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Title: Cracker Barrel Trouble Shooter
Author: Kjelgaard, James Arthur (1910-1959)
Author [author biography]: Anonymous
Date of first publication: 1954
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   New York: Dodd, Mead & Company, 1954
   [first edition]
Date first posted: 23 November 2011
Date last updated: 23 November 2011
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #887

This ebook was produced by David T. Jones, Ross Cooling
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdp.net






  CRACKER BARREL TROUBLE SHOOTER




  _Books by Jim Kjelgaard_


  BIG RED
  REBEL SIEGE
  FOREST PATROL
  BUCKSKIN BRIGADE
  CHIP, THE DAM BUILDER
  FIRE HUNTER
  IRISH RED
  KALAK OF THE ICE
  A NOSE FOR TROUBLE
  SNOW DOG
  TRAILING TROUBLE
  WILD TREK
  THE EXPLORATIONS OF PERE MARQUETTE
  THE SPELL OF THE WHITE STURGEON
  OUTLAW RED
  THE STORY OF THE MORMONS
  CRACKER BARREL TROUBLE SHOOTER




  _Cracker Barrel Trouble Shooter_


  B Y   J I M   K J E L G A A R D


  _Dodd, Mead & Company  New York  1954_




  Copyright, 1954
  By Jim Kjelgaard

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission
  in writing from the publisher



  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 54-5259

  Printed in the United States of America




  FOR BARBARA AND BETTY




  The characters and situations in this book are wholly fictional and
  imaginative: they do not portray and are not intended to portray any
  actual persons or parties.




  _Contents_


     I.  Inheritance                 1
    II.  Elk Shanty                 20
   III.  The Store                  40
    IV.  Hopeless Venture           58
     V.  The Beginning              77
    VI.  Open for Business          94
   VII.  Under New Management      118
  VIII.  Idea                      137
    IX.  Trouble                   156
     X.  Battle                    173
    XI.  Arrest                    185
   XII.  The Big Hotel             203




  CHAPTER ONE

  _Inheritance_


When the gong ended the fifth round, Bill Rawls remained for a second in
the center of the ring. He teetered uncertainly on legs that were made
of rubber, and a foolish grin overspread his face while with blurred
eyes he seemed to see half a dozen opponents. Then he regained his
strength, walked to his corner, and sat wearily down. A moment later he
felt the bite of the astringent that Johnny Markson, his second, was
applying to a cut on his cheek.

Johnny's jaw was set and grim, but concern was also written in his face
as he ministered expertly to his friend. Bill winked a puffed and
swollen eye, winced with pain, and looked ruefully across the ring at a
twenty-year-old who seemed to have a mule's kick in both hands and who
could throw punches so fast that both fists were quite unaccountably in
Bill's face and midriff at the same time and all the time.

He was Alan Chesterton, from State College, and Bill had drawn him in
this inter-collegiate boxing meet.

Johnny's soothing hands were rubbing Bill's shoulder and back muscles
now, and Bill relaxed gratefully. He stole a glance at the clock and
grimaced. A half second ago, or so it seemed, he had sat down. But the
minute's intermission between rounds was already more than half gone.

Johnny asked, "Want me to stop it, fella?"

"Nope."

"He's murdering you and you know it."

"I can still move."

"A couple of more rounds and you won't be able to."

"If I could only figure his style, I might get him."

"Style is what that boy's got, brother."

"I know it. It's been bouncing off my face for five rounds. I can't seem
to get inside his guard."

"Still think I'd better stop it."

"Nope."

Johnny said wearily, "All right. Go in and get your fool head knocked
off."

The gong clanged again and Bill rose to move into the center of the
ring. He circled warily, watching as he did so this young man who could
handle himself so expertly and hit so hard. Of course, under all
ordinary circumstances, Johnny would have been right and the fight
should have been stopped; nobody but a born idiot deliberately asks for
a beating. But for five rounds Bill had faced Alan Chesterton, and
during that time he had studied the other very carefully. It did seem
that there were times when he held his lethal right hand just a little
bit lower than he should and, if Bill could get inside his
almost-faultless guard for even a split second, there might be a chance
of at least fighting to a draw.

There was a short flurry in which nobody got hurt. The two fighters
clinched and were separated by the referee. Then Bill saw the
opportunity he had been awaiting and that was the last thing he saw.

His head was spinning when he awoke, and for a moment he could not
remember where he was. Then, with a sudden rush, everything was
crystal-clear. He was boxing and, naturally, one did not box by lying on
the canvas. He must get up and resume the fight. Bill rose to a kneeling
position and then to a crouch. He pulled himself up on the ropes,
swayed, and Johnny's steadying hand was on his shoulder.

In the center of the ring, the referee was holding Alan Chesterton's
gloved hand erect in token of victory. Bill turned puzzled eyes on
Johnny, and Johnny shook his head.

"That's all there is. There is no more."

"But--"

"It was a knockout, William, the neatest and cleanest these dim old eyes
have ever beheld. He hit you so hard that your great-grandfather's teeth
must have rattled."

"But that can't be!"

"It was. If you doubt me, there are a few hundred reputable witnesses
present who will bear me out. I told you it would happen. That guy's a
born boxer."

Alan Chesterton, who was no longer a raging demon but a nice, towheaded,
amiable youngster, moved across the ring with a deceptively-awkward
shuffle and grinned at Bill.

"Little boys," he said, "should not try to box men."

Bill sniffed. "The next time I fight you, you can be sure of one thing;
I'll have my cousin help me."

They shook hands and Bill climbed out of the ring. Johnny stayed beside
him as he went up the aisle toward the dressing rooms, and Bill murmured
politely to the many spectators who spoke to him. Until now, when he had
met someone who was really good, he had rather fancied himself as a
boxer. It was more than a little disconcerting to be so easily
out-pointed and out-classed.

Entering the dressing room, Bill took off his shoes, slipped out of his
trunks, and stood still for a moment. He had taken a great many savage
body blows and mighty upper cuts to the head, and it seemed impossible
to hurt in so many places all at once. Johnny grinned at his many
bruises.

"As a boxer," he said, "you should be a first-class architect. Into the
shower with you!"

"Aw for pete's sake!"

Johnny was relentless. "Into the shower with you. Then old Doctor Johnny
will rub some horse liniment on those caved-in ribs and things you're
wearing."

Bill entered a shower stall and let its needle spray sting his body. His
various aches melted away to throbs, and suddenly he began to laugh.
Johnny poked a suspicious head inside the shower stall.

"Have you gone crazy at last?"

"His face!" Bill chortled. "I just remembered his face!"

"_Whose_ face?"

"My uncle's!" Bill gasped, as though that were self-explanatory.

"You're punch happy!"

Bill hurled the bar of soap and Johnny ducked just in time to avoid
getting it in the head. Bill's side-splitting laughter dribbled away to
a few hearty chuckles.

His father had died nine years ago, when Bill was ten, and his mother
had died two years before that. His uncle, who liked to be called Alfred
Carling Rawls, had been appointed Bill's legal guardian and the
administrator of the tidy fortune which his father had left. Alfred
Carling Rawls had profound and unshakable ideas about various subjects.

For a short space Bill renewed his laughter. It was his uncle who had
suggested that he go to college and study architecture and Bill had
considered it a good idea. But his uncle also had positive notions as to
who was and who was not a gentleman and what did and did not befit
gentlemen. At Christmas vacation he had had a heart-to-heart talk with
his nephew. Bill remembered the exact quotation:

"William, we are not without some right to family pride. But that right
at the same time imposes certain obligations, and not the least of these
is dignity. Never forget that and all that it means."

Bill laughed again, and at the same time he knew a sense of shame. To
stand in a boxing ring and trade punches with Alan Chesterton--or to be
punched by him--hardly coincided with his Uncle Al's idea of dignity. He
would consider it rowdyism instead, and maybe the next time Bill went
home the less said about some things the better. But now Bill knew only
that he had enjoyed the fight.

He gave the cold water full force and his skin seemed to shrivel beneath
it. But it felt good. A young man and a healthy one, he had all the
recuperative powers of the young and healthy. His head was no longer
rocking, and the faint nausea that had been in the pit of his stomach
was washed away under the shower. He turned the water off, and while the
faucet surrendered its last few gurgling splashes he stepped onto the
shower mat and rubbed himself briskly with a rough towel.

Johnny advanced on him with a bottle of liniment in his hand and a gleam
in his eye. Bill protested.

"I don't need any skin remover!"

"Sissy!"

Bill groaned and gave in while Johnny applied the liniment. Then he
dressed and turned to his friend.

"How do I look?"

Johnny squinted at him and pronounced judgment. "Like you've been
whipped up with a potato masher. One more fight like that and you'll be
all cauliflower. Not that you ever were a beauty, of course."

"There won't be any more fights," Bill promised. "I've just had rather
convincing proof that there are better boxers than I. Do you think I'm a
dope?"

"Do I have to answer that one?"

"My pal," Bill grunted. "I won't forget your loyalty. When you're a
famous lawyer and I'm a famous architect, I'll throw all my business
your way."

"I haven't any doubt that you'll give me the business. Come on. Let's go
drown the memory of your humiliating defeat."

Side by side they left the auditorium and walked into a star-sprinkled
night. A cold wind blew and here and there a patch of dirty, melting
snow still lingered. But the wind was not the snarling one that had
whipped about corners while winter was at its height. It had lost its
storm-born sinews and its teeth. Winter was on its way out. In a week or
so, spring would bloom over the university town of Tenngale. And spring
always brought new promise.

The pair passed shadowy figures as they walked, sometimes one or two and
sometimes a group, and murmured greetings. Everybody either knew
everyone else or, if they did not, they could be sure that they were
meeting a fellow student. It was a free and easy atmosphere dominated by
young people, and it was a life that Bill liked. But as he walked along
with Johnny he felt a vague unrest which he could not explain.

He had been so young when his parents died that he did not remember a
great deal about them. Because he had pictures, Bill knew that his
mother had been lovely and he took a somewhat smug pride in the exploits
of his father. Colin Rawls had landed in New York with twenty pounds in
his pocket, and by sheer strength and fighting spirit he had become a
successful contractor. Then a year before his marriage he had brought
his young brother and sister from the genteel but down-at-the-heels
ancestral home in England and ensconced them in the comfortable New York
house where Bill had grown up.

Bill's aunt, Alicia, had been married before Bill was born and she died
ten years later. Her brother, Alfred Carling Rawls, a boy of sixteen
when he and Alicia came to the United States, had devoted himself to a
life of quiet study. In recent years he had lectured frequently before
learned gatherings whose purpose Bill understood only dimly.

It was difficult to reconcile the two brothers, product of the same
father and mother but so different, and to find the right place for each
of them. Each, in his own way, did seem to represent something fine and
decent and something the world needed. But Bill often wondered, as he
was wondering now, whether his uncle really understood the dynamic
forces which he himself felt sometimes and whether or not Alfred Carling
Rawls was really capable of guiding him. Still, he liked architecture
and he seemed to have a knack for it.

"Why so quiet?" Johnny asked.

"I was thinking."

"Miracles will happen," Johnny murmured, and fell into some silent
reflection of his own.

They turned the corner, and midway down the next block a neon rooster
with a comb of red flame strutted back and forth above the sidewalk.
This was The Rooster's Nest, and sooner or later every one of the
students found his way to it. In addition to being a wonderful place for
having fun, it was also a retreat where plans could be made, cramming
done, sorrows quieted, new hopes born and old ones revived, and broken
hearts mended under the understanding supervision of John
Paleopastrinis, who had never even been to high school but who knew as
much about the students at Tenngale as anyone else except the Dean of
Men.

Bill and Johnny stood aside while a crowd of laughing youngsters filed
out, then made their way in. The booths were filled and, save for four
empty chairs, so was the fountain. A juke box played the latest hit tune
and in the center of the floor two couples were dancing. Toward the rear
of the long building the lights were shaded and the acoustics were such
that the juke box's music was heard there as only a gentle melody. That
was the quiet part of The Rooster's Nest and it was intended for those
who wanted peace.

Bill and Johnny made their way to two of the empty stools at the counter
and Rip Parker, who was in Law with Johnny, turned around to say with a
grin, "Hi, Champ."

"Hi," Bill said cheerfully.

"Sorry you didn't take him."

"You can't lick everybody."

"Nope. You can't. That guy's got a wicked right."

"And an even wickeder left."

"Let's not get sentimental," Johnny said with mock severity. "And
sleeping dogs are just as well not awakened. This sadly-battered man
needs forgetfulness."

Johnny rapped on the counter and John Paleopastrinis himself responded.
He was a short, fat man who had a miraculous way of keeping a clean
white apron about his bulging midriff. Freshmen at Tenngale always
watched breathlessly, waiting for the apron to fall off, but it never
did. The top of John Paleopastrinis' entirely bald head came just about
to a medium-tall man's shoulder, but on the day he was born some kindly
angel had breathed a smile into his eyes and it had been there ever
since. He beamed to a halt in front of Johnny and Bill.

"Ha!" he exclaimed. "You been fightin' again!"

"Not so much chatter!" Johnny, still the mockingly-severe mentor, said.
"We need something to drown our sorrows because the hope of Tenngale has
fallen! What'll it be, Bill?"

Bill affected an air of desperation. "Coke! Make it a double one with a
dash of lemon!"

"That's the old fight! We'll have two of those!"

They sipped their drinks, paying little attention to the noise around
them and not speaking themselves. Bill's reflective mood prevailed and
he had no desire to talk. He drained his glass, then waited for his
friend to finish. Finally Johnny turned to him.

"Strong stuff, huh?"

"Potent."

"Have another?"

"No, thanks."

"What would you like to do?"

"Let's go home."

"Brilliant! Let's."

Johnny reached for his wallet but John Paleopastrinis waved a hand the
size of a small ham.

"No, this time it's on the house."

"You're a gentleman. Thank you."

They turned to leave, and John Paleopastrinis called after them, "You
win the next time! Yes?"

Bill grinned and said "Yes."

Into the night that was still winter, but that held a strong promise of
becoming spring, they went. A few fleecy clouds floated across the sky
and the stars shone through them. Bill edged up to walk closer to
Johnny, who, when the occasion demanded it, had a tongue tipped with
acid but always a nature tinged with honey.

Johnny asked, "Feel any pangs?"

"No."

"I thought you might, now that you've seen your boxing career smashed on
Chesterton's gloves."

"I never had or wanted a boxing career. It's just fun to stand up and
trade punches sometimes."

"Good boy!" Johnny said.

They took a right-angle turn down the street to Moody Hall, entered the
lobby, and side by side walked up the stairs to the second-floor room
which they shared. Bill, whose aches were returning, took off his
overcoat, hung it in the closet, and went in to wash his bruised face
again.

When he came out of the washroom, Johnny was sitting on his bed. His
eyes were troubled, his manner thoughtful, and in his hand was a square
of white paper. "Feeling okeh?" he asked.

"Sure."

Johnny glanced down at the piece of paper and he raised his eyes to meet
Bill's. "The Intellect wants to see you. Now--urgent."

"Oh, hang! Let me see it!"

Bill took and read the message. Instructor Tom Crooks, who was not much
older than the students he supervised but who still managed to obtain a
fair amount of order in Moody Hall, wanted to see Bill as soon as he
came in. Bill must not for any reason delay the interview. He laid the
message on the dresser and Johnny looked at him in concern.

"You in trouble, fella?"

"None I can think of."

"Well, run along and see what The Intellect wants. If you need anything,
you know where I am."

"Sure thing."

Bill walked rapidly down the hall to Instructor Crooks' room and knocked
on the door. Crooks himself, a young Political Science expert already
noted for his mental capacities and known even to his face as "The
Intellect," admitted him.

"Come in, Bill."

"Thank you."

Bill entered the plainly furnished room and waited expectantly.
Everybody, even those to whom he gave poor marks, liked Tom Crooks for
his fairness and complete honesty. He was not famous for his subtlety,
though, and now he seemed troubled. He blinked behind thick glasses,
looked at the floor a second, and faced Bill squarely.

"Bill, I'm afraid it's bad news."

"Yes?"

"Yes. I had you paged at the auditorium but you'd already left. I tried
again at The Rooster's Nest, and missed you by only a minute or so. Your
uncle has suffered a heart attack."

"Is it serious?"

"He's dead, Bill."

Bill stood dully, not able to assimilate at once the full meaning of all
this. Within a short time, he thought oddly, it would really hit home.
Right at the moment, it meant little. Bill could only think to say,
"It--it's hard to imagine."

Tom Crooks said quietly, "I'm sorry, and there really isn't much anyone
can do in the face of death. On the assumption that you'd want to get
home as fast as possible, I did take the liberty of reserving a seat for
you on the eleven o'clock plane."

"Thank you."

"I'll go with you if you want me to."

"I think I'd rather go alone."

"I understand," Tom Crooks said. "Pack your bags and I'll drive you to
the airport."

Bill walked back to his room, and all he still felt, or thought he ever
would feel, was a dull ache. He was grateful for Tom Crooks'
understanding. This was a personal matter, one to be handled personally.
His friends would extend their sympathy, and when they had done that
they could do nothing else. None of them had known his uncle.

When he entered the room, Johnny looked up and Bill said, "I'm leaving,
Johnny."

Johnny asked, "Is there anything I can do?"

"I'm afraid not. My uncle died of a heart attack."

"Sorry, fella," Johnny said, quietly.

Bill was glad because he said no more, but then Johnny would say no
more. If Bill wanted him along, he would have been asked to go along.
Johnny understood that. Bill packed his bags and he was aware of Johnny
helping him. When he was ready, Johnny held the door.

"Be seeing you."

"Yep."

It was an uninspired leave-taking, but Bill felt uninspired. For the
first time in his life he was at a loss for something to do, some direct
course of action which he might follow. There was nothing.

Tom Crooks had been entirely right. There is little the living can do in
the face of death.

    *    *    *    *    *

A week later Bill sat in the outer office of Kincaid and Montgomery,
attorneys whom he had asked to straighten out his affairs. He drummed
his knuckles nervously on the arm of his chair, still feeling the strain
of the past week and still bewildered.

A man emerged from one of the offices and the efficient secretary said
to Bill, "You can go in now, Mr. Rawls."

Bill entered the office to face gray-haired Richard Montgomery, and the
attorney rose decorously to shake his hand. From his desk drawer he took
a file of papers and shuffled through them. Then he looked keenly at
Bill.

"Your uncle handled all your affairs?"

"That's right."

"How long has he been in complete charge?"

"Since my father died. That's nine years ago and I was ten at the time."

"You trusted your uncle?"

"Why--of course."

The attorney said gravely, "I am sorry to tell you that he was not the
man to handle anything at all, excepting, perhaps, his own studies."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't misunderstand me. Your uncle was not a fraud and he was not
dishonest. He was just a very inept manager. There has been a series of
almost weird investments. For the past several months your uncle has met
current obligations by borrowing as heavily as possible on his
insurance." The attorney looked at Bill again. "It is the doctor's
opinion that worry over the fact that he had lost almost everything was
a factor in hastening his death."

"I wish he'd taken me into his confidence," Bill said.

"Unfortunately he did not. However, you are not entirely destitute.
There is some jewelry which has been appraised at a little over fourteen
hundred dollars and one other item. Do you know where Elk Shanty is?"

"Elk Shanty?"

"Yes. Obviously it's a town, though not one of metropolitan stature. You
do own a store there which in the past year," the attorney ran his
pencil down a column of figures, "shows a net loss, though I don't know
how much. I am afraid that your uncle considered facts and figures
rather unimportant."

"What kind of a store?"

"A country store apparently. It is one of your uncle's investments and
it is managed, or perhaps I should say mismanaged, by a man named Gosmer
Wisman. If you care to have us do so, we can conduct an investigation
and determine the store's worth."

The attorney scrawled idle circles and meaningless figures on a piece of
paper. Then he was no longer a polished and methodical man of law but a
complete human being whose eyes were gentle and troubled.

"I'm sorry it has to be this way," he said. "But you retained us to find
out and tell you the whole truth. You do have one priceless asset that
no accountant can ever compute; that's your youth and energy. Your life
needn't be ruined because you are left with very little."

