by Van Reid
“I have to say that I’m curious about that digging,” said Scott, when James returned to the camp. “If you don’t mind, I think I will ride over there and have a look.”
“Perhaps you should wait,” suggested James, “and we’ll all go. I think Cord deserves seeing what’s left as much as any of us.”
They did not begrudge Cordelia her sleep, and it was nearly mid-morning before she emerged from her tent. She was greatly revived, her red hair and white dress brilliant in the sun. Two men from the search party were still with them, and Dresden Scott was not the only one who had difficulty keeping his eyes off her.
Together they broke camp, packed their things, and rode down the long slope to the lake. On their way, James told Dresden Scott more of what he knew concerning the ancient adventurer Minmaneth.
Skirting the eastern perimeter of the shore, they came to Minmaneth Rock, the base of which began some thirty or forty yards from the water. The men who had dug the hole were not expecting to labor for their fortune any time soon, it seemed; picks and shovels lay where they had been dropped the moment the great chest was uncovered.
James looked down at the shore, and at the forest and the massive formation of granite. He envisioned his brother here, wishing there might be some clue to reveal Basil’s motive for burying something in such a wild and remote place.
He was impressed by the primeval aspect of the rock itself. The soil had accumulated over millennia, the lake (the work of beavers, perhaps) might be only a century or two old, and many of the trees about them were no older than the span of a man’s life; but that great mass of gray stone towering over them must have been formed before any human had ever set foot upon this land. Once, in Boston, James had seen the reconstructed bones of an iguanodon, said to be one of the oldest creatures and long extinct (perhaps destroyed by the Great Flood); and he had experienced a similar feeling gazing upon its ancient remains.
A puff of wind skittered last year’s leaves into the hole. They could see where the old box had been laid; and scattered about were the footprints of at least a dozen men, the tracks of horses, and the ruts made by wagon wheels. “Whatever they found,” said one of the men, “they must have taken it down along the shore.”
“Did they miss something?” wondered Scott. His sharp eyes had caught a flash of white in the dirt, where the hole was the deepest. He jumped down into the pit and kneeled beside the object. James hunkered down at the edge of the hole, and Cordelia leaned upon his shoulder, peering after him. On the opposite side, the two men who were left from the search party mirrored their interest.
Scott knew what he had found before he had completely uncovered it, and he worked with care, brushing the loosened dirt aside. The ground was compacted and peaty, but he quickly exposed the desiccated bones of a human hand, held together by the tendrils of long-rooted plants and the pressures of rock and soil.
But as soon as the bones came clear of the surrounding dirt, they sprung apart like a broken toy, giving everyone the eerie impression of life being relinquished even as they watched.
The guide reached into the dirt to one side of the disintegrated hand and touched the surface of something hard, which proved (after further excavation) to be a wide, flat rock. One of the men joined Scott and helped him push over this smooth plate of stone.
Death, however old, can raise human sympathy, and an involuntary sound of pity escaped from Cordelia as the figure beneath was revealed.
“My word!” said James. “Do you suppose that’s the old boy himself?” He slid down into the pit beside Scott. A thrill traveled through him as he looked into the ancient eye sockets. “It is very well preserved, considering how old it must be,” he said.
“Perhaps it is just an Indian burial,” said Dresden Scott. He was taking note of the arrowheads and beads, the slight remains of some garment, possibly buckskin; animal bones lay about the human remains, indicating to the guide that game, or perhaps a favored dog, had been buried with the warrior to accompany him to the next world.
James reached into the barrow and took from it a small object. He peered at it for a moment, rubbing it with his thumb and forefinger. Then he passed it to Scott, who stood and held it to the light. Scott reached the object up to Cordelia, who took it almost fearfully.
The ring was of gold and had fit a man’s finger. It was a signet ring with several small designs, one being the Scottish lion, rampant.
“This pit has some story to tell,” said Cordelia. The other men were given a look at the ring; then James replaced it in the grave and Scott, with some help, gently settled the great stone back into place. It was an hour’s hard work to fill the hole in again.
