Rivals of Sherlock Holmes, The (38 page)

  'Good fur, you mean?'

  'Good?' Sally's face flushed a soft crimson. 'Good? Why I've never seen one to match it. It was a black fox, lying dead there, but still warm, for it had but just been killed. The pelt was fair in its prime, long and silky and glossy. You can guess, November, what that meant for Danny and me next winter, that I've been worrying about a lot. The whooping-cough's weakened him down bad, and I thought of the things I could get for him while I was skinning out the pelt.' Sally's voice shook, and her eyes filled with tears. 'Oh, Joe, it's hard, hard!'

  November sat with his hands upon the table in front of him, and I saw his knuckles whiten as he gripped it.

  'Let's hear the end of it!' he said shortly, man-like showing irritation when his heart was full of pity.

  'The skin was worth eight hundred dollars anywhere, and I come home just singing. I fixed it at once, and, then being scared-like, I hid it in the cupboard over there behind those old magazines. I'd have locked it up, but I've nothing that locks. Who has on this section? Once or twice, being kind of proud of it, I looked at the skin, the last time was this morning before I went out. I was proud of it. No one but Ruby knew that I had got it. I left Ruby here, but Mrs Scats had her seventh yesterday morning, and Ruby ran over to help for a while after she put Danny to bed. The thief must have been on the watch and seen her go, and he knew I was due to visit the north line o' traps and I'd be late anyway. He laid his plan good and clever . . . '

  She stopped for a moment to pour out another cup for Joe.

  'Where's Ruby now?' he inquired.

  'She's stopping the night; they sent over to tell me,' replied Sally. 'Well, to go on, I had a lynx in one of my traps which got dragged right down by Deerhom Pond, so I was more than special late. Danny began at once to tell me about the man that came in. I rushed across and looked in the cupboard; the black fox pelt was gone, of course!'

  'What did Danny say about the man?'

  'Said he had on a big hat and a neckerchief. He didn't speak a word; gave Danny sugar, as I have said. He must 'a been here some time, for he's ransacked the place high and low, and took near every pelt I got this season.'

  Joe looked up. 'Those pelts marked?'

  'Yes, my mark's on some, seven pricks of a needle.'

  'You've looked around the house to see if he left anything?'

  'Sure!' Sally put her hand in her pocket.

  'What?'

  'Only this.' She opened her hand and disclosed a rifle cartridge.

  Joe examined it. 'Soft-nosed bullet for one of them fancy English guns. Where did you find it?'

  'On the floor by the table.'

  'Huh!' said Joe, and, picking up the lamp, he began carefully and methodically to examine every inch of the room.

  'Any one but me been using tobacco in here lately?' he asked.

  'Not that I know of,' replied Sally.

  He made no comment, but continued his search. At last he put down the lamp and resumed his chair, shaking a shred or two of something from his fingers.

  'Well?' questioned Mrs Rone.

  'A cool hand,' said November. 'When he'd got the skin, he stopped to fill his pipe. It was then he dropped the cartridge; it came out of his pocket with the pipe, I expect. All that I can tell you about him is that he smokes "Gold Nugget" – he pointed to the shreds – 'and carries a small-bore make of English rifle. . . . Hello! where's the old bitch?'

  'Old Rizpah? I dunno, less she's gone along to Scats's place. Ruby'd take her if she could, she's that scairt of the woods; but Rizpah's never left Danny before.'

  Joe drained his cup. 'We've not found much inside the house,' said he. 'As soon as the sun is up, we'll try our luck outside. Till then I guess we'd best put in a doze.'

  Mrs Rone made up a shake-down of skins near the stove, and disappeared behind the deerskin curtain. Before sleep visited me I had time to pass in review the curious circumstances which the last few hours had disclosed. Here was a woman making a noble and plucky struggle to wring a living from Nature. In my fancy I saw her working and toiling early and late in the snow and gloom. And then over the horizon of her life appeared the dastardly thief who was always waiting, always watching to defeat her efforts.

