Chapter II: The Tell-Tale Pipe

Long before the first beams of breaking day illumined the eastern horizon, the shrill voice of the little, wrinkled, half-apish-looking guide, Paul Chicot, roused the sleeping camp, bidding all prepare for a long, hard day's travel. Eagerly the emigrants flew around, for once more the golden phantom seemed beckoning them on.

And yet, despite their anxiety, that day was to carry them no nearer the golden land. A blow fell that for the moment drove away all such thoughts.

"Whar's Dutchy?" suddenly queried Paul Chicot, running his beadlike eyes rapidly around the little group.

As customary, the emigrants were regularly divided into "messes." One of these messes was formed by the guide, Chicot, Nate Upshur, an Irishman called Tim Dooley, and "Dutchy," as the fourth member was familiarly known.

This last personage was an enigma to the greater portion of the emigrants. At times he appeared the polished scholar, then again one of the most ignorant men imaginable. He had joined the train at St. Charles, preferring the overland route on account of his poor health, hoping thus to recuperate. He seemed possessed of plenty of money, paying his fare in gold, without a demur at the price.

"I don't know--I hain't seen him since last night," replied Upshur, wiping his lips, after a long draught of coffee.

"Go hyste him out, Tim. He takes so durned long to fix up his ha'r an' teeth afore eatin' thet he won't be ready fer the road none too soon. Tell 'im we're all ready fer startin'," muttered Chicot.

Dooley arose and glided toward a small tent a little to one side, and pushing back the hanging door-flap, entered. The next moment he reappeared, staggering back with starting eyeballs and hair standing on end, a wild cry bursting from his pallid lips.

The shrill cry startled the entire camp, and all eyes were turned toward the trembling man. Paul Chicot was the first to speak, in an angry tone:

"What the devil's the matter wi' ye _now_, I'd like to ax? See'd another snake, eh?" he asked, sarcastically.

"It's murther, that's what it is! He's kilt--kilt intirely!" gasped Dooley, his eyes still glaring toward the quiet tent, as if enchanted by the horrible object lying so still and ghastly within.

"Who's kilt--not Dutchy?" quietly demanded Upshur, stepping forward.

Chicot, giving over all idea of getting any thing satisfactory out of the stupefied Irishman, sprung forward and flung aside the strip of canvas that protected the entrance. One glance told him the truth. Tim was right. Murder had been done!

Lying upon a couple of blankets, was all that remained of their quaint, pleasant comrade, Carl Hefler, or "Dutchy," the _sobriquet_ suggested by his broken, stammering speech.

The long, slim figure lay at full length, as though peacefully slumbering, but the arms were flung wide, the long, bony fingers clutched as though in agony. An agonized expression had frozen upon the thin, pallid face.

On the white shirt-bosom was a great stain--a stain of that peculiar, unmistakable color that seldom requires a second glance to designate. Directly above the heart the stain was blackest. There the blow had been dealt.

Chicot, old and thoroughly versed in that art peculiar to his craft and the detectives--of remarking _everything_--knew that no feeble, faltering hand had dealt this blow. Either the hand of an unusually bold and cool-headed man, or else that of one to whom such deeds had been familiar.

He knew that the murderer had crept fairly into the tent, had glided close to the victim, as he lay buried in unconscious slumber, and that he must have even felt out the region of the heart, since all within had been dark, else the blow could never have been delivered with such deadly precision.

"What is all this, Chicot?" hurriedly demanded the leader, Mitchell, as he reached the guide's side.

"It's _murder_--thet's what it is," coolly returned Chicot.

"But who could--"

"Thet's jest what I'm goin' to find out, 'f you give me time. Keep back--don't none o' you step inside here ontil I say ye may. Mebbe thar's some sign left."

"Wouldn't it be a good plan to call the roll and see if all are present?" suddenly suggested Upshur, his eyes gleaming furtively.

"'Twon't do no harm. You mought as well, cap'n," muttered Chicot. "This 'll keep us back hafe the day, anyhow, ef not more."

Mitchell promptly sounded his whistle--and taught its meaning, the members of the wagon-train followed his lead back to the open ground. Upshur ran his eyes hastily over the group. Then the evil glow deepened, and his lip curled with triumph.

