by Holman Day
CHAPTER XX
THE HA'NT OF THE UMCOLCUS
"For even in these days P. I.'s shake At word of the phantom of Brassua Lake; And all of us know of the witherlick That prowls by the shores of the Cup-sup-tic; Of the side-hill ranger whose eyeballs gleam In the light of the moon at Abol stream."
--The Ha'nts.
A few days after the men of Enchanted were housed, those who gazedsoutheast from the mountain shoulder saw a smear of white on thehorizon. It was the first snow on lofty Katahdin.
Tommy Eye greeted that sight most enthusiastically. Like a goodteamster, he was anxious for "slippin'."
"Bless the saints, old Winter has pitched camp down there, and is mixin'up a batch of our kind of weather," he said to Wade. "Injun Summer hadbetter grab up what's left of her flounces and get out from under."
But Winter proceeded about his business with majestic deliberateness. Hepatted down the duff under the big trees with beating, sleety rains; andwhen the ground was ready for the sowing of the mighty crop, he piledhis banks of clouds up from the south, and, though he gave the coastfolk rain, he brought the men of the north woods what they were longingfor--snow a-plenty; snow that heaped the arms of the spruces, filledall the air with smothering clouds, and blanketed the ground.
Wade, blinking the big flakes out of his eyes as he breasted theswirling storm, came across to the main camp from the wangan, his pipeand tobacco-pouch in hand. He rejoiced in his heart to see the snowdriving so thickly that the camp window was only a blur of yellow lightsmudging the whiteness. This first real storm of the winter promised twofeet on a level, and guaranteed the slipping on ram-downs andtwitch-roads.
The cheer of the storm permeated all the camp on Enchanted. The cookbeamed on Wade with floury face. The bare ground had meant bare shelves.He predicted the first supply-team for the morrow. He had been thriftily"making a mitten out of a mouse's ear" for several weeks. Tommy Eye,ploughing back from his good-night visit to the horse-hovel, proclaimedhis general pleasure for two reasons: No more bare-ground dragging forthe bob-sleds; no more too liberal dosing of bread dough with soap tomake the flour "spend" in lighter loaves. "Eats like wind and tasteslike a laundry," Tommy had grumbled.
The boss of the choppers moved along to give Wade the end of the "deaconseat," and grinned amiably.
"That's a cheerful old song she's singing overhead to-night," heremarked.
It needed a lumberman's interpretation to give it cheer.
There were far groanings, there were near sighs; there were silences,when the soft rustle of the snow against the window-glass made all thesound; there were sudden, tempestuous descents of the wind that rattledthe panes and made the throat of the open stove "whummle" like aneighing horse.
Wade lighted his pipe with deep content. He enjoyed the rude fraternityof the big camp. There was but little garrulity. Those who talked did soin a drawling monotone that was keyed properly to the monotone of thesoughing trees outside--elbows on knees and eyes on the pole floor.Clamor would not have suited that little patch of light niched in theblack, brooding night of the forest. But there was comfort within. Theblue smoke from pipe bowls curled up and mingled with the shadowsdancing against the low roof. The woollens, hung to dry on the longpoles, draped the dim openings of the bunks. The "spruce feathers"within were still fresh, and resinous odors struggled against the moreathletic fragrance of the pipes.
Most of the men loafed along the "deacon seat," relaxed in the luxury oflaziness for that precious three hours between supper and nine o'clock.A few, bending forward to catch the light from the bracket-lamp,whittled patiently at what lumbermen call "doodahs"--odd little toysdestined for some best girl or admiring youngster at home. "Windy"McPheters regaled those with an ear for music by cheerful efforts on hismouth-harp, coming out strong on the tremolo, and jigging the heel ofhis moccasined foot for time. And when "Windy" had no more breath left,"Hitchbiddy" Wagg sang, after protracted persuasion, the only song heknew--though one song of that character ought to suffice for any man'smusical attainments.
Its length may be understood when it is stated that it detailed all thecampaigns of the first Napoleon, and "Hitchbiddy" sang it doubledforward, his elbows on his crossed knees, and the toe of his moccasinflapping for the beat. He came down "the stretch" on the last verse withvigor and expression:
"Next at Waterloo those Frenchmen fought, Commanded by brave Bonaparte [pronounced 'paught'], Assisted by Field Marshal Ney-- He never was bribed by gold. But when Grouchy let the Prussians in It broke Napoleon's heart within. 'Where are my thirty thousand men? Alas, stranger, for I am sold.' He led one gallant charge across, Saying, 'Alas, brave boys, I fear 'tis lost.' The field was in confusion with dead and dying woes. When the bunch of roses did advance, The English entered into France-- The grand Conversation [_sic_] of Napoleon arose."
