Cordelia Underwood, or the Marvelous Beginnings of the Moosepath League

by Van Reid

  From a vantage on the eastern face of a forested hill, Dresden Scott could see one wall and the roof of a cabin—old Pete Stem’s Moose Manor. The chimney was smoking, and Scott thought he caught a glimpse of a horse beside the cabin. His own mount nickered below him on the slope, and he glanced down to see that she was all right. Then, taking up his rifle, he scrambled down from the bit of knob where he had been crouching and picked his way around to the other side of the hill.

  From a second outlook he identified the three animals he had been tracking since before dawn. He checked his pocket watch, unconsciously testing it against the sun. It was just past two.

  Dresden Scott had been a guide for most of his adult life, and a guide is a watcher, and a tracker, and a hunter—a Maine guide, which, as Teddy Roosevelt said, was different from any other sort of guide he had ever met. Never, wrote the President-to-be, have I known men so honest in the pleasure of their occupation, and so unassuming in their triumphs!

  It would be a romanticism to say that Dresden Scott read the woods and the rivers and the lakes as a city dweller reads the sign on the street and the number on the door. The deep woods can turn even the wiliest, most experienced woodsman back on himself; but if a Maine guide doesn’t know exactly where he is, it won’t take him long to figure how to get where he wants to be.

  Dresden Scott did not learn these things like blessings at the foot of some aged trapper or sage Indian or some legendary guide before him. Certainly he learned from these people—working with them, watching them. But most of what he knew came simply from living where he lived, and doing what he was doing that warm July day in 1896—picking it up as he went.

  He had tracked deer, and moose, and bear, lost souls, and two fugitives in his day, and one thing he had learned was that tracking was more than simply following prints and spoor; real genius lay in knowing where the quarry was headed, sometimes before the quarry itself knew.

  Some time mid-morning the whimsical image of Moose Manor sprang to his mind, and as the day progressed, that impression grew clearer—as he followed the three horses—till it reached the level of certainty.

  Scott leaned the rifle against the base of an old birch and sat on his heels with his back to the tree. He considered the wisdom of waiting for help against the practicality of acting quickly. The men inside the cabin must know that a rescue party would soon be on its way, and whoever these kidnappers were (Scott wasn’t sure he understood the situation yet), their motives must reveal themselves soon.

  Scott scratched his beard, snapped a blade of grass from the base of the tree and chewed on it. He could stand to rest, he knew that; his stomach growled, and he realized that he was hungry as well as tired. Then a series of associations linked in his mind and the germ of an idea lifted him right to his feet.

  He had been atop this hill before, had actually slept in the cabin, so he was familiar with the immediate surroundings. Now he traversed the crest of the hill, moving quietly among the trees, watching where each step was placed. In a few moments he was looking at it—Pete Stem’s privy. Tall and ruggedly built, it was fashioned (in old Pete’s simple but pleasing style of carving) into the image of a four-sided pointy-headed bear, the door of the privy forming the bear’s abdomen.

  Scott listened intently past the quiet hush of the southwestern breeze, then leaned into the path that led from the cabin to the privy to be sure that all was clear. Satisfied, he approached the outbuilding, attending to it with a very specific scrutiny.

  The privy had been constructed with great care, and placed on a small foundation of stone—perhaps six inches high—to discourage rot in the lower sill. With numerous glances over his shoulder, Dresden Scott picked at the stones beneath the door and along the front of the structure, finally kicking at them with the heel of his boot in order to loosen them. They made a grating sound against their fellows, like the growl of an animal.

  He slid the loosened stones back in place, then disappeared among the trees, where he sat in the fern and brake with his rifle across his lap, wishing he had brought something from his saddlebags to eat. From where he waited, he could see through the greenery if someone came to the privy, but was more or less invisible as long as he kept still.

  He closed his eyes, relying on his ears to warn him, and then the sun in his face drew a yawn from him and he was roused from an unintended nap.

  Scott blinked, his eyes dazzled by the sunlight through the leaves. At least an hour had passed, and he silently cursed himself for dozing.

