Walkerton Independent, Volume 61, Number 51, Walkerton, St. Joseph County, 14 May 1936 — Page 2

FLAME in THE FOREST By HAROLD TITUS Copyright by Harold Titus. Illustrations by Irwin Myers WNU Service. I

CHAPTER IX—Continued Before, he had conducted his affairs with confidence; he was sure of both his standing and his abilities. Secrets had rested in his heart, to be sure, but they had rested easily, comfortably. And then, out of the welter of Dead Bear rapid had come this stranger who upset not only his body but his mind; who had replaced confidence with harrying misgivings, had driven out assurance and supplanted it with doubt and made of those secrets not cherished possessions but rankling growths. . . . Like the clanging of an ominous tocsin had come Bluejay’s sketchy report of Young’s talk with Ezra Adams. Why should these two be talking of the Downer case, when that had been considered closed months ago? And there was the disappearance of his pistol on the night he believed his house burning. Explainable, probably; the chances were that its disappearance was, in reality, a simple, casual affair. . . . But he did not know that, and in his state of mind shadows were taking shapes. This evening Ezra and Young had had their heads together for long over the doctor's motor . . . but West, watching, had not been fooled. Their talk was not of mechanics, he felt sure. He walked on home, not daring to enter the store and be seen by others. Safe within his own walls he went hastily to that cupboard and resumed the drinking which his visit to Nan had interrupted. And across the way Kerry Young lay in his blankets, that strange numbness persisting. His eyes were open; sleep would not come. In boyhood he had thought he knew suffering, but now he realized he had not even skirted the edges of the fields of human misery. CHAPTER X By noon of that Thursday, Kerry had his camp made on an island a quartermile offshore in Townline lake. He had been in a strange mood . . . so strange that Tip sat for long intervals watching him intently, studying his face and. now and then, whining lowly. Sober, his master was, but his mind evidently insisted on straying from the job at hand. He was clumsy, too, and dropped his belt-ax. It struck a stone and a deep nick was knocked from the bit. He held it in his hand and stared at the implement for long. In the afternoon he and the dog set out for the first hours of cruising. Before sundown he paddled across to the cabin where he might have stayed, went inside and looked idly about and then returned to camp. They were alone. They had not seen a soul, or heard a man-made sound. ... Os course. Frank Bluejay, squatting in the alders, made no sound except a surly, impatient grunt. That was when he raised himself to one knee and sought to cover the man in the canoe out there with the worn rifle he carried, and found that the glare of sunlight made the sight-bead show large as an orange. When the canoe was out of the glare, the range was too long for certainty. And the next morning when Young set out a spanking breeze blew. He kept to shoal water for a mile where the seas were not dangerous so that he could square away and lay a course into the wind, thereby avoiding the chance of swamping. By the time he was out over the indigo depths again he -was far from the ’breed and once more Bluejay dared not shoot. He could have killed his man without half trying once, but the body would have fallen into shallow water then. His father and his father’s father had told him that Townline lake never gave up its dead, did they drown in the channels. Bluejay wanted no risk of discovery in this doubly motivated undertaking. So the Indian went surlily back to camp and cursed his squaw and their children for not picking faster, and ; grumbled over the salt pork. He ,had । hunted for two days. now. and had not ' found a deer “Then you ain’t so smart,” his woman snapped. "We see lots o’ deer. If you’re so crazy for fresh meat you bet- 1 ter come with us.” “I’ll get meat !’’ he growled, and in •the morning, set out after it. He car- ; ried buckets, saying that he might as ! well pick berries after he got his deer If he happened to find a good patch. Thursday and Friday passed with no | fresh meat in the Bluejay camp; when the ’breed left on Saturday morning it j was early, at the crack of dawn . . • a splendid time to find deer browsing I or making their way to the ridges ' where they bedded for the day. But । his eyes were not alert for deer. He | made sjteed. threading the timber at a lope when camp was safe behind, cov- | ering the miles swiftly. . . . Kerry Young was up early as well, j the next day. stripping and running naked into the biting cold lake, plunging, blowing splashing great fronds of water at Tip. who had followed him in. The d«>c liked it; he barked and I yelped, and seetned to lie trying :o say: • “That's better chum! That's the way to act! That's your old self! I belong to a fellow who laughs, not to 1 a man who’s as s.demn as an empty church I” Young played roughly with the dog and then, turning shoreward, outswam him to the frt e o- reeds. A spanking !"'e breeze had come again with the s ’it" <e flattening out the smoke ot the small fire, making coffee slow <> boil and delaying the ' frying of I He had caught last evening. Wavelets hissed through the rushes. The deep blue of the channel was flecked with small «! Peeaps. Young looked at the weather ami opined that the day would keep dear, though the wind might ri<> ?<• h ilf a gale. Thet is wi>;>' Fr ink Bluejay thought

