November Joe/Chapter 11

November Joe had bidden me farewell at the little siding known by the picturesque name of Silent Water.

"'Spect you'll be back again, Mr. Quaritch, as soon as you've fixed them new mining contracts, and then, maybe, we'll try a wolf-hunt. There's a tidy pack comes out on the Lac Noir ice when it's moonlight. The forest's wonderful still them frosty nights, a fella can hear a owl miles and miles."

I assured Joe that I would do my best to return, but as a matter of fact, fate was against me all that winter, and it was only now and again that I heard from Joe, who had gone over the Maine border on a trapping expedition. Often and often, as I sat at my roll-topped desk and studied the outlook of eaves smothered in snow and bare telegraph-poles, my mind would switch off to picture November boiling his lunch-kettle in the lee of a boulder, and I would ​feel irresistibly drawn to close the desk aforesaid and go to join him. I was very sure of my welcome.

But the shackles of business are not so easily shaken off, and the spring had already come before another vacation in the woods had begun to merge into possibility. About this time I paid one of my periodical visits to Boston, and it was while I was there in the office of my agents and correspondents that Linda Petersham rang me up on the telephone and demanded my presence at lunch.

"But I am engaged," said I.

"Then you must put your engagement off."

"I don't see how I can. Will to-morrow—"

"No—to-morrow will do for him—whoever he is. I want you to-day."

"What is it?"

"I will tell you when you come. I want you."

I made another effort to explain my position, but Linda had said her last word and rung off. I smiled as I called up the picture of a small Greek head crowned with golden hair, a pair of dark blue eyes and a mouth wearing a rather imperious expression.

​The end of it was that I went, for I have known Linda all her life, and the fact that breaking my previous appointment lost me the option of purchase of a valuable mine caused me little trouble, for to be able to pay for one's pleasures is one of the few assets of the very rich, and speaking personally I have all my life seized every opportunity of escape from the tyranny of the millions that I have inherited and accumulated. I have cared little for the pursuit of money—the reason perhaps why everything I have touched has turned to gold.

The Petersham family consists of Linda and her father, and though in business relations Mr. Petersham is a power to be reckoned with, at home he exists for the sole apparent purpose of carrying out his charming daughter's wishes. It is a delightful house to go to, for they are the happiest people I know, and the moment one sets foot inside their doors one's spirits begin to rise. I said as much to Linda as we shook hands.

"That speaks well for my self-command, for I happen to be feeling pretty mean to-day. Come, we'll go in to lunch at once."

​I found myself the only guest, which surprised me, for the Petersham mansion has a reputation for hospitality.

"Really, Linda, this is very charming of you. I wonder how much Tom Getchley or that young Van Horne would give to be in my place at this moment," I said, as we sat down.

Linda looked at me with far-away eyes.

"What? You mean lunching alone with me?"

"Yes, it is an unexpected pleasure."

"Dear James! it is not a pleasure at all, it is a necessity. I want to talk to you."

"So you said before. Go ahead, then; I'm ready."

"Not now; after lunch."

We carried on a fragmentary conversation while the servants waited on us, and all the time I was wondering what on earth Linda could have to say to me. It was evidently something of the deepest importance in her eyes, for she was obviously absorbed in thinking about it, and answered my remarks at random.

When at last we were together in her boudoir, she began at once.

​"James, I want you to do this for me. I want you to persuade Pop not to do something."

"I? I persuade him? You don't need me for that; you, who can make him do or not do anything, just as you wish."

"I thought I could, but I find I can't."

"How is that?"

"Well, he is set on going back to Kalmacks."

"Kalmacks?"

Linda opened her blue eyes upon me.

"Have n't you heard?"

"Heard what?"

"Where in the world were you last September?"

"Camped in the woods of Maine and Beauce."

"That accounts for it. But you have heard of Kalmacks?"

"I know it is the place Julius Fischer built up in the mountains. He used to go shooting and fishing there."

"That is it. It's a place you'd love; lots of good rooms, and standing 'way back on a mountain slope with miles of view and a stream tumbling past the very door. Father bought ​it last year, and with it all the sporting rights Julius Fischer claimed. The woods are full of moose and there are beaver and otter . . . and that's where the trouble came in."

"But Fischer had trouble from the day he went up to shoot at Kalmacks. He had to run for it, so I was told. Did n't your father know that? Why did Mr. Petersham have anything to do with the place?"

"Oh, it was just one of Pop's notions, I suppose," said Linda, with the rather weary tolerance of the modern daughter.

"They are a dangerous lot round there!"

"He knew that. They are squatters, trappers who have squatted among those woods and hills for generations. Of course they think the country belongs to them. Pop knew that, and in his opinion the compensation Julius Fischer offered and gave them was inadequate."

"It would be!" I commented. I could without effort imagine Julius Fischer's views on compensation, for I had met him in business.

"Well, father went into the matter, and he found that the squatters had a good deal to be ​said for their side of the case, so that he did what he thought was fair by them."