To signal that the song was done, "Hitchbiddy" dropped the tune on thelast line, and in calm, direct, matter-of-fact recitative announced that"the grand Conversation of Napoleon arose." In the fifty years duringwhich that song has been sung in the Maine lumber-camps, no one has everdisplayed the least curiosity as to that last line. Away back,somewhere, a singer twisted a nice, fat word of the original song, andit has stayed twisted, and no one has tried to trouble it by idlequestions.
"Hitchbiddy's" most rapt listener was Foolish Abe of the Skeets. Theshaggy giant squatted behind the stove beside the pile of shavings hewas everlastingly whittling for the cook-fire. It was the only task thatAbe's poor wits could master, and he toiled at it unceasingly, payingthus and by a sort of canine gratitude for the food he received and thecast-off clothes tossed to him.
A mumbled chorus of commendation followed the song. But thechopping-boss, his humorous gaze on the witling, remarked:
"I reckon I'll have to rule that song out, after this, 'Hitchbiddy.'"
"What for?" demanded the amazed songster.
"It seems to have a damaging and cavascacious effect on the giantintellect of Perfessor Skeet," remarked the boss, with irony. "Look athim!"
Abe was on his knees, stretching up his neck and twitching his head fromside to side with the air of an agitated fowl.
"We'll make it a rule after this to have only common songs, like LarryGorman's," continued the boss, with a quizzical glance at the woodsmanpoet. "These high operas are too thrillin'."
But those who stared at Abe promptly saw that his attention was notfixed on matters within, but without.
"He heard something," muttered one of the men. "He's got ears like acat, anyway."
If the giant had heard something it was plain that he heard it again,for he dropped his knife and scrambled to his feet.
"Me go! Yes!" he roared, gutturally; and, obeying some mysterioussummons, his haste showing its authority, he ran out of the camp.
"Catch that fool!" yelled the boss. But the first of those who tumbledout into the dingle after him were not quick enough. The night and theswirling storm had swallowed him. A few zealous pursuers ran a littleway, trying to follow his tracks, lost them, and then came back forlanterns.
"It's no use, Mr. Wade," advised the boss. "He's got the strength of amule and the legs of an ostrich. The men will only be takin' chances fornothin'. He's gone clean out of his head, and there's no tellin' whenhe'll stop."
And Wade regretfully gave orders to abandon the chase. He and the othersstood for a time gazing about them into the storm, now sifting thickerand swirling more wildly. He was oppressed by the happening, as thoughhe had seen some one leap to death. What else could a human being hopefor in that waste?
"He's as tough as a bull moose, and just as used to bein' out-doors,"remarked the boss, consolingly. "When he's had his run he'll smell hisway back."
Teamster Tommy Eye was the most persistent pursuer. He came in, stampingthe snow, after all the others had reassembled in the camp to talk thematter over.
"Did ye hear it?"
demanded Tommy. "I did, and I run like a tiger so Icould say that at last I'd seen one. But I didn't see it. I only heardit."
"What?" asked Wade, amazed.
"The ha'nt," said Tommy. "I've always wanted to see one. I was firstout, and I heard it."
"What did it sound like?" gasped one of the men, his superstitionglowing in his eyes.
"It's bad luck forever to try to make a noise like a ha'nt," said Tommy,with decision. "Nor will I meddle with its business--no, s'r. 'Twouldcome for me. Take a lucivee, an Injun devil, a bob-sled runner on grit,and the gabble of a loon, mix 'em together, and set 'em, and skim offthe cream of the noise, and it would be something like the loo-hoo of aha'nt. It's awful on the nerves. I reckon I'll take a pull at the old T.D." He rammed his pipe bowl with a finger that trembled visibly.
"I've seen one," declared, positively, the man who had inquired inregard to the sound. "I've seen one, but I never heard one holler. Ididn't know it was a ha'nt till I'd seen it half a dozen times."
"Good eye!" sneered Tommy. "What! did it have to come up and introduceitself, and say, 'Please, Mister MacIntosh, I'm a ha'nt'?"
