“Why don’t you go get us some water?” said Randy. “I’ll put chow on the fire.”
“It’s a deal,” said Jebs.
He picked up both their canteens and the coffee pot and the kettle. He trudged up the trail to where, beyond the edge of the creek, stood a cabin in the midst of a clearing. It was old and rickety-seeming, built like a tobacco barn, of plain vertical boards with narrow strips over the joinings. Its ancient shingles looked home-cut. At the back door yawned a hole rimmed with stones mortared together, and on a forked pole hung a bucket and rope. Jebs drew clear, cold water to fill the canteens and utensils, then returned to the camp.
Randy was searing ham slices in their two mess kits. As Jebs joined him, he opened one of the cans of field peas and poured half of the contents into each kit, upon and around the ham. An appetizing smell rose, and Jebs sniffed his relish.
“Smells good, Randy. What else are we having?”
“Corn dodgers,” said Randy, indicating two metal-foil parcels thrust in among the coals. “Let’s get some coffee into that pot and set it boiling.”
They finished their cooking swiftly, but Driscoll Jordan was eating before they were. As the sun set, he lounged beside his own fire, eating his grilled fish. He sliced away morsels with a clasp knife, drank coffee from a tin can, and munched crackers. Neither Jebs nor Randy suggested he join them at their fire. They were becoming used to his reserve, but were beginning to wonder if he wasn’t overdoing it.
Mosquitoes appeared as the sun set, and for the third time that day Jebs and Randy patted insect repellant over their bodies. Randy offered the bottle to Driscoll, but he smiled and declined. With the last of the fading light their Indian host appeared, stepping along a bankside trail with surprising lightness for one of his plump bulk.
“I see you’re settled in,” he said hospitably. “Had supper yet? Maybe you’ll join me up at my shack. I hate to eat alone all the time.”
“We’ve eaten,” said Randy, “but sit down and have some coffee.”
“And some fish,” offered Driscoll, strolling over from his own fire. He held out the last of the three bream, still spitted on its green twig.
“Yes, and here’s some fresh-baked corn bread,” added Jebs, offering part of the dodger.
“Well,” said the Indian, sitting down. “Thank you kindly, boys.” With relish he gnawed at the fish and broke off pieces of corn dodger with his fingers. “You still ain’t scared of the haunts?”
“What haunts?” said Driscoll suddenly. He squatted on his heels, rather like an Indian himself.
“Oh, just the haunts of Drowning Creek.” The Indian tossed fish bones into the fire and sipped coffee from a canteen cup. “I’ve lived here my whole life long, about, and I’ve heard about them so long back I’ve had time to partly forget. You get used to the idea.”
“Are they Indian ghosts?” asked Driscoll.
“No, white ones,” said Randy. “At least, from what I heard today, they hang around an old house, where the floors are made of gold or something.”
“Is that a fact?” said Driscoll, and he sounded stern and grim.
“Nobody can tell you for sure,” said the Indian. “It’s just a tale. Nobody knows how to get to the house.”
“Then what gives people such an idea?” asked Driscoll.
“Oh, folks talk about it from time to time,” the Indian replied. “From what I remember hearing, if anybody finds the place he never comes back.”
“Why?” asked Jebs eagerly. “What happens to him?”
“I reckon he turns into a haunt, too.” The Indian rose, smiling around on them. “Well, I’m obliged for the supper. You sure you’ll be all right here?”
“Yes, but don’t hurry off,” said Jebs.
“Got to look after my pig. Good night.”
The Indian moved lightly away past the upturned boat and toward his cabin. They watched him go.
“Shoo!” said Jebs at last. “I’ll wager you he believes in those haunts and that treasure.”
“Do you?” inquired Driscoll.
“Maybe later tonight I will, but not right now.” Jebs studied Driscoll’s gray cap. “Let’s change the subject. Driscoll, how about telling us all about your great-granddaddy, when he was in the Confederate army?”
“That’s nothing special around here,” said Driscoll. “Didn’t you have Confederate ancestors?”
“Sure enough. So did Randy. But—” Jebs hesitated, choosing words. “It’s just that we ought to have some kind of story, here by the fire.”