too, as breathing heavily, he made his way to the edge of a cedar thicket on the shore and saw the smoke of that breakfast fire. The wind was increasing, and that was good. The sound of a shot would not travel so far on a day when the elements rioted. He did not fidget nor fuss through the interval of waiting. But when the canoe put out he rose slowly, certain of his good concealment, and stiffened. Young paddled straight toward the ambushed Indian. The light craft pitched and rolled rhythmically under the impulse of his paddle. In the bow Tip balanced nicely, letting his tongue 1011. Closer and closer to the fringe of distant cedars they progressed, within two hundred yards, a hundred and sev-enty-five, a hundred and fifty; then the seas having subsided, Kerry swung sharply to the left, putting his canoe broadside to the weather. It was now that Bluejay pulled back the hammer of the worn old rifle. Slowly he pressed his cheek tight against the cool stock. The sight-bead came down, wavering; found its object. The muzzle moved thrice, following the rise and fall of the canoe. The brown hand on the grip squeezed. . . . The ’breed stood there for a long moment, lips loose, watching. On the shot Young had pitched forward and sideways, across the rail. For an instant the canoe hung so. on its beam’s end; then with a quick roll and a little splash, it went bottom up and began to drift with the seas. Tip, thrown into the waters, head held high, began circling swiftly. Around and around he went, crying out for the master who had disappeared. With a sharp nod. Bluejay turned. He left the cedars, climbed the bank and pushed on through the hardwood. A little later a yearling doe leaped up before him. He shot quickly, and shot again; then he walked on toward camp, bearing the hindquarters. Unlawful, this . . . but the wardens winked at men of the country living from the country. ■ No one would trouble him; he rather hoped he might be seen. The venison would explain his having the rifle . along, and while Townline lake never , gave up those who die in its depths . . . well, a man can never be too safe! i Townline lake never gives up its I dead. That was the thought which flashed through Kerry’s mind as he i went overboard. Once down in the j channels . . . But Ite was not going down in any i channel! He was there, under his capsized canoe, still holding the shattered paddle in one hand. Tne blow of the bullet had all but torn it from his grasp. Just as he was dipping the blade that terrific impact had struck. Perhaps the smooth ash had deflected the missile; perhaps the aim of his assailant had not been good. But the sound of the rifle, a flat, ■ dull crash, had reached his ears be- I fore he could make a move in reac- ; I tion to amazement. And then his first act was for self-preservation. Someone had lain in wait to kill him. Someone had shot with reasonable accuracy . . . and to let them believe that a desired end had been achieved was at once smartness and caution. So he went over the far side, his torso lolling in the water, the move throwing Tip out with a great scrambling. Kerry cautiously twisted his body so he would come up beneath the craft In there, he could hear nothing but the slosh of water, the rustle of wind, the sharp, inquiring bark of the dog. Young wanted to call out to reassure the retriever that all was well. ' for Tip was in a great state of excite- ’ ment and distress. But to do that, he i feared, would set the animal diving ; for him and that, to a watcher, might | betray the secret . . . that he was safe I and in concealment. The toss of the canoe grew more pronounced as they drifted into heav- | ier seas. The chill of the water ate I into his flesh, into his bones. His I teeth commenced to chatter. With great caution, he shoved him self downward and came up on the j leeward side. With a shake of his I head he cleared water from his eyes I and, opening them, burst into laugh- ’ ter. The dog had just rounded the bow ! again. His look was tense, almost ag- | ' onized, but when he came thus face ' i to face with his master, the ears ' pricked stiffly and then relaxed, the orange flare left the eyes and a pink tongue showed. “Okay!” Kerry choked. “All jake, । l chum! Hi! . . . All right, then!” And he turned his cheek to the fran ' tic tongue for a moment. “Listen, Tip,” he said, holding the i I dog beside him with one hand while i i the other rested on the canoe. “I got I 1 to get out of this! Cold? D’you ever I I feel colder water in summer? Be I ■ fore we’d drift to shore I'd freeze.” He looked about. The waves were | । high. Straight down wind was his I island, reed-fringed, with warm sun i 1 shine beating upon it. To one on ■ shore, a swimming dog would scarce- I I ly be noticed. . . . “You, Tip! . . . You get to camp! | , Savvy?” He reached for a hold on the j : dog's tail. "Hie on, now! Camp! Hie । j on!” Obediently the dog turned down I wind. Kerry kept h ; hold on the tail, ' let go the canoe. He turned to his side and then to his back, and as his weight came on Tip the retriever slowed and looked backward. “Camp!” gasped Kerry. “Hie on!” Tip settled down to swim, low in the water, making slow going of it, but | i nevertheless towing his master stead- ' ily. . . . And a watcher, from a dis- | tance, had he seen the dog, would j never have guessed what dragged behind. . . . Kerry wormed his way through the I reeds, once they were reached, and 1 stretched flat on his belly on the clean