  When I woke next morning it was to see, with some astonishment, that a new personage had been drawn into our little drama of the woods. A dark-bearded man in the uniform of a game warden was sitting on the other side of the stove. He was a straightforward-looking chap getting on for middle age, but there was a certain doggedness in his aspect. Mrs Rone, who was preparing breakfast, made haste to introduce him.

  'This is Game Warden Evans, Mr Quaritch,' she said. 'He was at Scats's last night. There he heard about me losing fur from the traps, and come right over to see if he couldn't help me.'

  Having exchanged the usual salutations, Evans remarked goodhumouredly:

  'November's out trailing the robber. Him and me's been talking about the black fox pelt. Joe's wasting his time all right.'

  'How's that?' I asked, rather nettled, for wasting his time was about the last accusation I should ever have brought against my comrade.

  'Because I can tell him who the thief is.'

  'You know!' I exclaimed.

  Evans nodded. 'I can find out any time.'

  'How?'

  'Care to see?' He rose and went to the door.

  I followed. It was a clear bright morning, and the snow that had fallen on the previous day was not yet melted. We stepped out into it, but had not left the threshold when Evans touched my shoulder.

  'Guess Joe missed it,' he said, pointing with his finger.

  I turned in the direction indicated, and saw that upon one of the nails which had been driven into the door of the cabin, doubtless for the purpose of exposing skins to the warmth of the sun, some brightcoloured threads were hanging. Going nearer, I found them to be strands of pink and grey worsted, twisted together.

  'What d' you think of that?' asked Evans, with a heavy wink.

  Before I could answer, Joe came into sight round a clump of bush on the edge of the clearing.

  'Well,' called the game warden, 'any luck?'

  November walked up to us, and I waited for his answer with all the eagerness of a partisan. 'Not just exactly,' he said.

  'What do you make of that?' asked Evans again, pointing at the fluttering worsted, with a glance of suppressed triumph at Joe.

  'Huh!' said November. 'What do you?'

  'Pretty clear evidence that, ain't it? The robber caught his necker on those nails as he slipped out. We're getting closer. English rifle, "Gold Nugget" in his pipe, and a pink and grey necker. Find a chap that owns all three. It can't be difficult. Wardens have eyes in their heads as well as you, November.'

  'Sure!' agreed Joe politely but with an abstracted look as he examined the door. 'You say you found it here?'

  'Yes.'

  'Huh!' said Joe again.

  'Anything else on the trail?' asked Evans.

  November looked at him. 'He shot Rizpah.'

  'The old dog? I suppose she attacked him and he shot her.'

  'Yes, he shot her first.'

  'First? What then?'

  'He cut her nigh in pieces with his knife.'

  Without more words Joe turned back into the woods and we went after him. Hidden in a low, marshy spot, about half a mile from the house, we came upon the body of the dog. It was evident she had been shot – more than that, the carcass was hacked about in a horrible manner.

  'What do you say now, Mr Evans?' inquired Joe.

  'What do I say? I say this. When we find the thief we'll likely find the marks of Rizpah's teeth on him. That's what made him mad with rage, and...' Evans waved his hand.

  We returned to breakfast at Mrs Rone's cabin. While we were eating, Evans casually brought out a scrap of the worsted he had detached from the nail outside.

  'Seen any one with a necker like that, Mrs Rone?' he asked.

  The young woman glanced at the bit of wool, then bent over Danny as she fed him. When she raised her head I noticed that she looked very white.

  'There's more'n one of that colour hereabouts likely,' she replied, with another glance of studied indifference.

  'It's not a common pattern of wool,' said Evans. 'Well, you're all witnesses where I got it. I'm off.'

  'Where are you going?' I asked.

  'It's my business to find the man with the pink necker.'

  Evans nodded and swung off through the door.

  November looked at Sally. 'Who is he, Sally?'

  Mrs Rone's pretty forehead puckered into a frown. 'Who?'

  'Pink and grey necker,' said Joe gently.

  A rush of tears filled her red-brown eyes.

  'Val Black has one like that. I made it for him myself long ago.'

  'And he has a rifle of some English make,' added November.

  Mrs Rone started. 'So he has, but I never remembered that till this minute!' She looked back into Joe's grey eyes with indignation. 'And he smokes "Nugget" all right, too. I know it. All the same, it isn't Val!' The last words were more than an appeal; they were a statement of faith.

