Scott Morgan
Boys of Oakdale Academy
CHAPTER XXII.
THE FATE OF SILVER TONGUE
Following Barker’s lead, some of the boys derided certain features of Piper’s story, it being difficult for them to believe that the seemingly boastful, but timid, Texan could have mustered courage to match himself barehanded against Lander. Spotty Davis arriving, they questioned him. At first Davis betrayed amazement, but when pressed hard he denied everything.
“Who’s been tellin’ there was any trouble between me and Bunk?” he cried. “There ain’t nothin’ to it. Why, we wouldn’t have a fallin’ out over cards nor anything else. Some sneakin’ spy made up that yarn.”
“I think that settles it,” laughed Barker.
No one ventured to say anything to Grant, who, as usual, was quiet and reserved, and held himself aloof.
“As docile as a sick kitten,” chuckled Cooper. “Think of Sleuth comparing him to a grizzly bear! My! but Piper’ll get dotty if he don’t stop reading the rot he feeds on.”
After supper that evening Davis again called on Rodney Grant.
“I want to thank you for what you done last night, Rod,” said Spotty, accepting the easy chair and bringing forth his cigarettes. “Thought it wasn’t best for anybody to see us talkin’ together around the academy to-day. Say, do you know some sneak was spyin’ on us?”
“Spying?” questioned Grant. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that somebody saw that mix-up at the camp.”
“Impossible!”
“They did,” persisted Davis. “Four or five fellers asked me about it just as soon’s I got to the academy this morning.”
“I don’t see how any one could know,” muttered the boy from Texas, in perplexity.
“I’ve been thinkin’ it over. There was only one way: somebody must have followed us and peeked in at the winder.”
“I hope not,” said Rod, tapping the chair restlessly with his knuckles. “What did you tell the fellows who questioned you?”
“Nothin’; I just denied everything flat. Say, have you seen Bunk to-day?”
“No.”
“Nor I. Jingoes! but you did slam him around fierce. You scat me when you took to chokin’ him that way. I never saw anybody look so savage in my life as you did, and I swear I thought you meant to kill him.”
Rodney Grant shrugged his shoulders, and it almost seemed as if he shivered a bit.
“I lost my temper, Spotty, and that’s a bad thing for anybody to do – especially bad for me. I’m glad you grabbed my wrists and shouted at me just as you did, for it sort of brought me to my senses.”
“I bet Bunk was astonished. He didn’t think you’d do anything like that – didn’t think you could. I don’t understand why you’ve taken so much sass off Rollins and Barker. I’ll guarantee you could wallop either one of them in a minute and a half. No, sir, I don’t understand it.”
“Perhaps you don’t, but I do, Spotty, and that’s plenty sufficient.”
“Lander was a chump to get mad the way he did.”
“But he caught you slipping a card off the pack. Really, you were to blame, Davis – and I was to blame, too.”
“You? Why, you didn’t play.”
“No; but I sat there and looked on, knowing all the time that card playing for money is bad business, just as I think I told you once before.”
“Bunk didn’t really have no kick comin’, for he’s slippery with the pasteboards himself. I was just tryin’ to hold up my end with him.”
“The chap who plays cards with any one he knows to be crooked is doubly foolish, as there’s only one way for him to escape being trimmed: he must cheat also. Where did you get the money to play with, Spotty?”
“I – oh, I got it by – by sellin’ something. What makes you ask?”
“I knew you were broke a few days ago,” said Grant, his steady eyes fixed on Spotty’s flushed and confused face.
“Sometimes I have a little change in my clothes. Occasionally the old man digs up for me, you know.”
“Well, I hope that hereafter you’ll know better than to play cards for money. It’s dead sure you’ll not play while I’m around, for I got my lesson. You weren’t at school this afternoon.”
“No; ain’t comin’ no more this term. There’s only another week of it, anyhow.”
“Not coming any more? Why not?”
“Didn’t you hear about it? I had a mix-up with Barker to-day noon, and the old prof took a hand in it.”
“What sort of a mix-up?”
“Oh, Barker happened to catch me lookin’ into his desk, and he proceeded to put his paws on me.”
“Why were you looking in his desk?”