"I wasn't thinking about that," Bill said.

"Then go back to college and resume your study of architecture. More
than one young man is working his way through school, and you have at
least a small nest egg. Put the store in our hands. If there is any
money to be realized from it, we'll do that."

Bill felt a little coldness in the pit of his stomach, and his hand
trembled when he raised it. He had expected to be left with enough money
so that he would be comfortably well off for the rest of his life. Now
he found that he had very little. He did have a bank account at
Tenngale, but after he had paid his outstanding debts there would be no
more than perhaps two hundred and fifty dollars left in that.

Bill stared blankly over the attorney's shoulder. Finally he said
slowly, "Thank you very much, sir. I'll have to think this over for a
while."

"Do that, and please advise me of your decision."

They shook hands and Bill left the office. He had no wish to go home,
and anyway it was not his home any more. Mismanaged by his uncle, that
had gone with the rest. Bill felt no bitterness, but only a deep regret.
Had he known that things were going so badly, he might have been able to
help.

He wandered into a drugstore, ordered a cup of coffee, and left it
untasted on the counter while he looked at the far wall. He could go
back to Tenngale, but if he did, he must get some sort of job to pay his
expenses. That didn't worry him particularly. Many of the fellows at
Tenngale were helping themselves. Or he might try for a full-time job
with some firm of architects. Certainly the attorneys or some of his
uncle's friends would help him.

On the other hand, a store, even if it was a country store, was no
insignificant asset. Bill had always felt inclined to be in business for
himself and many outstanding merchants had started with a lot less than
their own store.

Suddenly Bill felt much the same sensations he had known when, despite
the fact that he realized he was outpointed and outclassed, he just had
to go back into the ring and continue the fight with Alan Chesterton.
His father had started with nothing, and he had succeeded. Bill would
try. There was some money. Surely it would not cost a fortune at least
to go to Elk Shanty, wherever that was, and investigate the store. Bill
went to the telephone, dialed his attorneys' number, and asked for Mr.
Montgomery. A moment later the latter was on the other end of the wire.

"Yes?"

"This is Bill Rawls, Mr. Montgomery. Is there any doubt that I own this
store in Elk Shanty?"

"No, the papers are clear."

"Then," said Bill, "I have made my decision. I am going to Elk Shanty
and find out about it."




  CHAPTER TWO

  _Elk Shanty_


The snorting little train that ran out of the city of Cannasport, which
was the end of the Limited's run, consisted of one small engine with a
bored-looking engineer leaning out the window and an ambitionless
fireman who pecked desultorily at chunks of soft coal in the coal
tender; one box car that was evidently packed with freight consigned for
the town of Blissville; and one express-mail-passenger car.

Standing on the station platform with a tightly packed bag in each hand,
Bill grinned at the almost unbelievable locomotive and cars. Cannasport
was a modern city, with a big rail terminal, and the other trains
present made this one look like something dreamed up by a child who
wanted to play at railroading. Still, it had been pointed out to Bill
not only as the train for Blissville, which was as close as trains could
get to Elk Shanty, but the only train that ran there.

Bill crossed the tracks, letting his overcoat hang open. Cannasport
itself was in the mountains, and the forested slopes rising on both
sides of the city still wore a shabby crazy-quilt of snow. But it was
disappearing fast. Swollen to angry proportions by snow water, a
snarling little stream pitched down a mountainside and hurled itself, in
a shower of sun-tinted spray, over a cliff and into a river.

At the passenger entrance to the triple-purpose car stood a tall man
dressed in a blue conductor's uniform. But the uniform lacked the snap
and dash of those worn by the Limited's personnel. Bill decided that it
must have been tailored, for the same man who was wearing it now, at
about the time the train was fashioned. He thought whimsically that
neither had changed a particle since. Bill's eyes rested on a gold watch
chain, almost as big as a dog chain, that looped across the conductor's
vest and on an age-yellowed elk's tooth that dangled from it.

"Is this the train to Blissville?" he asked.

"Yep." When the conductor spoke, he revealed teeth that might have been
a good match for the elk's tooth.

"When does it leave?"

The conductor took a massive gold watch from his vest pocket. He
squinted at it.

"In just nine minutes, right on the button."

"Guess I'd better get aboard."

"Ye'd better if you're goin' to Blissville. We haul out on time. Got
your ticket?"

"Yep." Unconsciously Bill found himself mimicking the conductor. He
showed his ticket, and without even glancing at it, the conductor
punched it. Bill mounted the steps, entered the car, and looked around.

The car had six seats on one side, five on the other, a washroom, and a
wooden partition which evidently marked the boundaries of the passenger
department. Once the seats had been neatly covered with some sort of
heavy green material, but the car had been in use so long that the green
cloth had worn thin. In many places the under fabric showed through.

Bill leaned back and made himself as comfortable as he could. Already,
or so it seemed, he was as far from Tenngale and New York as he could
possibly get. But this car certainly had history, though by the
Limited's standards it was primitive. Scrawled across one side in fading
red paint was, "Wild Cat Jackson rode here." In the domed top there was
a ragged hole, and after careful scrutiny Bill decided that it was a
bullet hole. Nor was time alone responsible for the dilapidated
condition of the fabric covering the seats. Careless
passengers--possibly with knives--had scuffed or cut some of it away.

Presently the conductor, still leaning on the rear platform, bellowed in
a voice that would have done credit to a bull, "_All abo-aa-ard!_" He
came in, pushed the back of one seat over so that two seats faced each
other, sat down on one, put his feet on the other, and immediately went
to sleep. Surprisingly smooth in spite of its ancient lineage, the train
began to move.

Bill propped his elbow on the window ledge, rested his chin in his hand,
and watched with great interest as they rattled up the tracks toward
Blissville.

The valley, narrow enough even at Cannasport, narrowed still more as
they got farther away. Down every tributary valley pitched a wild little
stream and their combined volume of water made a raging torrent out of a
river which would be impressively wide even in normal summer weather.
There were some deserted houses along the right of way, some small
cabins and shacks whose purpose Bill could not guess, unless they were
used by summer vacationists, and a few farmhouses that were still
inhabited.

The conductor came suddenly awake and bawled, so loudly that Bill was
startled, "Debbston! All out for Debbston!" Having delivered himself of
this, the man promptly went back to sleep. Bill grinned. There were no
passengers except himself in the car, therefore nobody to get out at
Debbston. Probably the conductor had been on this run so long that he
automatically called every place they might halt.

The train drew to a stop beside a collection of a dozen houses, a man
took a mail sack out, and they were off again.

Though they passed another small cluster of houses, apparently there was
no reason to stop at them. Bill continued to watch, and he felt a ripple
of amusement as he wondered what Johnny and Tom Crooks would say if they
knew where he was and where he was going. Johnny, with his customary
candor, probably would not hesitate to pronounce him crazy. Well, maybe
he was.

Bill glanced at his wrist watch and saw that it lacked two hours until
noon. Five minutes later the conductor awakened with another mighty
roar.

"Blissville! Blissville! End of the run! _Aa-lll_ out." He subsided to a
normal tone of voice and nodded at Bill. "This is Blissville, Son."

"Thanks," Bill said.

He turned to peer at the town as they rode into it. It was more than a
country village. From what he could see, Bill estimated that about three
thousand people lived in Blissville; but definitely it was no city. The
main section strayed along the railroad tracks, and the rest of
Blissville clung to the sides of the mountain that rose behind it. The
streets were quite steep, and Bill reflected idly that when there was
ice on them they might be dangerous. There were a good many cars and
trucks, some new and some very old, crawling like giant beetles along
the streets.

The train rolled to a stop beside a small station across which
BLISSVILLE was written in white on a black background. An energetic
youngster in shirt sleeves and bluejeans rolled a hand cart over to
receive the various parcels and mail sacks from the express-mail section
of the car. At the far end of the sun-sprayed station, a furry brown and
white dog lay fast asleep, and his front paws twitched as he dreamed.

Bill was a little bewildered and not at all sure of himself when, with
a bag in each hand, he left the car and stepped onto the station
platform. It had taken much patient research on the part of an
overworked railway ticket agent just to discover Elk Shanty, and
Blissville was certainly as close as any train came to it. However, the
agent had assured Bill that there must be some means of transportation
between Blissville and Elk Shanty. The best advice he could offer was
that Bill ask after he arrived at rail's end.

Bill pushed open the station's door and a scrawny man, with a pronounced
Adam's apple that bobbed up and down every time he moved, looked up from
the telegraph key over which he was bending. "Howdy, friend," he said,
without any preliminaries.

"How do you do," Bill replied.

"Right smartly, right smartly, now that the winter's 'bout over. There
was some mis'ry when I got out of bed this mornin', but I rubbed it good
with rattlesnake oil and that fixed it! Yup! That fixed it! Rattlesnake
oil will fix any mis'ry!"

"I'll remember that when I get a 'mis'ry,'" Bill murmured. "Can you tell
me how to get to Elk Shanty?"

"Elk Shanty! What do you want in Elk Shanty?"

Bill looked furtively about and whispered, "I'm going to rob the bank!"

"Ha!" The other's Adam's apple bobbed furiously. "Ha! That's a good 'un!
I'll have to pay it some heed. Next time somebody asks me what I want in
Elk Shanty I'll tell 'em I'm going to rob the bank! Ain't no bank in
Elk Shanty!"

"I'd still like to get there," Bill said patiently.

"What for? Nobody wants to get to Elk Shanty."

"I do."

"What for?"

"Must be I'm crazy."

"Must be you are." The man glared suspiciously at him. "You ain't joking
me again?"

"No. Is there a bus?"

"To Elk Shanty? Ha!"

"Well is there a taxi in town?"

"Yup, but it ain't runnin' and won't be for a while. It got smashed up
yesterday."

"Is there _any_ way to get to Elk Shanty?"

"Shanks' mare."

"You mean on foot?"

"That's what I mean." He looked closely at Bill. "You bound to get to
Elk Shanty?"

"I thought I'd made my intentions clear."

"You could have rode with the mailman, except that he's sick and won't
go today."

Bill murmured, "Another illusion shattered."

"What'd you say?"

"It seems I won't ride with the mailman."

"That's right. And if your mind's set on going to Elk Shanty, then I
ain't no man to stop you. Go up to Main Street. That's the first street
and you can't miss it on account there's a sign at the corner. 'Main
Street' it says. Right there plain as day, 'Main Street.' Turn left to
the first road that turns right, away from the river. You can't miss it
on account there's another sign there. As plain as day it says--"

"Elk Shanty?" Bill guessed.

"Nope. It don't. It says 'Tower Hill Road.' But it goes to Elk Shanty.
Right square down the middle of Elk Shanty it goes. Stay on the Tower
Hill Road and you'll come to Elk Shanty all right."

"How far is it?"

"Depends on whether you're riding or walking, and what you might be
riding. Now, if you was riding a horse--"

"Skip it," Bill said hastily. "And thanks for the information."

"No thanks needed. Didn't cost me nothing."

Bill went back out the door and up to Main Street. Some passers-by paid
no attention to him, but some gazed with frank curiosity and Bill
realized suddenly that he was almost the only male in town who was
wearing a suit and an overcoat. The rest were dressed hunter style, in
jackets or short coats and overshoes. He suppressed a rising irritation.
The way some people were looking at him, it was almost as though he
belonged in a zoo. Then he shrugged off their stares and strode briskly
down Main Street.

As he drew near the end of town there were fewer houses; and when he
left the sidewalk to strike down the concrete highway, even these were
left behind. Bill felt a rising pleasure. He had always enjoyed hunting
and fishing and often he had known a secret desire to live for a while
in some good game and fish country. It looked as though at last that
desire was going to be realized. He came to the Tower Hill Road, turned
right on it, and his pleasure increased.

The concrete he had just left was part of a modern transcontinental
highway, a link with all the things Bill had always known. The Tower
Hill Road was gravel. Much narrower than the concrete, it was hugged
tightly on both sides by sap-wet hardwood forests in which buds were
already uncurling. Bill smiled with his eyes as he saw a splash of blue
flowers growing right at the edge of a snow bank.

He climbed steeply, and the higher he got the more snow he found until,
at the summit of the mountain, there was a foot of snow on either side.
The road, however, had been plowed and the warm sun had melted such
patches of snow as remained on it. Snow was still melting on both sides
and little rivulets were trickling into the roadside ditches. Bill
discovered abruptly why the citizens of Blissville dressed as they did.

A runlet of snow water emptied into the road, and the ditch that should
have carried it off was blocked with mingled mud and rocks. A miniature
pond overspread the road. It looked like a very gentle flow, but there
was enough force in the water so that it had washed away all the top
gravel and left nothing but soft mud.

Bill put his bags down and shook a puzzled head. If he were wearing
boots, or even overshoes, the pond would not be too much of a problem.
But all he wore was a pair of oxfords that had been polished and shiny
when he got off the train at Blissville. He glanced down at them and saw
that they were already mud-splattered. There was another pair of shoes
in one of the bags, but that was all he had. He had better wait until he
got to Elk Shanty, which certainly couldn't be far now, before changing.
There was no point in ruining two pairs of shoes.

Meanwhile, just standing in the road would get him nowhere. He had a
choice between the snow banks and the pond.

Bill picked up the bags, stepped into the water, and sank halfway to his
knees in mud. But the die was cast; his feet couldn't get any wetter
than they were or his trousers any muddier. Bill waded across, came to
firm gravel, put his bags down, and stooped to scrape his trousers with
his fingers. He wrung them partly dry.

When he picked up his bags, he sighed wearily. He had thought himself in
good physical condition and able to tackle any sort of hike, but this
one was exhausting. He looked at his watch, discovered that he had been
walking for about an hour and a half, and plodded grimly on. It would
have been a good idea to find out, from someone besides the station
agent, just how far it was to Elk Shanty. But Bill had been in no mood
for another long-winded explanation and he had hesitated to ask anyone
on the street because they looked at him so curiously. Of one thing he
was fairly certain; Elk Shanty lay down this road. Sooner or later he
would find it.

The road swung down the other side of the mountain and on both sides the
snow banks disappeared. Bill loosened his overcoat and let it hang open.
It was spring in the valleys, but certainly it was still winter on top
of the mountains. Bill stopped in his tracks.

A hundred feet ahead of him, almost like a floating gray shadow in the
bright day, a white-tailed deer leaped from the side to the center of
the road and stood for a second looking at him. With an effortless
bound, the deer jumped clear across the road and disappeared in the
timber. Five more deer, none of which stopped, followed the first, and
Bill's heart began to sing again.

This was rough backwoods, but it was a good country. Even if it offered
nothing else, it certainly was going to offer fine hunting. Bill wished
that he had found the place before and wondered how his uncle had ever
stumbled across it. A genteel drawing room, rather than this
underdeveloped land, seemed more in keeping with his Uncle Al's
character and tastes.

Suddenly the silence of the mountains was shattered by a rifle shot.

Bill put his bags down and listened carefully, trying to place the
direction from which the shot had come and the caliber of the gun that
had fired it. He knew something about firearms and he had heard tales,
which he had never believed, of mountain dwellers. According to some
ill-calculated fiction, all they ever did was tend stills in which they
made illicit whiskey, and such time as they could spare from that
interesting operation was devoted to feuding with their neighbors. Bill
had always placed such stories strictly in the category of fantastic
tales, but now he wasn't so sure. The place was very lonely and
isolated. Anything _might_ happen.

He heard the blast repeated and definitely identified it as no rifle
shot at all, but the backfire from a car or truck. Bill moved his bags
to one side of the road and waited.

The garrulous station agent had told him that nobody, excepting possibly
the mailman, went to Elk Shanty and by now Bill was more than half
willing to believe that. But obviously somebody besides himself was on
the road and he had something to ride in. He might give him a lift. Two
minutes later the vehicle rocked down the slope Bill had just descended
and came in sight.

It was a red truck that had seen its best days at least a dozen years
ago. One side of the windshield was broken off and a board put in its
place. Both doors, neither of which had any visible glass, were tilted
forward on broken hinges and wired to the hood. The hood itself, which
flapped like a great bird's wings as the truck came forward, was held on
with more wire. Bill held his breath because it seemed that the cab must
certainly fall off. Probably that was wired on, too.

The contraption lurched to a drunken, shivering halt beside Bill and he
looked with interest at the truck's occupants.

A man as lean as a wolf, and with something about him that was
suggestive of a wolf's ferocious air, sat behind the wheel. He might
have been thirty years old or fifty; his face was so wind and
weather-beaten that nobody could make an accurate guess about his age.
He was clean-shaven, but from beneath a felt hat that was as old and
battered as the truck escaped long strands of curly black hair that was
sadly in need of cutting.

Beside the man was a well-oiled, carefully-tended, and obviously
much-loved repeating rifle. The third occupant of the truck was as
fascinating as the first two.

He was a white hound whose hide was spotted by the dappling known as
"blue tick." His head was so big and his jaws so long that to some
extent he resembled an alligator. When the dog stood erect, if he ever
did, his ears would come within three inches of brushing the ground. He
owned long, strong legs and a powerful chest, but slatted ribs showed
and his paunch was so lean that Bill could almost have encircled it with
his two hands. The body wandered out in a thin tail that was tipped by a
cluster of very long hairs.

The hound looked sadly at Bill. The man smiled, and when he did his
wolfish look vanished as swiftly and completely as a puff of mist
vanishes before the rising morning sun. He asked, "You walkin' because
you like it?"

Bill smiled back because he couldn't help himself, and because he knew
at once that there was something about this man which he could like
greatly.

"No," he responded, "I'm walking because I want to get to Elk Shanty."

"I expect," the man said, as though he had just arrived at some profound
decision, "that ridin' would be easier."

"I know it would!"

"Get in, then. But you'll have to set in the middle. Lamb Chops, he sort
of favors the outside seat."

Bill threw his bags in the rear of the stake-bodied truck and he saw
that it also contained a small gasoline engine which, as with everything
else about the truck, was fastened down with wire. He walked around to
the door and was about to climb in when Lamb Chops thrust his great head
forth, extended a tongue the size of a wet dish towel, and
enthusiastically began to lick his face. Bill drew back, sputtering.

"Your dog's very friendly, huh?"

"Tain't my dog an' he just likes you. Lamb Chops don't like everybody,
neither." The man spoke as though Bill should consider himself
complimented.

Keeping a wary eye on Lamb Chops, who blinked mournfully at him, Bill
slid into the center seat. The hound immediately put both front paws in
his lap and pushed his face very close to Bill's, as though there were
something about this newcomer that he wished to study at great length.
Hastily Bill slid an arm around the dog's neck and began to tickle his
ear. Lamb Chops sighed, relaxed, and went to sleep sitting up.

"The name is Smith," the truck driver said. "My mother tagged me Elijah,
but most folks calls me Rifle Eye."

"My name's Rawls," Bill introduced himself. "My mother named me William,
but I answer to Bill."

"Good enough, Bill. We'll get movin'."

Using all his strength on the gear shift, Rifle Eye pushed it into low,
shifted into second, and with a fearful clattering of gears they were
moving again. However, once it was under way the truck didn't make quite
so much noise and they could talk.

"How far are we from Elk Shanty?" Bill asked.

"Fourteen miles."

"Oh gosh!"

"Somethin' the matter?"

"Only that I asked the station agent at Blissville how far to Elk
Shanty, and he started to tell me without ever quite getting around to
it. If I'd known how far it was, I never would have set out to walk it."

"The station agent's Henry Jumas," Rifle Eye commented. "He knows quite
a bit but somehow he don't ever get around to tellin' it. Not sure he
ain't smart at that. Elk Shanty's nineteen miles from Blissville. You've
already walked about five of it."

Lamb Chops poked a cold, moist nose into Bill's neck and Bill recoiled.
Rifle Eye spoke severely.

"Now, you looky here, Lamb Chops! You got to behave yourself when we
ask somebody else to ride, else I ain't goin' to take you to Blissville
with me no more!"

As though properly chastened, Lamb Chops moved to his own part of the
seat and devoted himself to looking out the window. Rifle Eye spoke to
Bill.

