Book: Carmen\'s Messenger

H >> Harold Bindloss >> Carmen\'s Messenger



CARMEN'S MESSENGER

by

HAROLD BINDLOSS

Author of _Johnstone of the Border_, _Prescott of Saskatchewan_, etc.

With Frontispiece in Colors

Grosset & Dunlap Publishers
New York

1917







CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. FEATHERSTONE CHANGES HIS PLANS
II. THE MILL-OWNER
III. FOSTER MAKES A PROMISE
IV. THE FIRST ADVENTURE
V. FEATHERSTONE'S PEOPLE
VI. HIS COMRADE'S STORY
VII. THE PACKET
VIII. AN OFFER OF HELP
IX. THE FALSE TRAIL
X. THE DROVE ROAD
XI. THE POACHERS
XII. A COMPLICATION
XIII. FOSTER RETURNS TO THE GARTH
XIV. FOSTER SEES A LIGHT
XV. THE GLOVE
XVI. A DIFFICULT PART
XVII. THE LETTERS
XVIII. SPADEADAM WASTE
XIX. ALICE'S CONFIDENCE
XX. THE RIGHT TRACK
XXI. DALY TAKES ALARM
XXII. CARMEN GETS A SHOCK
XXIII. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING
XXIV. LAWRENCE'S STORY
XXV. FOSTER SETS OFF AGAIN
XXVI. THE REAL-ESTATE AGENT
XXVII. THE MINE
XXVIII. THE LOG BRIDGE
XXIX. FOSTER ARRIVES
XXX. RUN DOWN
XXXI. DALY SOLVES THE PUZZLE
XXXII. FEATHERSTONE APOLOGIZES





I

FEATHERSTONE CHANGES HIS PLANS

It was getting dark, and a keen wind blew across the ragged pines
beside the track, when Jake Foster walked up and down the station at
Gardner's Crossing in North Ontario. Winter was moving southwards fast
across the wilderness that rolled back to Hudson's Bay, silencing the
brawling rivers and calming the stormy lakes, but the frost had
scarcely touched the sheltered valley yet and the roar of a rapid
throbbed among the trees. The sky had the crystal clearness that is
often seen in northern Canada, but a long trail of smoke stretched
above the town, and the fumes of soft coal mingled with the aromatic
smell of the pines. Gardner's Crossing stood, an outpost of advancing
industry, on the edge of the lonely woods.

The blue reflections of big arc-lamps quivered between the foam-flakes
on the river, a line of bright spots, stretching back along the bank,
marked new avenues of wooden houses, and, across the bridge, the tops
of tall buildings cut against the glow that shimmered about the town.
At one end rose the great block of the Hulton factory, which lost
something of its utilitarian ugliness at night. Its harsh, rectangular
outline faded into the background of forest, and the rows of glimmering
windows gave it a curious transparent look. It seemed to overflow with
radiance and filled the air with rumbling sound.

In a large measure, Gardner's Crossing owed its rapid development to
the enterprise of the Hulton Manufacturing Company. Hulton was ready
to make anything out of lumber for which his salesmen found a demand;
but his firm grip on the flourishing business had recently relaxed, and
people wondered anxiously what would happen if he did not recover from
the blow that had struck him down. Fred Hulton, his only son, and
assistant treasurer to the Company, had been found in the factory one
morning with a bullet-hole in his head, and it was believed that he had
shot himself. His father gave his evidence at the inquiry with stern
self-control, but took to his bed afterwards and had not left it yet.
So far as the townsfolk knew, this was the first time he had shown any
weakness of body or mind.

The train was late, but Foster enjoyed the pipe he lighted. It was ten
years since he landed at Montreal, a raw lad without friends or money,
and learned what hard work was in a lumber camp. Since then he had
prospered, and the strenuous life he led for the first few years had
not left much mark on him. Now he thought he had earned a holiday, and
all arrangements for his visit to England were made. Featherstone, his
partner, was going with him. Their sawmill, which was run by
water-power, had closed for the winter, when building material was not
wanted, and the development of a mineral claim they owned would be
stopped by the frost. They had planned to put in a steam engine at the
mill, but the Hulton Company had delayed a contract that would have
kept the saws running until the river thawed.

Foster, however, did not regret this. Except on Sundays, he had seldom
had an hour's leisure for the last few years. Gardner's Crossing,
which was raw and new, had few amusements to offer its inhabitants; he
was young, and now he could relax his efforts, felt that he was getting
stale with monotonous toil. But he was a little anxious about
Featherstone, who had gone to see a doctor in Toronto.

