  Several weeks had passed. They were back in the North Country again—all except Wyatt. Outside the door of the trading room at Fort Good Faith, Sandy and Toma were bidding Corporal Rand and Dick good-bye, and wishing devoutly that they too might have been permitted to accompany the policeman on this—the last stage of a memorable journey. Dick had been more than fortunate, they considered, in receiving official sanction to be in at the finish. He had earned this privilege, to be sure, but for that matter, hadn’t they? For weeks now they had been pursuing what had at first appeared to be a phantom. The phantom had taken form. The mystery had been uncovered. Step by step, day by day, slowly and inexorably events had moved to an ultimate end. The guilty were about to be punished. A few more things to do, then— “Hang it all,” thought Sandy, “the real work is over anyway. I’ve done my part. They can’t say I haven’t. This case is run to earth. What little excitement remains, Dick is welcome to. Toma and I both need a rest.” Thus philosophically dismissing the matter, he and Toma went fishing; and Corporal Rand and Dick made their way on horseback to the foothills, arriving at the Carson cabin one evening before dusk. Mrs. Carson met them at the door. She smiled her greeting and led the way into the house. A sort of motherly person, Dick thought. “I hadn’t expected anyone at this time of the year,” she told them laughing, at the same time brushing back a dark wisp of hair that had fallen over her kindly forehead. “I’m afraid you’ll find everything in disorder. We’ve been drying saskatoons for the winter. Mr. Carson is in the kitchen helping now. He’ll come right in.” True to his wife’s prediction, Mr. Carson came right in and, looking at him, Dick became heartily sick of the whole business. Carson was the sort of man one couldn’t help but like instantly. A much older man than Dick had expected, yet agile enough in spite of the white crown of hair, and handsome in a dignified way. He shook hands and took a seat opposite. “Everyone is welcome here. You’re tired, I expect.” “And hungry,” Corporal Rand amended. “Mrs. Carson will soon attend to that,” her husband smiled. “She’ll have something ready in a few minutes. Have you come far?” “From Fort Good Faith.” A girl appeared in the open doorway, having come noiselessly, and stood, staring at them. The young lady mentioned in Dewberry’s diary, Dick surmised. She continued to stare as the now somewhat bashful young man stole a glance in her direction, then quickly dropped his gaze. “Gertrude,” expostulated her father, “that isn’t nice. Either come forward and be introduced or return to the kitchen. My daughter,” he explained, turning his head and speaking to Rand. Gertrude made a wry face, shrugged her pretty shoulders and returned to the room, where her mother was preparing the evening meal. Her place was immediately usurped by a tall youth, older than Dick, who took up the business of staring with considerably more energy and effect, adding a dark scowl or two for good measure. As this was the young man he and Corporal Rand had come all that way to interview, Dick lost no time in giving him a careful appraisal. Reynold Carson’s appearance was not prepossessing. He resembled neither of his parents. Unlike his sister, he was not good-looking. His mouth turned down at the corners. An unpleasant habit of scowling had etched two deep lines across his narrow forehead. “A young cutthroat and no mistake,” mused Dick, remembering Dewberry’s verbal picture of him. It was not until after supper that Rand stated his errand. All except Mrs. Carson were in the room. The boy and girl sat in one corner and conversed in low tones. Rand and Carson had pushed back their chairs from the supper table and had lit their pipes. “Came over from Fort Good Faith,” said Rand, endeavoring to keep his voice steady, “to see your son. There’s a certain matter Mr. Carson, that I’d like to discuss with him. It’s important.” “Yes, yes—” Carson removed his pipe and seemed to exhale the words with the smoke. “Reynold—” he trembled. “What—what has he done?” The policeman placed one hand on the old man’s shoulder. “I—I hate to do this. I wish it wasn’t necessary to tell you. You—you understand my position. It’s hard for me—hard for all of us.” Dick choked and turned away his head. His heart had gone out to this poor old man, and he just couldn’t look at him now. And then, too, there was the boy’s mother. Thinking about her— It was terrible! She mustn’t come into the room. She mustn’t hear what Rand was saying. “It’s in connection with Dewberry’s murder. Indirectly your son is implicated. I—I—” Carson shrank back in his chair, threw up his hands in front of his face and moaned in misery—in terror. Reynold, who had heard his name mentioned, and perceived his father thus afflicted, got unsteadily to his feet and came stumbling across the floor, glaring at Rand. “What you doing to dad?” he demanded. Carson sat up, endeavoring to get a better grip of himself. Almost fiercely he turned upon his son. “Reynold, you’re in trouble. The police have come for you. What have you done? Speak up, boy; speak up! My God!