"I've seen one," insisted the man, sullenly. "I was teamin' for theBlaisdell Brothers on their Telos operation, and I see it every day formost a week. It walked ahead of my team close to the bushes, side of theroad, and it was like a man, and it always turned off at the same placeand went into the woods."
"Do you call that a ha'nt--a man walkin' 'longside the road indaylight--some hump-backed old spruce-gum picker?" demanded Tommy.
"The last time I see it I noticed that it didn't leave any tracks,"declared the narrator. "It walked right along on the light snow, anddidn't leave any tracks. Funny I didn't notice that before, but Ididn't."
"You sartinly ain't what the dictionary would set down as a hawk-eyedcritter," remarked Tommy, maliciously. "It must have been kind ofdiscouragin', ha'ntin' you."
"It was a ha'nt," insisted the man, with the same doggedness. "I gotoff'n my team right then and there, and got a bill of my time and left,and the man that took my place got sluiced by the snub-line bustin',and about three thousand feet of spruce mellered the eternal daylightsout of him. Say what you're a mind to--I saw a thing that walked onlight snow and didn't make tracks, and I left, and that feller gotsluiced--everybody in these woods knows that a feller got killed onTelos two winters ago."
"Oh, there's ha'nts," agreed Tommy, earnestly. "Mebbe you saw one; onlyyou got at your story kind of back-ended."
The old teamster had been watching incredulity settle on the face ofDwight Wade, and this heresy in one to whom his affections had attachedtouched his sensitiveness.
"You're probably thinkin' what most of the city folks say out loud tous, Mr. Wade," he went on, humbly. "They say there ain't any such thingsas ha'nts in the woods. It would be easy to say there ain't any bullmoose up here because they ain't also seen walkin' down a city streetand lookin' into store windows. But I'd like to see one of those cityfolks try to sleep in the camp that's built over old Jumper Joe's gravenorth of Sourdnaheunk."
There was a general mumble of indorsement. It became evident to Wadethat the crew of the Enchanted were pretty stanch adherents of thesupernatural.
"Hitchbiddy" Wagg cleared his throat and sang, for the sake ofverification:
"He rattled underneath, and he rattled overhead; Never in my life was I ever scared so! And I did not dast to lay down in that bed Where they laid out old Joe."
"They can't use that place for anything but a depot-camp now," statedTommy; "and it's a wonder to me that they can even get pressed hay tostay there overnight."
"Well, from what I know of human nature," smiled Wade, "I should thinkthat hay and provisions would stay better overnight in a haunted campthan in one without protection."
He rapped out his pipe ashes on the hearth of the stove and rose to go.
"And don't you believe that it was a ha'nt that called out Foolish Abe?"asked Tommy, eager to make a convert. "You saw that for yourself, Mr.Wade."
"I am afraid to think of what may have happened to that poor creature,"replied Wade, earnestly, looking into the black night through the doorthat he had opened. He heard the chopping-boss call: "Nine! Turn in!" ashe strove with the storm between the main camp and the wangan, and whenhe stamped into his own shelter the yellow smudge winked out behindhim--such is the alacrity of a sleepy woods crew when it has a boss whoblows out the big lamp on the dot of the hour. He shuddered as he shutout the blackness. He had no superstitions, but the unaccountable flightof the witling, and the eerie tales offered in explanation and themystic night of storm in that wild forest waste unstrung him. He went tosleep, finding comfort in the dull glow of the lantern that he leftlighted.
Its glimmer in his eyes when the cook called shrilly in the gray dawn,"Grub on ta-a-abe!" sent his first thoughts to the wretch who hadabandoned himself to the storm. He hoped to find Abe whittling shavingsin the cook-house.
"No, s'r, no sign of him, hide nor hair," said the cook, shaking hishead. "Reckon the ha'nt flew high with him."
The snow still sifted through the trees--a windless storm now. Theforest was trackless.
"For a man to start out in the woods in that storm was like jumpin' intoa hole and pullin' the hole in after him," observed the chopping-boss.That remark might have served as the obituary of poor Abe Skeet. Theswampers, the choppers, the sled-tenders, the teamsters, trudging awayto their work, had their minds full of their duties and their mouthsfull of other topics during the day.