A whistle rang through the roar of the rapid and a fan-shaped beam of
light swung round a bend in the track. Then the locomotive bell began
to toll, and Foster walked past the cars as they rolled into the
station. He found Featherstone putting on a fur coat at a vestibule
door, and gave him a keen glance as he came down the steps. He thought
his comrade looked graver than usual.

"Well," he said, "how did you get on?"

"I'll tell you later. Let's get home, but stop at Cameron's drug store
for a minute."

Foster took his bag and put it in a small American car. He drove
slowly across the bridge and up the main street of the town, because
there was some traffic and light wagons stood in front of the stores.
Then as he turned in towards the sidewalk, ready to pull up, he saw a
man stop and fix his eyes on the car. The fellow did not live at the
Crossing, but visited it now and then, and Foster had met him once when
he called at the sawmill.

"Drive on," said Featherstone, touching his arm.

Although he was somewhat surprised, Foster did as he was told, and when
they had passed a few blocks Featherstone resumed: "I can send down the
prescription to-morrow. That was Daly on the sidewalk and I didn't
want to meet him."

A minute later Foster stopped to avoid a horse that was kicking and
plunging outside a livery stable while a crowd encouraged its driver
with ironical shouts. Looking round, he thought he saw Daly following
them, but a man ran to the horse's head and Foster seized the
opportunity of getting past.

"What did the doctor tell you?" he asked.

"He was rather disappointing," Featherstone replied, and turned up the
deep collar of his coat.

Foster, who saw that his comrade did not want to talk, imagined that he
had got something of a shock. When they left the town, however, the
jolting of the car made questions difficult and he was forced to mind
his steering while the glare of the headlamps flickered across deep
holes and ruts. Few of the dirt roads leading to the new Canadian
cities are good, but the one they followed, though roughly graded, was
worse than usual and broke down into a wagon trail when it ran into
thick bush. For a time, the car lurched and labored like a ship at sea
up and down hillocks and through soft patches, and Foster durst not
lift his eyes until a cluster of lights twinkled among the trees. Then
with a sigh of relief he ran into the yard of a silent sawmill and they
were at home.

Supper was waiting, and although Foster opened a letter he found upon
the table, neither of the men said anything of importance during the
meal. When it was over, Featherstone sat down in a big chair by the
stove, for the nights were getting cold. He was about thirty years of
age, strongly built, and dressed in city clothes, but his face was
pinched. For part of the summer, he and Foster had camped upon their
new mineral claim in the bush and worked hard to prove the vein. June,
as often happens in Canada, was a wet month, and although Featherstone
was used to hardship, he sickened with influenza, perhaps in
consequence of digging in heavy rain and sleeping in wet clothes. As
he was nothing of a valetudinarian he made light of the attack, but did
not get better as soon as he expected on his return, and went to see
the Toronto doctor, when Foster urged him.

The latter lighted his pipe and looked about the room. It was warm and
well lighted, and the furniture, which was plain but good, had been
bought, piece by piece, to replace ruder articles they had made at the
mill. One or two handsome skins lay upon the uncovered floor, and the
walls were made of varnished cedar boards. A gun-rack occupied a
corner, and the books on a shelf indicated that their owners had some
literary taste, though there were works on mining and forestry. Above
the shelf, the huge head of a moose, shot on a prospecting Journey to
the North, hung between the smaller heads of bear and caribou.

Foster, who had hitherto lived in tents and shacks, remembered his
misgivings when they built the house. Indeed, he had grumbled that it
might prove a dangerous locking up of capital that was needed for the
enlargement of the mill. Featherstone, however, insisted, and since
most of the money was his, Foster gave in; but they had prospered since
then. They were good friends, and had learned to allow for each
other's point of view during several years of strenuous toil and stern
economy. Still, Foster admitted that their success was not altogether
due to their own efforts, because once or twice, when they had to face
a financial crisis, the situation was saved by a check Featherstone got
from home. By and by the latter turned to his comrade.

"Your letter was from Hulton, wasn't it? What does he want?"

"He doesn't state, but asks us to call at the factory to-morrow
evening. That's all, but I heard in town that the doctor and nurse had
left; Cameron told me Hulton fired them both because they objected to
his getting up."