“Lost my algebra,” answered Spotty glibly, “and I was lookin’ ’round for it. Barker come up behind me, and we was tumblin’ ’round in the aisle when the old prof appeared and dipped right in. Jinks! I was hoppin’ mad. But he wasn’t fair, anyhow; he went for me and hardly said a word to Barker. When I answered back he told me to go home and stay there until I was ready to apologize. I don’t care a rap. I shan’t apologize now, for I’ll dodge the final examinations, and I don’t believe I could pass ’em. But, say! you just wait till I get some kind of a chance to square up with Barker! I’ve got it in for him, and I’ll make him pay. He’ll wish he never put his fins on me.”
“You’re sure revengeful, Spotty,” laughed Rod; “but I opine it’s mostly hot air with you. You talk a plenty, but you wouldn’t really do anything.”
“Oh, wouldn’t I! You don’t know me. Perhaps you’ll change your mind about me some day. I don’t forgit things, and I don’t forgive, either.”
“That’s a right bad policy.”
“You needn’t talk! It don’t strike me that you’re one of the forgivin’ kind. I hain’t seen you snoopin’ ’round after any of the fellers that’s done you dirt.”
“Hardly. I’m not disposed to beg my enemies to accept my forgiveness, but if they should come to me man-fashion and ask to be forgiven, that would be different.”
“I don’t s’pose you’re chump enough to fancy they’ll ever do anything like that?”
“No, indeed. Still, as long as they let me alone things will move along right placid and serene.”
“But Barker didn’t let me alone. He won’t let you alone, either. He’s got it in for you, and he’s goin’ to soak you any chance he gets. He don’t like me because I told the truth about his chum, Bern Hayden, and saved my own neck by it. That’s a peach of a necktie you’re wearin’, Rod. Where’d you git it? Didn’t buy it ’round these parts, did ye?”
“Oh, no; I had it when I came here. Put in a full supply, you know.”
“You’re sort of dressin’ more’n you did at first. I don’t blame ye; I’d wear swell togs if I had ’em. This old tie of mine is gittin’ on the bum, but it’s all I’ve got.”
Smiling, Grant rose, opened a drawer and brought forth a number of neckties, which he tossed on the table. “Take your pick out of those,” he said. “You may have your choice.”
“Thanks,” cried Spotty eagerly. “This bright blue one just about hits me.”
“You seem to like bright colors.”
“I guess I do, reds and blues in particular.”
“Well, I’ve got a red one somewhere that you may have also,” said Rod, rummaging in the drawer, from which he removed handkerchiefs, collars and various other articles. “I don’t care for it much. I wonder where the thing is. I believe I threw it on the top shelf in the closet.” He opened the closet door and stepped inside, leaving Davis, who had risen to his feet, inspecting and admiring those articles of personal adornment which had been brought forth from the drawer.
In a few minutes, discovering the red necktie, Rod reappeared and passed it over, Spotty again expressing his thanks.
“I’ll cut a swell with this,” grinned the visitor.
They chatted a while longer, and finally Davis took his departure.
The following day Spotty loafed around the village, proudly wearing the red necktie.
Saturday dawned cold, bleak and threatening; the sky was heavy and the air chill and penetrating; it was one of those depressing winter mornings which gives a person in the country a feeling of loneliness.
Springer and Piper, on their way past Barker’s home, saw Berlin appear in the open stable door with a piece of rope in his hand. They stopped and called to him, and he beckoned.
“Cuc-come on,” said Springer, leading the way toward the stable.
“Seen anything of my dog, fellows?” asked Berlin.
“I haven’t,” answered Phil.
“Nor I,” said Sleuth. “Lost him?”
“He chewed off his rope and got out. It’s the second time he’s done it this week. Sawyer lets his old hound run loose, and when Silver Tongue gets out they go off into the woods together and run rabbits. I don’t like it. I’ll have to get a chain for Silver Tongue, and I’m going to tell Sawyer he’d better keep his hound tied up. It spoils a young dog to range the woods without his master. Going to snow, isn’t it?”
“My deduction is that it will,” nodded Sleuth. “By the inclement aspect of the weather, I should say we were due to get a stiff old storm.”
“That will spoil the sus-sliding,” complained Springer. “The hill has just got into good shape, too. Don’t seem as if a fellow can more than begin to have good fuf-fun before something happens to spoil it. Snow fixed our skating, and now if we get a big lot of it it will put our sliding on the punk for a while. Then what will we do?”