I nodded. "If I know him, he did more than that!"

"That's nice of you, James. Anyway, he paid them good high prices for their rights, or what they considered to be their rights, for in law, of course, they possessed none. Every one seemed pleased and satisfied, and we were looking forward to going there this spring for the fishing, when news came that one of father's game-wardens had been shot at."

"Shot at?"

Linda nodded the Greek head I admired so much.

"Yes. Last autumn father put on a couple of wardens to look after the game, and they have been there all winter. From their reports they have got on quite well with the squatters, and now suddenly, for no reason that they can guess, one of them, William Worke by name, has been fired upon in his camp."

"Killed?" I asked.

"No, but badly wounded. He said he was sure the bullet could have been put into his ​heart just as easily, but it was sent through his knee, by way of a notice to quit he thinks."

"Those folks up there must be half savages."

"They are, but that's not all. Three days ago a letter came, meant for father, but addressed to me. Whoever wrote it must have seen father and knew that he was not the kind of man who could be readily frightened, so they thought they would get at him through me. It was a horrible letter."

"Can I see it?"

Linda unlocked a drawer and handed me a piece of soiled paper. The words were written upon a sheet torn from an old account-book. They ran as follows:—

You, Petersham, you mean skunk! Don't you come in our wods unles yor willing to pay five thousand dollars. Bring the goods and youl be told wher to put it, so it will come into the hands of riters. Dollars ain't nothin to you, but they can keep an expanding bulet out yor hide.

"What do you think of that?" asked Linda.

"It may be a hoax."

​"Now, James, what is the good of saying such a silly thing to me? Father pretends to think the same. But, of course, I know these men mean business. And equally, of course, you agree with me?"

I hesitated.

"Do you think it is a hoax?"

"Well, no, I can't honestly say I do."

"Which means, in plain language, that if father does not pay up that five thousand dollars, he will be shot."

"Not necessarily. He need not go up to Kalmacks this fall."

"But of course he will go! He's more set on going than ever. You know father when he's dealing with men. And he persists in his opinion that the letter is probably only bluff."

"Does he guess who wrote it?"

"No, he has no idea at all."

I considered for a little before I spoke. "Linda, have you really sent for me to try to persuade your father that it would be wiser for him not to go to Kalmacks?"

Linda's lip curled scornfully. "I should not put it just like that! I can imagine father's an​swer if you did! . . . I'm afraid it will be no good letting you say anything, you don't know how."

"You mean that I have no tact?"

She smiled at me, and I instantly forgave her. "Well, perhaps I do, but you know it is far better to be able to give help than just to talk about it."

"I am ready to help you in any possible way."

"Of course! I relied on that."

"But how can I help?"

"I will tell you. Father is determined on going to Kalmacks, and I want you to come with us."

"Us?" I cried.

"Naturally I'm going."

"But it is absurd! Your father would never allow it!"

"He can't prevent it, dear James," she said softly. "Besides, what is there against my going?"

"The danger."

She thrust out her round resolute chin. "I don't for a moment suppose that even the Kalmacks people would attack a woman. And father is all that I have in the world. I'm going."

​"Then I suppose I shall have to go too. But tell me what purpose does your father think he will serve by undertaking this very risky expedition?"

"He believes that the general feeling up at Kalmacks is in his favour, and that the shooting of the warden as well as the writing of this letter is the work of a small band of individuals who wish to blackmail him. We will be quite a strong party, and he hopes to discover who is threatening him. By the way, did n't I hear from Sir Andrew McLerrick that you had been in the woods all these last falls with a wonderful guide who could read trails like Uncas, the last of the Delawares, or one of those old trappers one reads of in Fenimore Cooper's novels?"

"That's true."

"What is his name?"

"November Joe."

"November Joe," she repeated. "I visualize him at once. A wintry-looking old man, with a grey goatee and piercing eyes."

I burst out laughing. "It's extraordinary you should hit him off so well."

"He must come too," she commanded.

​"He is probably a hundred miles deep in the Maine woods."

"Then you must fetch him out. That's all!"

"If I can reach him, I will. Give me two cable forms; there is no time to lose."

Linda found me what I required, and bent over my shoulder while I wrote. I cabled to Joe:—

Come to Quebec immediately, prepared for month's camping trip. Most important.

That was my first cable. My second was addressed to Mrs. Harding, at Harding's Farm, Beauce, the little post-office where November periodically called for his letters. It ran:—

Am sending cable to November Joe. Hustle special messenger with it to middle of Maine if necessary. Will pay.

Linda read them both. "Why Mrs. Harding?" she asked.

​"Because one capable woman is worth ten ordinary men."

Linda looked at me thoughtfully.

"I do occasionally realize why you've been so successful in business, James. In spite of appearance you are really quite a capable person. And," she added impulsively, "you are also a dear, and I am immensely grateful."

Soon after I took my leave. The next day I received this reply from Joe.

Expect me dawn, Friday.

I rang up Linda and read out the message.

"Good Old Mossback!" said she.