Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1953

by The Raiders of Beaver Lake (v1. 1)

  "I didn’t see any body," said Randy, still nervous.

  "You could hear it, though," his grandfather said. "Probably it was wearing dark clothes that didn’t reflect your light."

  Randy recovered his nerve and turned his flash groundward. There before them was a print in damp earth, the print of a broad, coarse shoe. Jebs bent and looked.

  "Shoo!” he said. "It was just some fellow prowling around, like us."

  "Who?" Randy asked challengingly.

  "And why?” added Major Hunter.

  JEBS IS MYSTERIOUS

  "Why, Major?" he echoed. "We’ll find out why."

  He poised his shovel and took a step, slow but determined, as though to pursue.

  "We’ll go back to the house," said Major Hunter.

  "But if we don’t follow—" began Randy.

  "Back to the house," repeated the Major, in a voice suddenly authoritative, the kind of voice he must have used on parade grounds years before.

  Randy and Jebs turned back obediently, and Major Hunter took the flashlight and led the way to the path, then toward Laurels.

  "Come inside before I talk," he said, shutting off several attempts to question him.

  In the front room of the house, the two boys took chairs opposite the Major and waited expectantly.

  "I don’t believe in plat-eyes and boogies, like some of these hoecakers around these parts," ventured Jebs after a moment, "but the way you called us back from chasing that face made me wonder if you didn’t think Beaver Lake’s haunted."

  "It’s haunted, all right, and by a flesh-and-blood trespasser," replied the old soldier. "Somebody hanging around at night where he’s not supposed to be, and usually that kind of somebody is armed. If you’d pushed him too dose, Jebs, you might have been shot at.”

  "Shoo!” exdaimed Jebs.

  "Shoo yourself!” put in Randy. "You didn’t think of that, did you, Jebs? And here I came to the Sandhills thinking things would be quiet and lazy and sort of boresome.” "You’re sure he was trespassing, sir?” asked Jebs. "Somebody after our beavers, maybe?”

  "That’s exactly what I think,” replied Major Hunter. "Not many people even know about any beavers on my property. Jebs, you’re the beaver hobby fellow for this neighborhood, and it was news to you before today, wasn't it? Odd that somebody showed up uninvited on your first visit to the lake.”

  "Who heard you telling me about the beavers, Major?” persisted Jebs. "There wasn’t anybody listening except Randy and my dad, and neither of them would be apt to talk to anyone who wasn’t all right.”

  "I’m like my grandfather, I think somebody heard for the first time about them today, and sneaked over to have a look,” said Randy. "Beaver skins ought to be worth quite something these days.”

  "They’re worth a lot,” the major told him. "Good beaver pelts are worth almost as much per square inch as good mink. But down here they’re carefully protected, by stern laws. The government’s counting on those beavers to do what they used to do, all over the nation, for water control and land preservation. You know about that, Jebs, don’t you?”

  "I’ve read about it,” replied Jebs. "A hundred years ago, for instance, they had dams and lodges all over the western streams, from the Rio Grande to the Columbia. After the trappers and traders wiped them out, there weren’t any more little reservoirs and lakes of their making, and we began to have droughts and deserts.”

  "I'm going to find out who’s prowling around Beaver Lake, and see that he doesn’t do it any more,” announced Major Hunter grimly. I’ll notify the game warden and the sheriff. Well, Jebs, Uncle Henry will drive you home when you’re ready.”

  "I can walk,” said Jebs, but Major Hunter shook his gray head.

  ’It’s no trouble to send you. And here, maybe you’d like to read this book.”

  He limped to the shelf and selected a thick volume bound in dark blue cloth. "This is a scientific work on the animals of America, past and present. You’ll find out something about prehistoric beavers in it.”

  "Thank you, sir,” said Jebs eagerly, and departed with Uncle Henry.

  ”As for you, Randy,” went on the Major when Jebs had left, "you might like to look at this.” He held out a pamphlet. "It’s something the State Historical Association printed some years ago, a selection from John Lawton’s History of North Carolina. He was one of the state’s first explorers, and his book was published in 1714. This is the part that tells about the animals of the region.” He opened it and looked at one page, then another. "Here, read this.”