And all day the cook bleated his cheerful little prophecy in the ears ofthe cookee: "The tote team will be in by night." That morning, with hisrolling-pin, he had pounded "hungryman's ratty-too" on the bottom of thelast flour-barrel to shake out enough for his batch of biscuits, and heburned up the barrel, even though the pessimistic cookee predicted that"the human nail-kags" would eat both kitchen mechanics if the food gaveout.
Dwight Wade, at nightfall, surveyed the bare shelves of the cook campwith some misgivings.
"Don't you worry," advised the master of that domain. "Rod Ide ain'twaitin' three weeks for good slippin' jest for the sake of settin' inhis store window and singin' 'Beautiful snow'! He sure got a load ofsupplies started on that first skim o' snow, and they're due hereto-night--" The cook paused, kicked at the cookee for slamming thestove-cover at that crucial moment of listening, and shrilled, "Thereshe blows!"
Wade heard the jangle of bells, and hastened to meet the dim bulk of theloaded sled. The driver did not reply to his delighted hail, but beforehe had time to wonder at that silence some one struggled out of thefolds of a shrouding blanket and sprang from the sled. It was a woman;and while he stood and stared at her, she ran to him and grasped hishands and clung to him in pitiful abandonment of grief.
It was Nina Ide. In the dim light Wade could see tears and heart-brokenwoe on her face. He had had some experience with the self-poise of thedaughter of Rodburd Ide. This emotion, which checked with sobs the wordsin her throat, frightened him.
"It's a terrible thing, and I don't understand it, Mr. Wade," quaveredthe driver. He slipped down from the load and came and stood besidethem. "We was in Pogey Notch, and the wind was blowin' pretty hardthere, and I told the young ladies they'd better cover their heads withthe blankets. And I pulled the canvas over me, 'cause the snow stung so,and I didn't see it when it happened--and I don't understand it."
"When what happened?" Wade gasped.
"They took her--whatever they was," stated the driver, in awed tones. "Ididn't see 'em or hear 'em take her. And I don't know jest where we waswhen they took her. I went back and hunted, but it wasn't any use. Theywas gone, and her with 'em. They wasn't humans, Mr. Wade. It was blackart, that's what it was."
"Probably," said Tommy Eye, with deep conviction. He had led the groupthat came out of the camp to greet the tote team. "There were ha'ntshere last night. They got Foolish Abe."
"They sartinly seem to mean the Skeet family this time," said thed
river. "It was that Skeet girl--the pretty one that's called Kate--thatthey got off'n my team."
The men of the camp, surrounding the new arrivals, surveyed Nina Idewith respectful but eager curiosity.
"If I was a ha'nt," growled the chopping-boss, "and had my pick, Ireckon I'd have shown better judgment." His remark was under his breath,and the girl did not hear it. She clung to Wade. Her agitationcommunicated itself to him. A sense of calamity told him that there wastrouble deeper than the disappearance of the waif of the Skeet tribe.
Her words confirmed his suspicion. "My God, what are we going to do, Mr.Wade?" she sobbed. "I planned it; I encouraged her. It was wild,imprudent, reckless. I ought to have realized it. But I knew how youfelt towards her. I wanted to help her and--and you!"
Something in the horror of her wide-open eyes told him plainly now thatthis could not be merely the question of the loss of one of the Skeets.And with that conviction growing out of bewildered doubt, he went withher when she led him away towards the office camp. A suspicion wild as anightmare flashed into his mind. In the wangan she faced him, aswoe-stricken, as piteously afraid, as though she were confessing a crimeagainst him.
"It was John Barrett's daughter Elva on that team with me," she choked."She wanted to come--but I'll be honest with you, Mr. Wade. She wouldn'thave come if I hadn't encouraged her--yes, put the idea into her headand the means into her hands. I've been a fool, Mr. Wade, but I'll notbe a coward and lie about my responsibility."
He gazed at her, his face ghastly white in the lantern-light.
"She wanted to--she was coming here--she is lost?" he mumbled, as thoughtrying to fathom a mystery.
Infinite pity replaced the distraction in the girl's face.
"Forgive me, Mr. Wade!" she cried. "Not for my folly--you can't overlookthat. Forgive me for wasting time. But I didn't know how to say it toyou." She put her woman's weakness from her, though the struggle was amighty one, and her face showed it. "I won't waste any more words, Mr.Wade. John Barrett has been at my father's house for weeks. He has beennear death--he is near death now, but the big doctors from the city saythat he will get well. He must have been through some terrible troubleup here."
