November Joe/Chapter 14

After Joe's departure I took my rod and went down to the brook where I fished throughout the morning. The rise, however, was poor, so I returned to the house, and after lunch I took a book and sat with it in the verandah, where I was joined in due course by Linda and Mr. Petersham.

"It's cool here; the only cool spot in the place to-day," remarked Petersham.

"Yes, and don't the spruces smell sweet?" said Linda. "Joe cut them to give me shade."

She pointed to a row of tall saplings propped against the rail of the verandah, so as to form a close screen.

"Joe always thinks of things for people," she added.

Petersham glanced from me to Linda. "If your headache is bad, you had better lie down in the house," he said.

"It is ever so much better, but I'll fetch some smelling-salts."

​I was about to offer to bring them for her when I caught her father's eye behind her back and remained where I was. As soon as she had gone in, Petersham stepped up to me and whispered:—

"To give her shade!" he repeated.

I looked round and nodded.

"There is always shade here," he went on. "The sun can't get in through the pines on this side; the wood is thickest here."

"That's true," I agreed, looking at the close-grown junipers that stood in front of us. "Joe stacked these saplings against the rail for some other reason."

"Of course! He knew that Linda would very likely sit here, and he was afraid."

"Afraid? Of what?" said Linda suddenly, from behind us. "No one could hurt me here. Why, I could call for help and you are both here; you could protect me."

"Not against a rifle-bullet," said Petersham. "For my sake, go in, Linda!"

As he said the words from far away came the sound of a shot. Distance robbed it of that acrimony with which the modern rifle speaks, ​and it struck a dull, even a drowsy note upon the air of that languid afternoon of late spring.

"What can that be?" cried Linda.

As if in answer came the sullen far-off sound three times repeated, and then, after an interval, a fourth.

"Shooting!" cried Linda again, very white, her blue eyes wide with terror. "And it's from the direction of Senlis Lake!"

I knew it was and I said what I tried to think.

"It's probably Joe shooting at a bear."

"Joe would not need to fire five times," she answered cogently.

"No. Where's Puttick?"

"Ben! Ben Puttick!" roared Petersham.

But loud as was his voice, Linda's call rose higher.

"Here I am!" We heard Puttick's voice from inside the house, and he ran out a minute later.

"We heard five shots from Senlis Lake," I said. "We must start at once, you and I. Mr. Petersham will stay with Miss Linda."

Puttick looked me in the eyes.

"Are you tired of your life?" he asked grimly.

​"We have no time to think of that. Get ready!"

"There was five shots," Puttick said deliberately. "I heard 'em myself. That means Joe's dead, if it was him they shot at. If we go we'll soon be dead, too."

"We can't leave him. Come along! We must go to his help."

"Think a bit afore you hurry. If we're shot, they'll come on here." He looked at me.

"Oh, you coward!" cried Linda.

Puttick turned a dull red. "I'm no coward, Miss Linda, but I'm no fool. I'm a woodsman. I know."

"There is a good deal of sense in what Ben says," I put in. "I think his best place is here with you; he shall stay to help you in case of need. I'll go and find Joe. After all, it's as likely as not that he was firing, or perhaps some one else was firing, at a bear."

With the words, I jumped down the verandah steps and ran out along the trail from the clearing. I heard Petersham shouting something, but did not stay to listen; every minute mattered if Joe had really been attacked.

​I ran for the first few hundred yards, but then realized that I could not keep up the pace. I knew the general direction of Senlis Lake and made towards it. Fortunately there was a fairly clear trail, upon which I saw here and there the print of moccasins which I took to be Joe's, and later it proved that in this I was right.

I shall not easily forget my race against time, for, to tell the truth, I was sick with fear and the anticipation of evil. Around me spread the beautiful spring woods; here and there grouse sprang whirring away among the pines, the boles of which rose straight into the upper air, making great aisles far more splendid than in any man-built cathedral.