"It's possible," Featherstone agreed. "Hulton's not the man to bother
about his health or etiquette when he wants to do a thing. Anyhow, as
he has been a pretty good friend of ours, we will have to go, but I
wouldn't have imagined he'd have been ready to talk about the tragedy
just yet."

"You think that is what he wants to talk about?"

Featherstone nodded. "We knew Fred Hulton better than anybody at the
Crossing, and at the inquiry I tried to indicate that his death was due
to an accident. I imagined that Hulton was grateful. It's true that I
don't see how the accident could have happened, but I don't believe
Fred shot himself. Though it was an open verdict, you and I and Hulton
are perhaps the only people who take this view."

"We'll let it drop until to-morrow. What did you learn at Toronto?"

"Perhaps the most important thing was that I'll have to give up my trip
to the Old Country."

"Ah," said Foster, who waited, trying to hide his disappointment and
alarm, for he saw that his suspicions about his partner's health had
been correct.

"The doctor didn't think it wise; said something about England's being
too damp, and objected to a winter voyage," Featherstone resumed. "It
looks as if you were better at calculating the profit on a lumber deal
than diagnosing illness, because while you doctored me for influenza,
it was pneumonia I had. However, I admit that you did your best and
you needn't feel anxious. It seems I'm not much the worse, though I'll
have to be careful for the next few months, which I'm to spend on the
Pacific slope, California for choice. It's a bit of a knock, but can't
be helped."

Foster declared his sympathy, but Featherstone stopped him. "There's
another matter; that fellow Daly's here again. I expect you guessed
what he came for the last time?"

"I did. The bank-book showed you drew a rather large sum."

"No doubt you thought it significant that the check was payable to
myself?"

Foster was silent for a moment or two. He trusted his comrade, but
suspected that there was something in his past history that he meant to
hide. For one thing, Featherstone never spoke about his life in the
Old Country, and Foster was surprised when he stated his intention of
spending a few months there. It looked as if Daly knew his secret and
had used his knowledge to blackmail him.

"I'll go to California with you," he said. "One place is as good as
another for a holiday, and I'm really not keen on going home. I've no
near relations and have lost touch with my friends."

"No," said Featherstone, with a grateful look. "I want you to go to
England and stay with my people. I haven't said much about them, but
you'll find they will do their best to make things pleasant. Anyhow,
it's time you knew that I left home in serious trouble and meant to
stop away until I thought the cause of it forgotten. Well, not long
ago, I heard that the man I'd injured was dead, but had sent me word
that as I had, no doubt, paid for my fault in this country, I'd nothing
more to fear. Then Daly got upon my track."

Foster nodded sympathetically. "How much does he know?"

"Enough to be dangerous, but I don't know how he learned it and don't
mean to keep on buying him off. Now I want you to go home and tell my
people what we're doing; if you can give them the impression that I've,
so to speak, made good in Canada, so much the better. This is not
entirely for my sake, but because it might be a relief to them. You
see, they've had to suffer something on my account and felt my
disgrace, but, although I deserved it, they wouldn't give me up."

"Very well," said Foster, "I'll do as you wish."

He knocked out and re-filled his pipe, as an excuse for saying nothing
more, because he was somewhat moved. He guessed that Featherstone had
not found it easy to take him into his confidence, and felt that he had
atoned for his errors in the past. Still, there was a point he was
doubtful about. His comrade had a well-bred air, and Foster imagined
that his people were rich and fastidious.

"I'm not sure your relatives will enjoy my visit," he resumed after a
time. "My father and mother died when I was young, and I was sent to a
second-rate school and kept there by an uncle who wanted to get rid of
me. Then I'd a year or two in a merchant's office and cheap lodgings,
and when I'd had enough of both came out to Canada with about five
pounds. You know how I've lived here."

Featherstone gave him an amused glance. "You needn't let that trouble
you. It's curious, but the bush seems to bring out the best that's in
a man. I can't see why getting wet and half frozen, working fourteen
hours a day, and often going without your dinner, should have a
refining influence, but it has. Besides, I'm inclined to think you
have learned more in the Northwest than they could have taught you at
an English university. Anyhow, you'll find my people aren't hard to
please."

"When are you going to California?" Foster, who felt half embarrassed,
asked.

"Let's fix Thursday next, and I'll start with you."

"But I'm going east, and your way's by Vancouver."

"Just so," said Featherstone dryly. "For all that, I think I'll start
east, and then get on to a west-bound train at a station down the line.
The folks at the Crossing know I'm going home, and I don't want to put
Daly on my track." He smoked in silence for a few moments, and then
added: "I wonder whether Austin helped the fellow to get after me?"