  Randy sat down and read:

  "Bevers are very numerous in Carolina, there being abundance of their Dams in all Parts of the Country where I have traveled. They are the moft induftrious and greateft Artificers (in building their Dams and Houfes) of any four footed Creatures in the World. Their Food is chiefly the Barks of Trees and Shrubs, viz: Safsafras, Ash, Sweet. Gum and feveral others. If you take them young they become very tame and domeftic, but are very mifchievous in fpoiling Orchards by breaking the Trees. . .

  Randy looked up. "Say, sir, did this John Lawton have a lisp or an impediment in his speech?"

  The Major chuckled. "The reprint followed the old style of type, including the Saxon S that looks like a small F,” he said. "Surely you’ve seen that before?"

  "Right, but the things that have been happening made me want to make some sort of joke. Do you know what it says here about young beavers making good pets?"

  "Just leave the young beavers in their own home, Randy," said the Major. "You can look, but you can’t touch. Try to catch any, and you’ll have trouble with the law and me."

  "Yes, sir," said Randy. He continued to read Lawton’s curious but informative account of wild life in Carolina two hundred and fifty years before. Finally he said: "I never heard of John Lawton until now. Whatever became of him?"

  "Killed by the Indians,” replied the Major. "This wasn’t a quiet, lazy boresome country then.”

  "And it isn’t now,” said Randy.

  He felt a return of his earlier apprehension. To shake it off he went to his room, found writing paper, and composed his inquiry about Lone Scout activity to mail to National Boy Scout Headquarters. He addressed the envelope, put a stamp on it, and brought it back into the living room. Several letters, ready stamped for mailing, leaned on the mantel above the fireplace, and Randy added his letter to them. Now he found himself yawning and stretching.

  "I'm going to bed,” he told his grandfather.

  "So am I, pretty soon," was the reply. "Good night, Randy."

  Randy undressed, put on pajamas, and sprawled on the comfortable cot. He had gone through a number of surprising experiences during this, his first day in North Carolina, but they had brought a healthy weariness of body as well as excitement. He was glad to relax, to let his eyes drop shut.

  . . . Then his eyes came open again, and it was morning.

  It took him a moment or two to remember where he was, and what had happened the day before. A sense of eager anticipation came to him. Quickly he donned dungarees, shirt and moccasins. Thorough washing helped waken him completely and he sought the kitchen, where Uncle Henry was pouring hot water for drip coffee.

  "You up kinda early, Mist’ Randy," said Uncle Henry. "The Major, he just stirrin’. I fix you some breakfast."

  "No, I’ll wait for my grandfather," said Randy. "I’ve got a little chore to do first. Uncle Henry, do we have any plaster of Paris?"

  "I don’t think so," said Uncle Henry, frowning in thought. "But we got some patch plaster, all ready-mix stuff in a package, out with the tools. What you goin’ do with it?"

  "I want just a little, enough to try an experiment," said Randy, and walked out into the yard.

  The morning sky was cloudy, but the air was warm. Randy found the package of plaster mixture on a shelf. He read the printed directions carefully, then opened the top and made an examination. It was a fine white powder, substantially what he wanted. He poured a handful or so into
a clean tin can and struck out through the woods.

  A bustling of bird and insect life made itself heard all around him, but he felt a touch of the awed timidity that had beset him on the same trail the previous evening. As he approached Beaver Lake, this feeling persisted and grew. Randy found himself pausing to listen and peer, time after time. On the shore of the lake he studied the dam, the mended notch, the slient lodges. Then he scouted along to where Jebs and he had found the footprint only the night before.

  It was still there, plain and deep in the daylight, the clear- cut mark of a shoe fully an inch wider, and nearly two inches longer, than his own. He squatted down to study it and the firm, damp earth around it. Then he went below the dam, to the point where water poured over. Gingerly he caught a trickle inside his plaster can, stirred with a twig, caught more and then more a third time. Stirring and adding water, he finally achieved the consistency he wanted, a creamy blend of plaster and water as thick as rich gravy. Stirring hard, he returned to the footprint. With careful hand and intent eyes he slowly measured the plaster mixture into the heel print, then the sole print, until the entire depression had been filled to its very brim with smooth whiteness.