“We’ll have to get our fun indoors. There’s basketball, you know, and it’s time we were at it. Wonder if Stone is going to play?”
“I dunno,” said Sleuth; “but my deduction is – ”
“Your deductions are generally bad.”
“Is that so!” cried Piper resentfully. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten my remarkable work in the Ben Stone-Bern Hayden case? I received the unqualified and flattering approval of the judge for that.”
“Oh, it was accidental; you just happened to guess right once in your life. I’m going down town to see if I can get trace of Silver Tongue. Come on with me.”
But barely had they started when Sleuth Piper uttered a cry and pointed: “There’s your dog now! What’s the matter with him? He’s hurt.”
The young hound had appeared, and he was barely dragging himself along as he crept staggering toward the stable, an occasional low, moaning whine coming from his lips.
Barker uttered a shout and ran toward the dog. As he approached he saw that Silver Tongue was leaving a bloody trail behind him, and also that there was a shocking gory wound in the animal’s side. At Bern’s feet the creature sank on the snow, uttering a mournful, quavering, heart-piercing howl.
Three agitated, sickened boys gazed down at the stricken dog. Barker’s face was ghastly white, and he choked as he cried:
“Somebody has shot him! Oh, the whelp – the wretch!”
CHAPTER XXIII.
FOLLOWING THE TRAIL
Half an hour later, lying on a blanket in the stable, the dog breathed its last, while the three enraged and sorrowful lads stood looking on. Barker’s face was grim and bitter, his heart bursting with the wrath his lips could find no words to express.
Springer drew Piper aside. “Who do you sus-suppose would do a miserable, dirty thing like that, Sleuth?” he asked in a whisper.
“Not having had time to investigate the affair thoroughly, I’m not fully prepared to answer your question, Phil; but my deduction is that some one shot the poor hound with malice aforethought, or words to that effect.”
“It doesn’t require extreme perspicacity to arrive at that conclusion,” returned Springer sarcastically. “It was a low-down, murderous trick, and the contemptible sneak who did it ought to smart for it. The thing is to find out who it was.”
“Berlin isn’t popular. He has a number of enemies, and any one of these before-mentioned enemies might have – ”
“Not any one of them; only a fellow of the very lowest and most vicious type would shoot a harmless dog in order to hurt the creature’s master. Of course I wouldn’t make any accusations – yet; but there are two fellows in town I’d suspect more than any one else.”
“In full and complete assurance of confidence, you may mention their names for my listening ear.”
“Oh, you can guess. I mean Lander and Davis.”
“H’m!” said Sleuth, leaning his chin on his clenched fist and puckering his brow into an expression of profound meditation and thought. “There’s yet another whose name has flashed comet-wise through my mind.”
“You mean – ”
“Grant!” whispered Piper, straightening out his index finger and pressing it against his lips.
Phil shook his head. “No, Sleuth, I can’t think it of that fuf-fellow. As unpopular as Grant is, I don’t believe he’d do such a contemptible thing.”
“Perhaps not,” admitted Sleuth; “but it’s the method of great detectives to take every suspicious person into consideration. I’ll stake my personal reputation on it that one of the three parties mentioned is the culpable wretch. If you had seen what my eyes beheld over at Bunk Lander’s old camp on a certain dark and dismal night, if you had witnessed the venomous rage with which Rod Grant fastened his clutches on the throat of said Lander, you might now be disposed to think him capable even of such an act as this.”
“But Davis denied that story; he said there wasn’t a word of truth in it.”
“And lied in his false throat,” growled Sleuth hoarsely. “I know what I saw, and I likewise know that Mr. Grant and Mr. Lander have not been on particularly friendly terms since that narrowly averted tragedy. On the other hand, the before-mentioned Davis and the before-said Grant have been very chummy indeed. Why, Davis has even called on Grant at the domicile of Miss Priscilla Kent – called privately, secretly, surreptitiously, under cover of darkness.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh,” answered Sleuth, throwing out his chest, “I’ve been keeping a vigilant and sleepless eye upon those parties.”
“But I can’t believe Grant would dud-do it,” persisted Springer. “Davis might, and he’s particularly sus-sore on Berlin since that little mix-up at the academy Thursday.”