Chicot, free from the annoying crowd, proceeded with his investigations, with all the relish of a true-born detective. Yet there seemed little show of his making any discovery, since the floor of the little tent was beaten hard and dry by the murdered man's own feet, during the stay at the sick-camp.

Of course no _trail_ had been left, nor did he seek for one. His eye had already fallen upon the little leather sachel, lying beside the dead man's head, where it had been dragged from beneath the blankets. Its lock was unbroken, but one side had been slit through with a knife--the same weapon that had dealt the death-blow, for the leather was stained here and there with blood.

"He stuck 'im fer the money," muttered Paul, as he dropped the valise.

Suddenly he stooped and lifted the right arm of the dead man. A tiny point of something yellow had caught his keen eye.

Chicot uttered a low grunt, and started back. The clue was before him; and yet he scarce believed his eyes. Could it be?--

Exposed to view lay a small, curiously-carved meerschaum pipe, with stem of bright, clear amber. This it was that had caught his eye.

Chicot turned and left the tent, slowly gliding out toward where Mitchell was calling over the list. The guide's brows contracted as he listened.

"John Tyrrel."

"Not here," slowly replied a voice, after a brief, painful silence.

"Burr Wythe."

"I reckon he's gone, too, cap'n," quietly uttered Chicot. "Thar ain't much use o' your goin' any furder. I think I've found the right eend o' the trail."

"What do you mean, Paul?" cried Mitchell, in surprise. "Surely you don't suspect--"

"I don't go by 'spicions, myself, but I know a trail when I strike it. Come an' look fer yourself--one at a time, though. See what I've found, then say who it b'longs to."

One by one the party filed into the tent and glanced at the tell-tale pipe. All recognized it. There was not another in any wise resembling it in the company.

"Whose pipe is it, boys?" demanded Chicot.

"Burr Wythe's!" came the reply, the voice of Nat Upshur above all others.

"But _he_ may not have dropped it there," suggested Mitchell. "Might not Hefler have borrowed it?"

"No," declared Upshur, stepping forward. "Hefler went to bed just after dark, and I saw Wythe smoking that pipe as late as two o'clock, and he was talking with Jack Tyrrel and Paley Duplin, at the time."

"It's so--I see'd 'em, too," reluctantly added Chicot.

"I admit that it has an awkward look, but after all, though those three are absent, they may return soon and clear matters up. If he, or they, are guilty, I will not be one of those who would seek to screen them from justice; but for all that, they shall not be condemned without a chance to clear themselves. First we must find them," said the wagon-master.

"But it is nearly sunrise; we were to take up the march to-day," ventured one.

"Justice first: we must not let this brutal murder go unavenged. One day, more or less, can make but little difference to us, in the end. If Wythe did kill him, he must pay the penalty."

"But what object could he have in doing it? They were good friends, so far as I know."

"Look here," uttered Chicot, lifting the cut sachel. "This is what the Dutchman kept his money in. He was a simple-hearted feller, like, an' didn't seem to think but that all was as honest as he was hisself, fer he showed us his money only two nights ago. We laughed at him, I 'member, fer kerryin' gold to Californey, but he wasn't goin' to dig. He went overland fer his health, and then was goin' to ship fer Chinese land, or some sech place, I b'lieve."

"Who was with you when he showed the money?"

"_He_ was--Burr Wythe--an' a lot more," reluctantly added Chicot.

Mitchell looked sober. He had formed a high opinion of the young man, but he could no longer blind himself to the fact that suspicion pointed strongly toward young Wythe as the murderer. And he saw, too, that this belief was gradually gaining ground among the emigrants, and deep whispers ran round, while eyes flashed and brows grew black. The spirit of Lynch-law was rapidly arising, and woe be unto the victim that should first feel its power!

"Easy, men," he shouted, waving his hand. "Keep silent for a moment and listen to me. There must be no mad action here. We must proceed carefully and justly. First, you must elect a leader, whose word shall be law; then we must hunt up the missing men and hear their defense. That one murder has been committed is no reason that another should follow. I cast my vote for a fair trial."

"So we all do, I reckon," chimed in Paul Chicot. "An' I don't know any better man for Judge Lynch than you be. What say, boys?"