Foster looked up with surprise, but admitted that his partner might be
right. Austin was a real-estate agent who now and then speculated in
lumber and mineral claims. He had some influence at the Crossing
where, however, he was more feared than liked, since he lent money and
bought up mortgages. On three or four occasions he had been a business
rival of Foster and Featherstone's, and the former thought he might not
have forgiven them for beating him.

"It's possible," he said thoughtfully. "But you don't imagine Daly
told him what he knows about you?"

"I should think it most unlikely," Featherstone rejoined. "Daly means
to keep all he can get for himself, but if he gave Austin a hint that
he could injure me, the fellow might be willing to help. He's pretty
often up against us; but we'll let that go. You're a friend of Carmen
Austin's, and as you'll meet her at the reunion, it might be better if
you didn't tell her I have changed my plans. Of course, I don't mean
to hint that she has anything to do with her father's schemes."

Foster laughed. He liked Carmen Austin and was mildly flattered by the
favor she showed him, but thought he knew her well enough not to attach
much importance to this. Carmen was clever and ambitious, and would,
no doubt, choose a husband who had wealth and influence. Though very
young, she was the acknowledged leader of society at the Crossing.

"You needn't be afraid of hurting my feelings," he said. "To some
extent I do enjoy Miss Austin's patronage, but I know my drawbacks and
don't cherish any foolish hopes. If I did, I believe she'd tactfully
nip them in the bud."

"On the whole, I'm pleased to hear it," Featherstone replied. "Now, if
you don't mind, there's something I want to read."




II

THE MILL-OWNER

Big arc-lamps flared above the railroad track that crossed the yard of
the Hulton factory, but except for a yellow glimmer from a few upper
windows, the building rose in a huge dark oblong against the sky. The
sharp clanging of a locomotive bell jarred on the silence, for the mill
hands had gone home and the wheels that often hummed all night were
still. It seemed to Foster, who glanced at his watch as he picked his
way among the lines, that the shadow of the recent tragedy brooded over
the place.

"I don't know that I'm imaginative; but I wouldn't like the
night-watchman's job just now," he remarked to Featherstone. "Hulton's
illness can't have spoiled his nerve, or he'd have asked us to meet him
at his house, in view of what he probably wants to talk about."

"I suspect that Hulton's nerve is better than yours or mine, and
although I'm sorry for the old man. It was a surprise to me when he
broke down," Featherstone replied. "This is the first time I've been
in the mill since Fred was shot, and I'll own that I'd sooner have come
in daylight."

They went round a row of loaded cars to the timekeeper's office, where
a man told them that Hulton was waiting and they were to go right up.
A dark passage, along which their footsteps echoed, led to a flight of
stairs, and they felt there was something oppressive in the gloom, but
a small light burned near the top of the building, and when they
reached a landing Featherstone touched his partner. It was at this
spot Fred Hulton had been found lying on the floor, with a fouled
pistol of a make he was known to practice with near his hand. Foster
shivered as he noted the cleanness of the boards. It indicated careful
scrubbing, and was somehow more daunting than a sign of what had
happened there.

A short night of stairs led to the offices of the head of the firm, and
the treasurer, whose assistant Fred Hulton had been. They went on and
entered a small, plainly-furnished room, well lighted by electric
lamps, where Hulton sat at a writing-table and signed them to sit down.
His shoulders were bent, his clothes hung slackly on his powerful
frame, and Featherstone thought his hair had grown whiter since he saw
him last. He looked ill, but his face was hard and resolute, and when
he let his eyes rest on the young men his mouth was firmly set.
Hulton's business acumen and tenacity were known, and it was supposed
that the latter quality had helped him much in the earlier part of his
career. The other man, who sat close by, was the treasurer, Percival.

"To begin with, I want to thank you for the way you gave your
evidence," Hulton said to Featherstone, who had been one of the last to
see Fred Hulton alive.

"I don't know that thanks are needed," Featherstone replied. "I had
promised to tell the truth."

"Just so. The truth, however, strikes different people differently,
and you gave the matter the most favorable look you could. We'll let
it go at that. I suppose you're still convinced my son was in his
usual health and spirits? Mr. Percival is in my confidence, and we can
talk without reserve."

"Yes, sir; I never found him morbid, and he was cheerful when I saw him
late that night."

"In fact, you were surprised when you heard what happened soon after
you left?" Hulton suggested in a quiet voice.

