Dick Kent on Special Duty 26

Dick Kent on Special Duty 26

“October 1, 1915,” Sandy read on. “I can scarcely believe it yet.

Perhaps there is a redeeming trait in the boy after all. At any rate,

Reynold came to me this morning, as I was preparing to leave, and gave

me my book. I was so astounded that I simply stood staring at him.

According to his story—which, of course, I accepted, although I knew it

was a lie, ‘trembling unto heaven’—he had found the book after my last

visit here. He found it in my room, he explained, ‘just where I had

dropped it.’ I breathed a sigh of relief that was almost a gasp, thrust

the accursed thing hastily into my pocket and departed thence—_sans_ two

nuggets (worth about twenty dollars) which I had given him as a reward

for his honesty.”

 

“The brat!” choked Wyatt.

 

“Yes,” stormed Rand, “that young scoundrel concocted a devil’s mess

indeed. He’s the one that ought to be hanged for Dewberry’s murder.”

 

“But why?” Dick asked innocently.

 

“Why? Can’t you see. It’s as plain as the nose on your face. He copied

the contents of the note-book and gave it to Emery and MacGregor.”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXIV

CARSON’S SON

 

 

Several weeks had passed. They were back in the North Country again—all

except Wyatt. Outside the door of the trading room at Fort Good Faith,

Sandy and Toma were bidding Corporal Rand and Dick good-bye, and wishing

devoutly that they too might have been permitted to accompany the

policeman on this—the last stage of a memorable journey.

 

Dick had been more than fortunate, they considered, in receiving

official sanction to be in at the finish. He had earned this privilege,

to be sure, but for that matter, hadn’t they? For weeks now they had

been pursuing what had at first appeared to be a phantom. The phantom

had taken form. The mystery had been uncovered. Step by step, day by

day, slowly and inexorably events had moved to an ultimate end. The

guilty were about to be punished. A few more things to do, then—

 

“Hang it all,” thought Sandy, “the real work is over anyway. I’ve done

my part. They can’t say I haven’t. This case is run to earth. What

little excitement remains, Dick is welcome to. Toma and I both need a

rest.”

 

Thus philosophically dismissing the matter, he and Toma went fishing;

and Corporal Rand and Dick made their way on horseback to the foothills,

arriving at the Carson cabin one evening before dusk.

 

Mrs. Carson met them at the door. She smiled her greeting and led the

way into the house. A sort of motherly person, Dick thought.

 

“I hadn’t expected anyone at this time of the year,” she told them

laughing, at the same time brushing back a dark wisp of hair that had

fallen over her kindly forehead. “I’m afraid you’ll find everything in

disorder. We’ve been drying saskatoons for the winter. Mr. Carson is in

the kitchen helping now. He’ll come right in.”

 

True to his wife’s prediction, Mr. Carson came right in and, looking at

him, Dick became heartily sick of the whole business. Carson was the

sort of man one couldn’t help but like instantly. A much older man than

Dick had expected, yet agile enough in spite of the white crown of hair,

and handsome in a dignified way. He shook hands and took a seat

opposite.

 

“Everyone is welcome here. You’re tired, I expect.”

 

“And hungry,” Corporal Rand amended.

 

“Mrs. Carson will soon attend to that,” her husband smiled. “She’ll have

something ready in a few minutes. Have you come far?”

 

“From Fort Good Faith.”

 

A girl appeared in the open doorway, having come noiselessly, and stood,

staring at them. The young lady mentioned in Dewberry’s diary, Dick

surmised. She continued to stare as the now somewhat bashful young man

stole a glance in her direction, then quickly dropped his gaze.

 

“Gertrude,” expostulated her father, “that isn’t nice. Either come

forward and be introduced or return to the kitchen. My daughter,” he

explained, turning his head and speaking to Rand. Gertrude made a wry

face, shrugged her pretty shoulders and returned to the room, where her

mother was preparing the evening meal. Her place was immediately usurped

by a tall youth, older than Dick, who took up the business of staring

with considerably more energy and effect, adding a dark scowl or two for

good measure. As this was the young man he and Corporal Rand had come

all that way to interview, Dick lost no time in giving him a careful

appraisal.