“I was going to ask what you two are doing on the creek,” said Driscoll.
“Just camping,” said Randy. “We heard about how people used to float down to Lumberton, twenty or thirty years ago, and we thought we’d try it ourselves, for fun.”
Readily he told of their preparations, their launching, and the adventures of their first day on the waters of Drowning Creek. Driscoll listened with polite interest. It grew deeply dark outside the circle of firelight, and the woods vibrated with the stealthy noises of night creatures. At the end of Randy’s recital, Jebs yawned.
“Getting tired,” he confessed. “I’m going to hit the sack—the hammock, anyway. Gentlemen, it’s a pleasure sitting with you all, but they tell me growing boys need lots of sleep.”
Driscoll rose. “Good night,” he said, and moved back to where his own fire had died to the dimmest of rosy glows in its pit. They watched him creep into his tent.
Randy and Jebs stowed away their mess kits and sought their hammocks, slung side by side. Jebs lifted the mosquito netting, but did not get in at once. “Say, Randy,” he muttered softly.
“Say it.”
“Our friend yonder was right interested in us. He asked us to tell all about what we’re doing. But, did you notice? He didn’t dish out a single syllable about what he himself is up to out here.”
“You didn’t give him time,” said Randy. “You yawned and said you were going to get some sleep.”
“I’ve got a sneaky notion he wouldn’t have told us anyway, even if we’d asked right out.”
“Maybe he’ll loosen up tomorrow morning,” suggested Randy, and got into his own hammock.
He did not think long about the day’s adventures, or Driscoll Jordan. He was asleep within moments.
FOUR
THE STOLEN CANOE
IN THE NIGHT, Randy Hunter snapped wide awake to a strange noise, stealthy but unmistakably close at hand. He lay quiet, blinking his eyes fast to clear all drowsiness from them. There it was again— soft, not quite definable, and not more than a few yards away.
Randy put his hand to the flashlight that lay beside him in the hammock, closed his fingers around it, and set his thumb on the switch. Then he quickly sat up, clawed the mosquito netting aside, and sent a beam of bright light stabbing out into the darkness.
Something sizeable and shadowy moved close to the log beside which lay the luggage of Randy and Jebs. There was a gleam in the light, as of metal. Randy sprang out of the hammock, his heart pounding and his mouth dry. He focussed his light on what was beside the log.
At once he saw that it was Driscoll Jordan. “What’s up?” challenged Randy sternly.
Driscoll was stripped to the waist, his hair rumpled. In one hand he held that machete of his, and it glittered as it moved.
“I heard—” Randy started to say.
“So did I,” said Driscoll. “Out here by your stuff. It’s gone, whatever it was.”
“Is it?” said Randy. “Is it really gone?” He walked across to join Driscoll.
“Some wild animal, probably,” said Driscoll. “Maybe it wanted to claw into your food pack for the bacon, or maybe it was after that box of salt you left out.” Driscoll’s machete pointed to the box. “Anyway, it’s gone.”
Randy turned his flashlight on the ground. “No tracks,” he said.
“We’ll be better able to see them in the morning,” replied Driscoll.
He turned on hi
s bare heel and walked back to his little tent. Dropping down, he crawled into it on hands and knees, still with his machete in his grip. After a moment, Randy, too, turned away and went to his hammock and lay down. He made himself relax, thinking about the incident and about Driscoll Jordan. Finally he slept again.
Bright light, filtering through the mosquito netting, wakened him in the morning. He sat up and looked out. It was full morning.
“Jebs?” he called. “Hey, Jebs!”
“Huh?” muttered Jebs drowsily from the hammock alongside.
Randy hopped out on the ground. The morning was already warm, and the sun was swiftly disposing of a wispy tracing of fog among the surrounding trees.
“Rise and shine,” Randy bade his friend, shoving with his bare foot against Jebs’ hammock to make it swing back and forth. “Swarm out of there, Jebs. Let’s start a fire and get breakfast. You didn’t even stir last night when we had all the excitement.”
“Excitement?” repeated Jebs. He emerged slowly from his hammock, rubbing his eyes and yawning widely. “What excitement? Did I miss anything?”