"I was shocked. But, if I catch your meaning, I was puzzled
afterwards, and had better say I see no light yet."

"Is this how you feel about it?" Hulton asked Foster.

"It is," said Foster, noting the man's stern calm, and Hulton turned to
Percival.

"That's my first point! These men knew my son."

Then he looked at Featherstone. "Fred went with you now and then on
hunting and prospecting trips, and that probably led to a certain
intimacy. You say he was never morbid; did you ever find him anxious
or disturbed?"

Featherstone pondered. Fred Hulton, who was younger, had spent a year
or two in Europe before he entered the factory. He had moreover told
Featherstone about some trouble he had got into there, but the latter
could not tell how much his father knew.

"You can talk straight," Hulton resumed. "I guess I won't be shocked."

"Very well. I did find him disturbed once or twice. Perhaps you knew
he had some difficulties in Paris."

"I knew about the girl," Hulton answered grimly. "I found that out not
long since; she was a clever adventuress. But I don't know where Fred
got the money he sent her. Did you lend it him?"

"I lent him some," Featherstone admitted, hesitatingly. "He told me
afterwards she had promised to make no further claim, and I understand
she kept her word."

Hulton turned to the treasurer. "You will see Mr. Featherstone about
this to-morrow. I've cleared up another point; Fred was not being
urged to send more money." Then he asked Foster: "Do you know if he
had any other dangerous friends?"

"There was Daly. They were friends, in a way, and I wouldn't trust the
fellow. Still, I don't know how far his influence went, and imagine
Fred hadn't much to do with him for some months. Besides, Daly wasn't
at the Crossing when----"

Hulton said nothing for the next few moments and Foster mused. Fred
Hulton had been very likable, in spite of certain weaknesses, and he
thought it cost his father something to talk about him as he did.
Hulton, however, seldom showed what he felt and would, no doubt, take
the line he thought best with a stoic disregard of the pain it might
cause. He rested his elbow on the table, as if he were tired, and sat
very quiet with his chin on his hand, until he asked Featherstone:

"Why did you lend Fred the money he sent the girl?"

"For one thing, because he was my friend," Featherstone answered with a
flush. "Then I knew into what straits the need of money can drive a
young man. I got into trouble myself some years ago."

Hulton nodded. "Thank you. You helped him out. You have no ground to
think he was embarrassed by the need of money on the night he died?"

"I feel sure he was not. He kept me some time talking cheerfully about
a hunting trip we meant to make."

"Well," said Hulton quietly, "you're going to be surprised now. I did
not give my evidence as frankly as you claim to have done, but kept
something back. Mr. Percival was away for two or three weeks, and Fred
was the only person besides myself who knew the combination that opens
the safe. On the morning after we found him dead I examined the safe.
A number of bonds and a wad of small bills for wages had gone. It was
significant that Percival was due back next day."

Featherstone started, but his face was hot with scornful anger.

"That had no significance! I'd as soon suspect myself or my partner of
stealing the bonds, but the safe's being open throws a new light upon
the thing. Somebody you haven't thought of yet knew or found out the
combination."

"Then, in face of what you have heard, you do not believe my son fired
the shot that took his life?"

"No, sir," said Featherstone, with quiet earnestness. "I never thought
it, and it is impossible to believe it now."

"My partner's opinion's mine," Foster broke in. Hulton looked from one
to the other and a curious steely glitter came into his eyes. It
hinted at a pitiless, unchangeable purpose, and bracing himself with an
effort he clenched his fist.

"Nor do I believe it! If necessary, I'll let my business and factory
go and spend the last dollar I've got to find the man who killed my
boy."

Next moment he sank limply back in his chair, as if the strain and
vindictive emotion, reacting on his physical weakness, had overcome
him, and there was silence until he recovered. Foster felt it
something of a relief that the man's icy self-control had broken down.

"Very well," Hulton resumed in a shaky voice. "I brought you here
because you knew my son and I wanted your support. Then I meant to
convince Percival, whose help I may need to clear the boy's good name.
We'll let that go and try to be practical."

"Were the bonds negotiable?" Foster asked. "Could they be easily sold?"

Percival, who was about fifty years of age and had a reserved manner,
answered: "Some were bearer bonds, and, if the thief acted quickly,
would be as good as cash. Most, however, were registered stock, and it
is probable that he would be afraid to sell them in Canada or America.
The transfers would require to be forged."

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.