 

Reynold Carson’s appearance was not prepossessing. He resembled neither

of his parents. Unlike his sister, he was not good-looking. His mouth

turned down at the corners. An unpleasant habit of scowling had etched

two deep lines across his narrow forehead.

 

“A young cutthroat and no mistake,” mused Dick, remembering Dewberry’s

verbal picture of him.

 

It was not until after supper that Rand stated his errand. All except

Mrs. Carson were in the room. The boy and girl sat in one corner and

conversed in low tones. Rand and Carson had pushed back their chairs

from the supper table and had lit their pipes.

 

“Came over from Fort Good Faith,” said Rand, endeavoring to keep his

voice steady, “to see your son. There’s a certain matter Mr. Carson,

that I’d like to discuss with him. It’s important.”

 

“Yes, yes—” Carson removed his pipe and seemed to exhale the words with

the smoke. “Reynold—” he trembled. “What—what has he done?”

 

The policeman placed one hand on the old man’s shoulder.

 

“I—I hate to do this. I wish it wasn’t necessary to tell you. You—you

understand my position. It’s hard for me—hard for all of us.”

 

Dick choked and turned away his head. His heart had gone out to this

poor old man, and he just _couldn’t_ look at him now. And then, too,

there was the boy’s mother. Thinking about her— It was terrible! She

mustn’t come into the room. She mustn’t hear what Rand was saying.

 

“It’s in connection with Dewberry’s murder. Indirectly your son is

implicated. I—I—”

 

Carson shrank back in his chair, threw up his hands in front of his face

and moaned in misery—in terror. Reynold, who had heard his name

mentioned, and perceived his father thus afflicted, got unsteadily to

his feet and came stumbling across the floor, glaring at Rand.

 

“What you doing to dad?” he demanded.

 

Carson sat up, endeavoring to get a better grip of himself. Almost

fiercely he turned upon his son.

 

“Reynold, you’re in trouble. The police have come for you. What have you

done? Speak up, boy; speak up! My God!—this will kill your mother.”

 

“He lies! He lies!” stormed the boy. “I’ve done nothing. He lies!”

 

The corporal held up his hand, commanding silence.

 

“Sit down, Reynold—and keep quiet. You probably don’t know what it’s all

about—yet. Listen to me. Answer my questions. No! Don’t try that,” he

warned, as Carson’s son reached for his knife. “Sit down!”

 

“You’re lying,” whimpered the boy, taking a chair next to his father.

 

“Reynold, I wish you wouldn’t say that,” pleaded the old man. “He may be

mistaken, but—but he isn’t lying.”

 

“I haven’t done a thing,” protested the boy.

 

“Perhaps you’ve almost forgotten the incident,” Rand cleared his throat,

“but there was a note-book. You found a note-book belonging to Dewberry.

Isn’t that right?”

 

“Yes,” Reynold acknowledged. “I did.”

 

“I remember that too,” said Carson brightening a little. “Reynold said

he found it in Mr. Dewberry’s room. The prospector had—had mislaid it, I

believe.”

 

“I gave it back to Dewberry,” stated the young man defiantly. “You don’t

think I stole it, do you? I gave it back to him.”

 

“Quite right,” said Rand. “But is that all?”

 

“All! O’ course, it is. What you tryin’ to insinuate?”

 

“I’m trying to insinuate,” the policeman was very deliberate in his

choice of words now, “that you read the book, copied something out of it

and afterward sold that copy to two men—Emery and MacGregor. You did

that, didn’t you?”

 

Reynold seemed to sink into his chair. His lips were white. Either he

could not or would not answer. Feeling faint, Dick looked out of a

window. Shadows were falling everywhere outside. The trees were black

silhouettes. Night was shaking out its mantle from a metal-colored sky.

There was no brightness or radiance anywhere except a single orange

streak in the west, a sinister orange streak that marked the place where

the sun had gone down.

 

“If he doesn’t confess,” thought Dick, “and have this over with, I’ll go

crazy.”

 

A voice, trembling but defiant, broke across the silence.