“Oh, I heard something. I got up and switched on the light. If there really was any animal prowling around, it was gone. Driscoll Jordan heard it, too. He was out patrolling around to find it.”
“Driscoll Jordan? Our pal of last night?” Jebs was well in possession of his wakeaday faculties now. He peered past the hammocks. “Hey!”
“Hey, what?” said Randy, turning his head.
You’re raising sand about me being sleepy, but Driscoll’s still pounding his ear.”
No sound or motion came from the little impromptu tent Driscoll Jordan had pitched the night before.
“You say he woke up easy last night,” said Jebs. “You reckon he’s all right in there?”
“Let’s see.” Randy walked swiftly across, stooped down and peered in.
The tent was empty, save for a rumpled old quilt. Driscoll was gone. So was his pet machete.
“He’s up pestering around somewhere in his mysterious way,” grunted Jebs. “Let’s gather some wood.” Dew still clung to the chunks of fuel they had heaped up the night before, but Randy moved among the jack oaks, quickly broke off two handfuls of brittle dead twigs. These he arranged carefully on the bed of ashes where they had built their supper fire, then produced a match and struck it. He held the flame carefully under the shredded, broken ends of the twigs. It caught and flamed up rosily. Jebs was ready with some larger bits, and as the fire made good its hold on those they were ready to add substantial pieces. Steamy vapors mingled with the smoke as the flame mastered the fuel.
“Do we have water in the coffee pot?” said Randy, looking into it. “Yes, plenty.” He measured ground coffee into it and put the pot on the edge of the fire, while Jebs opened the waterproof food sack and took out mess kits and eggs.
“Hold that until our coffee gets ahead start,” counseled Randy. “Don’t break the eggs yet. Dig out some bacon.”
Jebs opened the bacon package, spread it on the log, and chose four slices, well streaked with lean. Randy put more wood on the fire and opened both mess kits, clamping their handles. He propped them on the stones above the fire and put two strips of bacon in each.
“I’m still stretchy,” confessed Jebs, with another of his yawns.
“All right, go hop into the creek and come out again,” advised Randy. “I’ll watch the cooking until you get back, then you take over and let me have a quick dip.”
“That’s fair enough,” agreed Jebs, tramping off toward the pier. “You finish frizzling the bacon, and I’ll swim back in time to fry the eggs.”
Randy knelt and poked the frying bacon with a fork. It was beginning to grow brown and savorylooking. He listened for the splash of his friend’s dive, but it did not come. Instead, he heard Jebs shout.
“Hey! Our canoe’s gone!”
Randy sprang up, dropping the fork. He ran toward the pier. Jebs danced up and down on it, pointing excitedly.
“Driscoll’s taken his dugout and our canoe, too!”
Randy rushed past Jebs and leaped into the water. He splashed to where the loop of line showed, still fast to the tree where they had moored the canoe. Rib-deep in water, he studied the loose end.
“It’s been cut,” he said. “Look.”
Jebs dropped to hands and knees on the pier to see.
“If he left,” said Randy, “and took our canoe, why did he leave his tent and quilt?”
“Because the canoe’s worth both of them several times over,” said Jebs.
“And he was fooling around near our luggage in the dead of night, too,” remembered Randy. “A peculiar duck all around.”
“Wait till I get my hands on him,” snorted Jebs balefully. “I’ll—I’ll smack him—”
He broke off abruptly and ran back along the slabs. “The bacon!” he howled at Randy. “It’s burning!”
Randy struggled up out of the water, gained the bank, and ran after Jebs toward the camp. Jebs had snatched the two mess kits from the fire, and Randy caught up the lids and clapped them on the kits to put out the flames.
“It was only the grease flaming up,” said Randy. “There, it’s put out now. Those chunks of bacon are crisped up, but they didn’t burn. We can eat them.”
“We won’t have time,” argued Jebs. “We’ve got to head after that canoe thief. He may be miles away.” He turned as if to start off at once.
“Put on your moccasins,” said Randy quickly. “You can’t go galloping off through the brush barefoot. And let’s look where he camped.”