"He knows all right when you tell him somethin'. Lamb Chops is smarter'n
most people."

"Who does he belong to?" Bill asked, remembering that Rifle Eye had
denied ownership of the white hound.

"He never yet picked nobody to belong to. Lamb Chops, he'll spend a few
days here, a few days there, an' whenever he knows I'm goin' to
Blissville he comes up to my place so he can ride along. Likes to get
into town once in a while an' see the sights."

"He knows when you're going to Blissville?"

"Lamb Chops knows everything."

"Does he hunt?"

Rifle Eye's warm smile lighted his face again. "Nope. He could if he
wanted to, but he's too smart for that. Let some other dog run its fool
legs off, an' fight a varmint after they ketch it. Lamb Chops, he's got
more important things to do."

A flock of wild turkeys ran across the road in front of them and Rifle
Eye clattered nonchalantly on. But when they saw another deer, he
stopped the truck and lovingly caressed the rifle at his side. Then he
put the rifle down and drove on, speaking more to himself than to Bill.

"Reckon not. I'll wait 'til they're summer-fatted."

Bill withheld comment. He knew perfectly well that deer season was not
open and would not be open until autumn. He suspected that the people in
these mountains were accustomed to taking what they wanted when they
wanted it. But he was not the guardian of Rifle Eye Smith's principles.

"Lot of game around here?" he asked.

"A right smart amount. Turkey, deer, few elk, bear, a shag of grouse an'
squirrel, plenty of varmints."

"How about fishing?"

"You like to fish?" Rifle Eye warmed to the question.

"I love it!"

"Goin' to be around Elk Shanty long?"

"I expect to be."

"If you should be here when trout get ripe, I'll show you where we can
get our hooks into some goshamighty nice ones. Fair bass, too."

Rifle Eye braked the truck to a quivering halt beside a rutted trail
that led into the timber.

"I live up here," he explained. "An' I got to get my engine workin' so I
can pump water an' such-like. Took the thing into Blissville to get it
fixed. Elk Shanty's a mile down the road. You want to wait until I get
things goin', I'll take you in."

"I'd just as soon walk," Bill said.

"Might be quicker. Maybe it will take some little time to get things
goin'. Get a chance, come see me."

Bill said with real sincerity, "I'd like to. And don't forget our
fishing trip."

"I won't."

Bill stepped out of the cab and a second later Lamb Chops unjointed his
long body and slid out behind him. He pushed his great head against
Bill's leg, and seemed to be drowsing, and Bill looked again at his
scrawny mid-section. It was a real mystery how Lamb Chops ever kept his
head and tail together. Bill petted the big hound.

"Looks as though he's going with me," he commented.

"He is," Rifle Eye assured him.

"But--I don't want him."

"That ain't the point. Lamb Chops wants you an' there ain't nary a thing
you can do about it. Lamb Chops is a right strong-minded hound dog."

"But--"

"You'll get used to him," Rifle Eye said. "Besides, he prob'ly won't
stay with you more'n three-four days, or weeks, or months, before he
takes it in his head to ramble on an' stay with somebody else. Be seein'
you."

The gears clashed and the truck moved up the rutted trail that led to
Rifle Eye's house. Bill waited until it had disappeared, then turned to
Lamb Chops. The big hound was sitting in the center of the road and he
blinked sorrowfully at Bill. The boy gritted his teeth; the last thing
he needed was a tramp hound.

"Look," he said reasonably, "Rifle Eye says you understand what people
say. Why don't you go along now and stay with somebody else?"

But when Bill started down the road, Lamb Chops paced along beside him.
Every now and then he looked up, and Bill knew a moment's uneasiness
because there seemed to be an infinite wisdom and a great understanding
in the hound's melancholy eyes. Hastily he banished such thoughts from
his mind. Let Rifle Eye believe that Lamb Chops had a superior
intellect, if he wanted to. Bill would keep his own thoughts.

Halfway down the long hill at the top of which Rifle Eye had let him out
of the truck, Bill got his first look at Elk Shanty. A little creek
sparkled in the sun, and he saw the road winding like an undulating
brown ribbon on up the valley. Elk Shanty nestled in the valley. Around
the hamlet, for about a quarter of the way up the mountain on either
side, there was no forest but only scattered trees. Bill quickened his
steps, anxious to reach the end of his journey.

The road wound past a clearing in which there was a weather-beaten barn
and a neat white house. Three cows cropped at the new spring grass as
though they would never get enough of it, chickens scratched in the barn
yard, and a brown horse loafed luxuriously in the sun. A young fellow of
about Bill's own age, but thirty pounds heavier, leaned over an
old-fashioned rail fence that zigzagged across the front of the
clearing. His face was florid, his eyes sleepy, and his lips thick and
blubbery. Bill came abreast and--

"Hey, Ma!" the other yelled in a high falsetto voice. "The woodchucks
are out of their winter holes! There's one going down the road right
now!"

Bill felt anger rise quickly, but he controlled it. A fight was the
worst possible way to begin any new venture. He kept his eyes straight
ahead and walked past.

However, just as he had already discovered that he would find friends in
Elk Shanty, so it seemed now that he might find enemies. It was not a
comfortable feeling.




  CHAPTER THREE

  _The Store_


Lamb Chops, who never seemed to run if he could walk and never walked if
he could sit down or lie down, wandered over to a clump of brush growing
beside the road, stopped, and a rolling bay that ended in a high-pitched
howl broke from his massive chest. A cottontail rabbit scooted out of
the brush, ran twenty feet to a burrow, and ducked into it. Lamb Chops
watched the rabbit go without making the slightest effort to give chase,
and Bill shook a puzzled head.

Dogs do not think; everybody knew that. But now Bill wasn't so positive
that he knew it. Nor was he any longer in doubt that Lamb Chops had a
character and personality all his own. If almost any other dog had done
the same thing, it would have been just a dog snuffling out a rabbit.
Lamb Chops managed to give the incident drama, and in his own mind Bill
re-created the story. The rabbit, no doubt sneering in rabbit fashion,
had both seen and heard them coming and had contemptuously decided that,
if only he sat still, neither dog nor man would know he was there. Lamb
Chops had just wanted to prove him wrong.

The gaunt hound, still threatening to come apart with every step, padded
back to Bill and fell in beside him. He sniffed Bill's leg, but there
was no wag of his tail and nothing except mournful eyes to show what he
was thinking, and those eyes revealed little. Bill chuckled. He was
beginning to understand why Rifle Eye had spoken as he had. Lamb Chops
might well have served as a model for some caricature of a hound. But
there was something about him which made itself felt.

Bill let his dangling fingers play about the big hound's head, and Lamb
Chops sighed blissfully.

They were at the bottom of the mountain now, out of the forest, and Elk
Shanty was clearly in view. Within itself the hamlet, or what remained
of it, was a riddle. A sleepy little mountain town, very plainly
inhabited by people who must struggle hard just to make ends meet, Elk
Shanty at one time had obviously been a bustling place, and certainly
some of the people who lived there must have had more than an average
amount of money.

Situated on a grassy little knoll, somehow managing to dominate the
whole town, was a huge house that must contain at least fourteen or
fifteen rooms. Massive beams supported the porch roof, and the porch ran
clear around the entire house. The windows were boarded up, there were
barriers across the doors, the white paint was fading, and the grounds
had long since been abandoned to weeds and brush.

Nevertheless there was an air of quality about the place, as though
whoever had lived there at one time had expected and had been able to
pay for the ultimate in gracious living. Were the house restored, and
located in a city, no one would expect it to be the home of any except a
wealthy person.

There were two other houses comparable to this one--or they had been at
one time. Now they were almost complete ruins. The windows were broken
out or stolen and the doors were missing. The roof of one, sagging from
end gables toward the center, reminded Bill of a swaybacked horse he had
once seen a clown ride in a circus. There were gaping, brick-lined
cellars where still other buildings had been, and various small houses.

Some of the latter were newly-built, and they ranged from one-room
affairs to houses that might contain four or five rooms. Invariably they
were roofed with tar paper, and some of them were sided with the same
material. All the rest were either weather-beaten or painted a dull red,
and Bill tried to remember where he had seen that color before. Then he
knew. It was the same hue that the Cannasport-Blissville Railroad used
on its buildings. Evidently Elk Shantyites didn't buy their paint.

Bill furrowed his brows. Elk Shanty was not exactly a ghost town because
there were still quite a few people--Bill could not even guess how
many--living there. But it was a decadent town. However, if it hadn't
once been a scene of great activity and industry, what explanation was
there for the places that only a lot of money could build? Then the
mystery solved itself.

The clue was a weathered tree stump beside the road. Fully five feet in
diameter, at one time the stump had supported a mighty tree. Bill
stopped to look at it and he let his eyes stray to the mountains rising
above Elk Shanty. He thought he had the answer.

When the first colonists landed on the shores of North America, one of
the most formidable obstacles they had to face was vast and apparently
endless forests. All possible means of destruction were used against the
great stretches of woodland; there was fertile soil beneath the trees
and crops do not grow in shade. For centuries the war against the
forests was carried on. Only a few people of extraordinarily clear
vision foresaw the eventual end of the trees unless measures were taken
to use them scientifically.

The weak voices raised in protest might as well have been a few pebbles
trying to stem a volcano. The forests, as anyone who took the trouble to
look would know, could have no end, and a growing country needed lumber.
Beginning in the east, lumber crews swept through the great stands of
pine and hemlock, cut everything that was worth money, and moved on.
While they were present, money was plentiful and it flowed freely. When
they left, as they must leave when there were no more trees to cut,
their by-products were desolation, broken hearts, and shattered hopes.

This Bill had read, and it explained Elk Shanty. He knew that lumbermen
no longer operated in such a fashion. The awakening had come at last and
some of the best scientific brains in the country were constantly at
work to replace with new trees the timber that must be cut to fill the
ceaseless demand for lumber. But the lumbermen had been both ruthless
and thoughtless at one time.

Nobody knew how many villages like Elk Shanty were the partial result of
a policy so vicious. Most of its former inhabitants had probably moved
on with the lumber crews. But there are always those who lack the
initiative to make a move and those who, for one reason or another, will
live where they wish, no matter how hard and meager life may be there.

Bill looked at the forest-clothed mountains around Elk Shanty. The
lumber crews had probably operated here about the turn of the century.
The fine hardwood forests now present could have grown up since then,
and obviously they were under good management.

While Bill studied the stump, Lamb Chops disappeared and Bill looked
about for him. He felt a momentary sense of loss. Nobody in his right
mind would take Lamb Chops as a gift, but he did make his presence felt.
Bill tried an experimental whistle, and when Lamb Chops did not respond
he walked on.

Almost without any warning at all, a bristling dog stood in the road.
He was a furry mongrel, bigger than Lamb Chops, and his lips were lifted
from gleaming ivory fangs. There was no mistaking his intention, and
Bill made ready to swing with one of the bags while at the same time he
poised his foot for a kick. Such a big dog, angered, was capable of
doing real harm.

Then, as unaccountably as he had rushed out, the dog turned, curved its
tail against its rump, and slunk back up an embankment. Glancing in that
direction, Bill saw the roof of a small house. The dog must have come
from there.

A second later, Lamb Chops pushed his head against Bill's leg and
sighed. The latter breathed his relief and petted the white hound's
ears. Lamb Chops didn't look like much; he didn't even look entirely
like a hound, but apparently the canine population of Elk Shanty had a
vast respect for him. Lamb Chops' personality had never done that; he
must have fought many a fierce battle before he proved who was boss dog.
Yet, as far as Bill could see, he bore no scars. Even his dangling ears
weren't torn.

Bill warmed more to the gaunt hound. Aside from the fact that he liked
him, obviously Lamb Chops was not a complete liability to whichever
person he adopted as his current companion. "Owner" and "master" were
scarcely fitting terms as far as Lamb Chops was concerned.

A graying-haired woman who wore bluejeans and a stag shirt came down the
road towards Bill. She had a strong, pleasant face, but hard work and a
hard life had left their marks on it. Twenty feet from Bill she swerved
to the side of the road and picked up a dead crow from whose black
feathers the sun still plucked iridescent glows. Bill tried not to look
but he couldn't help looking. The people of Elk Shanty hadn't much
money, but surely they weren't reduced to eating dead crows! Bill came
abreast of the woman and said civilly,

"Good morning."

"Good morning." Her voice was as rich and pleasant as her features.

Bill's eyes were riveted on the crow and he suddenly found himself
embarrassed. Trying to cover it he said, "That's a nice crow."

Immediately he decided that he had made matters worse, but the woman
merely held her prize by one leg and looked at it fondly.

"It is," she agreed. "It is that. Billy Bishop shot it this morning with
his .22. He wouldn't bring it to me, though." She spoke warmly and
openly, as a country dweller would.

Bill said lamely, "Guess we'll have to talk to Billy Bishop."

The woman smiled. "There's another crow down the road a bit. I'll have
to go get that one, too."

Bill walked on, his head reeling. Maybe mountain people were eccentric,
but who besides a lunatic would go around picking up dead crows and
gloating over the find? Maybe the fiction he had read was correct;
perhaps living in solitude did things to people!

He was in the main section of Elk Shanty now, three houses to his left,
two to his right, and just ahead of him, near a steel bridge that
spanned the creek, another building. It was a long, solidly-built
structure, a big place. Nor was it carelessly or hastily erected.
Planning and thought had gone into it, but like all the rest, it was
sadly dilapidated. It had been unpainted for so long that it was
impossible to tell what color it might have been originally. Sun, rain,
wind, and snow had done their worst to the exterior, so that some of the
boards were warped. Bricks were missing from the chimney that rose above
the flat roof.

Bill knew a moment's sadness. Men had labored mightily in Elk Shanty,
and the final result was this! Then he came to where he could see the
front of the building and stopped in his tracks. A cold little shiver
ran up his spine. Once the building's identity had been clearly printed
across the front in big gilt letters, but some of the letters were
completely gone and others were faded badly. All one could read now was
G-NE-AL M--C-AND--E.

Evidently the sign had once read GENERAL MERCHANDISE, and this was the
Elk Shanty store!

For a moment Bill stared almost stupidly at the sign, then he lowered
his eyes to the front of the building. The place was in disrepair, but
glass windows sparkled in the sun and the front was neat and clean. It
was dilapidated, but it was not slovenly.

Bill looked hopefully up the road and he saw where Elk Shanty trailed
out in a little cluster of houses. There was nothing that could be seen
beyond them except blue haze in the valley, and certainly there was no
other store in Elk Shanty. This had to be the place.

Bill straightened his shoulders, thrust his jaw out, walked to the front
door, and entered. Lamb Chops squeezed in beside him. Bill looked about
the store's interior.

To his right was a glass showcase with a box of red jawbreakers and a
few other assorted candies in it. On top of the showcase was a
half-filled box of cigars and a partly-emptied box of gum. There was a
rack of cigarettes. A long counter ran two-thirds the length of the
store to within three feet of a partition, and behind the counter there
were shelves reaching to the ceiling. Prominent among the wares on the
shelves was an assortment of both smoking and chewing tobacco. There
were some canned goods, many of which bore labels that Bill had never
seen before; a few bags of flour, some bolts of cloth, and various
knickknacks.

On his left, toward the front of the store, were five racks filled with
assorted garden seeds. There were some new steel traps hanging from a
peg driven into the wall, and a small display of ammunition for various
kinds of firearms. A red metal sign depicted a self-satisfied character
who was supposed to be enjoying a cup of coffee, with the caption,
"Henley's Coffee Grinds Finer and Tastes Better." In the center of the
store was a pot-bellied stove, and against the wall were some wooden
chairs. Toward the rear and against the partition was some sort of
cabinet that must be a cooler or icebox.

Everything was neat and clean; though the outside of the store had
received little attention, somebody was taking care of the inside.

"May I help you?"

Bill whirled, startled because he had not seen anyone, and found himself
facing a young girl with a feather duster in her hand. Evidently she had
been kneeling, cleaning under the counter. She was half a foot shorter
than Bill's five feet eleven and her sandy hair framed an attractive
face. There was a splash of freckles, deep brown eyes, and Bill decided
at once that if what was still hidden under the counter matched what he
could see above it, this teen-ager would have no difficulty whatever in
getting all the dates she could handle, if only she should attend
Tenngale. Bill smiled.

"Is Mr. Wisman here?" he asked.

"He," for a split second the girl hesitated, then, "is busy right now.
Can't I help you?"

"I must see Mr. Wisman, Gosmer Wisman."

Again the girl hesitated, and said, "To tell you the truth,
Grandfather's resting."

"Grandfather?"

"Yes. I'm Janice Wisman."

"My name's Rawls. Bi--William Rawls."

"Oh!" Her eyes were friendly. "Are you related to Uncle Alfred?"

"Uncle Alfred?"

She laughed. "He wasn't really my uncle. I just called him that."

Bill said, "I'm afraid that he really was my uncle."

There was a questioning look in her eyes. "Why didn't he come with you?"

"He died two weeks ago," Bill said soberly.

"I'm sorry." She said it simply but there was both pain and regret in
her face.

Bill thought oddly that she must have known his uncle and had good
reason to like him more than casually. He asked, "Did Uncle Al really
own this store?"

"Yes, he did."

"Well, it seems that I'm the new owner."

She said, "I think I'd better awaken Grandfather. But," she looked
squarely at Bill, "he hasn't been very well."

She disappeared through a door leading into the store's partitioned
rear, while Bill stood troubled and uncertain. He decided that
everything would have been better all around if he had taken the
attorney's advice and had gone back to Tenngale. Obviously the store,
like all the rest of Elk Shanty, was barely able to struggle along. His
coming here not only would do him no good, but it would complicate the
lives of the Wismans.

Again Bill looked around the store. If they depended upon this for a
livelihood, their affairs were already desperate enough.

The door in the partition opened, and a man who seemed as old as one of
the hills that rose above Elk Shanty stood framed in it. He was a huge
man, four inches taller than Bill and massive in proportion. A crown of
snow-white hair graced his head. His step was lithe and firm, his chin
up. Every outward appearance proclaimed that here was a mighty man.

But outward appearances were as misleading as the sheath of bark, the
thin layers of wood, and the still supple branches on a great tree that
has grown hollow. Here had once been a mighty man. Time had worn thin
everything that made him powerful. Gosmer Wisman was very old. He had
lived through six ages of man and was now living in the seventh. His
face bore all the marks that only time can write, but his clear blue
eyes were as simple and trusting as those of a child. Janice put her
mouth very close to his ear and still spoke loudly to make herself
heard.

"Grandfather, this is Mr. Rawls."

Gosmer Wisman extended a huge hand and enfolded Bill's. His voice was
soft and pleasant.

"It is good of you to come again, Alfred."

Bill, not understanding, said, "But Mr. Wisman--"

Janice was again speaking in her grandfather's ear. "It is not Alfred
Rawls. This is his nephew, William."

"William?" Gosmer Wisman came out of the mists in which he had been
wandering. "William, kin to Alfred? You are welcome here, sir. When is
Alfred coming again?"

"He is--"

Janice shook her head warningly, and Bill said no more. But Gosmer
Wisman had understood partially.

"He is what?"

"He is busy," Bill said.

"Ah, yes, a busy man and a fine man. But his friends await him here.
When will he come again?"

"Mr. Rawls," Janice said quickly, "told me that he would come as soon as
he can."

"That's right," Bill seconded.

Janice took the old man gently by the arm. "Come now, Grandfather. You
had better rest again."

"One moment," Gosmer Wisman's almost transparent eyes sought and found
Bill. "You will stay here?"

"For a while," Bill promised.

"Good. I look forward to visiting with you."

Janice led him away and Bill stared hard at the almost empty shelves. A
store with practically nothing in it, a girl who would stand out in any
crowd, and an old man in his dotage. Bill whistled tunelessly through
his teeth. Janice came back quietly and stood beside him.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Sometimes he is all right and sometimes he
isn't. He just doesn't seem to understand or remember too much any
more."

Bill said, "Tell me something, will you?"

"If I can."