sand, letting the sun drive the chill from his bones. He lay there a long time before he moved. Then he wriggled into the brush, got behind his tent, extricated his binoculars from the pack and for a long interval studied the point from which the bullet must have been fired. Uis canoe had followed him ashore but for a long time he made no move to secure it. At length, reassured, he re-embarked; his rifle at hand, Tip again in the bow, he set out for the mainland, following a course that would take him away from the point of ambush. There he cached the canoe in bushes and began circling the shore. He spent considerable time trying to determine the course of the bullet, and searched the shore for sign. But there was no sign. In a thick clump of cedars he found faint traces of movement: a trampled seedling, a bruised herb. But an animal might have done these. No footprints showed. He went on. to the cabin. He opened the door, peered in, then stooped, frowning. A fine dusting of dry sand was on the floor. Sand? No, his fingers told him it was powdered clay. It went from the doorway across toward a far corner; just a light dusting of it, a ragged stringer. He wondered what that might mean. Following, he found that it ended at two short sections of flooring. At some time —there was no way of determining when—these had been tampered with. Perhaps broken boards had been replaced. Still, why that dirt on the floor? It had not been here the other day. “Tip,” he said, as he stuffed tobacco into his pipe, “I'm getting good and hot under the collar! Shot at from ambush! Now, who the devil —” He lighted his pipe and stood frowning, debating. “Let's go to town,” he said to the dog, "and see who’s surprised to see us I" That was about noon; he hail four teen miles to go. ... He could cut off ; : five, he remembered, if he took an I I old road, long disused, which Nan had i I pointed out to him when they had . I traveled this way together. Beaver I had flooded it years back, she had i said. This spring the abandoned dam I had gone out. With a little work the . cut-off might be made passable. So he went that way. walking Ini tently, with the space-eating stride of ' the woodsman, rille in the crook of his arm, seeing but little of what he 1 passed. He did stop once, to watch bees working in fireweed. CHAPTER XI Now Nat Bridger, the sheriff, though a man large in stature, was small tn | heart and sou). There were those in the country who called him a boot- , licker. He was alone in his office when West entered the corridor. Tod glanced j around at the barred door to the bullpen straight ahead with a man standing against it, holding one bandaged hand in the other gingerly. "Hullo, Dick!” West said to the prisoner. “Heard you drank too much of your own hooch! What ails the ; hand?” "Blood poison',” the man growled. “Most drives me crazy! Doc Adams I says it's better, but it don't seem so to me." The voices had attracted the sheriff l who came to the doorway. “Oh, hul 10, Tod!” he cried and j went on to remark how well this sight of an old friend pleased him and shook hands and went through a performance of greeting which, to an un- I derstanding person, would have ex- I plained clearly just why he was con : sidered a boot licker. "I ord. what happened to you I” lie de- i manded as West followed him in to ■ where the light was better. “Why, Tod. you're all swell up!” He was. in truth, badly swollen. His face was lop-sided and even the j left eye slightly puffed. “Dam' hornets got me yesterday,” i he said. “Was fishin' up Big Beaver and kicked 'em out of a stump. They ; sure are good at their job!" "I'll say so! But what brings you । here?” he asked. “Anything 1 can do I for you, Tod?” West sat down and crossed his legs and put his hat on one knee. “Well, not for me, mebby.” he said. I ‘but I heard somethin’ the other night : I that I kind of figure you ought to | know. Likely nothin’ to it but you | I never can tell.” “Yeah?” “Yes." You know Bluejay, don't you? Thought so. Kind of scum, Frank is. He's worked for me off and 1 ! on ’nd 1 don’t trust him much, but | there’s things about him . . . For inj stance, he's always snoopin’, always I sees things. “He’s been camped out north of us ! pickin’ berries and comes in most evI ery night. Well, night before last he I came to me to get a little he had cornin', and I got visiting and he told me something kind of suspicious. “He says he’d been lookin’ for beri ries north of Townline lake Thursday : and long about sundown swung past | that Downer cabin on his way back Ito camp. He says he heard something that sounded like poundin' inside.” i “Now, you or me, we’d 've walked right up to the door, but we ain't 'breeds. There’s no explainin’ ’em and mebby it's a good thing for Frank and for you and for the county itself i that he didn’t. . . . Leastwise, if there's | anything to his story.” He was leaning forward, now, and ! nodded seriously. A little draft through the open tran- | som above fluttered his graying hair l and the lone prisoner in the bull-pen leaned closer against the bars, straining to listen. “He peeked through the window and, Nat, he says he saw young Holt Stuart on his knees in a corner takin' money

