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BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
By
BAYNARD H. KENDRICK
Blood on Lake Louisa was originally published in 1934 by Greenberg, Publisher, Inc., New York.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Contents
TABLE OF CONTENTS 4
DEDICATION 5
1 7
2 11
3 16
4 22
5 27
6 32
7 37
8 41
9 46
10 51
11 56
12 60
13 64
14 68
15 72
16 76
17 80
18 85
19 89
20 93
21 97
22 102
23 107
24 111
25 115
26 119
27 125
28 130
29 134
REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 138
DEDICATION
• • •
TO DOC WARREN
As fine a friend as he is a Physician.
1
Ever since I started to write about the events that threw the whole of our little community into an uproar, certain self-styled wits have persisted in referring to me as “Dr. Watson,” and passing such brilliant remarks as “Quick, Watson, the needle!” and “Where is Sherlock Holmes today?” They make me sick and tired, for I have not been able to see anything funny in an adventure which included a series of murders, and which nearly claimed me as one of its victims.
I have practiced medicine in Orange Crest, the County Seat of Manasaw County, for twenty years. Like most small town doctors, I probably know more about the joys and troubles of its inhabitants than anyone else in the town. There is not much to know at that. We live a pretty peaceful life in Orange Crest. Our greatest excitements are shipping oranges, hoping the tourist season will be good, and keeping track of who is going to have a new baby. (My wife has suggested here that perhaps I am speaking for myself. Well, after all, doctors must live, and we are all interested in our own business.) We have a moving picture theatre, where all the latest pictures are shown, often before they appear in the city. Our other principal amusements are hunting and fishing.
There are nearly a hundred beautiful lakes in the vicinity of Orange Crest. Some of them are not very large, but all have a good supply of big mouth bass, which attract not only local fishermen, but many people from out of the state. The woods and groves bordering these lakes make an ideal ranging place for quail, and many squirrel are to be found in the surrounding hammocks. These hammocks are dense clumps of hardwood growth, and at times offer a haven to inhabitants other than squirrels. They might be termed headquarters for quite a large industry which goes on day and night—moonshining. A moonshine still must have seclusion, and it must have water. The hammocks near our many lakes offer both in abundance.
The fifteenth of February is a date I am not likely to forget. It was the closing day of the hunting season in Florida, and everybody who owned a gun and dog had gone out to take advantage of their last chance for quail until the long summer rolled by. I decided to make a trip to Lake Louisa and try my luck with the bass. I am not much of a hunter, but I do love to fish. The moon was close to full that night. Lake Louisa, with its crystal clear water and sandy bottom, offers even better sport by moonlight than in the daytime.
I was delayed on a case until two in the afternoon. I must have spent another half an hour overhauling my tackle, for I knew the necessity of having everything in order. Trying to change a weak line in a rowboat, by moonlight, is not conducive to a pleasant evening’s fishing. Mae, the true wife of a doctor and a fisherman, had fixed me up a delicious supper of sandwiches and hot coffee, which she packed in the back of the car while I was changing into my fishing clothes.
At the last minute I decided to take my shotgun with me. Occasionally ducks were seen on Louisa late in the evening, and there was a slim chance of my bagging one or two. With that thought in mind, I discarded a few quail shells which I found in my hunting coat, opened a new box of duck shells and slipped ten into my pocket.
It was slightly after three when I left the house and headed the car south on the seventeen mile run to the lake. The first ten miles were easy going over a rather narrow and bumpy shell road. There I had to turn west into the flatwoods and cover seven miles of tortuous sand and mud trail, which in wet weather was almost impassable on account of the mud, and in dry weather almost impassable on account of the white sand. I fought my car through two miles of the latter, and with my radiator boiling in futile rage, stopped in front of a negro shack to pick up a boy, Buddy Nixon, who always rowed my boat for me.
He had heard my car panting through the woods and was waiting at the gate for me. He greeted me with a broad grin and a “Yessah, Doctor Ryan. I knowed most fo’ suah youall’d want to fish wid dat big moon tonight.” He climbed in front beside me, and I battled my way over the remaining five miles, twisted and jolted until my patience was entirely exhausted. Finally the foliage grew thicker and thicker, the road changed from sand to black mud, caked hard and dry, and straight before me shining through the trees were the silver waters of the lake.
We stopped in a natural clearing. Three sides of it were formed by the thick semi-tropical foliage, the fourth by bushes, reeds, and trees, bordering the lake. With the motor shut off it was intensely quiet. The slight noise Buddy made unloading the things from the car, and into the boat, seemed strangely out of place. In spite of the brightly shining sun, which checker-boarded the ground through the overhead branches, I had a sudden feeling that there was something foreboding about that beautiful spot.