"When I came into Elk Shanty I met a woman, a nice-looking woman, who
picked up a dead crow. She said there was another one. It seems that
some kid named Billy Bishop has been shooting 'em with a .22, and she
had to go get that one, too."

"Yes?"

"What the dickens would anybody want with dead crows?"

Janice's eyes sparkled with amusement. "That would be Fanny Gowen. And
she didn't want the crows. She wanted the feathers."

"The feathers?"

"Yes. She ties fishing flies."

"Good ones?"

"They must be; the fishermen who come here want them badly. They want
Asa Dorr's rods, too. He makes them himself, and I've been told that
they're much better than those you buy elsewhere."

"Oh!" Bill felt a mighty sense of relief. He had, after all, come among
perfectly normal people. Some of them just happened to follow unusual
occupations. Bill stared for a moment at the candy case, and Janice
broke his reverie.

"Mr. Rawls--"

"Why don't you call me Bill?"

"Informality should not be one-sided."

Bill grinned. "Jan's easy to say."

"Now I feel more at ease. You must have some questions?"

"Yes, but I don't know where to start."

"Start anywhere."

"How long has my uncle been coming to Elk Shanty?"

"I met him last summer, when I came to stay with Grandfather. I don't
know how long he has been coming, but he and Grandfather are old
friends."

"You work for your grandfather?"

"Since last summer, a few days after I graduated from high school. He
pays me twenty dollars a week and room and board."

Bill asked the question he had been yearning to ask. "Now tell me how
the dickens this store earns any money?"

Janice was silent for a moment. Then, "It doesn't."

"Go on."

"It has been kept going, and so has much of Elk Shanty, on Grandfather's
three hundred dollars a month."


"He has a pension?"

"No." She looked at him levelly. "That was the salary your uncle paid
him to manage the store."

Bill's head reeled. "A series of almost-weird investments," the attorney
had said. This one verged on the fantastic! Bill thought of his uncle.
Alfred Carling Rawls might have had almost no business sense, but
certainly he had enough to know that such a store, in such a place,
would be a profitless undertaking. What had ever possessed him to
finance such a foolhardy venture?

"My uncle paid him that much just to manage this place?" Bill asked.

"That's right. Bill--" Again she hesitated.

"You can say it."

"There was some sort of agreement between Grandfather and your uncle
that had nothing to do with the store. I don't know what it was. I never
asked, and I think no one except Grandfather knows exactly what took
place. It has been supposed around Elk Shanty that Grandfather does
have an income of his own."

"Oh," Bill said.

He knew no more than he had known before. What possible secret agreement
could there have been between his uncle and Gosmer Wisman? If there were
other business interests, why hadn't they shown up in the audit? It was
absurd to suppose that Gosmer Wisman had been blackmailing his uncle.
The old man had still been getting three hundred dollars a month to
manage a store whose gross sales probably were not a great deal more
than that. Why? Why, for that matter, had his uncle ever come to Elk
Shanty?

Lamb Chops, who had been sleeping in a corner, rose, walked over to the
cooler, and deliberately sat down in front of it. He glanced at Bill,
yelped three times, and returned his attention to the cooler.

Bill looked puzzled, but Janice said, "He's hungry."

"I should have guessed that myself. How long do you think it's been
since he's had a decent meal?"

"Maybe four hours."

"Four hours!"

"Uh-huh. Lamb Chops has a vast talent for eating. He eats all the time."

"Without growing any fatter?"

"That's right."

"Maybe there's something wrong with him?"

"No, there isn't. He's just Lamb Chops."

Janice took the remains of a veal roast from the cooler, at least two
pounds of meat, and put it on a paper on the floor. Lamb Chops inhaled
and the meat disappeared as effortlessly as dust goes into a vacuum
cleaner. The gaunt hound padded back to his corner and blinked at Bill.
The boy grinned.

"Mighty expensive meal for a hound."

"Ordinarily it would be, but Grandfather and I have so much that we
can't possibly use all of it. We get it in trade."

The door opened and the beefy young man whom Bill had seen leaning
against the fence came into the store. He said to Janice, "Hello,
Sugar."

"Hello, Joe," she said casually, and introduced the two. "Bill, this is
Joe Lantman. Bill Rawls, Joe. He's the new owner of the store."

Bill saw a thinly-veiled anger that was almost hatred rise in the
other's eyes, and his own anger flared anew. He had done nothing to Joe
Lantman, he scarcely knew him. But the ill-feeling that this heavy-set
fellow felt was as evident as a shower of sparks.

"Just call me Tarzan," Joe Lantman said. "You've heard of him? He can
handle any ape."

He came very near and Bill instinctively braced himself. Tarzan's hand
came out as though in a friendly gesture, but the fingers that gripped
Bill's closed with all the force of a steel vise. Tarzan jerked, and
Bill felt shooting pains travel up into his shoulder. He made ready to
swing with his left, but just at that moment Tarzan stepped back.

When he did he stumbled, let go of Bill's hand, and made a wild effort
to maintain his equilibrium. Then he fell heavily backward, landed in a
sitting position, and glared.

A second ago Lamb Chops had been sleeping in his corner. Now, though
nobody had seen him move there, he stood directly behind Tarzan. When
the latter stepped back he had fallen over Lamb Chops, who slithered
like an eel to get out of the way and avoid any hurt to himself. It was
almost as though the white hound had planned it that way, and Bill
exploded in laughter.

Tarzan picked himself up. The rage that seethed within him seemed ready
to burst through and destroy whatever it touched. But he made no move
for a moment.

Then he said, shortly, "I'll be seeing you," and left the store.




  CHAPTER FOUR

  _Hopeless Venture_


After Tarzan left, Bill went to Lamb Chops, knelt, and tickled the
hound's dangling ears. Lamb Chops closed his eyes, blew loudly through
his nose, and licked Bill's wrist. That much taken care of, he let
himself go limp on the floor and fell sound asleep.

Bill rose, and a faint grin that was both appreciation and amusement
curled the corners of his lips. It had taken Lamb Chops, whom he
wouldn't have had near him under ordinary circumstances, only a couple
of hours to win his heart completely. The white hound might not possess
the super-intelligence that Rifle Eye had ascribed to him, but twice
since Bill had left Rifle Eye's truck Lamb Chops had been in exactly the
right place and had done just the right thing.

"He's quite a dog," Bill said. "Where did he come from?"

"Nobody knows," Janice told him. "He's been here ever since I came.
Sometimes I have an idea that he was here to greet the lumbering
crews."

Bill flicked a hand toward the door. "The character who just went
out--Tarzan. He doesn't strike me as the type who would fall over a dog
and do nothing about it. Why didn't he try to get even with Lamb Chops?"

"He knows better. Just after I arrived in Elk Shanty last summer, a
fisherman who came with Mr. Prosser was fishing the Blue Hole on Game
Creek. That's one of Lamb Chops' favorite pools, too, and he was wading
around. This fisherman threw a stone at him and he wasn't found until
almost midnight."

"Where did they find him?"

"Up a beech tree, with about half his trousers dangling from Lamb Chops'
jaws. He'd been there almost ten hours and Lamb Chops was still waiting
for him to come down. He isn't a dog you can mistreat, and Joe knows
it."

"Then he does know something," Bill murmured.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing," Bill said. Tarzan had called Janice "Sugar," and she hadn't
voiced any objections. Bill decided that he would be just as well off if
he didn't say too much until he knew his way around.

"Are you hungry?" Janice asked.

"I could eat." Bill had had nothing since breakfast on the Limited's
diner.

"I'll fix something. Come on. I'll show you your room."

She led him through the door, and Bill discovered that a neat apartment
lay behind the partition. The furniture was old and the carpet
threadbare, but like all the rest of the place, the apartment was clean.

Janice showed him a room with a massive oaken bed, a dresser to match,
and a chair. Probably the furniture had come in with the lumber crews,
and Bill was surprised to discover a washroom just off his. Even though
only the cold faucet ran any water, evidently the early lumbermen were
not as crude as some people thought. They had all the conveniences that
were available.

Bill unpacked his bags, hung his extra clothes in a closet, and changed
his trousers and shoes. At the first opportunity, always providing he
stayed here, he would have to get some knockabout clothes of the type
favored in these mountains. Business suits were all right in the city
but they just weren't practical here.

Bill washed, filled a glass with tap water, and discovered that the
water was ice cold. Probably whoever brought the water into the store
had tapped a spring somewhere on the mountain, and melting snow
explained the water's temperature. Perhaps it was that cold the year
around.

Completely refreshed, he left his room to sniff at tempting odors that
drifted out of the kitchen. He caught glimpses of Janice, who was in the
kitchen, moving between a huge wood-burning stove and the table. She saw
him.

"Come on in," she called.

Bill entered, and fairly drooled. A freshly-baked pumpkin pie that must
have been prepared earlier in the day was cooling on the table. Beside
it was a heaping plate full of fluffy biscuits. Something simmered in a
pot. There was the fragrance of fresh coffee and a tantalizing odor of
French fried potatoes. One of the stove lids had been removed, and a
rack of lamb chops that Janice was broiling sputtered over the flame.

"It won't be more than a minute," she said.

She bustled about, set the table with two plates, and laid three lamb
chops on one plate and two on another. She cut a quarter of the pumpkin
pie and another smaller slice and put them beside the plates. Then she
dipped crisp potatoes out of their kettle, let them drain, and portioned
some out. Finally she served a vegetable that Bill guessed must be
spinach in two smaller dishes, and indicated the larger portion.

"This is your place." When Bill stood aside, waiting for her to be
seated, she smiled. "Go ahead. I'll be right with you."

Bill sat down, took a biscuit, and spread it with fresh country butter.
He was hungrier than he had thought he could be, and he did not speak
for a few minutes. No gourmet, he still knew good food when he ate it
and this had been prepared by a master cook. Bill tasted the green
vegetable and discovered that it was not spinach. It had a tang and a
taste that could come only from the freshness of a newly-awakened earth.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Dandelion greens. We don't get many fresh vegetables until they appear
in the spring. Soon we'll have all we can use, though. Our own gardens
will be ready."

Bill finished, sat back, sighed, and loosened his belt. "Your mother
certainly taught you how to cook!"

She said simply, "I never knew my mother. She and Dad died in the same
accident when I was two. I lived with my older brother and his wife
until I came here. Mrs. Burns, who lives in that house you can see close
by, keeps a wonderful watch over Grandfather and me. I call her Aunt
Dottie."

All this, Bill decided, explained her initiative and self-reliance. She
could do things for herself, because from a very early age there had
been no one to do them for her. It never occurred to Bill that the same
explanation might apply to his own early maturity and almost-adult
outlook.

There was a sound from the other room and Janice excused herself.
"That's Grandfather. I'll take him something to eat."

She poured milk into a bowl, put two biscuits on a plate, and carried
everything into one of the other rooms. A moment later she was back,
smiling, and some of the nervous tension that had been upon her was
gone.

"He's feeling better. He says that I could bring him baby food if he
were a baby. Now he wants something to eat."

She broiled two more lamb chops, buttered the rolls, added a small
portion of dandelion greens, filled a cup with coffee, and took that to
her grandfather.

Bill went back to the store, and saw a thin little man wearing a loose
jacket leaning impatiently on the counter. The little man wore a cap
with a peak so huge that his face was almost hidden. Bill took a deep
breath. If this was going to be his store, he might as well begin to
learn about it right now.

"Something I can do for you?" he asked the little man.

"Snoose," the other said.

"What?"

"Snoose, snoose."

Bill said caustically, "Snoose to me, too."

"Ah, don't you know nothin'?"

The little man walked around the counter, took a package of snuff from
that part of the shelves reserved for tobacco, and held it up for Bill's
inspection.

"This is snoose. Charge it."

The little man walked out and Bill leaned thoughtfully against the
counter. Evidently there were several factors that entered into running
a country store, and none of them had anything to do with the way
business was conducted in cities. Lamb Chops walked over to the door,
sat down in front of it, and barked. Bill let Lamb Chops out.

Fifteen minutes later Janice joined him.

"Have some snoose?" Bill invited.

She looked startled. "Heavens no!"

Bill grinned. "A little man in a leather jacket--he must have been all
of four feet five--just bought a package. He said to charge it."

"That's Ten-Trap Gallagher," she decided.

She went behind the counter, knelt down, took an account book from its
hiding place, and made an entry. She replaced the book and turned to
Bill.

"He's feeling better," she said cheerfully. "He wants to be sure to talk
with you."

"I'm glad."

Bill made no further comment. He had sensed an undercurrent of worry and
uncertainty in the girl, and he thought that it was born of his arrival.
If what he suspected was true, Janice had been sent here to take care of
Gosmer Wisman, as well as to work for him. Until now they had been
secure, but news of his uncle's death and new ownership of the store
could prove disconcerting.

Still, how could he tell her anything definite when he himself was not
sure as to what he wanted to do? If he lost the store, he'd be
penniless, too. The idea of continuing to pay Mr. Wisman three hundred
dollars a month was impossible.

Twilight came, and a lonely whip-poor-will piped its evening song.
Darkness trod softly on the heels of twilight, and Janice lighted a
gasoline lantern. A couple of customers drifted in, were served, and
their purchases were entered in the account book. Lamb Chops barked to
get back in. Bill yawned.

"Would you like to turn in?" Janice asked.

"Sounds like a marvelous idea."

"Go ahead, then. I don't think anyone else will come tonight, but if
they do and need anything, they'll pound on the door."

Bill went to bed, slipped between clean white sheets, pulled the
blankets up to his chin, and lay quietly to do some serious thinking. A
tang of frost was in the air, cold tumbled in a soft stream over his
exposed face, and it was no time for serious thinking. Within two
minutes he was fast asleep.

He wakened to warm sunlight pouring through the window and sat up
guiltily. He had gone to bed at half past nine and it was now half past
seven; not in years had he slept so long. But neither, for as long as he
could remember, had he felt quite so good. He washed, dressed, and went
into the kitchen. The smell of fresh coffee tickled his nostrils and
Janice smiled at him.

"Good morning."

"Good morning. Whee! I sure pounded my ear!"

"You were tired."

She poured a cup of coffee for him and one for herself, fried ham and
eggs, and they ate. Bill thought of the big dinner he'd eaten last
night. In Tenngale or New York, he had seldom been this hungry;
apparently mountain air did do something to people's appetites.

"Grandfather won't be up for a while yet," Janice said. "He sleeps a
great deal lately."

"Is he ill, too?" Bill asked.

"He has some trouble."

"Serious?"

"He's very old, Bill. Doctor Jackson--we have to call him in from
Blissville--said that there really isn't too much that can be done for
him."

"Maybe he'll live for years yet."

"I hope so. Bill, what are you going to do with the store?"

He answered gently, "I haven't decided."

She did not question him any further, but when he excused himself and
started into the store he felt her eyes on his back. Bill frowned. The
Wismans hadn't been able to make the Elk Shanty store show a profit,
even though Gosmer Wisman had been subsidized with three hundred dollars
a month. How could he possibly hope to do it? How could he even stay in
business?

Mornings, especially week-day mornings, are not a country store's busy
time. Bill inspected the counters, discovered some bins that he had not
seen before, and he found a vast quantity of garden seeds beneath the
counter. He tried to make a mental tally of just how much they would
plant, but he knew little about gardening. At a guess, there were enough
seeds to plant every garden in Elk Shanty for the next ten years. Why
should Gosmer Wisman, or anyone else, invest so heavily in seeds when
the stock of almost everything else was so pitifully inadequate? There
was little sense in the whole thing.

Lamb Chops walked to the cooler, sat down, barked, and Bill went in to
see Janice.

"Lamb Chops seems to be starving again. What'll I give him?"

"There's some stew in the cooler. He can have that."

Bill went outside, picked up a dish he had noticed in front of the
store, and opened the cooler. He whistled softly. The cooler--cooled
with ice--was heavily stocked with meat, butter, and eggs. Maybe the
Wismans hadn't much money, but certainly there was no danger of their
starving. Bill found the mulligan, transferred it to the dish, put it on
the floor, and Lamb Chops began to eat.

A second later a whimper of pain escaped him, and Bill glanced in his
direction. Lamb Chops was standing away from the dish, looking at it,
and for the first time he seemed puzzled. He started to eat again and a
second time he whimpered. Janice came into the store and laughed.

"I should have told you," she said. "There's a special technique for
dish-feeding Lamb Chops."

She went back into the apartment, returned with a clothes pin, gently
laid Lamb Chops' big ears over his head, and pinned them there.

"His ears are so long that they fall into the dish, too, and he bites
them when he eats," she explained.

Lamb Chops exercised his vacuum-cleaner technique and in a second or two
the dish was clean. Janice went back into the kitchen.

The door opened and a man who was certainly not a native of Elk Shanty
came in.

He was elderly, but he had kept himself in trim. About Bill's size, he
had none of the paunch which is so often the mark of older men. His face
was lined, but it had an almost youthful alertness. A deep intelligence
lay behind his clear gray eyes, and his voice was that of a cultured
person.

"Good morning."

"Good morning," Bill greeted him.

"Where's my friend Jan?"

"In the kitchen. Is there something I can do for you?"

The man's gray eyes seemed to penetrate Bill's head and read his
thoughts.

"Do you work here, too?"

"It seems," Bill was half-embarrassed, "that I am the new owner."

"Oh, no! Do you mean you let Al Rawls unload this white elephant on
you?"

"My Uncle Alfred is dead."

"I'm terribly sorry." And for the second time Bill saw genuine regret in
a person who, as far as he was concerned, was a total stranger.
Apparently his uncle had more than one friend whom he had never shared
with anyone else. The stranger continued, "When did he die?"

"Two weeks ago. It was a heart attack."

The man said, "He knew it would come some day. I'm John Prosser. Al and
I started coming here together five years ago."

Bill's interest quickened and he introduced himself. Maybe John Prosser
knew the answers to a lot of questions that Bill would like to ask. He
said, "You've known my uncle for five years?"

"That's right. For five summers your uncle, myself, Gosmer Wisman, Axel
Helgeson, Ten-Trap Gallagher, B. B. Jones, Bill Gowen, and other
notables, have been settling world affairs in this store."

"May I join the charmed circle?" Bill asked.

"Are you going to keep the place?"

"Do you think I should?"

"As a practical businessman, I'd say you'd come out far ahead if you
gave it, lock, stock, and barrel, to Gosmer and Jan. As a friend of your
uncle and of the Wismans, it would be nice, if you can afford it, to
continue the present arrangement."

"And just what is that?"

"Do you mean you don't know?"

"It seems to me that I'm the only one who doesn't know."

John Prosser was thoughtful. "What's bothering you, Son?"

"In the first place, what brought my uncle here?"

The older man asked, "Just how well did you know him?"

Bill dimly remembered his governess, and later on his tutors. There had
been boarding school, prep school, college, and summer vacations spent
working or traveling. He had not been home a great deal and he said
honestly, "Not very well."

"Few people did. Your uncle came here because he's human, and the human
being who can bear forever the world he creates for himself has yet to
be born. It is called, I believe, 'getting away from it all.' Your uncle
needed a refuge, a haven where he could think different thoughts. All of
us need such a place at some time or other. Some of us would find it in
the heart of New York, some in the heart of Elk Shanty."

The explanation was reasonable. But other aspects of the whole affair
were murky as a storm-ridden sky. Bill asked, "Why did my uncle buy this
store and pay Gosmer Wisman to manage it for him?"

The older man said, "I'll tell you because I think you have a right to
know. Five years ago this summer your uncle rode the train to
Blissville. He did not know where he was going; Blissville simply
happened to be rail's end. Your uncle asked the Blissville taxi driver
if he knew of any place where he could find peace and quiet. The driver
brought him here, collected his fare, and went back. In front of Gosmer
Wisman's house, your uncle suffered his first heart attack. Gosmer
certainly had no reason to suppose that he was a wealthy man, or
anything except an unfortunate man. But he took him in, gave him a
comfortable bed, called the doctor from Blissville, and paid him out of
his own pocket. Does that tell you anything?"

"A lot."