“We should go, before it gets much later,” said James. “Your mother will know by now that you’re safe, but she will be anxious to see for herself. Unless someone has caught up with our burglars, whatever else was in this hole is lost to us, I fear.”
They returned to their horses and rode slowly along the shore toward the forest road and Millinocket. Cordelia and her father caught each other looking back, as they mounted the slope to the trail. Then they disappeared among the trees, and Minmaneth Rock continued its gray and ancient vigil.
A crow called from deep in the forest.
65 A Deed Nearly Done
IT WAS MID-AFTERNOON WHEN FOURTEEN MEN AND A LARGE TAR-COVERED chest in three boats came through the narrows between Quakish and Ferguson Lakes. Some of the men slept, stretched against the gunnels, their hats pulled over their eyes; some hunched wearily in their seats. Those whose shift it was to row viewed the final three-quarters of a mile to the landing at Millinocket with relief.
The hawk-nosed Benjamin Hasson lifted the brim of his hat, yawned long and wide, and watched as the farther shore drew near. This leg of their enterprise, he knew, was uncertain, and he was apprehensive as the buildings beside the lake, along with the public dock, took shape in the waning distance.
The boats schooled toward a point south of the dock, where a man stood on a ledge, several feet above the water; and Ben’s craft was the first to bump quietly against the rocky shore. It was a young fellow who waited for them, hardly more than a boy, but tall; and he craned his head to see the chest in the second boat.
“Is the word out about us?” asked Ben.
“There are rumors going around, but half the men in town are still on the trail looking. The girl’s father didn’t explain much, I guess, or the sheriff didn’t pass it on. Somebody said there was a lot of activity down at the telegraph office, but Mr. Benning has been down there three or four times, so I guess there’s nothing to be concerned about. All anybody’s talking about is the girl.”
It took a good deal of effort, and some precarious moments, to shift the chest from the second boat to the shore. Ben supervised the situation, and cursed when he was certain that their prize was going overboard. Somehow the trunk managed to stay dry, though several of the men did not.
It was not far from the lake up a bank to a narrow path, but the way was steep in places and the unwieldy trunk seemed to fight with them. When they reached the path, they were glad that a cart was waiting for them.
“The boss thinks of everything,” gasped one of the men gratefully.
They could hear the whistle of a train coming from the northeast, then the engine, and the rumble of the wheels. “Like a clock!” exclaimed the young fellow who had met them on the shore.
“Not yet it’s not!” growled Ben, thinking of the distance to the siding. They took turns pushing and pulling at the cart, and the fabled treasure chest traveled still closer to its final destination.
It was like clockwork. In the mill yard they waited behind an outbuilding while the engine backed several cars onto the siding. Two railroad men joined the crew, and the chest was loaded onto the back side of the only boxcar in the link. Then the two linemen returned to their legitimate occupation, and the crew hurried to the station on the other side of town.
Nerves were high, driven by
exhaustion and exultation over a job nearly finished. The bulk of the gang bought their tickets and dispersed throughout the passenger cars as soon as the train was coupled back together and pulled up to the platform.
Ben watched from outside the station as a second train, arriving from the south, drew to a stop with a chuff of steam and the deafening rumble of the braking engine. Several porters and an unusual number of passengers, including two newspapermen, stepped down to the platform; one man boarded. The porters made piles of baggage and boxes, while two of the arrivals stepped into the stationhouse.
Soon the train had pulled out of the station, and three of the arrivals stood in a small cluster, peering in unison at the disappearing train, then at the dusty street beyond the tracks, then at the rough-hewn barn looming opposite them. There seemed to be but one stimulus among them at any given moment, or a single string pulling all three heads at once.
“It is rustic, don’t you think, Thump?” said Eagleton.
“I do,” said Thump. “I certainly do think it is rustic. But I would be very glad to hear Ephram’s point of view.”