  Some sound, alien to this hillside, had pricked his consciousness; now he keened his ears and leaned forward. There was the tramp of feet, and the unpleasant squirt of someone spitting tobacco juice—one of the signs he had followed to this place, and probably the very noise that had wakened him.

  A sour-looking fellow came into view, unshaven, wearing a slouchy felt hat; he stopped to peer at Pete Stem’s bear privy, and found nothing in this eccentric work of art to relieve his expression of general dissatisfaction. Then he stepped inside and shut the door behind him. Scott could hear the snick of a latch—an odd precaution this deep in the wilderness.

  The guide was on the path, silent and sudden, like a bit of wind; standing, listening, waiting for the man inside to put himself in one of the more vulnerable positions known to humankind.

  The time he estimated to be enough; the sounds from within the out-building, to be expected. Scott quickly yanked at the upper row of stones beneath the front of the privy, the sound of them scraping free startling the man within into a worried “Huh?”

  Then Scott was behind the outhouse and—without a bang, or a grunt, or groan—he placed his hands as high as he could against it and tipped the whole marvelous contraption over, door first.

  The shout from the man inside and the crash of the outhouse against the path came simultaneously, so that they rang out like a single noise. As the dust cleared, a second shout—muffled and hollow-sounding in the horizontal privy—and then a third shout carried out over the hill.

  Once more Dresden Scott took up his rifle and, taking care not to leave any trace of his passing, vanished into the surrounding forest. Even if someone had been near, the frightened and confounded shouts of the man in the privy and the din caused by his attempts to extricate himself would have drowned out the noise of the guide’s retreat. This time Scott went further into the trees, toward the cabin, and waited, allowing his ears to direct his next movements.

  Soon he heard the cautious tread of a second man, and the drawl of a Southern accent, calling quietly: “Duff? Duffer?”

  Scott felt like laughing, as if this were some schoolboy prank; then he caught the flash of a shotgun’s muzzle through the trees.

  “Duff?”

  “Wallace, I’m in here!” shouted the man in the privy.

  “Duffer?”

  “Help me, Wallace! Get me out!”

  “What have you done?”

  “I haven’t done anything! The wind knocked me over!”

  “The wind?”

  “Or an animal! I heard something, like a bear!”

  “A bear?” Wallace peered about. “A bear?” he said again. “Maybe like that trained bear that got loose in Wiscasset?” Wallace laughed. “Maybe it’s the bear you’re inside of! Duff, did that bear eat you?”

  “Wallace, this isn’t funny!”

  “No, of course not,” agreed the Southerner, laughing. “Duff, you’re supposed to sit in there, not dance!”

  “Now, stop it and get me out of here!”

  Wallace laid down his shotgun and considered the best way of honoring Duff ’s request. “I don’t think I can lift it upright with you in it, but I can probably roll it. Hang on.” He scooched down beside the toppled outhouse and took a purchase with his hands.

  The cold, business end of a gun barrel touched him at the base of his neck and he stiffened with sudden horror.

  “Just take a couple of easy breaths,” said an even voice behind him.

&nb
sp; It was difficult for Wallace to comply with this suggestion.

  “What was that?” asked Duff, sounding like he was shouting down a rain chute.

  “Now, let go your hands, very slowly,” came the voice again, “and take off your shirt and belt.”

  Moving with studied care, Wallace did as he was told.

  “Who is that?” demanded Duff.

  “It’s the man who tipped you over, you bonehead!” growled Wallace angrily.

  “Man? Tipped me over?” Duff mumbled to himself for a moment, then yelled out, “I told them not to take that young woman! But I went along to watch out for her!”

  “Lay down on your stomach with your hands behind you,” said Scott, prodding the nape of Wallace’s neck again to punctuate the command.