"I'll tell you the rest. Your uncle, having two eyes, saw for himself
how things were with Gosmer. He was very old even then, and he had saved
almost nothing. But he had his pride and he'll have it to the day he
dies. To offer him an outright grant of money would have been to insult
him. So your uncle thought of the store. He would buy it and pay Gosmer
to manage it. That way nobody would lose face and Gosmer would have no
worries. Even then Gosmer was suspicious. But," John Prosser shrugged,
"you've met him?"

"Yes."

"He started going right after he got the store. It's senility, old age,
and nothing else. He'd be in an old people's home now if Jan hadn't come
to take care of him."

"How do you know so much about it?" Bill asked.

"Your uncle and I were close friends. He confided in me when he would
confide in no one else. The rest of Elk Shanty thinks that Gosmer
suddenly inherited a vast fortune."

"Jan knows where the money came from."

"She doesn't know the whole story and she wouldn't tell."

"She told me."

"That's because she's honest. Look, Son, why don't you let things ride
just as they are?"

Bill said bluntly, "Mr. Prosser, when my uncle died there was just
enough money to bury him and a little bit over. Aside from that, there
is the store."

"No!"

"Yes."

"What are you going to do?"

"I haven't decided."

John Prosser said slowly, "Considering the circumstances, I cannot
advise you. If the going gets too rough, I may be able to help a bit.
Jan knows where my cabin is."

"Thanks. I won't forget."

Janice came into the store and cried, "Mr. Prosser!"

"Jan!" the older man exclaimed. She ran to him. He embraced her and
kissed her cheek. "How these dim old eyes need to look at you!"

"How was your trip?" she asked excitedly.

"I didn't see a girl in Paris as pretty as you. And I've brought you a
present."

He felt in his pocket, brought out a small parcel, and handed it to her.
She opened it and bubbled her delight; it was a vial of French perfume.
Removing the stopper, she smelled it.

"_Um-m!_ Oh heavens! I forgot my coffee!"

She raced back into the kitchen and John Prosser turned to Bill. "I've
been in Europe, and came straight here after two days in Boston. That's
why I hadn't heard of your uncle's death."

"I see."

Janice came back and talked eagerly to John Prosser. Once in a while she
excused herself to wait on a customer and Bill noticed that, out of six,
only one paid cash. The rest were all entered in Janice's book. The
eighth customer, ordering a bag of flour, left a fat dressed chicken in
exchange and Janice put the fowl in the ice box. John Prosser left, and
Bill was surprised when Janice called him to lunch. The afternoon went
as swiftly.

Gosmer joined them at dinner, and he talked at length of the old days in
Elk Shanty. He spoke of wild log drives down Elk Shanty Creek, and when
Bill questioned him, because the creek seemed hardly big enough to float
a log, Gosmer explained that they built a series of wood and earth
dams. The logs were floated in behind them. The dam was knocked or
blasted out, and the logs were gone in a rush of water. Gosmer talked of
hardy men, bunk houses, battles, an endless supply of timber and the
oxen that had helped haul it.

Bill listened, fascinated, while Gosmer told of all the things that had
taken place when his world was young. But that was the only world in
which Gosmer really lived any more, and soon after dinner the old man
went back to his bed. Bill helped with the dishes and stared at the
gathering darkness. He turned suddenly to Janice.

"Does the store have a complete set of accounts?"

"They're complete since I've been here."

"Did your grandfather keep any at all?"

"Some, but they're sketchy."

"Can we have a look at them?"

"Certainly."

When they went into the store, Lamb Chops, who had managed to do away
with two more huge meals during the day, asked to go out. Bill let him
go, and the hound wandered away to attend to that mysterious business
which humans never know about but which is vastly important to dogs.
Janice had drawn two wooden chairs up to the counter and laid four
closed cigar boxes and two account books where they could easily be
reached.

"They're in order," she said. "The cigar boxes are Grandfather's and the
books are mine."

Bill opened the first cigar box and read a slip, "owed from D. Matou,
four dollars and eight cents." The slip had no date and it did not say
what D. Matou, whoever he was, had purchased. The next paper was "owed
from F. Gowen, six dollars and nineteen cents." That slip was equally
lacking in detail. Bill read eight before he found, "owed from A.
Flanagan, two dollars," and the notation, "paid."

The slips were monotonously the same. It seemed that everybody in Elk
Shanty, and almost everybody who had ever been in Elk Shanty, owed the
store money. There were numerous entries that denoted a trade; Gosmer
had given somebody ten pounds of sugar, fifty pounds of flour, steel
traps, ammunition, or something else, for meat, eggs, fruit, furs, or
some other local product.

Patiently Bill went through the cigar boxes and turned to Janice's
books. They were much more complete. The date, the article bought, who
bought it, and the price, were all carefully noted. But it was the same
story. There were comparatively few cash sales. Bill closed the books
and turned to Janice.

"How much do you think the store is owed?"

"More than eight thousand dollars. I myself went over the accounts a
month ago."

"Can we collect it?"

"I doubt if everyone in Elk Shanty together could produce half that
much," she answered.

Bill said, more to himself than to her, "And the inventory consists of
seeds!"

"Grandfather bought them," she said. "He did it to help Elk Shanty. He
thought that if the people here had really good seed, they could grow
better gardens."

"Why did he buy so much?"

She stiffened. "That should be plain."

Bill, knowing that she referred to Gosmer's condition, said, "I'm sorry
I asked that. Do you sell any seed at all?"

"Very little. Nobody around here buys anything if they can grow or make
it. They always plant enough extra so that they can have their own seeds
from year to year."

"Seems to be an all-around flop, doesn't it?"

Her anger flared. "I resent that! Grandfather's done the best he could.
He isn't a criminal because he thinks in terms of human beings instead
of money, either! When you decide what you're going to do with the
store, please be kind enough to let me know! After all, I do have a few
plans of my own!"

She flounced out of the store and back to her own room. The door slammed
so hard it rocked the wooden partition, and for a moment Bill stared at
it. Then he got slowly from his chair.

The store, Janice had said, was owed well over eight thousand dollars.
Certainly his attorneys could collect some of that. Even if they had to
take forty cents on the dollar, it would be better than this. Bill
walked out the front door into a night so filled with spring that it
seemed ready to explode.

Stars sprinkled the sky, and the near-by stream sang a happy song. The
haunting cry of an owl floated across the valley and Bill drank deeply
of the night air. He walked away from the store.

The shadow that followed him moved so stealthily that, until the last
split second, Bill did not even know it was there. When he knew, and
turned, it was too late. The thing remained just a shadow. But a clap of
thunder burst in Bill's head and as he fell he thought he heard a
mocking voice say, "Go away, city boy! We don't need you in Elk
Shanty!"




  CHAPTER FIVE

  _The Beginning_


Bill was back in Tenngale, and it seemed hours ago that the gong had
signaled the beginning of his fifth round with Alan Chesterton. Or was
it the sixth? He could not be quite sure because his head was a series
of flashing lights and explosions. There was no pain but only a sort of
dullness, as though his body were somehow a thing that had no sense or
being. The round ended and he was still on his feet.

He turned, and by a great force of will he managed to walk without
staggering. Bill went to his corner, sat down, and felt the blessed
relief offered by a damp towel in Johnny Markson's expert hands. It was
wonderfully soothing, and he knew that all he wanted to do was sit there
and go to sleep. But he must not sleep. There was a fight to be
finished.

Bill struggled back to consciousness and as soon as he did the flashing
lights became shooting pains and he felt sick in the pit of his stomach.
He lay quietly while the red mists before his eyes gave way to the
darkness of a spring night. His head clearer, he became slowly aware
that it was not Johnny Markson's towel but Lamb Chops' tongue on his
face.

Ghostly-white in the blackness, the big hound sat beside him with his
cold nose inches from Bill's cheek. When Bill moved, Lamb Chops voiced a
happy little whine, rose, and for almost the first time Bill saw his
tail wag. Lamb Chops raced away. Bracing himself with stiff arms, Bill
fought to a sitting position.

His head throbbed and the sickness was almost overwhelming. Bill moved
his jaws and tasted a thick tongue. Then he bent forward to rest his
head on his knees and battled an urge to sleep again. He must get up.

Two minutes later Lamb Chops came back with something in his mouth. He
dropped it beside Bill and the boy thrust an exploring hand out.
Instantly he drew it back, for his outstretched fingers had touched a
wriggling object that was clammy and cold. He got a grip on himself,
raised his head, and bit his lower lip hard to counteract pain and
nausea.

The second time he thrust his hand forth he closed it about the object
Lamb Chops had brought and discovered that it was a live sucker--a
fish--that Lamb Chops had offered as a comforting present to a friend in
trouble. The gaunt hound had not been near to help defend him, but he
was laying a great treasure at Bill's feet. There was no telling how and
where he had caught the fish.

Still tinged with a hint of frost, cold air brushed Bill's face lightly.
It was like an application of ice water. Then a stronger gust blew out
of the north and, though it still throbbed, Bill's head cleared
completely. The next thing he knew was a mighty rush of anger.

He had not hurt anyone, but obviously there was someone in Elk Shanty
who resented his presence so strongly that he, or they, would go to any
lengths to drive him out again. Bill rose shakily to his feet and Lamb
Chops looked up at him with deep concern. Bill clenched both his fists.

Maybe the store was a hopeless venture. Perhaps staying here and trying
to run it would be like beating his head against a stone wall. But he
had done that before. Certainly he had done it when he went back into
the ring with Alan Chesterton; everybody except Bill had known that he
couldn't possibly win and they were right. Now Bill knew only that, at
last, he saw a clear and certain course of action and he was incapable
of anything except following through.

Lamb Chops put his nose to the ground and snuffled so heavily that the
sound could be heard above the rushing wind. For a moment Bill felt a
flaring resentment. If Lamb Chops were all Rifle Eye Smith and others
thought him, he would now take the trail and, straight as a homing bee,
lead Bill to the man who had slugged him. Then he knew the silliness of
such a notion and stooped to pet the big hound. Dogs acted that way in
melodramatic story books. They didn't in real life, and it was absurd
to expect any such miracle.

Bill's legs were stronger now and the feeling of nausea had departed.
Lamb Chops stayed close behind him as he went into the store, and as
soon as they were in, the white hound went to his own corner. But not
for a moment or two did he lie down. He stood erect, watching Bill with
sad eyes and waiting to see what he intended to do.

"It's all right, Lamb Chops."

Bill spoke soothingly, and as soon as he did Lamb Chops lay down. He did
not go to sleep immediately, but stretched his great head on his front
paws while his ears curled on the floor. He watched every move as Bill
locked the door, took the gasoline lantern from its hook, and went back
to his own room. Only then did Lamb Chops sleep.

Bill walked softly, treading on the balls of his feet so as not to
disturb Janice and Gosmer Wisman. But flaring anger gripped him so
tightly that his teeth were clenched and his muscles were rigid. He went
to his own room, struck a match, and lighted the oil lamp that stood on
the dresser. He took the gasoline lantern into the washroom and stared
at his own reflection in the mirror.

His face was pale, and so tense and taut that every muscle stood out
like a stretched cord. The collar of his shirt was splattered with
blood, and when Bill put a hand to the back of his head, his fingers
came away bloody. His eyes were blazing, and he was tempted to go back
out into the night and do whatever he could to track down and fight
whoever had struck him.

Bill gained some measure of control and with it a return of common
sense. As yet he knew very little about Elk Shanty, and who and what the
place contained. To go out and look for the person who had crept up and
hit him would be easy, but finding the right person would be impossible.
He must, for the time being, wait and let events take their course.

Of one thing Bill was sure; sooner or later he would find out who had
slugged him, and when he did there would be a real battle.

He let the cold water flow until it had reached its coldest, soaked a
wash cloth in it, and applied it to the back of his head. It was
soothing and it took away some of his headache. Bill rinsed the bloody
cloth, soaked it again, and kept washing his head until no more blood
was evident. He held a cold compress on the wound until his own body
heat had warmed it, then wrung out the cloth and reapplied the compress.
He took off his shirt and tossed it on the bed. Grimly he thought that
if he ruined any more clothes, he would need a complete new wardrobe.

When he was finished he felt better. His headache had subsided to a few
throbbing pains. His flaring anger had become a steadily-burning flame
that nothing could extinguish. It might, as John Prosser had said, be
impossible to make the Elk Shanty store show any profit. But Bill was
very sure of one thing. He intended to stay in Elk Shanty and find out
for himself. Nobody was going to run him out.

Forgotten was all thought of sleep or rest. Bill put on a clean shirt
and opened the window wide so that the full freshness of the night air
spilled like a cold stream into his room. He paced restlessly back and
forth, trying to evolve some feasible working plan. But after an hour
all he had thought of was that, no matter what else happened, he
intended to stay in Elk Shanty and run the store.

Carrying the gasoline lantern, Bill walked softly back into the store
and Lamb Chops raised a sleepy head to look at him. He went to a shelf
where he remembered seeing some large rectangles of white cardboard, and
he took two of them out. About thirty inches long by twenty wide, one
side of the cardboard proclaimed in large black letters that whoever did
not avail themselves of the manifold benefits inherent in Jackerson's
Stomach Balm, which contained no harmful acids, would have only
themselves to blame. But the other side was blank.

Bill went to a shelf where he had seen a few small cans of paint. He
took a can of black paint, one of three small brushes that were also on
the shelf, and went back to his room.

He had only a vague idea of how a store should be run, but just looking
at this one had given him more than a faint notion of how one should
_not_ be managed. Some of the stock on the shelves must have been there
for years, and if anybody wanted to buy it, it would have been bought
long ago.

Bill laid the square of cardboard, blank side up, on his dresser and
printed carefully: COMPLETE CLEARANCE! EVERYTHING MARKED DOWN 50% AND
EVERYTHING GOING! Holding the sign by its edges so he wouldn't smear the
paint, he tilted it against the wall, stepped back, and looked at it. It
was not a professional job, but it was good enough and it conveyed the
idea he wanted to put across.

He laid the first sign aside and worked laboriously over a second: IF
WHOEVER BLACKJACKED ME LAST NIGHT WILL MAKE HIMSELF KNOWN, I'LL BE GLAD
TO KNOCK HIS EARS OFF. He looked critically at the second sign, then
tore it in four parts and threw it into the waste basket.

This was supposed to be a store, not a place for settling grudge fights.
Besides, it was hardly likely that anyone who would strike from behind,
and in the darkness, would be lured into betraying himself because a
sign invited him to do it. The next time he struck, and Bill thought
there would be a next time, he would again be in ambush and probably
sheltered by darkness. Bill would just have to watch himself.

He glanced at his watch, saw that it was twenty minutes before two, and
went to bed. As soon as the back of his head touched the pillow, he
winced and turned over on his side. There he lay, restlessly wooing
sleep that scorned him. The dim light of early dawn was flirting with
his window when he finally dozed off.

Two hours later he awakened, washed, dressed, and left his room to see
Janice in the kitchen. Last night's hot words had burned away the smile
with which she had been greeting him and she said only, "Breakfast will
be ready in a few minutes."

"Thanks."

Bill stood silently by the doorway. He waited for her to speak, and when
she did not he said, "You asked me to tell you when I have any definite
plans. Well, I have some."

"Yes?"

"Just a minute."

Bill returned to his room and brought his sign into the kitchen. He held
it so she could read it, and there was a question in her eyes.

"You're going to sell everything?"

"For cash," Bill said grimly.

"Then," she hesitated, "you're going to close the store?"

"I am not! I am going to start it out fresh with a complete new stock
from Cannasport! If you'll stay on, at your present wages, I'll be glad
to have you. I can't be here all the time."

She said, "I really think I'm worth twice as much money."

"But--"

Her eyes were dancing and the smile had come back to her face. Gone was
her air of nervous tension. Bill had a curious feeling that it was not
herself she had worried about, but her grandfather. Elk Shanty had been
his home for only he knew how many years, and, like an old tree, to
uproot him now might prove disastrous. Bill grinned.

"I'll raise you a dollar a year," he offered.

"Good! In fifty more years I'll be earning seventy dollars a week!"

"Oh, no. I said a dollar a year. In fifty years you'll be paid just what
you're getting now, plus fifty dollars."

"There is a Santa Claus!"

They ate, and Bill went into the store to put his sign in the window. A
youngster, idling past, flattened his nose against the outside of the
glass and skipped away.

Janice came into the store. The smile was gone from her face and fear
lingered in her eyes. She looked squarely at Bill.

"Bill, what happened?"

"Nothing yet. Some kid read the sign and ran away. I suppose he has some
important fishing to do."

"You know what I mean," she challenged.

"No, I don't."

"I went in to make your bed and found the pillow all bloody!"

Bill said lamely, "I must have cut myself."

"Tell me the truth. What happened?"

"Nothing much." He looked out the window, but there was about her a
force that could not be denied. Bill knew that she intended to find out
what had happened, and he decided that she would find out. He said, "All
right. It was somebody's idea of a joke. I stepped out last night to
get a breath of fresh air and instead I got slugged."

"Who did it?" she gasped.

"I wish I knew."

"You aren't safe here!"

"Yes, I am. But he won't be as soon as I find out who he is."

"Aren't you going to do something?"

"You bet! As soon as I find the right party!"

"That's the Sheriff's job."

Bill said, "This kind of fight's a private affair."

"Be reasonable!"

"I am reasonable."

The youngster who had plastered his nose against the window came back
into the store, and opened a grimy fist to reveal three pennies reposing
in it. He went to the candy case and pointed at the jawbreakers.

"Some of them," he said. "They used to be two for a penny but now they
ought to be four for a penny. My pop said so."

Janice looked at Bill. He nodded. "Go ahead."

She put a dozen of the hard round candies in a paper bag and the
youngster scooted away. Janice placed the three cents in a cigar box
that served as a cash depository and recorded the transaction while Bill
made a mental note. When and if he could afford it, he must buy a proper
cash register. This method of handling money was primitive and
time-consuming.

The next customer to enter the store, two minutes after the youngster
left, was Ten-Trap Gallagher. The huge peak of his cap extended like a
porch roof over his forehead and shaded his eyes. Swaggering like a
bantam rooster, he stalked up to Janice and flicked a calloused thumb
toward the window.

"That mean what it says, Jan?"

Bill stood aside. Apparently the news had yet to make the rounds that he
owned the Elk Shanty store, and Elk Shantyites were used to being served
by Janice. She looked over Ten-Trap's head at Bill, and Bill nodded
again.

"Ten traps I needs an' ten I sets," the little man said. "But for half
price I will buy some more."

Bill knew a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. His first move
had been a blunder. Traps were durable. Those hanging on the wall would
last indefinitely, and not in years had the basic design of a steel trap
been changed. He might better have kept the traps and sold them for full
price. But the die was cast.

"How many do you want?" Janice asked.

"All of 'em," Ten-Trap announced. "They ain't costin' me a cent. I can
sell a little better'n half to Joey Kanite for as much as you're
askin'."

Janice counted the traps and Ten-Trap slung the heavy load over his
shoulder. He was a small man, but he carried the traps with little more
effort than most men would have used on five pounds of sugar. Ten-Trap
strutted up to the counter.

"Charge it," he said grandly.

Bill tried to sound pleasant. "I'm sorry, but in a sale like this we
cannot charge anything. It's strictly cash."

Ten-Trap said bluntly, "Keep your beak out of my corn, Bub."

Janice saved the situation. "Mr. Rawls is the new owner of the store,
Ten-Trap."

"Huh!" the little man snorted. "An' he don't even know what snoose is!
Oh well--"

He dug deeply into his pocket, produced a homemade wallet, unfolded it,
and from the inside pocket he took a frayed ten-dollar bill. Janice
searched in the cigar box.

"I'm afraid I haven't that much change."

"I already told you to charge it," Ten-Trap said.

Bill replied grimly, "No charges."

"Ha!" Ten-Trap snorted. "Think you're goin' to put somethin' over an'
sell them traps to somebody else, huh? I'll fix you! I'll spend the
whole ten dollars! I need snoose."