“Oh, yes,” said Ephram. “I think your estimation quite . . . estimable.”
“Good heavens!” declared Eagleton. It was not usual for Ephram to forward such a jest, and it quite took his friends by surprise.
Ephram seemed pleased with himself. He put his hands behind his back, attempting to look casual.
“Now there are three likely sportsmen,” said one of the gang to Ben.
Ben smiled. It was true—the club members looked nothing if not well-to-do and innocent as babes. Most people, even from the city, appeared at such an outpost as Millinocket in sportsmen’s clothes, but these three looked as if they were waiting for the theater to open.
“I hope no one offers to put a gun in their hands,” said the gang member wryly.
Ben frowned; the three men had turned in his direction with a unified look of unexpected recognition, and it startled him.
“Gentlemen!” came a familiar and (to Ben Hasson) commanding voice. John Benning stepped past him, clapping Ben upon the shoulder, and approached Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump as if they were his oldest friends. “Gentlemen!”
Eagleton was the first to react, putting a hand out. “A pleasure . . . a pleasure,” he said several times. He had recognized the man as he approached the station platform, but could not recall his name.
Ephram came to his friend’s rescue, shaking the man’s hand next. “Mr. Benning,” he said.
Thump was the least enthusiastic; it was John Benning, after all, who had picked him to referee the great Blithewaite and Van Smooten bout, and the shock of that event had never completely left him. Benning, however, provided all the locomotion needed for a vigorous handshake.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” said Benning again, smiling broadly. “Ben,” he called. “Let me introduce you to some old acquaintances. Gentlemen, Benjamin Hasson.” Benning very deftly allowed the members of the club to introduce themselves, since he had never learned their names.
“We are beginning a club, you know,” said Eagleton, carried away by Benning’s enthusiasm.
“Really?” said the hawk-nosed Ben.
“Looking for members,” said Ephram to Benning. “Ground floor.”
“A club?” said Benning. “He says a club, Ben.”
“Yes, boss . . . I mean, Mr. Benning.”
“How are things?” inquired Benning of his subordinate easily. He might have been asking after the health of Ben’s mother.
“As we’ve been saying, Mr. Benning,” said Ben proudly, “like clockwork!”
“The deed is nearly done, Mr. Hasson,” said Benning. “Congratulations.”
“It seems the members of the club have an acquaintance here in town,” said Sundry to Mister Walton. The young man watched the unexpected reunion from the stationhouse; with daylight reflecting against the window, he was no more than a silhouette to anyone outside.
Mister Walton, who had been garnering information from the ticket seller, came up behind Sundry and squinted into the brightness. “My goodness!” he said. “That’s Mr. Benning. After Miss Underwood saved me from going overboard, Mr. Benning saved her. Then, on the Fourth, he turned up at the Freeport fairgrounds, and at the dance that night. It was plain that he was quite taken with her . . .”
Outside, Thump was saying, “The Moosepath League.”
“I quite like that,” said Benning. “Perhaps you will sponsor me, Mr. Thump.” He gave the short fellow a friendly whack on the back.
“Yes, well . . .” Thump looked embarrassed in a manful sort of way. It was all very masculine and jolly, and just the sort of robust conduct he had hoped for in the life of a club member.
Some of the gang gathered close, drawn by the laughter and the presence of their boss.
“Do you know the other men?” wondered Sundry, inside the stationhouse.
“I don’t think so,” said Mister Walton.
“They’re a rough looking bunch,” said the young man.
There was the quality of a gang about the men who surrounded John Benning and the three members, and yet they seemed deferential to the handsome young man; some appeared tentative about him, as if Benning’s presence made them nervous. None of the men were familiar to Mister Walton, but they put him in mind somehow of the smuggling crew who had loaded Horace McQuinn’s wagon at the Mariners’ Hospital.