  “I told them You can’t be taking people willy-nilly, like that!” continued Duff. “ ‘That’s a very nice young lady,’ I told them, ‘and you best think twice!’ ”

  Every muscle in Wallace’s body twitched as he lay face down. Scott snapped up the shirt and, at a safe distance, twisted it into a serviceable cord. Then he put a knee in Wallace’s back, set his rifle atop the prostrated privy, and tied the Southerner’s wrists tightly.

  Duff ’s defensive summary continued. “I wasn’t there when they took her! Didn’t know anything about it!”

  Scott used Wallace’s belt to cinch his captive’s ankles.

  “You could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw her! But I knew I better go along just to watch out . . . !”

  “Duff, shut up!”

  “Now, Wallace, you tell him . . . !”

  “Duff, shut up.”

  “Wallace?” said Duff uncertainly.

  “That wasn’t me,” said Wallace.

  Cautiously peering around the front of the cabin, Dresden Scott was surprised to see Cordelia Underwood cautiously peering from the front door. She had a cast-iron ladle in her hand, raised in a vaguely threatening gesture.

  “Miss Underwood?” he said quietly.

  Cordelia’s expression took on the amused look of someone who has witnessed a surprising (and pleasing) feat of agility. Well, if isn’t Horse-Shoe Robinson, she thought, and very nearly said it aloud. “Mr. Scott?” was what came out.

  The guide stepped forward—still alert—his rifle in one hand, Wallace’s shotgun in the other. “Where’s the third fellow?”

  “Oh, him? He’s down here.”

  As he came closer, Scott noticed two large boots, toes up, in the doorway. He glanced from the boots to the ladle in Cordelia’s hand. “Did you hit him?”

  “Yes,” she said, the way she might have admitted to baking a pie. “Twice, actually. The first time he only said ‘Ouch,’ so I hit him again.”

  He looked into the dimness beyond the door. Stretched out on the floor, the large bearded fellow looked as if he were asleep.

  “Do you think I killed him?” asked Cordelia, in a softer note.

  “It would serve him right if you had,” said Scott, though it pleased him, somehow, that the notion of killing one of her kidnappers disturbed her.

  Ernest let out a snore.

  “Oh, good,” she said, but she raised the ladle again. “What about the other two?” she asked.

  “They’re set for a while. Let’s gather the horses and get while we can.”

  He saddled one of the animals, while Cordelia came out with two saddlebags. They combined the foodstuffs into one of them and tied it to the saddle.

  “There’s stew cooking inside,” she said.

  “Can you eat and ride while I lead you to my horse?”

  “I would like to try,” she admitted. “I haven’t eaten since last night.” At his nod she hurried inside, then came back out with two steaming bowls, two spoons, and a blue book under her arm.

  “I’m glad you had time to read,” he said, but she made no reply, and he held her bowl as she climbed into the saddle.

  They were an odd sight as they descended in a careful sweep down the hill—he with a rifle and shotgun slung over his shoulders, she being led on the horse, both of them sipping from their bowls of stew.

  “Didn’t my father come with you?” she asked, suddenly alarmed at James’s absence.

  “He had to stay with the rest of your family,” said Scott.

  There was a pause; then, “And Mr. Benning?”

  “Mr. Benning didn’t trust my sense of direction.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m sorry if I disappoint you.”

  “Not at all. It was very good of you to come.”

  63 The Villain Among the Victims

  SUNLIGHT FELL IN SPARKS AND FLASHES THROUGH THE UPPER BRANCHES OF the forest, dappling the way and glinting upon the wings of dragonflies or bits of mica or the occasional stream that crossed the trail. Tall and many-tiered clouds loomed overhead like becalmed ships; but a wind breathed within the trees with enough briskness to carry the call of birds and the scent of wood blooms, while keeping away the mosquitoes and black flies.

  Cordelia was too tired or too distracted to feel the glory of the day. The excitement of her escape and a bowl of stew were enough to greatly revive her; but now that she was reviving, the presence of Dresden Scott was enough to make her feel awkward, costumed as she was with a dress pulled over her nightclothes.

  He offered to take her off the trail so that she could rest without fear of anyone catching up with them, but she was anxious to reach her family. She hardly knew this man and felt strange riding beside him.