He bought eight packages of snoose, a bag of flour, ten pounds of sugar,
ten of beans, some small knickknacks, and when his change would have
come to two cents, Ten-Trap asked for and received eight jawbreakers.
Leering at Bill, somehow he managed to store everything in his pockets
or carry it in his hands and he walked out of the store as jauntily as
he had entered it.

What mysterious grapevine spread the news, Bill didn't know, but a
steady stream of customers was entering the store now. Bill recognized
Fanny Gowen, who gathered feathers for fishing flies; and as she rushed
past him on some errand, Janice pointed out Asa Dorr, the maker of
fishing rods. He was roughly-dressed and unshaven, but his eyes were
those of a dreamer, and his long, supple fingers might have graced the
hands of an artist.

Bill stood almost stupidly aside, with little idea of what to do or how
to go about doing it. Deciding to rid the store completely of old stock,
he had marked everything down fifty per cent. But he hadn't known the
original price of anything and he didn't know it now. Therefore the
major portion of the work was up to Janice.

Bill put all the one-dollar bills in his wallet in the cigar box, and
remembering that there were several dollars in change in his room, he
went to get it. Janice had to have change. When he returned, John
Prosser stood quietly to one side and Gosmer was helping Janice.

The old man sparkled like a drop of dew in the morning sunshine. At
last, at long last, Gosmer's sleeping world had reawakened. He had seen
this bustling activity in the days when all was young here and
lumberjacks had swarmed out of the woods with money in their pockets and
an urge to spend it in their hearts. In less than an hour, Gosmer had
gone back fifty years.

Bill watched with sinking heart while Gosmer Wisman traded yards of red
cloth to a middle-aged woman who laid a country-cured ham on the
counter. The cloth was so outdated and so outlandish that nobody except
an Elk Shantyite would have considered buying it, and it was one of the
many articles that Bill wanted to clear from the shelves. But he had
also hoped to realize as much money as possible from this sale. The
cooler was already stocked with as much food as they could possibly use
if each of them ate six big meals a day.

Still--Bill looked again at Gosmer Wisman's delighted face and knew that
he lacked the heart to stop him. There was not too much pleasure left in
the old man's life. Bill walked over to stand beside John Prosser.

"Just like Christmas on Fifth Avenue." The other grinned. "Did you
decide to hang on?"

"As long as I can." Bill's worried eyes remained on the old gentleman.
"Will you do me a favor?"

"Certainly."

"Will you get Gosmer Wisman out of here without--without hurting his
feelings?"

"Why?"

"He's trading and--Darn it! I need every last cent I can lay my hands on
for new stock!"

"If you're worried about that ham," John Prosser said, "I'll buy it at
the going price in Blissville."

"I wouldn't want to impose on you."

"It would be no imposition," the other assured him. "That's Ellery
Ganson's wife, and Ellery knows how to cure a ham so it's out of this
world. It has to be the right time of the moon, and he must use hickory
chips that he himself seasons for the smoking. You don't get ham like
that anywhere at all except Ellery's smokehouse."

"You can have it," Bill said.

John Prosser smiled. "Do you want to know something, Bill?"

"Sure."

"Some day you may be a successful merchant, but you'll never be a
hard-hearted one. Maybe I can move Gosmer for you."

John Prosser walked unobtrusively toward the elderly man, but another
couple whom Bill did not know had come in. The man, a hill farmer, bore
a crate of eggs on his shoulder and his wife searched the counters and
shelves with darting eyes. They engaged Gosmer in conversation, and Bill
groaned. A whole crate of twelve dozen eggs were far too many for three
people. Still, Gosmer seemed intent on trading again.

Within an hour the jawbreakers were sold, most of them to Elk Shanty's
younger set who came in with pennies in their hands. The tobacco was
gone fifteen minutes later, and Bill berated himself. He might have kept
the tobacco stock, and staples like sugar and flour, and sold them at
full price. Certainly the store would lose money on this sale. But that,
Bill supposed, was one of the ways by which a storekeeper learns.

Bill cast a grim eye on the vegetable seeds. Even though they were
marked down, comparatively few had been sold. Bill ducked into the back
room and made a new sign: SEEDS, FOUR PACKS FOR THE PRICE OF ONE.
Immediately men and women started crowding around the racks and
carrying seeds to the counter. As soon as a rack was depleted, Bill
refilled it from Gosmer Wisman's hoard.

The latter and John Prosser had disappeared, and Bill felt grateful. He
was desperately in need of as much money as he could raise. If they took
any more in trade, they would also have to build a new cooler to hold
it. John Prosser came out of the back room and walked to Bill's side.

"How goes it, Merchant Prince?" he asked.

"Looks as though it'll be a sell-out."

"It will be," the other stated. "People will buy anything if they think
they're getting a real bargain. If you had a cage full of giraffes, and
offered them cheaply enough, every family in Elk Shanty would buy one.
By the way, you won't have to worry any more about Gosmer. He's gone to
sleep."

"Thanks."

"Don't forget about my ham."

"Take it with you?"

"Sure."

John Prosser walked to the counter, waited until Janice had a free
moment, and spoke to her. She weighed the ham on the store's old scale.
John Prosser paid her and left.

By noon the shelves and counters were empty, except for a few battered
odds and ends, and the customers had left. Starry-eyed, Janice leaned on
the counter.

"My, that was fun!" she breathed.

"It was?"

"Goodness yes! I've dreamed of the time when the store would be this
busy, even if we did sell everything for half price!"

"How much money did we take in?"

Janice opened the cigar box, counted the day's receipts, and re-counted.

"A hundred and sixty-five dollars and fifty-three cents."

"Give me a hundred," Bill requested. "And will you make a new sign? Just
have it say OPEN FOR BUSINESS, and we'll put it in the window tomorrow
morning."

"But--"

"The stock will be here," Bill promised. "I'm going to get it right
now."

"How about your lunch?"

"I haven't time."

Bill went to his room, opened his traveling bag, took a small packet
out, and put it in his pocket. Janice awaited him with a filled sack.

"This is lunch to take along," she said. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going up to see Rifle Eye Smith," Bill answered.




  CHAPTER SIX

  _Open for Business_


Lamb Chops paced steadily beside Bill as he walked swiftly up the road
toward Rifle Eye's place. Bill opened the sack and munched one of the
sandwiches Janice had prepared for him. He threw a crust to Lamb Chops.
Without breaking stride, and without seeming even to look around, the
gaunt hound snapped the crust in midair and inhaled. The crust was
swallowed.

Bill ate half of another sandwich, gave half to Lamb Chops, and nibbled
on a handful of cookies that were also in the sack. Lamb Chops did not
look around and there was about him none of that vast anticipation which
most dogs exhibit when they want something more to eat. The big dog
would take what was offered to him, but he wouldn't beg. Bill gave him
the last cookie and threw the sack away.

He was at the rutted trail leading into Rifle Eye's place when he
remembered something that he should have thought of before leaving Elk
Shanty. Cannasport was a good-sized city and certainly there would be
wholesale houses, but Bill had forgotten to ask Janice where they
usually dealt. He was almost tempted to go back and find out, but time
was going fast and he wanted to be in Cannasport as soon as possible.
Maybe Rifle Eye would know of a reliable place. If he didn't, Bill would
look in the telephone directory after he got to Cannasport.

He made a mental tally of the goods he wanted and he had an uneasy
feeling that the money in his pocket would not be nearly enough to pay
for everything. Perhaps he could get the rest on credit. If not, he had
one final resource. He was not greatly worried about the first load of
goods for his store. After that--

Bill set his jaw. If things worked out as he hoped they would, he would
pay for the next consignment after he sold the first. If things did not
work out--Bill looked down at Lamb Chops and stooped to touch the
hound's head. Now was not the time to indulge in forebodings of
disaster.

He came upon Rifle Eye's house and stopped short.

Built of logs, the place was on a grassy little knoll. All about was
sturdy cutover, but great white oaks evidently spared by the timber
crews grew on the knoll and shaded the house. The oaks must have been at
least a hundred years old and perhaps older. There was no dead wood on
any of them and all were laden with tightly-curled leaflets. At one
side, almost hidden by cutover, was a shed to which the wheel tracks
pointed, and Bill supposed that Rifle Eye kept his truck there. On the
other side, in the shade of the trees, were three kennels, with a
long-eared black and tan hound chained to each. The hounds looked
solemnly at Bill, but they made no outcry.

Bill felt an inner glow. This was a woodsman's home, and nobody except a
man of the woods could possibly live here. It was very clean, with no
litter lying about. Bill looked again at the three hounds, and they
returned his gaze. The ears of all were shredded, and a leathery scar
made a ragged pattern across the ribs of the biggest hound. Obviously
these were fighting dogs, used to hunt animals that fought back.

Lamb Chops ignored the other hounds and stayed near Bill. Three feet
from the door he sat down and waited, and Bill caught a flicker of
motion as someone ducked away from the window. A second later the door
opened and, rifle in hand, Rifle Eye appeared.

"Howdy, Bill!" he said.

"Hi, Rifle Eye!" Bill eyed the rifle. "Do you ever go anywhere at all
without that?"

Rifle Eye's warm smile flashed. "Don't hardly feel dressed without her.
Yep, leavin' her behind makes me feel downright clothesless."

Bill thought whimsically that in most of the stories he had read
woodsmen named their rifles Old Betsy, Meat-in-the-Pot, or something
similar. Rifle Eye had not yet referred to his in any such way, and
somehow that was a relief.

Bill said, "I've come to see if I can hire your truck to go down to
Cannasport and bring back a load of goods?"

"A man can allus use a dollar."

"How much will the truck carry?"

"As much as we can put on her. How soon do you want to be in
Cannasport?"

"As soon as possible."

"Want to start now?"

"Suits me."

"All right."

Rifle Eye closed the door without bothering to lock it, and Bill and
Lamb Chops followed him down to the shed. There were no doors on the
shed, and Bill felt a momentary misgiving as he looked again at the
truck. Anything to ride in would have looked good the day he was hiking
from Blissville to Elk Shanty, but even then the truck had seemed
incapable of running ten miles. Now Bill wondered if they could make it
go even as far as the Tower Hill Road. But he knew of no other truck,
and he had to have stock.

Tenderly, Rifle Eye laid his rifle on the seat, loosened the wire that
held the hood on, lifted the hood, and there was a snapping noise as he
tinkered with the engine. He climbed in, tried the starter, and the
engine groaned. Again he manipulated something under the hood, and the
next time he tried the starter there was a blasting report, a spurt of
smoke shot out the rear end, and the truck was running. Rifle Eye
fastened the hood, backed out of the shed, and stopped.

"Hop in," he invited.

Bill took the center seat. Lamb Chops settled in his favorite outside
position, and Rifle Eye backed so fast that they seemed in danger of
crashing into the house. Just in time, Rifle Eye swerved, cut around the
corner of the house, and only then did the three hounds set up a
thunderous baying.

Rifle Eye shouted, "They think I'm goin' huntin'."

"What do you hunt with them?"

"Bear, coon, cats. Anything that trees."

"Are they good dogs?"

"Passable. I've had better'n I've had worse. I'll take you huntin' if
you stay in Elk Shanty."

"It looks as if I'll stay."

Rifle Eye said nothing, and Bill remembered that so far he had not asked
a single personal question. He didn't even care why his passenger wanted
to go to Cannasport. Bill sat back. He felt a strange satisfaction and a
new liking for Rifle Eye. Apparently the wolf-lean hill man had no
intention of prying into other people's affairs.

They rolled along as fast as the truck would go, and it seemed to Bill
that they were making at least seventy miles an hour. But when he looked
at the speedometer to verify their speed, he saw that the needle
remained on zero. The speedometer, like everything else on the
instrument panel, was broken.

"How fast are we going?" he asked Rifle Eye.

"'Bout twenty-five."

"Seems as though we're making three times that."

"Could be," Rifle Eye agreed, "but it's only twenty-five ahead. 'Tother
fifty would be up an' down."

They came to Blissville, and Bill relaxed. He had been in doubt when
they left Rifle Eye's house as to whether they'd go more than a mile or
two, but the truck was sturdier than it looked. In addition, Rifle Eye
knew every bolt and rivet, and long experience had taught him what to do
when anything went wrong. Rifle Eye stopped for a traffic light and Lamb
Chops jumped out.

"Come back here!" Bill shouted.

Without even looking back, Lamb Chops leaped to the sidewalk and
disappeared around a corner. Rifle Eye smiled.

"Leave him be. He just wants to visit his friends in Blissville an' I
don't reckon he'd like Cannasport nohow. He ain't a city dog."

"He's running loose," Bill objected.

"He'll come to no harm an' he'll pick us up on the way back," Rifle Eye
promised. "Don't worry about him."

The light changed and they started down the river toward Cannasport. For
a while Bill was silent. He should have talked this trip over with
Janice and asked her advice. But maybe Rifle Eye could advise him.

"Do you know the wholesale houses in Cannasport?" he asked.

Rifle Eye shook his head. "Don't go to Cannasport more'n once in a blue
moon, an' then all I do is visit Pete Marrett. Owns a tradin' shop, Pete
does, an' I sells him furs sometimes."

"Does he have any good clothes, like you're wearing?"

"That he does."

"How late is his place open?"

"Pete don't keep no hours. He should happen to be asleep, all you got to
do is pound on the door an' he'll open up. Used to live in Elk Shanty
afore he had a mite of trouble."

"What sort of trouble?"

"He stepped in a bear trap an' they cut his right leg off," Rifle Eye
said casually.

Bill shuddered. If losing a leg was a "mite" of trouble, what would
Rifle Eye consider serious? Bill's mind went back to his own problems.

"I need a whole new stock of goods," he said. "We sold everything in the
store this morning."

Rifle Eye said drily, "First time that's happened in Elk Shanty sinst
the big flood of eighteen years back. Some people lost all they had and
had to buy new."

"It wasn't quite that good. Everything went for half price and we took
some in trade. Got more in the cooler than a small size army could use."

"Why'nt you fetch the extra along, you mullethead? There's allus a
market for it in Blissville an' Cannasport."

"Say! That's right!"

Bill saw what he hoped was a solution to one of his most pressing
problems. The Elk Shantyites didn't have much money, but they had
produce that would bring money in other markets. He would have to see
what he could work out. Again he went over the mental list he had
prepared, and he knew again that he had been too hurried. Buying for a
store seemed such a simple matter until one set out to buy, and he could
not afford to make too many mistakes. He said impulsively, "Will you go
along with me when I buy?"

"Me? I don't know nothin' 'bout buyin' for stores."

"I don't either," Bill confessed.

"Goshamighty!"

"You know what they use in Elk Shanty," Bill pointed out.

"I know what the men use, but men don't do the buyin'."

"Come along anyhow."

Rifle Eye said doubtfully, "Well--all right."

The miracle Bill had hoped for came about; nothing went wrong with the
truck and they rolled into Cannasport about half past two. Rifle Eye
stopped at a filling station and an attendant approached. He was smart
and quick, but even while he filled the gas tank his amazed glance
roamed over the truck. It was incredible to suppose that such a thing
would run.

Rifle Eye stayed with the truck. Bill went to the phone booth and looked
in the classified pages of the directory. He ran his finger down the
"Grocers-Wholesale" column, ended at Zunder Brothers, and shrugged.
Since he didn't know where to go anyhow, he might as well try them. Bill
noted the address, and when he went out the attendant was polishing the
glass half of the windshield. Bill paid for the gas and climbed into his
seat.

"Do you know how to get to 1287 River Street?" he asked Rifle Eye.

"Yup. That's over by the river."

Rifle Eye swung out into the stream of traffic and expertly threaded his
way through it. Bill jumped at a hideous, blasting report, and the car
ahead of them pulled over as quickly as possible. The terrible noise was
repeated and Bill saw Rifle Eye tapping the horn button. Apparently one
thing on the truck was still in operating order.

Rifle Eye halted in front of a brick building that seemed to occupy most
of a city block, slid into a parking space that Bill thought was too
small to accommodate the truck, pointed his front wheels at the curb,
and blocked the rear ones with two pieces of planking.

"The parking brake ain't any good," he explained. "Well, here we are."

Bill felt at ease--he was accustomed to meeting people--but Rifle Eye
was hesitant. He neither knew nor understood this sort of thing and he
didn't like it. But he would go along; a friend had asked him to. Rifle
Eye trailed a little behind Bill, and it was only when an amazed
passerby whirled to stare at them that Bill saw the rifle in his
companion's hands. He felt a flush of embarrassment.

"Do you have to carry that thing in here?"

"I don't aim to leave her in the truck."

Bill said nothing. Probably, if Rifle Eye got off the train in Grand
Central Station, he would still insist on carrying his rifle. If there
was any trouble, Bill would just have to try to explain the situation.
It seemed very evident that Rifle Eye had no intention of leaving his
beloved rifle behind.

They entered the lobby, and a girl who sat at a desk behind a waist-high
partition stared in disbelief as they came in. Her eyes were wide, her
lips curled, and there was an expression of utter horror on her face.
She was not looking at Bill, but at the rifle in Rifle Eye's hand. Bill
hurried over to the partition. The girl's hand was creeping toward a
telephone and Bill guessed there was a police station on the other end
of the line. He wanted to forestall that. He smiled pleasantly and said,
"How do you do."

The girl's hand came away from the telephone and her eyes remained
riveted on Rifle Eye. She wrenched her gaze away and looked at Bill. Her
voice betrayed her fright.

"Is there something I can do for you?"

"Yes. I'm a buyer and I'd like to see one of your sales
representatives."

"One moment."

Reluctantly, as though expecting a bullet in the spine at any moment,
she turned away and spoke guardedly into the telephone. Bill grinned. No
doubt she was telling whoever was on the other end of the line that
there was a buyer waiting. But there was also a wild man, with a rifle
in his hands. Certainly _he_ was not also a buyer and what should be
done about it? The girl turned away from the telephone and her voice
still trembled.

"Mr. Lawrence will see you. This way, please."

She came out from behind the partition and walked ahead of them toward
two glass doors at the end of the lobby. Her head was high and she did
not look back. But her hands were clenched and a twitching muscle in her
slender arm betrayed her nervousness. Bill grinned. The girl was
evidently afraid of them and still thought they must be bent on robbery,
but she turned her back to Rifle Eye. She had courage.

She led them down a long corridor, both sides of which were lined with
offices, and swerved into one of them. The man who sat behind the desk
was middle-aged and inclined to plumpness. Thinning hair, tinted with
gray overtones, was combed back on his head. His gray eyes were friendly
and at the same time reserved.

The girl said, "These are the gentlemen who wish to see you." And to
Bill and Rifle Eye, "This is Mr. Lawrence."

"Thanks, Marian," he said.

With an almost audible sigh of relief, the girl left the office. Bill
extended his hand and Mr. Lawrence took it.

"I'm William Rawls," Bill said, "and I have to stock a store. This is
Mr. Smith. He--He's my transportation manager."

Rifle Eye said nothing; apparently only chosen friends called him by his
nickname. Amusement sparkled in the eyes of the business man.

"It looks as though he doesn't intend to have any hijacking, either.
Where is your store, Mr. Rawls?"

"In Elk Shanty."

"Elk Shanty? Oh yes, that's up in the hills. What is your situation?"

"We held a clearance sale this morning and got rid of all our old stock.
I must start completely fresh."

"How about your credit rating?"

"Credit rating?"

"Yes. Where do you do your banking?"

"I--I haven't done any yet."

"Yet you own a store?"

"I just took it over."

"What are your assets?"

"I own the store."

Mr. Lawrence pressed a buzzer and the girl reappeared. The wholesaler
said, "Get me what we have on the Elk Shanty store, will you?" He turned
to Bill, and his manner was friendly while at the same time it remained
aloof. "Don't make any mistake, Mr. Rawls. Our only business is selling,
and the more customers we have, the better off we are. But we must take
certain precautions. We cannot let anyone drive a truck in here, load
it, and drive away again."

"I understand," Bill said.

The girl came back with a typewritten sheet and Mr. Lawrence scanned it.
When he looked again at Bill, his manner was even more reserved.