“Well, I must get back to the telegraph,” Benning was saying, with a wink in the direction of Ben Hasson. “I’m waiting for information regarding Charles Stimply,” he added playfully, speaking directly to the white-bearded Samuel Adams, who had played the part of Charles Stimply at the Under-woods’ nearly two weeks before.
Mister Walton and Sundry could not hear what was being said, but there was something odd about the scene, and even something wrong. If John Benning was in Millinocket, it seemed that he must be here for the same reasons as they—to render whatever aid he could to Cordelia and her family. And yet, Benning appeared too jolly, too satisfied—and too much in charge.
“Perhaps she’s been found,” said Sundry hopefully. He started for the station door just as Benning was leaving the group of men with a friendly wave.
“No word yet, then?” called one of the men.
The hawk-nosed man who had been nearest to Benning gave the fellow a quick, almost startled look; but Benning called back, “Not yet.” The men were speaking at some distance from each other, and these were the first words that Mister Walton and Sundry could hear.
Mister Walton stopped Sundry with a gentle hand on the shoulder. “Wait a moment, Sundry,” he said, and they watched Benning enter the telegraph office. “Is there something peculiar in all this?”
“If you think so, I’d say sure there is,” replied Sundry. “I just thought it was my naturally suspicious nature. If he was here to help Miss Underwood, it seems that his bearing would be more solemn; and if his bearing wasn’t solemn, it seems he wouldn’t be here.”
“That is it exactly, my friend,” said Mister Walton. “Sundry?”
“Yes, Mister Walton.”
“I am going to employ a bit of subterfuge.”
“Really?” Sundry couldn’t imagine Mister Walton doing such a thing.
“It is not very gentlemanly, I’m afraid. I’m sure there is an explanation, but I marked that fellow for a rascal the first time I met him. It’s not fair to judge a conversation you can’t hear, but the circumstances are so strange. If I am in error, and I certainly hope I am, I will very gladly tender an apology to the man.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, you wait here with our friends. I’ll be back after I have an unexpected meeting with Mr. Benning.”
Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump were waiting with Sundry in the station-house when the chairman returned, looking darker than Sundry had ever seen him. The three companions took no notice of Mister Walton’s somber aspect. Thump was missing a button and he was staring
at the empty spot on his jacket, as if the button would rematerialize. Ephram and Eagleton commiserated with Thump regarding his loss.
“It’s quite mysterious, actually,” explained Ephram to Mister Walton. “It was there the last time he looked.”
“Did you meet anyone at the telegraph office?” asked Sundry.
“Yes, I did,” replied Mister Walton. His manner was abstract, and it was clear that his mind was racing. “Mr. Benning was very surprised to see me, and quite grim. Miss Underwood has not been found yet. He was, in fact, in the camp when she was taken. He was traveling with the Underwoods.”
Thump had stopped a passing porter and was showing the man the mates to his missing button. The train, linked up now, chuffed into the station yard, and the weary crew on the platform began to board her.
“Mr. Underwood is out with the search party,” Mister Walton was saying. “But Mrs. Underwood is with her nephew and niece at a Mrs. Cuthbert’s boardinghouse. Gentlemen,” said Mister Walton, with more authority in his voice than was his usual wont. “I have a favor to ask of you—not in my capacity as your chairman, but as a friend.”
Ephram and Eagleton’s attention turned from the missing button to Mister Walton’s face; and after a moment or two, Thump (who was bent over, searching the floor) straightened himself and regarded the chairman of the Moosepath League with surprise and gravity. The very thought of being called upon as Mister Walton’s friend filled them with a great deal of pride and not a little purpose. Even Sundry Moss was impressed.
“My dear Mister Walton!” said Eagleton. “We are at your service!”
“We must fashion some excuse for your returning on this train,” explained the portly chairman. “Mr. Eagleton, your mother has taken ill.”
“Good heavens!”
“Your friends will return with you.”
Ephram, who appeared to understand Mister Walton better than did his two friends, said, “Is this in regard to the missing Miss Underwood, Mister Walton?”