  'It's queer them bits of worsted on the doornails,' observed Joe judicially.

  Her colour flamed for a moment. 'Why queer? He's been here to see m' – us more'n once this time back; the nails might have caught his necker any day,' she retorted.

  'It's just possible,' agreed November in an unconvinced voice.

  'It can't be Val!' repeated Mrs Rone steadily.

  We walked away, leaving her standing in the doorway looking after us. When we were out of sight and of earshot I turned to November.

  'The evidence against Black is pretty strong. What's your notion?'

  'Can't say yet. I think we'd best join Evans; he'll be trailing the thief.'

  We made straight through the woods towards the spot where the dog's body lay. As we walked I tried again to find out Joe's opinion.

  'But the motive? Haven't Mrs Rone and Black always been on good terms?' I persisted.

  Joe allowed that was so, and added: 'Val wanted to marry her years ago, afore Joe Rone came to these parts at all, but Rone was a mighty taking kind of chap, laughing and that, and she married him.'

  'But surely Black wouldn't rob her, especially now that he has his chance again.'

  'Think not?' said Joe. 'I wonder!' After a pause he went on. 'But it ain't hard to see what'll be Evans's views on that. He'll say Val's scared of her growing too independent, for she's made good so far with her traps, and so he just naturally took a hand to frighten her into marriage. His case ag'in' Val won't break down for want of motive.'

  'One question more, Joe. Do you really think Val Black is the guilty man?'

  November Joe looked up with his quick, sudden smile. 'It'll be a shock to Evans if he ain't,' said he.

  Very soon we struck the robber's trail, and saw from a second line of tracks that Evans was ahead of us following it.

  'Here the thief goes,' said Joe. 'See, he's covered his moccasins with deerskin, and here we have Evans's tracks. He's hurrying, Evans is – he's feeling good and sure of the man he's after!'

  Twice November pointed out faint signs that meant nothing to me. 'Here's where the robber stopped to light his pipe – see, there's the mark of the butt of his gun between those roots – the snow's thin there. Must 'a' had a match, that chap,' he said after a minute, and standing with his back to the wind, he made a slight movement of his hand.

  'What are you doing?' I asked.

  'Saving myself trouble,' he turned at right angles and began searching through the trees.

  'Here it is. Hung up in a snag.... Seadog match he used.' Then, catching my eye, he went on: 'Unless he was a fool, he'd light his match with his face to the wind, wouldn't he? And most right-handed men 'ud throw the match thereabouts where I hunted for it.'

  Well on in the afternoon the trail led out to the banks of a wide and shallow stream, into the waters of which they disappeared. Here we overtook Evans. He was standing by the ashes of a fire almost on the bank.

  He looked up as we appeared. 'That you, Joe? Chap's took to the water,' said the game warden, 'but he'll have to do more than that to shake me off.'

  'Chap made this too?' inquired November with a glance at the dead fire.

  Evans nodded. 'Walked steady till he came here. Dunno what he lit the fire for. Carried grub, I s'pose.'

  'No, to cook that partridge,' said Joe.

  I glanced at Evans, his face darkened, clearly this did not please him.

  'Oh, he shot a partridge?'

  'No,' said Joe; 'he noosed it back in the spruces there. The track of the wire noose is plain, and there was some feathers. But look here, Evans, he didn't wear no pink necker.'

  Evans's annoyance passed off suddenly. 'That's funny!' said he, 'for he left more than a feather and the scrape of a wire.' The game warden pulled out a pocketbook and showed us wedged between its pages another strand of the pink and grey wool. 'I found it where he passed through those dead spruces. How's that?'

  I looked at Joe. To my surprise he threw back his head, and gave one of his rare laughs.

  'Well,' cried Evans, 'are you still sure that he didn't wear a pink necker?'

  'Surer than ever,' said Joe, and began to poke in the ashes.

  Evans eyed him for a moment, transferred his glance to me, and winked. Before long he left us, his last words being that he would have his hands on 'Pink Necker' by night. Joe sat in silence for some ten minutes after he had gone, then he rose and began to lead away southeast.