  Straightening up, Randy surveyed his work with satisfaction. He stepped aside to a fallen log, and carefully pried loose a large flake of bark, which he laid over the print and plaster, covering them entirely from view. Then he gladly hastened home again, for the uneasy feeling that hostile eyes watched his every move was strong upon him.

  When he reached Laurels, Major Hunter was awake, and had donned a light robe. Uncle Henry served Randy and the Major with scrambled eggs and toast, and these proved a sure charm against uneasy fancies. After breakfast, Randy looked up the number of Markum’s Store, and rang central. Jebs’s voice answered his call.

  "Jebs,” said Randy eagerly. "I’ve got something to tell you.”

  "Is it about what we’ve been doing?" asked Jebs at once.

  "Yes. Early this morning I —"

  "Not now, Randy. I’ll see you later."

  "Hang on and let me explain."

  "Not now, I said." Jebs’s young voice was almost darkly stubborn. "I’ve got to work until noon, that’s my deal with dad. After that —’’

  "Shall I come to the store?"

  "Head this way after you’ve had dinner," said Jebs.

  "But you’ll want to hear—’’ began Randy again.

  "No, let me hear it when I see you," interrupted Jebs, ' almost as authoritatively as a schoolteacher, and hung up. Randy frowned above the telephone, but hung up and went outside.

  A light, steady rain had begun to fall. It was enough to discourage any outdoor exploring. Randy trotted through the drizzle to the stable, where Uncle Henry sat on a bench, mending harness.

  "It’s old leather, but I make it good as new, maybe some better," Uncle Henry said to Randy.

  "Why do we need a mule to work no more than an acre of cleared land?” asked Randy.

  The old Negro grinned. "What make you think that old mule Dix doin’ any work, Mist’ Randy? Shucks, he kind of retired on pension, like your grandpa, the Major. He done plenty in his time, enough to earn hisself a good long rest. I put him to a light plow and cut up the ground some, fall and spring, but that’s no more’n somethin’ to make him think he makin’ his board and keep around here." Uncle Henry glanced to where Dix gazed intelligently at them from above the bars of his stall. "Don’t stand there cockin’ your ears at us, mule!" he scolded. "You ain’t supposed to listen what we talkin’ about your nohow."

  “Did my grandfather tell you anything about what happened at Beaver Lake last night, Uncle Henry?”

  "Ain’t say much except somebody prowlin’ round there where nobody ain’t been give the leave to come.”

  "What does he think he’ll do about it?”

  The wise eyes crinkled in the dark face. "I ain’t makin’ myself no worry guessin’ about that, Mist’ Randy. Your grandpa and me, we been keepin’ this place together for a right smart of time, and I always notice he don’t talk none ahead about what he goin’ to do about nothin’. He studies it out to hisself, then he does it. But,” added Uncle Henry, "whoever fix to have any trouble with Major Martin Gary Hunter, he better get up mighty early the night before if he figgers to take him in.”

  Thus, without attempting to suggest what policy Major Hunter might follow, Uncle Henry succeeded in giving Randy full confidence in his grandfather to handle the situation. The rain slackened to a foggy spray, and Randy helped carry feed to the pigs. Noon came, and dinner, and a banishing of the clouds from the sky. It was bright sunlight once more as Randy started his hike to meet Jebs.

  They came together almost at midpoint between Laurels and the store. Jebs was solemn in his greeting.

  "I’ve got it,” he announced at once.

  "Got what? The prowler we jumped up last night?”

  "No, the point where he fits in. That’s why I didn’t want you to talk about him over the phone. I think he listened in on me yesterday when I was telling dad about the beavers on your place, and he’s after them.”

  THE PERMANENT FOOTPRINT

  Randy stared at Jebs, trying to analyze the statement.

  “You did phone your father yesterday, at that, and said something about looking at Beaver Lake. You think the wires were tapped?”

