’d been in Rod’s place, he’d found himself up against something hot long ago.”

“Never mind taking up my battle, Lander,” said Rodney. “I reckon I can take care of myself. All I ask of you is that you stick to the straight truth and don’t let any one frighten you into lying.”

“That’s what they was tryin’ to do. They was even callin’ up that old scrape and tryin’ to make me believe something would be done if I didn’t go back on you and tell a mess of stuff that wasn’t true. They can’t prove anything against ye, Rod; the straight facts make an alibi, as they call it in law, and they’ll never git only straight goods from me.”

Satisfied now that, in spite of the seeming incriminating evidence of the handkerchief, his enemy could prove nothing, Grant uttered a bold defiance:

“I’m here. If they want to arrest me let them do so. Have you a warrant for me, Mr. Pickle?”

“Not yet,” acknowledged the deputy sheriff; “but I’m reddy to serve it as soon’s it’s placed in my han’s.”

“Do you wish to swear out a warrant, Barker?” asked the lawyer.

Mr. Barker cleared his throat, his manner plainly indicating an uncertain state of mind.

“Why, I – I don’t think it’s absolutely necessary to-night, Frances. The fellow won’t be likely to get away, and we may obtain further evidence bearing on the case. That hound was a valuable dog. I paid a fancy price for him, in order that Berlin might have a good rabbit dog, and I’m naturally intensely outraged and highly indignant over the action of this boy in shooting – ”

“I object to your language, also, sir,” cried Rod. “You must plainly realize that the proof on which you base such a malicious charge is worthless, and your persistence in it is plain slander.”

“We’ll get him yet,” declared Berlin savagely – “we’ll get him unless he runs away.”

“I’m not even going to run away as far as Clearport,” returned the boy from Texas cuttingly. “You won’t find me imitating your example, Mr. Barker.”

“If he should run away,” said Berlin’s father, “it might be a good thing for the town; it can spare him and his well chosen companions.”

“Don’t you reckon on it,” advised Rod. “I’m going to stay right here in Oakdale and see this thing through. Maybe when the straight truth comes out you’ll owe me an apology; but, if you’re like your son, I don’t opine I’ll get one. Come, Bunk, let’s pike along.”

“Sure,” said Lander, starting with great willingness.

Pickle stepped in front of the door, giving Mr. Barker a questioning glance.

“Let them go,” said the man; and Rod passed out, with Lander, grinning, at his heels.

CHAPTER XXVII.
SPOTTY REFUSES TO TALK

As they reached the street Lander broke into a hoarse, triumphant chuckle of satisfaction.

“They didn’t bluff us none, did they, Roddy, old chap?” he said. “You sure did poke it to old man Barker and his measly cub. It done me good to see you stand up to ’em that fashion. But say, what sort of a dirty rinktum has Berlin Barker been tryin’ to put up on you now? He’s the limit, that snake-in-the-grass. ’Twouldn’t surprise me if he shot his own dog so’s to lay it onto you.”

“No, Bunk, I hardly think he did that.”

“Well, you don’t take no stock in that handkerchief gag, do ye? He never found your handkerchief the way he claims he did.”

“I don’t know whether he did or not,” confessed Rod. “Not that I believe him any too good to try to throw the blame of this thing onto me by a trick of that sort, but I can’t quite come to think that Springer or Piper would back him up.”

“Mebbe he fooled ’em. P’r’aps he had the handkerchief in his pocket and jest flung it on the bush when they wasn’t lookin’. Then he could call their attention to it and make b’lieve he’d jest seen it.”

“I have thought of that myself, Bunk, and I’m going to ask Springer and Piper a few questions. In the meantime, however, I’m some anxious to interrogate another chap. I wonder where Davis is? He told me they had you up there in the lawyer’s office, and I left him out here.”

But Spotty had vanished, and he was not to be found anywhere in the vicinity.

“He’s a thin-blooded rat,” said Bunk. “I always knowed it, but he was the only feller who’d have anything to do with me arter I come back to Oakdale, so I picked up with him. I say, Rod, it ain’t done you much good chummin’ with us two; for we’re both marked, and it don’t make no difference what we do, folks is bound to say we’re tough nuts and can’t be any different. That’s what makes me raw all the way through. If a feller happens to make one bad mistake and gits into a tight box people never seem to forget it, and they’re always lookin’ for him to do the same thing over again, or worse. It’s discouraging, Rod. Why, even if I wanted to be a decent feller and tried to be, who’d give me any encouragement? Not a blame soul.”

“You’re mistaken, Lander, old chap; I would.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right; but then, you’re different from these narrer-laced, hide-bound muckers ’round here. If they could only catch me foul now, so they could put me down and out for good, it would make ’em bust wide open with glee. No, ’tain’t no use for a feller to try to be square and decent.”

“Don’t you believe it, Lander; the fellow who will try to be decent, and stick to it in spite of everything, is right sure to come out on top and win universal respect in the end. It’s only a matter of strength and resolution to fight to the finish, that’s all.”

“Mebbe so,” admitted the other boy, hunching his shoulders and shaking his head doubtfully; “but I ain’t never seen nothing to make me believe it. Do you think you’re goin’ to come out on top here in Oakdale? Have you got a notion that you’ll succeed, in spite of Barker and everybody else that’s turned against ye, in winnin’ the respect of the majority of folks ’round these parts? Say, old pal, forget it! You never will. It’s a losing game, and you might as well make up your mind to that fust as last. You ain’t obliged to stay here, and if I was in your place I own up I wouldn’t stay no longer’n I could pack my duds and catch a train bound for other parts.”