All these things I saw as in a dream, while I hastened forward at the best pace I could attain, until from a rising knoll I caught a glimpse of Senlis Lake. The forest path here rose and fell in a series of short steep inclines. I laboured up these little hills and ran down the slopes. Suddenly I came to a turn and was about to rush down a sharp dip when a voice, seemingly at my side, said:—

"That you, Mr. Quaritch?"

​"Joe! Where are you?"

"Here!"

I followed the voice and, parting some branches, saw Joe lying on the ground. His face was grey under its tan, and a smear of blood had dried upon his forehead and cheek.

"You're wounded!" I cried.

"His second passed through the top of my shoulder."

"His? Whose?"

"Him that shot at me."

"Did you shoot back?"

"Sure; he's above there."

"Where?"

"He lies about ten paces west o' that small maple."

"You saw him?"

"Hardly. He had a black hat; I saw it move after he fired his fourth and I shot back. If you'll give me your arm, Mr. Quaritch, we'll go up and take a look at him."

With difficulty and with many pauses, we reached the top of the little ridge. The dead man lay as Joe had said quite near the small maple. The bullet had entered his throat. He ​was a long-haired, black-bearded man of medium size.

Joe leaned against the maple tree and looked down at him.

"I seem to know the fellow's face," I said.

"Yes, you seen him the day we come, cutting wood by the shack."

"Now, Joe, lean on me, and we'll try to make for home"; for I saw he was very weak.

"Must just look around, Mr. Quaritch. See here! he was smoking his pipe. Look at the ashes—a regular handful of them. He must 'a' lain for me all of a hour before I come along. Here's his rifle; a 30–30. Wonder who he is." Joe lay back panting.

"You're not able to walk," said I. "I'll go back to Kalmacks and get a rig to bring you home."

"No, Mr. Quaritch, it would never be right to do that. It would give the other fellas warning."

"The others?"

"This dead fella's partners."

"You know he has some, then?"

"One, anyway. But let's be moving. Cut me a pole so as I can use it as a crutch."

​I did as he asked and we commenced our long and, for him, painful walk back.

As we walked, Joe gave me in little jerks the story of his adventures.

"I started out, Mr. Quaritch," he began.

"Why did you start out? That's what I want to know first of all."

"Seemed like if we did n't get ahead to find out about them fellas soon, something bad might happen."

"You mean you think they would have shot at Miss Petersham?"

"Likely. You see, they was hustling a bit to make Mr. Petersham pay up. Them that fixes blackmail don't like delay; it's apt to be dangerous. I travelled along keeping as good a lookout as might be, but seeing no one. When I got to the Lake I went across to the camp where Bill Worke was fired at—you mind Miss Linda dropped a brooch there?—I had a search for it, but I did n't find it though I come across what I'd hoped to find—a lot of tracks—men's tracks."

"Who had been there since Saturday?"

"Huh! Yes, only about two days old. After ​a while I built a bit of a fire and cooked a pinch of tea in a tin I'd fetched along. Then after lunk" (Joe always called lunch "lunk"), "I started back. I was coming along easy, not on the path, but in the wood about twenty yards to the south of it, and afore I'd gone above three or four acres, a shot was fired at me from above. The bullet did n't strike me, but as I was in a wonderful poor place for cover,—just three or four spruces and half a dozen sticks of wild raspberry,—I went down, pretending I'd got the bullet, pitched over the way a man does that's got it high up, and I took care to get the biggest spruce trunk between me and where I think the shots come from.

"Sometimes, if you go down like that, a man'll get rattled-like and come out, but not this one. Guess I'm not the first he's put a bit of lead into. He lay still and fired again—got me in the shoulder that time, and I gave a kick and shoved in among the raspberry canes in good earnest; had some of them whitey buds in my mouth and was chewing of them, when the fella shoots twice more—both misses. Then he kind o' paused, and I guesses he's ​going to move to where he can make me out more clear and let me have it again.

"I see the black hat on him for a moment and then I lets drive. I tried to get up to have a look at him."

"Surely that was risky. How could you know he was dead?"

"Heard the bullet strike and saw the hat go backwards; a man don't never fall over backwards when he's shamming. I could n't get to him—fainted, I guess. Then you come along."