—this will kill your mother.” “He lies! He lies!” stormed the boy. “I’ve done nothing. He lies!” The corporal held up his hand, commanding silence. “Sit down, Reynold—and keep quiet. You probably don’t know what it’s all about—yet. Listen to me. Answer my questions. No! Don’t try that,” he warned, as Carson’s son reached for his knife. “Sit down!” “You’re lying,” whimpered the boy, taking a chair next to his father. “Reynold, I wish you wouldn’t say that,” pleaded the old man. “He may be mistaken, but—but he isn’t lying.” “I haven’t done a thing,” protested the boy. “Perhaps you’ve almost forgotten the incident,” Rand cleared his throat, “but there was a note-book. You found a note-book belonging to Dewberry. Isn’t that right?” “Yes,” Reynold acknowledged. “I did.” “I remember that too,” said Carson brightening a little. “Reynold said he found it in Mr. Dewberry’s room. The prospector had—had mislaid it, I believe.” “I gave it back to Dewberry,” stated the young man defiantly. “You don’t think I stole it, do you? I gave it back to him.” “Quite right,” said Rand. “But is that all?” “All! O’ course, it is. What you tryin’ to insinuate?” “I’m trying to insinuate,” the policeman was very deliberate in his choice of words now, “that you read the book, copied something out of it and afterward sold that copy to two men—Emery and MacGregor. You did that, didn’t you?” Reynold seemed to sink into his chair. His lips were white. Either he could not or would not answer. Feeling faint, Dick looked out of a window. Shadows were falling everywhere outside. The trees were black silhouettes. Night was shaking out its mantle from a metal-colored sky. There was no brightness or radiance anywhere except a single orange streak in the west, a sinister orange streak that marked the place where the sun had gone down. “If he doesn’t confess,” thought Dick, “and have this over with, I’ll go crazy.” A voice, trembling but defiant, broke across the silence. “Yes, I did do that. What was wrong about it? Tell me—what was wrong about it? I didn’t commit no crime— It wasn’t a very bad thing to do—you can’t make me believe that. Just sold a copy of something that was written in that old book.” “Reynold!” cried the old man. “Reynold!” “Listen, dad, it wasn’t so terrible wrong. I didn’t touch anybody an’ I didn’t steal nothing. All I did was to sell what was in that book to a few men for just a few dollars.” “To a few men!” gasped the corporal. “Who—beside Emery and MacGregor?” “I sold one copy one day when Dewberry was here—before I gave him back the book. I made a second copy, but I didn’t sell it for months afterwards. Dad and I had a quarrel and I ran away. I played cards and I lost money—all I had. I tried to sell the copy. I showed it to a few men, but they laughed at me. Then one night, when I was at a road-house a queer looking chap, named Crane, gave me ten dollars for it.” “Are you sure his name wasn’t Creel? Stop and think a moment.” “Creel! Creel! That’s it.” Reynold looked at the policeman in surprise. “How did you know?” “I found out,” answered Rand. “So you see, dad, it wasn’t anything so very terrible,” Reynold ran on. “I—” “Can you repeat what you copied from the book?” Rand interrupted. “No, not word for word. It was something about an old chest that Dewberry had at his home at Peace River Crossing—full of money; about a key that he carried around his neck.” “Would you remember if I read it to you?” “Yes, I would,” answered the boy. Corporal Rand crossed the room, knelt down, and opened his saddle-pack. A moment later he returned, carrying Dewberry’s diary, resumed his seat, and began thumbing the pages. It was several minutes before he found the right place. Then he read: “May 13th, 1915. That chest is an obsession. Even out here in the wilderness away from it, it seems to haunt me night and day. Sometimes I call myself a doddering old fool. To buy it was a waste of money, an act of folly. That were bad enough, but this thing I have been doing lately is madness itself. In a thousand years, if God gave me that long to live, I could never restore that chest to its original glory and splendor. I’m sure that I haven’t put into it one infinitesimal part of the wealth and treasure that he did. If he were living now, Ming would laugh my diamonds and rubies and emeralds to scorn. I’m afraid he’d spurn my gold too. Cheap stuff! Trash! Where I have thousands he had millions. Folly to pit the Crystal Lode against the resources of an empire. Yet here I am, walking about with the key around my neck, trying to emulate an emperor.” Corporal Rand closed the book. “Is that what you copied?” he asked. “Yes, that’s it,” answered Reynold. “I wonder if you realize what you’ve done,” Rand spoke softly. “When you sold those copies you signed Dewberry’s death warrant. You must have known that one of those men, to whom you sold that information, would try to obtain Dewberry’s treasure.” “I didn’t think much about it,” the boy declared doggedly. “Dewberry is dead. MacGregor murdered him. It’s your fault. MacGregor never would have murdered him, if—if it hadn’t been for you. I want that fact to sink in. You know now why I’ve come to get you.” “I’ll be hanged,” blubbered the boy. Rand walked over and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “No—not that. We’ll do what we can for you. You have a wonderful father and mother. For their sake—and for your own—we’ll be as lenient as possible.” The young man’s body shook with sobs. “Hush! Hush!” whispered Carson, wiping away his own tears. “I think I hear your mother coming.” |
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