  Scott, for his part, was solicitous at first, then curious, and finally a little cross as the initial pleasure from his victory over Duff and Wallace fell away. “So your uncle buried something beneath Minmaneth Rock,” he said, when neither of them had said anything for several minutes.

  “Did he?” asked Cordelia, honestly wondering.

  Scott imagined she was being evasive. “That’s what your father said.”

  “Oh.”

  There was a new rockier silence and Scott, feeling the need for (not to mention the right to) an explanation, scowled at the young woman. “Well?”

  She caught the dark look. “You probably know as much as I do,” she replied.

  “I doubt that.” He had never objected to guiding a party that included women, but now he was beginning to think that he did. He had liked Miss Underwood—the presence of a pretty young woman in his line of work was a considered treat—and he was grateful that she had taken care of the third kidnapper for him. But he was tired now, and a little irritated that she made him nervous. “I’m not in the business of tracking armed men,” he growled.

  “I’m very sorry that you did, then,” said she, her voice high.

  “You’d be a long time waiting for Mr. Benning. He’s off in the wrong direction.”

  Cordelia was disappointed that John had not been in on her rescue and did not like to be reminded of it.

  “And I would rather not do business with people who falsify their intentions,” he added, when she made no reply.

  “We did no such thing,” she snapped. “We asked you to show us to my property, and anything else was our own affair.”

  “It is my affair when my well-being is threatened!”

  Cordelia bristled. “Well, they took me, didn’t they! And no one forced you to come after me!” The moment it left her mouth, she hated herself, she sounded so ungracious.

  “And no one forced me to be knocked cold with the butt of a pistol, I suppose!” he demanded, pointing at his skull. He nudged his horse ahead of hers; putting his back to her and (he hoped) an end to the conversation. He thought he must sound as ungracious as she.

  The unpleasant awareness of being terribly wrong stunned Cordelia. She remembered that Mr. Scott had been stretched out in front of her tent when Ernest carried her off. “That was you, wasn’t it?” she said, sounding small and far away.

  He said nothing.

  “I am sorry,” she said. She felt exhausted and worthless.

 
He rode ahead of her, his back stiff and his shoulders straight.

  She thought of asking him if he had been hurt, but that was too little, too late. “We couldn’t be sure that there really was anything buried,” she said. “Not until you told us about Minmaneth Rock. Then we were sure, but we had no idea—I have no idea—what it might be.”

  “Well, whatever it was, it’s gone now.”

  “Do you think?”

  Scott slowed his horse and turned to regard her with less severity. “That was why they took you, wasn’t it? To find out what you had learned and where it was?”

  “Yes, and I’m afraid that I did tell them.”

  “You were very wise to do so.”

  They rode on in silence—down a gully, around a leafy bend, and up a stony slope; the horses carefully picked their way. At the top of the hill, Cordelia said, “Thank you.” The trail was straight and level for twenty or thirty yards, then dropped to a small stream, where the horses paused to drink. “Do you think whatever it is has been taken already?” she asked.

  “The field was clear,” he said, “once you were taken and the rest of us split in different directions.”

  Scott prodded his horse forward again. When he looked at her, he was so sorry to have behaved badly—after what she had been through—that it hurt, and so he faced forward and away. She was a bit disheveled; her hair was in a tangle, but it glowed like copper in the sun, and her freckles stood out in a perfect dusting across the bridge of her nose. Perhaps it was just that she was so pretty that hurt.

  “I will be sorry not to know what was buried there,” said Cordelia, but she was sorrier still that she had let her exhaustion overcome her good manners. She had hoped that he had relented in his anger, and was struck with disappointment as he turned his back again.

  Scott hardly heard her. He was remembering how she stood over the prostrate form of Ernest, brandishing a cast-iron ladle like a club. It had been an appealing sight, her peering out into the sun and smiling at the sight of him. Her bare feet would have been scandalous in town, but here they were merely charming. He decided to look straight ahead and not think about them.