Suiting the action to the word, Randy took a stick and poked at the remains of Driscoll Jordan’s fire. Earth had been scattered over it to put out all sparks, but smoke rose as he stirred. As he studied the ashes, he munched a strip of bacon and a piece of the corn bread from the previous evening’s meal.
“Look, Jebs, the fire’s still warm. It has smoke in it yet. So Driscoll Jordan can’t have gone very far or very long from among us. Maybe not as much as half an hour.”
Jebs, too, had grabbed bacon and corn pone, and was pouring coffee into a canteen cup. “Let’s fetch him back, then. We’ll head downstream.”
“Why downstream?” inquired Randy.
“He was heading that way when we found him, wasn’t he?”
“Right,” said Randy, “but he came from upstream. He may have gone either way, so let’s split up. You search downstream, I’ll head upstream.”
He slipped on his own footgear, picked up a stout oak limb that made a serviceable club, and began to thread his way along a trail that hugged the bank.
“How’ll we keep in touch?” Jebs called after him.
“If you get a glimpse of him, start a fire quick,” Randy yelled back. “Throw dry leaves on it to make a smoke. I’ll do the same if I see him. If one of us sees a smoke like that, he’ll double back and join the other, fast as he can run.”
“Check,” said Jebs, and tramped away.
Randy picked his way along the trail. It was well defined and easy to travel, no doubt worn into the bank by the feet of the Indian who had given them permission to camp at his landing, and by others like him. Randy kept his gaze fixed on the waters of the creek, alert for a glimpse of the canoe. His mind tried to assess the evidence, to establish a possible motive.
If Driscoll Jordan had taken the canoe, why hadn’t he taken other things? Randy and Jebs had brought an abundance of gear into camp, and Driscoll, Randy remembered, had shown only the scantiest of possessions. Driscoll had seemed short even of provisions; he had made his supper on fish caught from the creek with a handful of dry crackers. If Driscoll wanted to take the canoe, why hadn’t he stolen materials for a meal or so? Or cooking utensils? As for the canoe itself, it was a craft little, if any, better than Driscoll’s own primitive but efficient dugout. It seemed to Randy that Driscoll’s single appropriation was of something he did not need. It didn’t make sense.
Then, glancing back, Randy
blinked. There it was —smoke rising in a cloud above the trees.
Whipping around, Randy started at a loping run along the bank. The smoke seemed to rise close to the landing where their camp was. No—it rose from the landing itself. Randy quickened his pace, puffing and mystified.
Jebs stood by the fire on which he had heaped leaves and rotten wood to make a quick, smoke-gushing blaze. He pointed toward the water.
“There he is,” said Jebs, as mystified as Randy. “He’s bringing it back.”
Driscoll Jordan, quiet and enigmatic as ever, sat tying his dugout to one of the trees that supported the pier. On his head slanted the Confederate army cap. And fastened to the stern of the dugout by its shortened rope was the lost canoe.
FIVE
A TALE OF TREASURE
OF THE THREE, Driscoll was by far the most calm. He finished tying up his dugout, then scrambled up on the pier and walked toward Randy and Jebs. He raised a hand in a semi-salute, touching the brim of the cap.
“Brought back your canoe,” he announced.
“I reckon you got tired of it,” snapped Jebs, edging forward. “I reckon you didn’t like its color, or something like that. Why did you take it?”
“I found it floating,” said Driscoll, with undisturbed coolness. “That is, a couple of other people in a boat cast it off. I’d followed them in the dugout, and I guess they thought I was chasing them, so they cast it loose and pulled ahead. I brought it back.” He looked at Jebs with steady slant eyes. “You don’t believe me, do you? I don’t like folks who don’t believe me.”
“Don’t you?” Jebs’ sunburned skin grew a deeper red, and his own blue eyes snapped like fire. “Yesterday you jumped on me before I was set, and I let you get away with it, because we were just fooling.” He took a stride forward. “Well, I’m set now, and I’m not fooling, and—”
“Wait,” interposed Randy, and hooked his hand under Jebs’ arm to hold him back. “Let’s hear what he has to say. Maybe he’s telling the truth.”
Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1951 Page 3