“Is it not possible – indeed, probable – that both these persons were concerned?”
“I won’t believe it of Rod Grant until I see pup-proof,” said Phil.
Barker, having thrown one end of the blanket over the body of the dog, stood frowning a few moments in the open stable door, then turned suddenly to the others.
“I’m going to follow that crimson trail,” he announced. “Will you fellows come along with me?”
“You bet,” answered Springer.
“Sure we will,” nodded Sleuth eagerly.
“Then get your snowshoes, Phil, for we may need them. Here are my old ones, which I loaned Rollins last Saturday; Piper can use those. I shall take my gun.”
“You won’t nun-need a gun, will you?” faltered Springer.
“Can’t tell; I may. Hurry up after your snowshoes. We’ll be ready to start by the time you get back.”
Phil went off at a run, while Berlin and Sleuth made preparations to start out.
“My prediction is,” said Piper, “that we’ll have to hustle, for, if I mistake not, I see a feathery flake or two in the air already. It will be snowing hard in less than an hour, something on which I’ll stake my professional reputation.”
Soon Springer returned, panting and flushed, bringing his snowshoes. They were waiting for him, Berlin having his shotgun tucked under his arm. By this time the occasional snowflakes had grown more plentiful, and, in apprehension that the sanguine trail would soon be obliterated, they set forth with all possible haste.
For a short distance the crimson drops on the snow took them along the main highway, but presently they were led away across the fields toward the distant woods. More than once they found a spot where Silver Tongue, weakened and nearly exhausted, had lain for a few moments upon the snow. Over a high ridge they went, and then, having to make more speed across a drifted valley, they finally paused to step into their snowshoes. With each passing minute the snowflakes steadily grew thicker, but in the shelter of the woods this was hardly perceptible, and the red drops still guided them easily.
Few words were spoken; even Sleuth’s loquacious tongue was stilled. Their heart-beats quickened, they penetrated deeper and deeper into the woods. To Piper it seemed like a genuine man hunt, descriptions of which he had often perused with tingling nerves and intense satisfaction in the favorite stories of his choice, and in his lively imagination they were officers of the law pressing close at the heels of a fleeing malefactor.
At times the evergreen thickets were so dense that they pressed through them with no small difficulty. Once the trail led through some white birches which stood gleaming like silent ghosts there in the shadows. They came out at last to the open meadows beyond the woods and found that it was now snowing so heavily that the next strip of timber could be but dimly seen, as through a veil.
“It’s no use,” muttered Springer; “this old snowstorm is going to balk us.”
Barker, his cap pulled low over his eyes and his body bent forward to catch the occasional red stains which could still be seen through the film of snow that had already fallen, strode on without comment.
And then, at the very edge of the next timber, they found the spot where Silver Tongue had been shot. Beyond that there was no trail of blood, but Piper, searching, quickly uttered a shout of satisfaction, bringing the others hurrying toward him.
“Here’s the scoundrel’s tracks!” cried Sleuth, pointing downward. “He was on snowshoes. He stood right here behind this bunch of cedars and fired at the dog.”
“No question about it,” agreed Barker grimly. “Now we must try to follow the tracks.”
It quickly became evident that, after doing the shooting, the unknown had made off in great haste, his long strides indicating this. The tracks followed the edge of the woods for some distance and then turned into an old path, along which the pursuers were able to make considerable speed – so much, indeed, that Sleuth, who had heretofore kept close at Barker’s heels, finally dropped, panting, behind Springer. As he fell back Piper called a warning to Berlin.
“If we catch him, be careful what you do, Barker, old man; don’t lose your head, for you’ve got a loaded gun in your hands.”
Berlin made no reply.
Suddenly the snowshoe trail turned sharply off the path, and once more they found themselves pressing through tangled thickets. They came to a clearing, where there was a small, frozen, snow-buried pond, and there it was no small matter, even then, to follow that snowshoe trail.
“Five or ten minutes in the open, and he will have us bub-baffled,” muttered Springer.
“He was making for the big swamp back of Turkey Hill,” panted Piper from the rear. “There’s no shadow of doubt but he’s one of the three suspects we mentioned, Phil; and I’m dead sure I know which one.”