“Lander, my father sent me here to school because I have an aunt in this town with whom I can live, and unless he takes me away in opposition to my wishes you can safely bet I’m going to stay here and finish my course at Oakdale Academy. I’ll admit it’s not any too pleasant for me, but my blood is up, and I’m a Grant. I’ve never known a quitter by that name.”

Bunk peered admiringly at the speaker, even as he observed: “Funny the fellers ’round here should size you up as a quitter, but I cal’late you’re to blame for that by the way you sorter let Barker run over you to start with. Why you done it I can’t make out, for I’ve seen enough of ye to know that you ain’t no coward.”

“Thanks,” said Rod, with a short laugh. “Most persons have right good reasons for their acts, and this was true in my case. I’m going to look for Spotty at his home now. Will you come along?”

“Guess I will, though you’ve got me guessin’ why you want to see him so bad.”

“If I get a chance to talk with him to-night, perhaps you’ll find out.”

But at the home of Davis they were informed by the boy’s mother that he had not returned from the village. They waited a while outside the house, only to be disappointed by the failure of Spotty to put in an appearance. Finally Rod said:

“I’ll see him to-morrow; it will give me more time to think the matter over.”

Still wondering why Grant was so earnestly desirous to see Davis, Bunk bade him good night and they separated.

Ere Rod slept that night he spent a long time thinking the matter over and planning out a diplomatic method of handling Spotty and getting the exact truth from him; for somehow he felt strangely confident that the fellow could clear up the mystery connected with the shooting of Silver Tongue.

Shortly after nine o’clock Sunday morning the boy from Texas again knocked at the door of Davis’ home. Mrs. Davis, a thin, care-worn, slatternly woman, answered that knock and informed him that Spotty was still in bed.

“He ain’t very well this morning; he says he’s sick,” she explained. “He wouldn’t git up to eat no breakfast.”

“I’d like very much to see him for a few minutes, Mrs. Davis,” urged Rod. “Can’t I do so?”

“Well, I dunno. He won’t like to be disturbed; he gits awful cross and snappy when he is. Still, seein’s you and him is friendly, I guess you can go up to his room. It’s the open chamber straight ahead at the top of the stairs.”

Grant opened the door at the head of the stairs and walked into the barnlike, unfinished chamber beneath the roof. As he did so some one wrapped in several old quilts started up on a bed and looked at him. It was Spotty, who immediately sank down with a groan.

“What’s the matter, Spotty, old chap?” asked Rod kindly, as he stopped beside the bed. “Aren’t you feeling well this morning?”

“Oh, I’m sick – I’m sick!” moaned Davis. “Go ’way! I don’t want to see nobody.”

“What ails you?”

“I dunno, but I’m awful sick. My head aches terrible, and I feel rotten mean all over.”

“Perhaps you ought to have a doctor.”

“I don’t want no doctor. I guess I’ll be all right in a day or two. Don’t talk to me; it makes me worse.”

“But I want to talk to you a few minutes, Spotty,” said Rod, sitting down on a broken chair close by and putting out a hand to touch the fellow’s forehead, which caused him to shrink and grumble. “Your head doesn’t seem to be hot. Perhaps you’d feel better if you got up.”

“No, sir, I wouldn’t. Guess I know. How’d you git in, anyhow? I told the old lady I was feelin’ rotten and didn’t want nobody to bother me.”

“Your mother knew we were friends, and so she let me in to see you.”

“She’ll hear from me when I do get up. She ought to know better.”

“Oh, come, come, Spotty. Of course she reckoned I’d sympathize with you if you were sick. Have you heard about what happened to Barker’s dog?”

The body of the boy beneath the quilts twitched the least bit.

“Ain’t heard nothing,” he growled. “Don’t want to hear anything now.”

“Somebody shot Silver Tongue, and Berlin is pretty hot over it. You know how much I like Barker. It would do me good to find out who killed his dog.”

One of Davis’ hands crept up to the edge of the quilt, which he pulled down a bit, turning a foxy eye toward the visitor; but, immediately on meeting Rod’s gaze, he sank his head back beneath those quilts, like a turtle pulling into its shell.

“I don’t care,” he mumbled under the covers; “I don’t care about nothing now.”

“He thinks I shot Silver Tongue,” said Rod, as if it was something of a joke; “but I didn’t get the chance.”

No sound from Spotty.

“If I had,” Grant continued – “well, I won’t say what might have happened.”

Still the boy in the bed remained silent.

“You know he threatened to shoot old Rouser,” Rod pursued, “and there are some persons who might feel that he simply got a dose of his own medicine. Don’t you say so?”

“I’m sick,” persisted Spotty in a muffled tone. “I ain’t goin’ to talk.”

“I just thought I’d let you know about it, for I reckoned you’d be interested. Oh, here’s one of the neckties I gave you hanging on a hook. Do you know, I lost my red silk handkerchief. You didn’t borrow it, did you, Spotty?”

“Borrer it!” growled Davis. “You know I didn’t. What are you talkin’ about?”

“Oh, I didn’t know, seeing as we’re friends, but you took it for a joke, or something like that.”

“Well, I didn’t, and now I won’t talk no more if you set there and chin for a week.”

Nor could Rod get another word out of Spotty, and he was finally compelled to depart in some disappointment, although more than half satisfied that his suspicions concerning the fellow were well grounded.