  “Shoo, the wires are always tapped. Major Hunter’s on a four-party hookup, and at the store we have one other party on the same line. I could have been overheard on four different phones?”

  “Isn’t that illegal or something? Listening in on private conversations?”

  “If it is, and they try to enforce it,” said Jebs, “they’d have the jails chuck full around here. My mother was raised on a farm with the phone hooked onto a six-party line. When Dad was courting her, there was a farmer’s wife listening at every receiver. It must have been like being on the radio. Anyway, the phone’s the answer. Dad says he didn’t mention what I was doing, not to anybody. And nobody did at your house. Whoever heard about Beaver Lake must have heard my conversation, to happen over the same time you and I did.” Jebs knotted his blond brows. “If we hadn’t had that little rain this morning, the footprint might help us.”

  “We’ll have the footprint as long as we want it,” Randy informed him.

  "What?” Jebs opened his eyes wide. "What do you mean?”

  "Come home with me and I’ll show you. And tell me about those other four telephones and who might have overheard you.”

  The two boys strolled toward Laurels, talking earnestly.

  "Well,” said Jebs, "I listed them at home last night. On your granddaddy’s line there are three extra phones. First off, there’s old Miss Claybell. She’s a retired schoolteacher, and lives by herself. She likes gossip. I figured her as my top suspect.”

  "Cross her off,” said Randy. "That face last night was no schoolma’am.”

  "No, and neither was that footprint made by any woman, unless she wore a giant’s plow shoes,” added Jebs. "Miss Claybell lives alone. Unless she passed word to someone else, and I doubt if she had time, she’s out.”

  "Next suspect?”

  "Mr. Dave Donelson. He lives the far side of Laurels, farming the land he rents from Major Hunter. I don’t think he’d be apt to listen in, but he has three good-looking daughters.”

  "Better cross them off, too,” Randy said. "The party we saw last night was a double-ugly looker.”

  "If we’re to recognize him, he isn’t the last party on the line with you at all,” Jebs went on. "That’s Sim Nossaman, who works in a Pinebluff garage. He’s young and slim, and everybody likes him. Not very big either. He could get both his feet into that print we saw.”

  "Who’s the fourth one on these party lines?” asked Randy.

  "That’s the new subscriber that got put on the line with us. I don’t know him. Nobody seems to. He’s been here only a short time, and he does his shopping somewhere else than our store. Name of Bickram. He may be o
ld or young, big or little, honest or crooked. I can’t tell you.”

  "Now there’s my top suspect,” said Randy. "Let’s go a little faster, I’ve got something to show you.”

  They reached Laurels, and Randy led Jebs in and to his room. From among his belongings he rummaged a box that had contained canvas sneakers.

  "Come on,” he said.

  The boys started out, walking purposefully away past the stables toward the now familiar trail to Beaver Lake.

  "What’s the box for?” demanded Jebs as he followed, growing excited and mystified. "You think you can carry back the footprint we found?”

  "That’s just what I’m going to carry back,” replied Randy.

  "How?”

  "Watch and see, tenderfoot,” said Randy, with a mocking grin. "You were being the mystery expert a while ago, full of secrets I didn’t know and couldn’t ask about. Now it’s my turn.”

  "Okay, Scoutmaster,” grumbled Jebs, "but let’s get strung out on it, I want the lowdown.”

  At the lake they surveyed the water surface, the mended dam, the tops of the quiet lodges. Jebs searched for the footprint.

  "I don’t see it anywhere,” he complained. "That rain did wash it away.”

  "Wrong again.” Randy stooped down. "The quickness of the hand deceives the eye. Sacramento, presto chango — and look!”

  Triumphantly he lifted the patch of bark. Jebs, too, bent down and gazed.

  "That white thing? Why, it looks like — Uncle Moses in the bulrushes, Randy, you put plaster in it for a cast!” He faced his friend with a grimace of admiration. "I never heard of such a thing, except in a mystery movie I saw once.”

  ”I probably saw the same movie,” replied Randy. “That’s what gave me the idea. Now, help me with it. I don’t think it’s entirely set and hardened, but I don’t want to leave it out here for another night, with Mr. Mysterious fooling around.”