I have tried since to coldly analyze the disquietude which seized me for a moment that afternoon. There must be certain times when modern man reverts to the primitive state of his early ancestors. Surely the human race could never have survived the attacks of ferocious beasts unless they had some warning of impending danger. As a medical man I have laughed this theory to scorn, yet I have stopped in my tracks before stepping over a dead log in the woods, and walked carefully around it to shoot a five foot rattler which was coiled on the other side. I did not hear him, see him, or smell him. Something told me he was there. I had another experience equally unexplainable, at least it was to me. For ten years I had driven over a certain road to the farm of a patient of mine who lived far out in the woods. He sent for me one cold night in mid-winter, and I took another road—two miles out of my way. I learned the next day that three cars had been held up, and the occupants robbed, on the road I regularly traveled.
“She’s all ready, Doctor sah,” Buddy called. As I started for the boat a shadow blotted out the spots of sun on the ground. I glanced up through the tree tops.
Buzzards were slowly circling overhead. Silently, without a movement of the wings, they wheeled in a relentless procession. I shuddered a little, but my slight perturbation soon
passed away with the labor of helping Buddy push the boat through the tough reeds into the clear water.
Lake Louisa is shaped like a horseshoe. Each of the prongs is over a mile in length, and each varies from a quarter to a half a mile in width. These prongs run almost directly north and south, and join together at the southern end. At this juncture the lake is very shallow and grassy, and dotted with water hyacinths. Local fishermen call this shallow part of the lake the “Cow Pasture” on account of the number of cattle which are generally found feeding there, standing deep in the water. Now and again one of these aquatic cows will bog down in the soft mud, and unless help is soon forthcoming the buzzards will have a feast.
The place where I keep my boat, and where we entered the lake, is at the north end of the east fork. I told Buddy to paddle down the inside shore where I thought the fishing would be better. There was a very slight breeze from the west, but along the bank the water was dead calm. He sat on the stern seat just keeping the boat moving by using one oar as a paddle. I was in no hurry. I had planned to reach the Cow Pasture just about the time the moon was right, and to fish the east bank, which was deep and sandy, on my way out.
The fish were not striking. I fell to daydreaming, casting my plug out and retrieving it automatically, so that if a big bass had struck I certainly would have lost it in my surprise. There is an old farm house built on a knoll overlooking the Cow Pasture, and we had just come out of a small cove which enabled me to see the remnants of what had once been a flourishing orange grove surrounding it. Both grove and house had been deserted and uncared for for many years. The big freeze had killed all the trees, and their owner, Arnold Simmons, had followed shortly afterward. That was before I started to practice in Orange Crest. The house was inaccessible, cut off as it was on both sides by the lake, and Simmons used to keep his horse and wagon across the lake, a short row away, and drive to town on his rare trips over a road long since grown up and lost. He had built a small boat landing near the house, and another on the far shore by his stable. The stable had completely disappeared, but both landings had mysteriously weathered the years, and were still in fair condition.
I was startled out of my reverie by a quick fusillade of shots on the shore. I must have jumped noticeably for I heard Buddy chuckle.
“Woods plum’ full o’ hunters today. Been ridin’ by the house since ‘fore daylight. Some of ‘em I ain’t never knowed hunted at all. Mister Marvin Lee come by ‘bout two hours ‘fore youall. I ain’t never knowed him to hunt.”
“How do you know it was Mister Lee?” I had known Marvin since he was a boy, and his interest in hunting was something new to me. Baseball, books, and chess had occupied his earlier years, but grown to manhood, the law, and Celia Mitchell, had claimed his undivided attention.
“Done stopped an’ says he’s lookin’ fo’ Mister David Mitchell, Miss Celia’s pappy, an’ has he passed there. I tells him suah has, but he’s suah goin’ to have a time findin’ him in them woods. He don’ say nothin’, jes’ drives on.”
The matter might have occupied me further, but at that instant I had a smashing strike, and everything passed out of my mind but the business of landing a five pound bass. Buddy’s casual remark was brought back to me later very forcibly, and made my life miserable for days.
There was some desultory firing from the shore as the hunters picked up the singles from the covey they had flushed. Then a motor started, backfired viciously a couple of times, and gradually died out in the distance. Buddy paddled steadily on. The fish had quit striking, a trait of the wily bass which I have always deplored, so I lit a cigarette and relaxed.
The sun hung precariously over the tops of the trees, and then, with a suddenness which it attains only in Florida, it dived out of sight, leaving everything almost black by contrast. The wind blew up fresh for a few minutes, eerily waving the long streamers of Spanish moss which festooned the trees, then I heard it whispering its way off through the woods. A slight mist rose over the lake. It was nearly dark.
We crept silently around a bend of land. I could see the outlines of the Simmons dock just ahead. Buddy drew in his breath with a sharp whistle.
“Quick, Doctor, you see ‘em!”
I grabbed my shotgun from the bottom of the boat, but they were quicker than I. There was a sharp note of alarm, a beating of wings, and churning the water into foam in their getaway a flock of Mallards zoomed off at sixty miles an hour. Only three of the lot, cut off from the rest of the flock, were silhouetted against the shoreline. Twice I fired, but it was so dark I could not be sure. I thought I saw something splash in the water.