out of a tin box he's got buried under the floor!" His voice had dropped to a whisper on this last. He watched the look of amazement spread swiftly over the sheriff’s face. “Stuart?” he asked In surprise. “Stuart, takin’ money out of a tin box buried under the floor? . . . My God, Tod! .. . Why . . . ’Nd he was in that cabin the night Cash was shot!" “Os course, Nat, you're not dumb!” He narrowed his eyes and nodded wisely. “You and I, we’d 've had the young lad in for a talkin’ to, anyhow, if it hadn’t been for Ezra. “Ezra was so damned sure that that ankle had been sprained the night Cash was killed and that the kid couldn’t ’ve gotten out . . . Oh, well! The best of us'll make mistakes.” Bridger’s face was gray with excitement. “We won't overlook this bet!” he snapped. “By God, Tod, if I can Just clean up this Downer mystery, then I guess these other birds that've been threatenin’ to run for this office, come fall, 'll crawl back into their holes!' “Yes. . . . But if you don’t . . . Some of the hoys are gatherin’ up h lot of । support!" “Now, let’s see. Butch ’s away out j south, servin’ some papers. He'd ' ought to be back a little after noon. : Nobody else knows this?” "Not a soul, far's I know. 1 told Bluejay to keep his mouth shut.” Bridger began to pace the floor In agitation. “It won’t do to go alone. Takin’ a man as a murder suspect ain't a simple matter. As a matter of duty, I’d ought to have my deputy with me.” “Yes, and then some, maybe.” “Would you go along, Tod?” “Anything I can do I'd feel It my duty to do.” He rose. “Tell you what: I've got to drag along home. I might hear somethin’ there. I'll be j waitin' when you ami Butch show up.” “And that'll be as quick as I can get hold of him. I'll try it by telephone. . . ." So It was that when Ezra Adams, rusty black hag tn his hand, mounted the jail steps to make a call on his patient there, he heard the story the prisoner had heard; and learned that Bridger and his deputy had started north a few moments before and went down tlie steps in a fine flutter of excitement ! • •••••• Kerry Young, dog nt his heels, swung Into the men’s shanty behind | Nan Downer’s headquarters, set his rille carefully In a corner and Imme I dlately went out. He strolled down through the mill yard, speaking to a man here and I there, scrutinizing faces, talked briefly with the foreman, and the pond I man and then crossed the trestle to ■ ward West’s Ijtnding. A car stood before Tol West’s house. The motor was running. A croup : I lounged before the store; a blueberry | buyer’s truck, half loaded, came to n I halt there. Kerry looked long at । West’s house but saw no one. . . . Tod West, within, had his back to the sheriff and his deputy. They had : not seen Young’s passing but West had and for a moment the man felt panic i come again into possession of his fac- | ulties. Young, alive and in town? . . . And ' when he returned from Shoestring at : : noon Bluejay had been waiting for him with word that Young was forever removed from the Mad Woman! The 'breed had collected his money, too — two twenties and aten —and gone to i wait for the coming of the Landing's ! most patronized hooch maker. Tod's first thought was that BlueI jay had been mistaken; that tils shot ' had gone wild, that Young had es- । caped. The Indian had been so sure; had told Tod West of how Young had gone j down into the deep waters of Townline lake; of how his dog had swum round and round the drifting canoe and finally struck out for shore. A shaking rage gripped him. The ! Indian had lied, then! : “We'd ought to be gone. Tod!” So, . Bridger, breaking in on his swift train ' of speculation and doubt and suspicion, i "He might light out. . . .” “Ready in a minute." he said thickly. . . . But he was still bending over ' and a man’s voice, when he is in such I I a posture, will often sound so. Young was out of sight when the I sheriff’s car. bearing the three, I whirled around in the street and I drove past the store. Yes, Young was out of Tod West’s . sight, but in full view of Frank BlueI jay, sitting in a chair tilted against the : store wall. Kerry had been in full sight of the man for, perhaps, ten seconds, stand- ' ing there in the doorway, surveying j ’ the dozen people In the establishment. Then his caze came to rest on the j ’breed. (TO BE COM I \l ED) Sense cf Smell in Fishes The sense of smell is highly devel- ■ । oped in fishes and it is probably main- I ly through this sense that they locate ? their food. Scientists, however, have 1 ' not been able to determine accurately I I the relative perceptive powers of the , sense organs. “From what is known ■ at present,” wrote the United States : bureau of fisheries to an inquirer, “it is believed that the sense of smell, I along with that of touch, plays a i I greater role in the life of a fish, as • | far as obtaining its food is concerned, | ' than that ol sight. The sense of sight I in fishes seems to be limited more to ■ the perception of changing lights and i shadows, since a fish will snap more | quickly at a moving object.” There is a common but erroneous notion that a ! fish smells with its gills. The nose is ! the seat of the smelling sense in all I fishes.

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