Once more they brushed and crashed through bushes and low-hanging branches. Finally, as they again came forth, Barker, amid a perfect tangle of brush, uttered a cry, pointing at something red which dangled from a branch.
“What is it?” questioned Springer.
“A handkerchief,” answered Berlin, securing it – “a silk handkerchief. Look here, fellows, I’ve seen this same handkerchief before. The chap we’re after must have been wearing it round his neck. He didn’t notice when it slipped off or was pulled off by catching on that bush.”
“Let me look,” begged Phil eagerly. “By jove! I’ve sus-seen it before myself! I saw it tied round the neck of a fellow only last Saturday.”
“That’s right,” nodded Berlin triumphantly. “I’m glad you were there, Phil; I’m glad you saw it, too. The name of the miserable sneak who owns this handkerchief is – ”
“Rodney Grant,” finished Springer.
“My deduction was correct,” said Piper, well pleased with himself. “He’s the feller who shot Silver Tongue.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE PROOF
In the silence which followed the soft, muffled sound of a wood-chopper’s axe drifted to their ears from the northern slope of Turkey Hill. Even the snow, which was now falling thickly, could be heard making an almost imperceptible rustling and whispering amid the bushes. Slowly Barker folded the red silk handkerchief and put it carefully away in a pocket.
“I think this will be sufficient evidence,” he said harshly; “but we may as well locate the contemptible whelp if we can, and I fancy we’ll find him with his pals at Lander’s camp. It won’t be possible to follow the snowshoe tracks more than two or three minutes longer, but he was certainly heading for that camp.”
“If we do find him, be careful with that gun of yours,” again warned Piper. “Don’t lose your head, Berlin, old man.”
“I’m not a fool,” returned Barker. “Come on.”
The snowshoe trail was soon obliterated, but the last faint tracks were plainly seen to be pointing toward the island in the heart of the swamp, and they pushed straight on. Finally the old camp came into view through the film of falling snow, and in a hoarse whisper Piper called attention to the fact that smoke was rising from the piece of rusty stovepipe which served as a chimney. With all possible caution the three trailers crept forward.
Not a sound came from within the camp; the smoking chimney was the only token which gave evidence that a human being had been there in many hours – possibly many days. After wasting some time in vain listening, Berlin suddenly made a bold move, advancing toward the door.
“Hello!” he muttered, stopping as the others came up behind him. “Look at this!”
There was a padlock on the door, securing it by means of a staple and clasp.
“My deduction is,” said Piper, “that the den is deserted and the miscreant flown.”
“He’s sus-skipped already,” said Springer.
Investigation revealed that the padlock was really locked. Then they peered in through the dingy window, and, their eyes after a time becoming accustomed to the gloomy interior, they saw beyond question that no living person was there.
“He hasn’t been gone long,” decided Barker disappointedly, “for the smoke proves that. There’s still a smoldering fire in the old stove.”
“Let’s bub-bust the door open and look the place over,” suggested Springer.
“Let me hasten to caution you against such a proceeding,” interposed Sleuth, as Barker seemed to hesitate. “The complete details of our morning’s work will doubtless be laid before the public eye, and we must take every precaution not to perpetrate any act that will rebound to our discredit. Let it not be said that, like the owner of this den of iniquity, we broke and entered.”
“It wouldn’t do any good, anyhow,” said Berlin. “We couldn’t learn anything further, and I feel certain I already have the proof that will nail the sneak fast.”
“What are you going to do about it?” questioned Phil.
“Do?” cried Barker. “I’m going to make him settle – handsomely. I’ll teach him he can’t shoot my dog without paying for it.”
“This will come pretty near fuf-fixing Mr. Grant for good around Oakdale. He’d better pull up stakes and get out.”
“He was practically fixed before this,” said Barker; “but this will certainly satisfy every doubter as to his character. Even Stone can’t have anything to say in his defense after this.”
By the time the swamp was left behind the snow was coming down in such an impenetrable mass that they could barely see a few feet in advance, and the wind was rising, forcing them to hold their heads down and bend forward as they breasted the storm.
“It’s going to be a ripper,” said Springer. “Winter came in early this year, and it’s sus-soaking it to us good.”
Down the Barville road they went, Barker silently planning his course of action toward Grant.