"The store at Elk Shanty owes various business houses in Cannasport and
Blissville more than nineteen hundred dollars in past due accounts.
These accounts were contracted by Gosmer Wisman. Is that correct?"

Bill exclaimed, "Great guns!"

"What's the matter?"

"I didn't think we were that deeply in debt!"

"You are."

"I'll take your word for it."

"Do you have any other assets?" Mr. Lawrence asked.

"Some."

"Can you furnish us with references? Let us do a little investigating?
If we can satisfy ourselves that you do own the store, and that you're
capable of managing it, we still may work out something."

Bill said grimly, "I promised to be open for business in the morning."

"I'm afraid that's impossible."

"Mr. Lawrence, if I can leave you ample security, will you let me have
what I need?"

"If you have the security, I will."

Bill slid his hand into an inside pocket, took the leather jewel case
out, and laid it on the counter.

"Can you have this appraised?"

The wholesaler opened the case and looked at the various gems within.
When he glanced again at Bill, suspicion lurked in his eyes.

"It's mine," Bill assured him. "It was not stolen and you can
investigate as much as you wish. What I want is stock on my shelves when
we open tomorrow."

Mr. Lawrence pressed the buzzer and the girl came in. He gave her the
case. "Take this over to John Serian, will you? Find out what he thinks
about it."

While the girl was gone, Mr. Lawrence talked to Bill. Many factors
entered into the successful running of a store, and Bill must weigh
carefully every one of them. No storekeeper ever had a profit so large
that carelessness or slipshod methods could not destroy it. Bill must
think of all the expenses that storekeeping involved. He should buy
wisely, with a view to the personal tastes of his customers. Long hours
were necessary; the store must be open when the customers came. Mark-up,
the difference between what Bill paid for his stock and what he sold it
for, must be exactly considered. He thought that Bill might mark up some
articles as little as twenty per cent, but these were durable goods that
would always have value. Since the Elk Shanty store had no
refrigeration, but only ice, perishables would have to be marked up
fifty per cent. Bill was certain to lose some.

Experience was the best possible teacher. Though there were certain
basic rules, no one rule applied exactly or covered every situation.
Bill would just have to wait and see, and bend the rules to fit his
store. And all this, the wholesaler warned, was only a small part of
what a successful storekeeper must know. From a shelf behind his desk he
took four books, told Bill to study them carefully, and to come back for
more when he had done so.

The girl came back with the jewel case and a note. The wholesaler looked
at the note and leaned back in his chair.

"We can do business, Mr. Rawls. Do you still think it's a good idea?"

"Yes."

"All right."

He copied the itemized list that John Serian, obviously a jeweler, had
written, signed the list, and handed it to Bill.

"Keep this. And you will be able to redeem your security any time you
make a success of the store." He smiled. "When you do that, of course
you will be able to pay your bill. Now, what do you need in stock?"

"Good eatin' beans get kind of puny in Elk Shanty this time of the
year," Rifle Eye said. "Be sure to get some."

From the bewildering list Mr. Lawrence gave him, guided by both the
wholesaler and Rifle Eye, Bill tried to make a judicious selection.
Rice, sugar, coffee, salt, were basic staples that could not be produced
in Elk Shanty. Rifle Eye pointed out that tea was the traditional drink
of outdoorsmen, and Bill bought a supply. Mr. Lawrence recommended an
assortment of spices; all cooks used them. Since almost every man in Elk
Shanty either smoked tobacco or chewed it, there had to be cigarettes,
pipe tobacco, chewing, and snoose. The wholesale house carried a side
line of simple drugs and household accessories, such as pins, needles,
and scissors. There had to be candy for the youngsters, but Rifle Eye
looked doubtful when Bill bought some pound boxes of milk chocolates.
Flour and yeast must be in stock. Rifle Eye reminded Bill that kerosene
lamps were widely used in Elk Shanty, and so were gasoline lanterns.
They must stop at some wholesaler of such products and pick up a drum of
each.

The list became an unbelievable variety of articles, and then Bill added
some more. Even though Rifle Eye shook his head, he bought two dozen
cases of assorted canned fruits and vegetables, two crates of oranges, a
box of lemons, a crate of lettuce, some celery, and some grapes. The
fact that such things had never been sold in Elk Shanty was not
necessarily proof that they couldn't be sold.

When the list was finished, Rifle Eye backed his truck to the loading
platform and stayed outside to supervise the loading. Bill remained to
finish his business with Mr. Lawrence. The invoice was presented.

"One thousand seventy-two dollars and fifty-nine cents," the wholesaler
said. "You have a balance with us of three hundred and eighty-five
dollars. Is there anything else you need?"

"Nothing I can think of at the moment."

Mr. Lawrence shook his hand warmly. "We hope to see you back here often
and we'll be glad to advise you at any time. The more you sell, the more
we'll be able to sell. Good luck."

Bill said, "Thanks, I'll need it." Then, just in time, he remembered
the feminine element of Elk Shanty. "By the way, do you know of any
wholesale house near by where I can get dresses, cloth, and things like
that?"

"Taylor and Brislow, five blocks down the street. Do you have any
money?"

"A hundred dollars."

"We'll back you to the limit of your security."

"Thanks, but I'll see what I can do."

He went out to the loading platform, saw the truck sagging on its
springs and the body almost filled. He had spent more than a thousand
dollars and it seemed to him that he had bought very little. But now
that it was all together on the truck, it looked like quite a lot.

Bill swallowed hard. He was tense and nervous, and he remembered his
attorney's advice. It was true that he might have had a comfortable
backlog of money if he had gone back to college, but he wouldn't have it
now. Bill set his jaw and went to Rifle Eye.

"Can you carry much more?"

"Load her as high as you want."

"Let's go five blocks down the street; I want to find Taylor and
Brislow."

Rifle Eye cruised along slowly while Bill kept a sharp watch. He saw the
sign in front of the shop, and a display window filled with samples of
cloth and various articles of feminine wear. Rifle Eye parked, and Bill
got out.

"Come on," he invited.

"Not me," Rifle Eye declined.

"You said you would."

"I said I'd go in 'tother store. I never said nothin' 'bout helpin' you
buy frills for fillies."

"Oh, come on!" Bill pleaded.

"Nope."

"Do you want me to go alone?"

"If anybody goes in there, 'twill be you."

"Are you afraid?"

"Yep."

Bill went into the place reluctantly. He was confused to begin with, and
even more so when a brisk young woman came up to ask him what he wanted.
Bill looked around bewilderedly. He knew nothing whatever about fabrics
or women's clothing, and he made a mental note to put Janice in charge,
in complete charge, of this department as soon as possible.

Bill blurted out, "I have a store in the backwoods and I must get some
things. I believe a lot of the women do their own sewing. Can you give
me an assortment? One that might fit in?"

More than a faint glimmer of amusement lightened the young woman's
businesslike air. "I think so. How much do you want to spend?"

"About thirty-five dollars."

Mindful that Janice must take over this part of the buying, Bill kept
the order small. He paid for the parcels the young woman arranged for
him, got his receipt, and with vast relief carried them out to the
truck. Rifle Eye was grinning at him and Bill looked fixedly at the
street. They stopped to get a drum of kerosene and one of gasoline, and
Rifle Eye drove him to Pete Marrett's.

Pete's was on a back street, a long, low, rambling wooden building that
must have been built in Cannasport's earlier days. Without any
hesitation, his beloved rifle in his hands, Rifle Eye leaped out of the
truck and entered. But Rifle Eye seemed to fit in here as he would
nowhere else in Cannasport. Bill followed him.

A medium-sized man, with the bluest eyes and the blondest hair Bill had
ever seen, came towards them, using one good leg and stamping on a
wooden peg that fitted about his right thigh. Bill felt for a moment as
though he were back in Elk Shanty.

"Hi, Pete!" Rifle Eye said.

"Rifle Eye! I thought sure you'd been et by the b'ars long ago!"

"Nope! I eat bears, I don't get ate by them. Pete, I want you should
know Bill Rawls. He's the new owner of the store in Elk Shanty an' he
wants some gear that's fitten to wear."

"Glad to know you." Pete's strong hand gripped Bill's. "What's you have
in mind?"

"He wants corduroys or bluejeans," Rifle Eye broke in. "A shirt that'll
take some wear an' somethin' besides them piddlin' shoes he's got. Give
him shoes he can wear on rocks."

Bill said, "Maybe some underwear, too--"

"_Pssht!_" Rifle Eye snorted. "A man don't need underwear 'cept in
winter, then he should get some red woollies that'll do him some good."

While Pete brought the desired articles, Bill looked around the store.
It seemed to contain some of everything that an outdoorsman might use.
There were traps, guns, fishing tackle, clothing, shoes, boots, outboard
motors, canoes, pack sacks and baskets, snares, sleeping bags,
tents--Pete came back with the clothing Bill had ordered.

"I think these'll do. Change in the back room if you want."

Bill went in to change, and he thought that, if only he indulged in
flights of fancy like some poetically-minded students at Tenngale, the
act might be considered symbolic. When he put on the clothes an Elk
Shantyite wore, he became an Elk Shantyite. Bill discovered that Pete's
judgment was surprisingly good. The shirt and trousers fitted well, and
the shoes, though heavy, were comfortable and by no means clumsy. He
folded his other clothes, draped them over his arm, and went back into
the store. Pete looked at him with his amazing blue eyes.

"Rifle Eye says you might sell some of this gear in Elk Shanty?"

"I expect I could," Bill said. "But I can't take it now. I haven't any
money."

"He didn't ask you did you have any money," Rifle Eye pointed out.

"I--I see."

Bill understood. There was more than one way of doing business. The
wholesale houses had to operate as they did and be sure of their
customers, because they couldn't afford to take a loss. But Pete had
Rifle Eye's word that he wouldn't lose anything, and that was good
enough.

Pete said, "I'll give you some to take along. The prices are marked.
Keep twelve and a half per cent an' bring back anything you don't sell."

In a huge carton he put trousers, shirts, and socks. He added boxes of
shoes and some hats and caps. On top of everything else, he placed a
parcel of fishing tackle. They drove away from Pete's, stopped at a
drive-in for a snack which, Rifle Eye claimed, must have come straight
out of the garbage can, and just as darkness settled they started for
Elk Shanty.

Heavily loaded, the truck no longer bounced and jolted all over the
road, but they had to move more slowly because of the heavy weight on
the springs. At the traffic light in Blissville, just as Rifle Eye had
predicted, Lamb Chops leaped in and took his favorite outside seat. Bill
dozed as they traveled the Tower Hill Road.

He was awakened when the truck came to a dead stop. The night was very
dark, but with his rifle leaning against a fender, Rifle Eye was out of
the truck and already had the hood unwired. He prodded beneath it, and
when he got back in and tried the starter, the engine coughed into life.

"What was wrong?" Bill inquired.

"Gas line plugged."

Bill dozed off again, and a second time he was awakened by the truck's
jolting to a halt. No more than half-awake, he tried confusedly to
remember where he was but could not. He knew that Rifle Eye was beside
the truck and he shook his head as though dreaming. This could not be.

But it was. So near that its new-leafed branches scraped the hood, a
mighty tree toppled from its stump and fell squarely across the road.
Rifle Eye snapped the rifle to his shoulder. A tongue of flame licked
the night and there was a blasting report. Lamb Chops slipped from the
truck. Wide awake now, Bill jumped out.

Rifle Eye snarled like a wolf. "That tree never fell! It was cut, an'
cut to get us!"

"Did you get him?"

"Didn't shoot to kill! Just aimed to crease him! Come on!"

They went to the stump upon which the tree had stood, and Bill ran his
hand over it. Rifle Eye was right. The tree had been sawed more than
half through and, when they came along, chopped the rest of the way. If
the truck hadn't stopped when it did, they would have been directly
beneath the toppling monster.

Bill's anger flared anew. Somebody wanted to keep him out of Elk Shanty
so desperately that he would even kill in order to do it. As angry as
Bill, Rifle Eye stared into the forest.

"I could of got him!" he said savagely. "Maybe I should of!"

Saying no more, Rifle Eye produced a chain, hooked one end around the
tree trunk and the other to the truck's front axle. Again he tinkered
with the engine, started it, and backed slowly. Inch by inch, the tree
came around until there was room to pass.

Finally, they reached the store. Bill opened it, lighted the gasoline
lantern, and they carried the stock inside. He sighed with relief when
the last parcel was safely in, looked at the contents of his wallet, and
followed Rifle Eye outside.

"How much do I owe you?" he asked.

"Aw, this ain't hardly no time to talk 'bout money. You bought all the
gas."

"I want to pay you. Will fifteen dollars be enough?"

"For that much you can have the truck."

Rifle Eye drove away and Bill entered the store to face Janice. Her eyes
glowed, a smile of sheerest ecstasy lighted her face.

"I peeked!" she exclaimed. "I peeked when you and Rifle Eye were
bringing it in! Oh, Bill! You _did_ get it!"

Bill forced a tired grin. "Rawls always comes through. Scamper back to
bed now while I load the shelves."

"Not on your life! I got dressed so I could help you!"

Side by side they worked, ripping boxes and parcels open and re-stocking
the shelves. They did not speak because they were too busy to talk, and
Bill carried the empty cartons and bags to the rear, where later they
would be burned. He stared in disbelief when there were no more, and
looked at the lantern. Its light had been dimmed by the rising sun, but
Bill had paid no attention to either. He grinned again.

"No use going to bed now."

Janice picked up a can of peaches and assumed a pitcher's stance.
"William Rawls! If you don't get some sleep, I'll hit you right in the
head with this! I mean it!"

"Well, maybe for a little while."

He looked at his watch. It was half past five in the morning.




  CHAPTER SEVEN

  _Under New Management_


Bill got out of bed so early in the morning that stars still sparkled in
the sky and a waning moon lighted his window. Moving carefully, striking
no light, he made as little noise as possible. He dressed in the
mud-soaked shoes and the ruined trousers he had worn the day he had set
out to hike from Blissville to Elk Shanty, put on a shirt that he had
bought from Pete Marrett, and slipped a sweater over that.

Spring was definitely under way. The wild cherries had bloomed and
faded, and so had the mountain azaleas. Laurel patches had made whole
mountains a mass of flowers, but even the laurel was fading now. The
days were wonderful, with a tang and sparkle to them that made old blood
race and set young hearts afire. But the nights and early mornings were
still cold and blankets were needed for sleeping.

On second thought, Bill unlaced his shoes, took them off, and tiptoed
into the store. Lamb Chops rose to meet him. The gaunt hound sat down
on the floor and looked mournful. He closed his jaws over Bill's right
foot, but he did not bite. As he always did when Bill was troubled, but
only then, Lamb Chops wagged his tail. Bill put his shoes on and he and
Lamb Chops left by the front entrance.

The hound faded into the darkness when they started down the road, and
ten minutes later he came trotting after Bill. He blew loudly through
the sides of his mouth, raised his head, and pressed into Bill's hand
another of his personal treasures. It was a gun stock with part of the
breech mechanism still intact.

Bill accepted the gift, and by way of thanks he let his dangling hand
brush the big dog's head. He grinned in the darkness. Lamb Chops might
not be a canine genius, but he was a true and faithful friend and
apparently he had adopted the store as his permanent home.

Bill's grin faded and his brow wrinkled as he gave himself over to
concentrated thought. It looked as though John Prosser had been entirely
correct and there just weren't enough customers in Elk Shanty to support
a store. More than half of those who were present hadn't enough money to
pay for more than a small part of what they needed.

That was nothing to worry about, because all of them had produce of one
kind or another, and for the first few days after he re-stocked the
store Bill sold whatever they needed for whatever of equal value they
could offer in exchange. They brought eggs, butter, meat, fowl, and
other articles that had a ready market value. But this exchange produce
had accumulated so fast that within four days Bill had had to hire Rifle
Eye again and take it down to market. Even though Rifle Eye wanted only
six dollars for going to Blissville and back, that had wiped out most of
the store's profit.

Bill and Janice had inaugurated a new policy. They would extend credit
but, with few exceptions, payment in cash or produce must be made within
thirty days. Tomorrow was the thirtieth day and he had a lot of trade
goods promised. There were veal calves, spring lambs, a dressed hog,
poultry, crates of eggs, fresh asparagus, butter, and Ten-Trap Gallagher
had promised two crates of strawberries. It would be quite a load, and
Bill would get Rifle Eye to carry it into Cannasport, because he needed
more stock. Mr. Lawrence had written Bill that Zunder Brothers--they had
a meat department too--would take all the good and choice produce they
could get and either credit it to Bill's account or pay cash. If he took
it in credit, he would be paid a slightly higher rate.

As he walked up the road, Bill tried to figure just what he had done
since he had taken over the store less than a month ago. Despite Rifle
Eye's opinion, Elk Shantyites, just emerging from a long winter, had
been starved for fresh fruit and vegetables and they had gone swiftly.
But the canned fruits and vegetables were still on the shelves, only one
pound box of chocolates had been sold and that to John Prosser, and the
woman at Taylor and Brislow's had not known what the women of Elk
Shanty wanted or could afford.

After going over columns of figures night after night, Bill knew that he
would just about break even on his first load of stock. A small profit
would show in the goods from Pete Marrett's. Pete and Rifle Eye knew
what the men of Elk Shanty wanted. Almost everything Pete had sent along
was sold, and tomorrow Bill would pay Pete and pick up some more.

The sum he would have left after he paid for more stock, was an
important factor.

Every Thursday he had paid Janice twenty dollars. But he had taken this
money from his own personal funds and there was not enough left to pay
her in full the next time, which would be the day after tomorrow. He
would, provided things worked out well, have cash after he returned from
Cannasport. But he also had great need for all of it.

The store could not possibly progress as long as it was entirely
dependent on outside transportation. Not that Rifle Eye hadn't been
completely co-operative, and certainly he did not overcharge. Bill had
to have a truck of his own because, at any time at all, Rifle Eye might
be elsewhere. Besides, it was evident that short trips to Blissville
would be increasingly necessary. In addition, if he had his own truck,
he would have to hire Rifle Eye's only when he needed a large order of
stock.

There was a one-ton truck for sale in Blissville. True, it was ten years
old. But it was in good condition and the owner would sell it for a
hundred dollars, of which half had to be cash. But if Bill made that
much of a cash outlay, and still paid Janice's wages, his reserve stock
of money would be at a dangerously low point. He had wanted to leave
quietly and very early, partly because he did not want to tell her and
partly because he needed time to think.

Bill approached Rifle Eye's house just as the night was lifting and for
the moment he put his problems behind him. The third reason he had for
leaving early was that Rifle Eye had promised to take him trout fishing
today.

A kerosene lamp behind them framed Rifle Eye's front windows in a pale
orange glow, and the smell of wood smoke made the air pleasantly spicy.
Bill knocked lightly on the door and Rifle Eye called, "Come on in!"

Bill entered and sniffed hungrily. Rifle Eye had told him not to bother
with any breakfast because he'd have it ready, and not to bring any
tackle either, because he had spare rods, leaders, and lures. Rifle Eye
himself stood at the stove. A tantalizing odor of good things cooking
filled the room, and the smell of fresh-made coffee blended its fragrant
overtones with the rest.

"Where's Lamb Chops?" Rifle Eye asked.

"I left him outside."

"Bring him in. Lamb Chops don't like to be left alone with only dogs for
company. He likes people."

Bill opened the door and Lamb Chops made a dignified entrance. He did
not look at Bill, but went straight to Rifle Eye and leaned his head
against the woodsman's leg.

"He's mad at you," Rifle Eye said. "Lamb Chops don't like to have people
bein' oncivil to him."

"I wasn't sure you'd want him in the house, and I'm sorry if I've
offended Lamb Chops."

Lamb Chops turned, and his toenails scraped the floor as he walked back
to Bill. Sitting down, he leaned his head against Bill's knee and blew
through his nose. Apparently all was forgiven, and Rifle Eye's engaging
smile flashed.

"Guess he ain't mad at that. Old Lamb Chops must like you well enough.
Breakfast's ready."