"Good--good!" came an almost unanimous shout; but Nathan Upshur was silent.

"Very well; I will act as such, since you demand it. And I am glad, for one thing. After what I have already spoken, it shows that you aim at strict and impartial justice. But now to work. If they have really abandoned the train--as of course they have, if they _did_ kill Hefler--they must have taken food and other articles that would be missed. And a close search may give us the clue. You know the messes they belonged to; go and search closely. Chicot, come with me. I wish a word with you."

Once fairly set to work, there was little time lost. In ten minutes the report was given. A small supply of provisions had been taken, and one pick-ax was missing; but that all believed to have been mislaid somewhere. No one--save Upshur--dreamed that the deserters had taken it.

Paul Chicot gave his supposition or conjecture concerning the course most likely to be followed by the deserters. He believed they would take to the neighboring mountains, there to lie hidden until all search was given over. They would not be likely to take the back-trail, as they were afoot, and the country in that direction was mostly open and level.

"I believe you're right, Chicot," remarked Mitchell, thoughtfully, "and we will act on that supposition first. We'd best form three or four parties and each choose a separate trail, for this day is all we can spare without absolute danger to the whole train."

Little time was lost, now that the duty before them was fairly decided upon, and all entered upon it with growing eagerness. There is something strangely exciting in a _manhunt_. Set a warm friend upon the track of another, and, when once fairly aroused, that friend will be as inveterate and deadly in pursuit as though a lifelong enemy.

This trait was exemplified now. Before an hour more passed by, even those who had first declared their belief in the young man's innocence, were the foremost in searching for his trail, eager to bring him to justice.

Nathan Upshur kept close to Paul Chicot, the guide, eying him furtively, seemingly ill at ease. It was plainly evident that he felt no great desire for Burr Wythe's capture. Indeed, he tried to mislead Paul, and finally succeeded in doing so.

Upshur had stealthily followed the three deserters for a considerable distance, on the night before, when they started for the "golden bed," as Duplin had called it, the better to satisfy his mind as to the location of the placer. And now for reasons of his own, he craftily led Chicot far astray from the right course, though none of the trail-hunters suspected his purpose.

Satisfied with this, Upshur contentedly followed the guide's lead, feeling assured there was little or no danger of striking the deserters' trail, on that day at least. But at a cry from Chicot, his heart leaped wildly, and the flush left his face pale and ghastly.

"Hold! Stand back, you fellers," cried Chicot, lifting a hand in warning, as his companions rushed forward, eager to learn the cause of his sudden exclamation.

"What is it, Chicot?" gasped Upshur.

"A trail, but not the one we're looking fer," was the slow reply, as Paul closely scrutinized the ground.

Upshur gave a gasp of relief, unnoticed by those near, and then pressed forward. Pausing beside Chicot, he bent his gaze down upon the narrow strip of moist sand, upon which was imprinted the strange trail.

There, plainly outlined, was the impress of a large human foot, naked and bare. That it was not made by an Indian was plain, for though many white men in-toe, a red-man, unless an habitual drunkard, _never_ toes out, as this trail plainly did. Then, again, an Indian's foot, from never having been tightly compressed in boots or shoes, is very flat and broad; this trail was made by a man with a high instep and arching sole.

"How do you know it isn't one of them?" asked Upshur.

"Easily enough. Look back along the trail. You see, it crosses that stretch o' splintered rocks? Now, look at these tracks. The foot ain't cut none. That shows that it's made by a feller that's _used_ to goin' bar'foot fer a long time. Ef _you_ was to cross that, you'd cut an' gouge your hoofs so this 'ere 'd be a trail o' blood. See?"

"But who can it be then?"

"Don't know. It's fresh--ain't bin made over a hour, at furderest. Whoever it is, must be in the hills yender. _I_ move we foller on, an' find 'im. Mebbe he kin tell us somethin' 'bout the boys," suggested Chicot, moving forward, without waiting to learn the wishes of his followers.

In fact, Chicot was only too glad of a good excuse to delay the search for Burr Wythe. Though firmly believing him guilty of the murder, yet he did not wish to be the instrument of justice. In his quiet, unobtrusive way, he loved Burr, almost as he would have loved a son.