“You done got ‘im, Doctor!” Buddy’s eyes were keener than mine. He was racing the boat to the shore. “You done got ‘im. He’s right close in!”
We were in the reeds, and I thought I saw the duck right in front. I grabbed for it, but it was only a bunch of grass.
“Mo’ to the left, Doctor. Mo’ to the left!”
Then I thought of my pocket flashlight. The powerful beam flashed on the surface of the lake. The water was red. I had brought it down, for that was certainly blood. I played the light slowly around—searching—searching. Then I heard Buddy scream, and my knees nearly gave way beneath me. I was gazing into the dead white face of David Mitchell.
2
Doctors are supposed to be very matter-of-fact people, not addicted to nerves in any degree. The dissecting room and the amphitheater of a hospital offer a short career, and not a merry one, to the man who trembles at the sight of a corpse or a little blood, and I had served my time in both. Nevertheless I am only human. For the first few minutes after the discovery of David Mitchell’s body, lying half in and half out of the water on the bank of Lake Louisa, I frankly admit I was scared to death. The sight of Buddy, crouched down in the stern of the boat, sobbing in terror, brought me to myself. I realized that if anything was to be done I had to do it alone. There I was, standing like an idiot with my knees knocking together, and making no attempt whatever to find out if there was a possible chance that the man was still alive.
I stepped from the boat into the shallow water, and with some effort, for Mitchell was a heavy man, I dragged him up on the bank. With the aid of my flashlight I examined him for signs of life. There were none.
He held his water bottle clutched in his right hand. On the front of his khaki hunting shirt a crimson stain was visible. Feverishly tearing open the front of the shirt my worst fears were confirmed. David Mitchell had died from shotgun wounds directly over the heart, and wounds inflicted so recently that the exact time was impossible to determine.
Like a horrible moving-picture the whole tragedy unfolded itself before me. Mitchell, tired from his day’s hunting, stopping at the edge of the lake on his way back to his car to All his water bottle—the soft splash of a paddled boat as it rounded the last bend of land near the Simmons place—his glancing up in curiosity to greet a possible friend, then, before he has a chance to call out, the flapping wings and the blazing shotgun. Over and over again it ran through my mind—the flapping wings and the blazing shotgun—the flapping wings and the blazing shotgun—the flapping wings and the blazing shotgun—until I felt I should scream from its beating cadence on my brain. No mystery, there, in the death of David Mitchell, just another fool who had fired into the darkness without looking where he was shooting, just another careless hunter, just another murderer. The moon rose. Still I stood there looking down into the face of my former friend. Finally I realized the futility of standing there and doing nothing, and climbing back into the boat I ordered Buddy to row as fast as he could back to the clearing where I had left my car. There were certain things that had to be done. I would only make my part in the tragedy worse, if it were possible, by playing the part of a baby.
The trip back to the clearing was made in silence, with the exception of Buddy’s soft whimpering as he rowed. Time had ceased to exist for me. I had reached a stage of numbness, and was affected with an empty ache in the pit of m
y stomach, which I suppose afflicts us all in the face of any great catastrophe. How was I going to tell Mae? How was I ever going to look anyone in the face again? A strange madness seized me in which I decided I would get in the car and ride away through the night, never to return to Orange Crest again. Ride away where? With the police of the nation searching for the man who had shot David Mitchell, there was small chance of my escaping detection for twenty-four hours.
I remember very little more of the events of that ghastly night. It was an automaton who drove the automobile back to Orange Crest over the familiar road. I know when I arrived in town that Buddy was not with me. I have no recollection of stopping at his house to let him out, although I do remember having impressed on him the necessity of his not talking if he wished to escape trouble. The Sheriff’s Office would want to question him soon enough. The least he said before that the better it would be for him.
There were few lights in the houses as I drove slowly down the main street on my way to the County Jail, part of which was the home of Pete Crossley, the Sheriff. I was thankful for this, as I was in mortal dread of having someone I knew hail me to ask about my day of fishing. I was also thankful that it was Peter Crossley with whom I had to deal. We were close friends. My efforts had been no little factor in keeping that blond giant in office as Sheriff of Manasaw County for the past sixteen years. He was an officer of the law, first, last, and all the time. Still I knew my story would be received with sympathy and understanding. I needed both badly on that particular night.
Crossley’s house was dark when I stopped in front, but there was a dim light burning in the jail which adjoined it. I knew a Deputy was on duty there all night. I paced nervously back and forth a couple of times in front of the big double doors before I summoned enough courage to ring the bell which I had rung so many times before on friendly calls. I had often kidded Pete about the size of that doorbell, which was of fire alarm proportions. I could see him grinning now and saying, “A big bell for a big man, Doc! When they want me they want someone really important.” I pushed the button and shivered nervously as the gong crashed out in the silent house.
Blood on Lake Louisa Page 1