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Tommye Hope
Concerning Yue-Laou and the Xin I know nothing more than you shallknow. I am miserably anxious to clear the matter up. Perhaps what Iwrite may save the United Stares Government money and lives, perhapsit may arouse the scientific world to action; at any rate it will putan end to the terrible suspense of two people. Certainty is betterthan suspense.
If the Government dares to disregard this warning and refuses tosend a thoroughly equipped expedition at once, the people of theState may take swift vengeance on the whole region and leave ablackened devastated waste where to-day forest and flowering meadowland border the lake in the Cardinal Woods.
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This much is true: Barris caught the "Shiner," red handed, orrather yellow handed, for his pockets and boots and dirty fists werestuffed with lumps of gold. I say gold, advisedly. You may call itwhat you please. You also know how Barris was--but unless I begin atthe beginning of my own experiences you will be none the wiser afterall.
On the third of August of this present year I was standing inTiffany's, chatting with George Godfrey of the designing department.On the glass counter between us lay a coiled serpent, an exquisitespecimen of chiselled gold.
"Whose?" I asked..."Now I should be very glad to know also," saidGodfrey. "We bought it from an old jay who says he lives in thecountry somewhere about the Cardinal Woods. That's near Starlit Lake,I believe--"
"Some call it Starlit Lake,--it's all the same. Well, my rusticReuben says that he represents the sculptor of this snake for allpractical and business purposes. He got his price too. We hope he'llbring us something more. We have sold this already to theMetropolitan Museum."
"A masterpiece!" he muttered to himself fondling the glitteringcoil; "look at the texture! whew!" But I was not looking at theserpent. Something was moving,--crawling out of Godfrey's coatpocket,--the pocket nearest to me,--something soft and yellow withcrab-like legs all covered with coarse yellow hair.
"I don't know. Ask them at the Natural History Museum--they can'ttell you. The Smithsonian is all at sea too. It is, I believe, theconnecting link between a sea-urchin, a spider, and the devil. Itlooks venomous but I can't find either fangs or mouth. Is it blind?These things may be eyes but they look as if they were painted. AJapanese sculptor might have produced such an impossible beast, butit is hard to believe that God did. It looks unfinished too. I have amad idea that this creature is only one of the parts of some largerand more grotesque organism,--it looks so lonely, so hopelesslydependent, so cursedly unfinished. I'm going to use it as a model. IfI don't out-Japanese the Japs my name isn't Godfrey."
"Godfrey," I said, "I would execute a man who executed any suchwork as you propose. What do you want to perpetuate such a reptilefor? I can stand the Japanese grotesque but I can't standthat--spider--"
That night, Pierpont, Barris, and I sat chatting in thesmoking-car of the Quebec Express when the long train pulled out ofthe Grand Central Depot. Old David had gone forward with the dogs;poor things, they hated to ride in the baggage car, but the Quebecand Northern road provides no sportsman's cars, and David and thethree Gordon setters were in for an uncomfortable night.
Except for Pierpont, Barris, and myself, the car was empty.Barris, trim, stout, ruddy, and bronzed, sat drumming on the windowledge, puffing a short fragrant pipe. His gun-case lay beside him onthe floor.
Barris had drawn a telegram from his pocket, and as he sat turningit over and over between his fingers he smiled. After a moment or twohe handed it to Pierpont who read it with slightly raisedeyebrows.
"Pierpont," he said, "do you remember that evening at the UnitedStates Club when General Miles, General Drummond, and I wereexamining that gold nugget that Captain Mahan had? You examined italso, I believe."
"It has not been an element for two weeks," said Barris; "and,except General Drummond, Professor La Grange, and myself, you twoyoungsters are the only people, except one, in the world who knowit,--or have known it."
Could Barris be joking? Was this a colossal hoax? I looked atPierpont. He muttered something about that settling the silverquestion, and turned his head to Barris, but there was that inBarris' face which forbade jesting, and Pierpont and I sat silentlypondering.
"Don't ask me how it's made," said Barris, quietly; "I don't know.But I do know that somewhere in the region of the Cardinal Woodsthere is a gang of people who do know how gold is made, and who makeit. You understand the danger this is to every civilized nation. It'sgot to be stopped of course. Drummond and I have decided that I amthe man to stop it. Wherever and whoever these people are--thesegold-makers,--they must be caught, every one of them,---caught orshot."
"Or shot," repeated Pierpont, who was owner of the Cross-Cut GoldMine and found his income too small; "Professor La Grange will ofcourse be prudent;--science need not know things that would upset theworld!"
We had been at the shooting box in the Cardinal Woods five dayswhen a telegram was brought to Barris by a mounted messenger from thenearest telegraph station, Cardinal Springs, a hamlet on the lumberrailroad which joins the Quebec and Northern at Three RiversJunction, thirty miles below.