The trail led in a direct line toward the hills, here rising abrupt and rocky, broken and rugged. Though at times losing all trace, Chicot found little difficulty in recovering the trail as often.

An abrupt exclamation from Nathan Upshur startled him, and all eyes turned upon him. His face wore an expression of wonder, as he pointed with outstretched hand toward the rocks above the party.

"Look there! Is it man, or devil?"

Glancing in the direction indicated, the trail-hunters beheld the object of his wonder. And they, too, stood as if bewildered. And little wonder. A truly strange object was before their eyes.

Standing erect upon a large bowlder, half-way up the hill, was a human form, though strange and wild-looking enough to have been taken for something supernatural. One long arm was extended, pointing toward them, the rags that only partially clothed the member fluttering in the brisk breeze.

The stranger seemed far above the usual height of men, and of great age, if the long, flowing hair and beard of a snowy whiteness be taken as evidence. This the wind tossed wildly around his face, in a fleecy cloud.

Rude, uncouth garments partially covered his body and limbs, patched here and there with pieces of skin and fur. In one hand he bore a heavy bow, tightly strung. At his shoulder could be seen the feathered tips of a number of arrows.

"It's the Mountain Devil!" muttered Chicot, in a low, hushed tone, as he shrunk back, his bronzed cheek paling, his eyes dilating with a look of fear.

"Man or devil, I do not fear him!" said Upshur, as his rifle clicked sharply as the hammer was lifted.

"Don't shoot! Make him mad, an' he'll clean out the whole crowd!" warningly cried Paul; his eyes still riveted upon the strange form. "He's a devil--you can't hurt him."

"I'll try it, anyhow," and the man's rifle spoke sharp and clear.

The wild-man started and seemed to stagger, as though the bullet had found its mark. Then, with a shrill cry, he turned and leaped from the bowlder, the next moment disappearing far up the hillside.

"There's your devil, Paul," chuckled Upshur, as he dropped his rifle and began reloading it. "And I had only a leaden bullet in, too."

"You laugh now--but the time 'll come when you won't. Believe it or not, Nate Upshur, you've signed your death papers. A man never shot at the Mountain Devil but he died for it. You will, too. Mebbe not to-day--mebbe not for a year, but the time 'll come, I tell you--the time 'll come at last. Mark my words."

"Bah! you've listened too much to Indian legends, Chicot. That is no devil, but a man, like you or I, turned hermit like. To prove it, I'm going to follow after. Come on, boys! Let's go and see what Paul's devil is made of, anyhow," recklessly said Upshur, who was no coward, whatever else he might be.

Pale and disturbed, Chicot followed the boaster, and close behind came the other emigrants, curious to see the denouement. At the bowlder Upshur paused, with a harsh laugh.

"See!" and he pointed at the rocks before him. "Your devil bleeds, Paul, like an ordinary man. I thought I touched the rascal."

Here and there drops of blood sprinkled the rocky surface, and Chicot, though still skeptical, brightened up. After all, this wild-man was not proof against mortal weapons.

Laughing scornfully, Upshur led the way along the bloody trail, up the hillside, until it crossed the ridge, keeping a good look-out to guard against surprise, for none knew better than he what awkward weapons flint-headed arrows are, at close quarters, when guided by a strong and experienced hand. And after his wound, the wild-man would not be likely to stand on ceremony, should he be overtaken.

But overtaken he was not, at least on that occasion. The hillside seemed to be unoccupied, save by the trail-hunters, but Upshur suddenly paused, when half-way down the hill, shrinking back with a cry of horror.

Passing through the dense bushes, he had found himself upon the very verge of a steep precipice. Staggering back, he clutched the bushes, unmanned.

"Look yonder!" cried Chicot, pointing downward. "_Now_ what do you say--is he a devil, or not?"

Swiftly racing along the narrow valley far below, was the form of the wild-man. To reach this, he must have descended the precipice, and that seemed beyond mortal skill to accomplish.

Wonderingly the emigrants watched him until he disappeared upon the further hill, then they slowly retraced their steps toward camp. The sun was far down in the west, and they had found no trace of the deserters.