The Merry Anne 29

The Merry Anne 29

They entered, and found Beveridge and Wilson together. Beveridge closed

the door, and there the four men stood, crowded together in the narrow

space. Beveridge gave them another of his sharp glances, then he drew

from his coat pockets two revolvers and held them out, one in each hand.

 

Dick and Pink looked speechless.

 

"Well, take 'em. You boys are to help me see this thing through, now."

 

"Do you--do you mean that?"

 

"I don't joke with pistols."

 

Without more words each reached out. Dick thrust his into his hip

pocket; but Pink opened his and looked at the loaded cylinder.

 

"Now, boys," said Beveridge, "we're off." Wilson descended first to the

launch, and Dick was about to follow when Captain Sullivan hurried up

and caught his arm. "Here, here! This won't do!"

 

Dick turned, and started to speak; then, seeing that Beveridge was

approaching, he waited.

 

"That's all right, Captain," called the special agent; "let him go."

 

"Let him go!"

 

Beveridge drew the Captain aside.

 

"You aren't going to take him ashore with you?"

 

"Yes, both of 'em."

 

Anger was struggling with disgust in the Captain's face. "You'd better

hand 'em revolvers and be done with it."

 

"I've done that already."

 

"Oh, you _have!_"

 

"Yes, sir. And I don't mind telling you that, guilty or not, there

aren't two men I'd feel safer with in the Southern Peninsula."

 

"Oh, there _ain't!_" A feeble reply, but the old Captain was beyond

words. "Very well," was all he could get out, "very well!"

 

With that they parted; and the boat, with the strangely selected party

aboard, made for the shore.

 

"Now, Smiley," said Beveridge, when the boat had left them on the sand,

"how about our direction?"

 

"Exactly southwest from here. I suppose we shall have to make for

Hewittson in a straight line, and see if we can't get there first."

A sort of road led off in a southwesterly direction, and this they

followed for an hour. Then it swung off to the left, and they plunged

into the forest, from now on to be guided only by the compass. The

afternoon wore along. For two hours, three hours, four hours, they

tramped through the forest, which now opened out into a vista of brown

carpet and cool shade, now ran to a blackened jungle of stumps and

undergrowth; but always underfoot was the sand, no longer white but

yellow and of a dustlike quality. It gave under the foot at every step;

it rose about them and got into their throats and finally into their

tempers.

 

"Say, Smiley," called Wilson. He had swung his coat over his shoulder;

his face was streaked with sweat and dirt; the spring was gone from his

stride. "Say, Smiley, where are those streams you were talking about?"

 

"Give it up."

 

"This is a pretty place you're getting us into."

 

"Shut up, Bert!" said Beveridge. "You tend to business, and quit

talking."

 

"Who's talking? Can't I ask a civil question?"

 

"From the sound, I guess you can't."

 

"You're saying a word too much there, Bill Beveridge!"

 

Beveridge stopped short and wheeled around. He had tied the sleeves

of his coat through one suspender so that it hung about his knees and

flapped when he walked. His waistcoat was open, his collar was melted to

a rag; altogether he was nearly as tired and hot as his assistant.

 

"What do you say to sitting down a minute?" suggested Smiley,

diplomatically.

 

But Wilson returned to the attack. "How long are you going to keep on

this way, Bill?"

 

The obstinate quality in Wilson's voice roused a counter-obstinacy in

Beveridge. He decided not to reply.

 

"Maybe the sand's getting into his ears so he can't hear well," said

Wilson, addressing Harper as nearly as anybody. But Pink, rather than

get into the controversy, went off a little way to a spruce tree and

fell to cutting off a piece of the gum.

 

"It's just as you like, Bill," pursued Wilson. "Of course, it ain't

any of my business,--but I just thought I'd tell you we passed that big

clump of pines over there about two hours and a half ago."

 

In spite of him, Beveridge's eyes sought the spot indicated.

 

"I don't care, you understand, Bill. I 'll go where I'm ordered. But if

you _will_ go on trusting that compass of yours, don't you think maybe

we'd better be thinking about saving up what sandwiches we've got left?

These Michigan woods _ain't_ a very cheerful spot to spend the fall,

unless you've planned that way, you know,--brought tents and things, and

maybe a little canned stuff."

 

"Oh, go to----!" muttered Beveridge, without turning.

 

"What's that you said?" Wilson was on his feet.

 

Here Smiley broke in with the suggestion that they try marking trees.

 

And for an hour they were tearing their shirts to strips, and sighting

forward from tree to tree; then the early twilight began to settle on

the forest. They spoke of it no more, but pushed on feverishly under the

leadership of Beveridge, whose spirits, which had reached low-water mark

in the difference with Wilson, were flowing again. From rapid walking

they took to running; still the twilight deepened. Finally the uneven

ground and the deep shadows led them into scratches and tumbles, and

they were obliged to stop.

 

"Bill," said Wilson, "look over there."

 

"Where?"

 

"That tree--runs up six feet or so, and shoots off over the ground, and

then turns square up again."

 

"Yes. What about it?" A queer sound was creeping into the special

agent's voice.

 

"Don't you remember--about three o'clock--the tree we passed? Harper

said it was exactly like a figure four, because of the broken part that

stuck up above the branch,--and you said--"

 

"Well, but--"

 

"Just take a good look at it."

 

Beveridge stepped a little way forward and looked and looked.

 

"Well?"

 

Beveridge was silent. His eyes left the tree only to fix themselves on

the ground.

 

"What do you think, Bill?"

 

Instead of replying, the special agent turned abruptly and walked away

through the brush. He soon disappeared, but his assistant could hear him

thrashing along. In a few moments he returned, and without a word set

about building a fire. They all lent a hand, and soon were sitting

around the blaze, moody and silent.

 

"Say, boys,"--it was Smiley speaking up,--"I have an idea. Let me take

your compass a minute, Beveridge."

 

There was no reply. Smiley thought he had not been understood. "Let's

have your compass, Beveridge."

 

Then the special agent looked up. "If you can find it, you're welcome to

it," he said. "Why, you haven't lost it?"

 

"If you've got to know, I've thrown it."

 

"The------you have!"

 

A moment's silence. Somewhere off in the wilderness a twig crackled, and

they all started. Harper's scalp tingled during the long stillness that

followed the sound.

 

"What did you do that for?" asked Smiley. "Because we're sitting at

this moment within a hundred feet of where we sat at three o'clock this

afternoon."

 

After this the silence grew unbearable. "I don't know how you fellows

feel," said Wilson, "but I'm thirsty clear down to my toes. If there's

any water around here, I'm going to find it." He drew a blazing pine

knot from the fire and started off.

 

"Look out you don't set the woods afire," growled Beveridge.

 

For five minutes--long minutes--the three sat there and waited. Then

they heard him approaching, and saw his light flickering between the

trees. He came into the firelight, and paused, looking from one to

another with a curious __EXPRESSION__. It almost seemed that he was veiling

a smile.

 

"Come this way," he finally said. And they got up and filed after him.

He led them a short fifty yards, and paused. They stood on the edge of a

clearing. A few rods away they saw a story-and-a-half farm-house, with

a light in the kitchen window. Farther off loomed the outline of a large

barn. They stumbled on, and found midway between the two buildings a well with a bucket worked by a crank and chain.