Until late in the afternoon the storm continued, the wind piling the snow in drifts; between three and four o’clock, however, it abated far more suddenly than it had begun. The wind died down, and the sun, setting beyond Turkey Hill, shot red gleams through a rift in the clouds, gilding the arrow-vane on the steeple of the Methodist church. Men and boys appeared everywhere with shovels, opening paths to houses and clearing the sidewalks. The loafers, who had spent the greater part of the day around the roaring stove in Stickney’s store, discussing national politics, high finance, and arguing vociferously over original methods for busting the trusts, gradually melted away until only two rheumaticky old codgers who could not wield shovels were left.
Even before the snow had ceased to fall, Rodney Grant was out and at work on the path leading to his aunt’s house, and, having begun thus early, he was able to complete the task before darkness came on. He had just disposed of the last shovelful when, straightening up, he perceived two persons plowing toward him, almost waist deep, along High Street. One was a tall, husky-looking man, and the other Rod recognized with some surprise as Berlin Barker. He flung the shovel to his shoulder and turned, but the voice of the man hailed him.
“Hold on, young feller! We want to see you a minute.”
His surprise redoubled, Grant dropped the blade of his shovel to the snow, leaned lightly on the handle and waited. The man he had often seen around Oakdale, but did not know his name. He fancied that Barker’s cold, grim face wore an expression of malignant, but repressed, triumph.
“You’re Rod Grant, old Aunt Kent’s nevvy, ain’t ye?” questioned the man, coming up.
“I am Rodney Grant, Miss Priscilla Kent’s nephew,” was the calm answer, although the man’s tone and Barker’s appearance forewarned the boy from Texas that something disagreeable was about to take place.
“I’ve got a few questions I want to ax ye, young man, and I advise ye to answer ’em truthfully.”
“Save your advice; I’m not in the habit of lying.”
Barker laughed shortly, sneeringly, and Rod was seized, as he had been scores of times before, by an intense and almost irresistible desire to lay hands on the fellow.
“All right,” said the man. “Now what I want to know fust is this: Did you go out gunnin’ early this morning?”
“Although I consider it none of your business, I’ll answer. I did not.”
“What? You didn’t? Now be keerful. Take keer. You’re li’ble to git yourself into a mess.”
“What’s the game, Mr. Man?” indignantly demanded Rod.
“You’ll find out purty quick. What did you do this morning, if you didn’t go out gunnin’?”
“I don’t mind telling you that I started to go fishing.”
“Fishin’? Ho! ho! Where was you goin’?”
“That also is none of your business, but I see no reason why I shouldn’t state truthfully that we started for Coleman’s Pond. We were going to cut holes and fish through the ice.”
“We? Who? Who was with ye?”
“Bunk Lander.”
“Didn’t you start out alone?”
“No, sir.”
“Didn’t you take a gun with ye?”
“No, sir.”
“Now hold on, hold on. Be keerful. You’re li’ble to git twisted.”
“Let me inform you, my friend, that you make me plenty tired. I don’t know what you’re driving at, but I do know that your insinuations that I am lying are insulting. There’s no reason why I should lie.”
“Mebbe not. Did you go over to Coleman’s Pond? That’s a right long distance; ’bout five miles or a little more.”
“No, we didn’t go over there.”
“Why not?”
“Because after we reached Lander’s camp, where we stopped a while, this storm began, and we decided it would be right foolish to attempt any fishing through the ice to-day.”
“H’m!” grunted the inquisitor skeptically. “Did the Lander boy have a gun with him?”
“No, sir.”
“How’d you happen to stop at his camp?”
“We went there for fishing tackle.”
“And built a fire?”
“Yes. We weren’t in any hurry and the place was cold, so Bunk started a fire.”
“H’m! You’ve got it fixed up purty well, ain’t ye?”
Rod felt his cheeks burn. “I don’t know what you mean, for there was nothing to fix up. I do know that you’re making me right sore with your questions and your nasty doubting manner, and I don’t propose to answer anything further until you inform me what all this is about. What are you driving at?”
The man reached into his pocket and brought forth a red silk handkerchief, which he offered to Rod.
“I guess you dropped this handkercher on your way, didn’t ye? It’s yourn, ain’t it?”
Grant took the handkerchief and looked at it. “Yes,” he replied, forgetting his determination to answer no more questions, “it’s mine.”