She looked at him with questioning gaze, as though to ask how much heknew of the strain that had prostrated John Barrett, the stumpage king.
"He was in great danger--and his exposure--" stammered Wade.
But she went on, hurriedly:
"It was fever, and it went to his head, and he talked and raved. Hisdaughter came from the city and nursed him, and she has heard himtalking, talking, talking, all the time--talking about you, and how yousaved him from the fire; talking about a woman who is dead and a man whois alive, and a girl--"
"Does Elva Barrett--know?" he demanded, hoarsely.
"It was too plain not to know--after she saw that girl, Mr. Wade. Thegirl was there at our house--she is there now. It isn't all clear to usyet. We have only the ravings of a sick man--and the face of that girl.Father doesn't understand all of it, either. But he knows that you do,although you haven't told him." She clutched her trembling hands to holdthem steady. "And he has talked and talked of other things, Mr.Wade--the sick man has. He has said that you have his reputation, andhis prospects, and the happiness of his family all in your hands, andthat you are waiting to ruin him because he has abused you; and he hastossed in his bed and begged some one to come to you and promiseyou--buy you--coax you--"
"It's a cursed lie--infernal, though a sick man babble it!" Wade cried,heart-brokenly. "It holds me up as a blackmailer, Miss Nina. It makes meseem a wretch in Elva's eyes. And yet--was she--was she coming herethinking I was that kind--coming here to beg for her father?" hedemanded.
"We--I--oh, I don't like to tell you we believed that of you," the girlsobbed. "No, I didn't believe it. But if you had only heard him lyingthere talking, talking! And you were the one that he seemed to fear. Andwe thought if you knew of it you wouldn't want him to worry that way.And if we could carry back some word of comfort from you to him--Shewanted to come to you, Mr. Wade, and I encouraged her and helped her tocome--because--because--" The girl caught her breath in a long sob, andcried: "She loves you, Mr. Wade! And I've pitied you and her ever sincethat day in the train when I found out about it."
It was not a moment to analyze emotions. Nina Ide, in her ingenuousdeclaration of Elva Barrett's motives in seeking him, had made his heartfor an instant blaze with joy. For that instant he forgot the shame ofthe baseless babblings of the sick man, the awful mystery of ElvaBarrett's disappearance. The blow of it--that Elva Barrett wasgone--that she was somewhere in those woods alone, or worse than alone,had stunned him at first. Groping out of that misery, striving torealize what it meant, he had faced first the hideous thought that shemight believe him mean enough to seek revenge. Then came the dazzlinghope that Elva Barrett so loved him that she adventured--imprudently andrecklessly, but none the less bravely--in order to make her love known.Then over all swept the black bitterness of the calamity.
"But you must have some suspicion--some hint how she was taken or howshe went!" he cried. "In Heaven's name, Miss Nina, think! think! Youheard some outcry! There was some hidden rock or stump to jar the sled!The man did not search along the road far enough! She must belost--lost!" and his voice rose almost to a shriek.
"There was no cry, Mr. Wade. And I went back with the man. We searched;we called--we even went as far as the place where we covered ourselveswith the blankets. We could find no track, and the snow was driving andsifting. The man does not know it was Elva Barrett," she added.
He suddenly remembered the driver's statement.
"She came in Kate Arden's clothes," confided the girl. "Those who sawher ride out of Castonia, Mr. Wade, thought it was Kate Arden. And KateArden, in Elva Barrett's dress, is sitting now beside John Barrett,holding his hand, and his daughter's face has soothed him. He thinks itis his daughter beside him. They are so like, Kate and Elva. We waiteduntil we had made sure. It was my plan. And Kate obeyed me. I don't knowwhat she is thinking of. She is sullen and silent, but she took theplace by his bed when I told her to. Then it could not be said that JohnBarrett's daughter had come seeking Dwight Wade."
Even in this stress he could still feel gratitude for the subterfugethat checked the tongues of gossip.
"I wish father had more authority over me," sobbed the girl. "Hewouldn't have let us come on such a crazy errand if I hadn't bossed himinto it." The lament was so guilelessly feminine that Wade put aside hisown woe for the moment to think of the girl's distress.
"This will be your home until I can send you back, Miss Nina," he said,gently. "I will have old Christopher bring in your supper and mend yourfire."
"And about her, Mr. Wade?" she cried.
"I'm going," he said, simply, but with such earnestness that her eyesflooded again with tears.