Pierpont and I were sitting out under the trees, loading somespecial shells as experiments; Barris stood beside us, bronzed,erect, holding his pipe carefully so that no sparks should drift intoour powder box. The beat of hoofs over the grass aroused us, and whenthe lank messenger drew bridle before the door, Barris steppedforward and took the sealed telegram. When he had torn it open hewent into the house and presently reappeared, reading something thathe had written.
Pienpont glanced up and I smiled at the messenger who wasgathering his bridle and settling himself in his stirrups. Barrishanded him the written reply and nodded good-bye: there was a thud ofhoofs on the greensward, a jingle of bit and spur across the gravel,and the messenger was gone. Barris' pipe went out and he stepped towindward to relight it.
"His little man" was a weird English importation, stiff, verycarefully scrubbed, tangled in his aspirates, named Howlett. Asvalet, gilly, gun-bearer, and crimper, he aided Pierpont to endurethe ennui of existence, by doing for him everything except breathing.Lately, however, Barris' taunts had driven Pierpont to do a fewthings for himself To his astonishment he found that cleaning his owngun was not a bore, so he timidly loaded a shell or two, was muchpleased with himself, loaded some more, crimped them, and went tobreakfast with an appetite. So when Barris asked where "his littleman" was, Pierpont did not reply but dug a cupful of shot from thebag and poured it solemnly into the half filled shell.
Old David came out with the dogs and of course there was a pow-wowwhen "Voyou," my Gordon, wagged his splendid rail across the loadingtable and sent a dozen unstopped cartridges rolling oven the grass,vomiting powder and shot.
"Bigger game," said Barris shortly. He picked up a mug of ale fromthe tray which Howlett had just set down beside us and took a longpull. We did the same, silently. Pierpont set his mug on the turfbeside him and returned to his loading.
We spoke of the murder of Professor La Grange, of how it had beenconcealed by the authorities in New York at Drummond's request, ofthe certainty that it was one of the gang of gold-makers who had doneit, and of the possible alertness of the gang.
"Oh, they know that Drummond will be after them sooner on later,"said Barris, "but they don't know that the mills of the gods havealready begun to grind. Those smart New York papers builded betterthan they knew when their ferret-eyed reporter poked his red noseinto the house on 58th Street and sneaked off with a column on hiscuffs about the 'suicide' of Professor La Grange. Billy Pierpont, myrevolver is hanging in your room; I'll take yours too--" "Helpyourself," said Pierpont.
"Then," said I, "there will be but one gun on the Sweet FernCovent this afternoon. Very well, I wish you joy of your cold supperand colder bed. Take your night-gown, Willy, and don't sleep on thedamp ground."
About four o'clock that afternoon I men David and the dogs at thespinney which leads into the Sweet Fern Covent. The three setters,Voyou, Gamin, and Mioche, were in fine feather,--David had killed awoodcock and a brace of grouse oven them that morning,--and they werethrashing about the spinney an short range when I came up, gun underarm and pipe lighted.
"Fair sir; the grouse lie within a quarter of a mile of the oaksecond-growth. The woodcock are mostly on the alders. I saw anynumber of snipe on the meadows. There's something else in by thelake,--I can't just tell what, but the wood-duck set up a clatterwhen I was in the thicket and they come dashing through the wood asif a dozen foxes was snappin' an their tail feathers."
Voyou wheeled into my tracks and followed close, nobly refusing tonotice the impudent chipmunks and the thousand and one alluring andimportant smells which an ordinary dog would have lost no time ininvestigating.
The brown and yellow autumn woods were crisp with drifting heapsof leaves and twigs that crackled under foot as we turned from thespinney into the forest. Every silent little stream hurrying towardthe lake was gay with painted leaves afloat, scarlet maple or yellowoak. Spots of sunlight fell upon the pools, searching the browndepths, illuminating the gravel bottom where shoals of minnows swamto and fro, and to and fro again, busy with the purpose of theirlittle lives. The crickets were chirping in the long brittle grass onthe edge of the woods, but we left them far behind in the silence ofthe deeper forest.
The dog sprang to the front, circled once, zigzagged through theferns around us and, all in a moment, stiffened stock still, rigid assculptured bronze. I stepped forward, raising my gun, two paces,three paces, ten perhaps, before a great cock-grouse blundered upfrom the brake and burst through the thicket fringe toward the deepergrowth. There was a flash and puff from my gun, a crash of echoesamong the low wooded cliffs, and through the faint veil of smokesomething dark dropped from mid-air amid a cloud of feathers, brownas the brown leaves under foot.
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