He filled two coffee cups that held the better part of a pint each, put
bread and butter and canned milk on the table, and from the skillet he
lifted two huge steaks, plus a generous portion of fried potatoes. Rifle
Eye divided everything equally between two plates, and Bill sat down. He
tried the meat.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Veal," Rifle Eye said. "Right good veal."

"It sure is good."

Bill said no more. The steaks were not like any veal he had ever eaten,
and in all probability he was eating venison, which was strictly illegal
and out of season. But from the beginning of the human race, men who
lived in the wilderness had taken part of their living from their
surroundings, and until such men were no more probably they would
continue to do so. Bill did not condone such practices, but he was a
guest in Rifle Eye's home and there was nothing he could do about it.
Probably some day the game warden would catch up with Rifle Eye, and
when that day came he would pay in full for his "veal."

They finished breakfast, and while Rifle Eye washed the dishes Bill
dried them. Rifle Eye stacked them in the cupboard, went into another
room, and returned with two strung-up trout rods. He handed one to Bill.

"How do you like it?"

Bill took the proffered rod and immediately knew a vast pleasure.
Perfectly balanced, the rod was a live thing in his hand. Bill guessed
that it might have weighed four and three-quarter ounces, but from the
thin tip of the butt every speck of weight was distributed perfectly.
Bill whipped the rod experimentally. It yielded, but there was a
strength and suppleness in its fibers that promised no breaking. This
rod should handle almost any stream trout.

"This is something!" Bill exclaimed.

"It's a good 'un," Rifle Eye agreed. "Asa Dorr makes 'em, an' you don't
find rods like that in every store. Did you ever fish grasshoppers?"

"No."

"It's fun, 'most as much fun as flies. Besides, this mornin' ain't goin'
to be the best fly weather. Too cold an' wrong time of the moon. But it
will be good grasshopper fishin'."

Rifle Eye went outside and came back with the lower halves of two nylon
stockings. Both were loaded with grasshoppers which, their feet
entangled in the sheer nylon fabric, were almost helpless. It was a
novel and ingenious prison for such insects. Rifle Eye handed one of
the nylons to Bill.

"There. I ketched 'em yestidday. Hook 'em under the collar an' don't let
the line snap or you'll throw 'em off. Just let 'em fall in, like they
was jumpin' from the bank an' landed in the water by themselves. When a
trout hits, give him line. Let him take it under before you set the
hook. You'll get the hang of it after you lose two or three. Ready to
start?"

"After that breakfast I should be ready for anything."

Lamb Chops went with them, and again Rifle Eye left his door unlocked.
Indeed, if there was a lock on the door, Bill had not seen it. His rifle
in one hand and fishing rod in the other, Rifle Eye struck down a dim
trail leading into the cutover.

Daylight had pounced upon and overwhelmed what remained of the night,
and Bill shivered slightly. Frost lay heavy on the lower bushes and
grass. It would not be warm until the sun was two or three hours high,
and even high noon would not be oppressively warm.

Lamb Chops padded directly behind Bill, keeping squarely in the line of
march so that frost-laden brush and twigs would not touch him. No
super-dog, Lamb Chops did know a lot about many things. There wasn't the
least sense in being cold when, as Lamb Chops knew very well, the two
men walking in front of him were sure to push most of the frost from the
bushes before he came along.

A doe deer leaped across the trail in front of them, ran halfway across
a small clearing and stood still, with her white tail trembling over her
back. She looked over her shoulder, flashed her tail back and forth and
thumped the ground with a front hoof.

Rifle Eye spoke, "She's got a fawn right near by."

"How do you know?"

"She's talkin' to it, wavin' her tail an' stompin' her hoof. 'Keep
down,' she's a'sayin'. 'Don't you move a muscle, Willie, on account
they's people comin' an' they got a dog. I'll let you know when the
coast is clear.' Ha! Leetle devil thinks she's powerful smart."

"Can you tell a barren doe, too? One without a fawn?" Bill asked.

"Oh, sure. They don't act the same way. Take a doe without a fawn to
look after, she'd of scooted out of here before this."

Rifle Eye swung up a ridge, entered a forest of massive-trunked beech
trees and threaded his way through them to a stand of aspens. He stopped
suddenly and held a cautioning hand erect.

Bill halted. Looking past Rifle Eye, he saw the trail blocked by a
brown-muzzled black bear. About a hundred yards away, he stood squarely
in the trail and the lightening morning gave his coat a satiny sheen.
Bill caught his breath. He had been told that black bears are not
dangerous, but being told that and meeting a bear in the forest, instead
of behind a zoo's protecting fence, were two different matters. Bill
glanced down at Lamb Chops. The white hound had a keen nose and
certainly he must smell the bear, for the wind was blowing straight from
the animal to them. But Lamb Chops' air was one of complete boredom.

"_Hi-yee!_"

The sudden wild shriek came from Rifle Eye. The bear swapped ends and
bounded into the cutover so hastily that he seemed in real danger of
kicking himself in the chin with his flying rear paws. Rifle Eye
laughed.

"Bet he won't forget that'n too sudden-like! He'll prob'ly look the next
time he shoves his nose down this trail. I'll run that varmint with my
hounds, come fall. Ever been on a bear hunt, Bill?"

"Never."

"It's fun. I'll take you out if you want. But don't leave your legs go
soft on account it ain't no sissy huntin'."

"I'd like to go."

A mile farther on they came to the stream.

The trail was a dim trace here, overgrown with new spring foliage and
obviously at no time had it known the feet of a great many fishermen. It
ended completely at a snarling ripple where the stream hurled itself
savagely against a nest of outjutting boulders. Below and above the
boulders were broad pools and ripples of varying swiftness. On both
sides the stream was bordered by willows that gave way to big beech
trees. Here and there was a small natural meadow.

Rifle Eye gave Bill his choice. "Want to fish up or down?"

"Makes no difference to me."

"To me neither." Rifle Eye took a coin from his pocket. "Heads you fish
up, tails I do. Good 'nough?"

"Good enough."

Rifle Eye flipped, and when the coin landed tails, Bill made his way to
a pool and studied it. He took a grasshopper from his nylon stocking,
hooked it as Rifle Eye had instructed, and cast. In the clear water he
saw shadows darting toward the shelter of overhanging banks, and Bill
knew that he had made a mistake. Even in the remote wilderness, trout
have many enemies for which they must eternally watch. Often the merest
suspicion of anything alien will send them fleeing, and Bill had let his
shadow fall across the pool.

When he came to the next pool, he crouched and slunk behind a clump of
willows. Half-hidden, he cast his grasshopper into the pool and knew at
once that he had made a clumsy cast. The lure must be so placed that it
would look as though it were falling into the water naturally, and the
leader made a tiny ripple. Nevertheless a trout came up from the bottom
of the pool and lunged at the floating grasshopper. Suspicious of the
leader, the fish slunk back. Bill made two more casts, provoked no
rises, and went to the next pool.

On his first cast, a little seven-inch brown trout charged the
grasshopper so hard and so viciously that it hooked itself. Bill drew
the wriggling little fish to him, wet his hand in the stream, and gently
disengaged the hook. He knew a short-lived disappointment. Rifle Eye
had told him there were some real tackle-busters in this stream. But a
seven-inch fish hardly fitted into such a category.

Bill missed a strike in the next pool, took a two-pound brown trout from
the one beyond that, and began to enjoy his outing. Then he acquired the
true knack of fishing with grasshoppers and gave himself completely to
the sport.

Fishing grasshoppers might not be quite as fine an art as fishing dry
flies, but it had its points. The cast must be precise, with no swirls
from the line or the gossamer leader to arouse suspicion. Always the
grasshopper had to look as though it had jumped from the bank of its own
accord and had fallen into the water; nothing else would bring a strike.
If the pool were properly approached, the right cast invariably achieved
results. Setting the hook was as tricky as casting.

Bill lost without hooking a fair fifty per cent of the fish that were
tempted by his grasshopper. But he caught enough so that there was
action in almost every pool. He creeled a one-pound trout that was
hooked deep in the gills and let the rest go; he had enough fish to
provide a meal for Gosmer, Janice, and himself. Now he wanted a big one.

Lamb Chops, who had been with fishermen before, had learned to run on
ahead, curl up and sleep, and wait for whomever he was currently
favoring with his company. Now the gaunt hound, sleeping in the sun,
raised his head as Bill approached. Seeing that Bill intended to fish
another pool, Lamb Chops went back to sleep.

Bill crawled carefully up to the pool. The forest had receded here, so
that both sides of the creek were grass-grown, with only a scattering of
trees. At the far end, a tangle of old logs slanted from the bank into
the pool, and no doubt this natural barrier had helped deepen it. Eight
feet wide by perhaps twenty long, the pool was floored with white sand.
The water was as clear as a pane of polished glass.

Crawling forward, Bill disturbed a grasshopper that launched itself on
colored wings and came down squarely in the center of the pool. Bill
gasped.

The thing that rose from the sheltering logs could not be a trout,
because no trout ever grew that big. Bill stared, still unwilling to
believe what he saw but unable to doubt his own eyes. It _was_ a trout.
More than two feet long from the tip of its undershot jaw to the end of
its square tail, it was the biggest trout Bill had ever seen or even
dreamed about. And he knew by the color and shape that it was a brook
trout, the finest prize of all.

The water dimpled as the monster paused beneath the kicking grasshopper
and sucked it in. The fish lingered, sinking down in the water and
fanning its tail. Bill lay almost flat on the ground and forgot to
breathe.

A trout that big became huge because it was also wise. During its years
in the creek it must have encountered and been victorious over
numberless things that would have liked to kill and eat it. Not casually
would it rise to a lure. With shaking hands, Bill hooked another
grasshopper, raised his head just far enough so that he could see into
the pool, and cast.

It seemed an eternity before the grasshopper struck the pool's surface,
and Bill knew that he had made a good cast. The monster trout rose
slowly until his jaw was within an inch of the grasshopper and stayed
there. Bill watched the grasshopper float slowly toward the foot of the
pool while the trout moved with it. Bill's heart was a trip hammer, his
mind measured half seconds.

Suddenly a smaller trout smashed into the grasshopper, gulped it, and
the monster disappeared.

Bill felt dully sick as he rose to play the smaller trout in to the
bank. He had seen the fish of a lifetime and had almost caught it. Now
his chance was gone. The monster trout had fled back beneath the logs
and would not strike again. Bill knelt, released the small fish, and
looked up to see Rifle Eye.

"How you doin'?" the hill man asked.

Bill gasped, "There's a trout as long as a submarine in this pool!"

"Told you there's big 'uns in the crick."

"I'm going to catch him!" Bill declared. "I'm going to get that fish if
it takes all summer!"

"I wish you luck. You aim to fish some more?"

"No. I have all we can use and I don't want to kill any more."

Rifle Eye looked approvingly at him. "So've I. Want to go back?"

"We might as well."

Rifle Eye sat down on the grass and Bill stared into the pool where the
trout, a dream trophy if ever there was one, lay sulking. He would come
back, he _had_ to come back, and try again. Rifle Eye stretched
luxuriously in the warming sun.

"A body could go to sleep here easy, huh?"

"Yeah, except that I've got a store on my hands. Can you go down to
Cannasport tomorrow?"

"Sure. You need another load of goods?"

"That's right. I've also got a load to take down."

"How do you like the store business?" Rifle Eye asked idly.

Bill answered with grim humor, "If I keep on the way I've started, I
should clear seventy-five cents for this year's work."

"In Elk Shanty," Rifle Eye pointed out, "nobody else is makin' no money
neither."

"Nobody could be earning less than I am. I have to do something about
it."

"What do you have to do?"

Bill explained. He needed a truck of his own. There were always goods to
haul, and any time at all he might have to make a trip to Blissville or
even to Cannasport. But if he bought a truck, he would have just enough
ready cash left to run the store for a while and to make necessary
change. To pay Janice the twenty dollars due her the day after tomorrow
would bring his cash reserve to a dangerously low point. How should he
explain that to Janice?

Rifle Eye was silent for a moment. Then, "It's somethin' to ponder on,"
he admitted. "You don't have to pay me in money for your haulin',
though. I'd as soon take it in trade. As for Jan, why'nt you just up an'
tell her?"

"I can't."

"Why can't you?"

"I--I just can't."

Rifle Eye made no comment. They cleaned their fish by the stream, packed
them in wet moss so they would stay fresh, and took the trail back to
Rifle Eye's house. Rifle Eye, who said he was short of flour and had to
go down to the store anyway, backed his old truck out of the shed and
took Bill and Lamb Chops to Elk Shanty.

Bill put his fish in the cooler and went in to change his clothes. He
cleaned up, and when he went back to the store Rifle Eye was gone.
Janice, waiting on Ellery Ganson's wife, served her customer and turned
to Bill.

"You got some nice ones, didn't you?"

"Yes, but I missed the granddaddy of 'em all."

"Oh, you'll catch him sometime," Janice said cheerfully. "Bill, how
about advancing me two months' wages?"

"Uh--do you have to have it?"

"Desperately. I must have it. Three months' would be better."

"I--I'll see what I can do."

"You prehistoric lame brain!" she burst out.

"Huh?"

"Why didn't you tell me?" she scolded. "Why didn't you tell me the truth
before?"

"What are you talking about?"

"As though you didn't know! You let me think that Uncle Al left his
money to you, and that you wanted to play at being a country
storekeeper! Now see here William Rawls! You go down to Blissville the
day after tomorrow and get your truck! I'll take a rain check on my
wages!"

Bill said desperately, "I can't do things that way!"

"You not only can, but you will! You hired me as your clerk and I'm not
the type who fires easily! Yes, Rifle Eye told me the whole story! Now
suppose I go to Cannasport with Rifle Eye tomorrow. Every housewife in
Elk Shanty needs something that we do not have. I'll get it, and I can
handle Zunder Brothers, too. Rifle Eye and Pete Marrett know what we
need from Pete's."

"I--"

"You heard me! It's all arranged. Aunt Dottie has promised to fix some
hot food for Grandfather and you at noon."

"Well--"

    *    *    *    *    *

Rifle Eye and Janice left at six o'clock the next morning. Bill stayed
behind to take care of the store. Except for a two-hour interval when he
had some pressing business of his own, Lamb Chops slept in his corner.
Gosmer Wisman talked to Bill and Mrs. Burns of the old days in Elk
Shanty, as they shared the lavish meal that she had fixed for them with
very evident delight.

At six that night Rifle Eye and Janice came back. They unloaded the
truck and re-stocked the shelves. Rifle Eye stayed for dinner. Motherly
Mrs. Burns had seen to it that Janice had very little to do in getting
the meal ready. Customers drifted in, and looking almost as fresh as if
she hadn't already put in a twelve-hour day, Janice helped wait on them.

It was half-past-seven when Tarzan entered the store where several
customers still lingered. Bill hadn't seen the beefy young man for a
month or more, and now that he saw him again, he took no special notice.
Tarzan turned to speak to Janice, and when he did Bill saw a healing
welt on his right cheek. He gave it scant attention.

But Rifle Eye, who had tilted one of the wooden chairs against the wall
and was sitting on it, rose and sauntered across the floor. He leaned
companionably on the counter beside Tarzan.

"Hi!" the woodsman said.

"Hi!" Tarzan glanced at Rifle Eye.

Rifle Eye's voice was so low-pitched that only Bill, Tarzan, and Janice
heard him. "See you got your cheek cut."

"I was riding a horse and got spiked on a branch."

"That horse," Rifle Eye's voice was scarcely audible, "wasn't totin' a
rifle, was he?"

Bill swung about and his mind returned to that night when a tree had
fallen across the road and had come within a breath of smashing the
truck. Rifle Eye had shot to crease, and not to kill. His dull eyes
unreadable, but his inner hate and tension making itself felt, Tarzan
swung on Rifle Eye.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'll give you one guess."

Tarzan stood still, a lumbering, surly bear who would like to crush and
kill with his huge arms. But he knew better than to start a fight with
Rifle Eye. Bill said nothing.

He knew now who his enemy was. He still had to know why.




  CHAPTER EIGHT

  _Idea_


Barney Jumas, brother of Henry Jumas, the Blissville station agent who
knew a great deal but who somehow never got around to telling it,
carried the daily mail between Blissville and Elk Shanty. Barney was a
tall, cadaverous man who always looked, acted and talked as though some
major calamity were imminent. He left his mail in the post office, a
front room of Sadie Cadner's house.

Born in Elk Shanty, Sadie had been postmistress for as long as the
oldest inhabitant could remember, and the fact that she had an
acid-tipped tongue which she exercised very freely never jeopardized her
position. She had been postmistress so long that nobody could imagine
anyone else having the job.

After he delivered the mail, and largely because he could always be
certain of somebody who would listen, Barney usually stopped at the
store and carried on at length about his current overload of woes.

On a perfect late spring day, Bill was behind the counter when Barney
entered.

"Hi, Barney! Nice day."

"It looks nice," Barney admitted. "That it does. But you never can tell.
This is just the kind of weather that's like to kick up a storm. The
cricks will overflow, and prob'ly wash the road out, and I'll have the
devil's own time getting through. Prob'ly have a big repair bill on my
car and I might even get killed. Ever'body thinks I got a soft job on
account I work for the Guv'mint. It ain't so easy, working for the
Guv'mint."

"Things are tough all over," Bill said.

"You think so, huh? All I got to say is that you ought to be a mailman
instead of setting here earning big money in a store. Sometimes I can't
hardly make out from month to month. And you never can tell. My wife
might need a expensive operation, or one of the kids might break a leg,
and then where is a man? I'll tell you where. He has to mortgage his
house, and sell his car, and does he spend the rest of his life working
for himself? Nope. He spends the rest of his life working for a bank or
finance company. That's what he does. No matter what you try, where are
you? You're sunk. That's where you are."

Bill's interest quickened. John Prosser and a few others had told him
that if he would stock fresh bakery bread and pasteurized milk, they
would buy it. Bill had promised nothing, because making a daily trip to
Blissville in order to have such merchandise fresh every day would cost
too much. But here was an opportunity.

"Barney, could you use a couple of dollars' worth of groceries every
week?"

"Who couldn't?"

"If you'll bring me an order of milk and bread when you come in, I'll
see that you get the groceries."

"I don't know," Barney said lugubriously. "The bakery in Blissville is
on a slope. Suppose I park there and my hand brake don't hold? The car
would roll right down the hill. Prob'ly it'd jump the railroad and,
splash! right into the river. Then where would I be? I'd have to buy a
new car, to say nothing of whoever might get hurt or killed, and they'd
prob'ly sue me. They'd win a big judgment, too."

"Well, I'll get somebody else."

"Oh, I'll do it. But a body sure takes some awful chances."

Barney left and Bill leaned moodily on the counter. He had learned what
the people in Elk Shanty wanted and he stocked accordingly, but one fact
was painfully clear. Though the store was holding its own and he was not
losing any money, neither was he making any and the outlook for the
future was not brilliant. There simply were not enough people in Elk
Shanty to support a store and make it show anything that even remotely
resembled a reasonable profit.

With a stub of pencil, Bill doodled on a strip of scrap paper. Janice
came into the store.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Figuring out how to get rich in Elk Shanty."

"So? Do you have it all figured?"

"Only the negative side. Don't run a store."

"Cheerful thought!" Her eyes were quick and understanding. "Bill, I
thought you were going back up to try for your big trout this
afternoon?"

"I probably wouldn't catch him."

"Now, don't let Barney Jumas rub off on you!" she scolded. "Go ahead.
It'll do you good."

"I have to take care of the store."

She sniffed. "Since when couldn't I take care of it?"

"I--"

"Go ahead."

"Driving me out, huh?"

"Yes."

Bill said melodramatically, "I go! Never to return!"

Rifle Eye had loaned him a trout rod and an assortment of flies. The
woodsman was away on business of his own, but before he left he had
advised Bill that a black gnat on a number fourteen hook should be right
for this time of year. Trout fed in the waning shadows of late
afternoon, and it was entirely possible that Bill could take the big one
he had located.

Bill changed into his fishing clothes, waited a moment for Lamb Chops,
and when the gaunt hound did not appear, drove his truck up to Rifle
Eye's house. The three hounds--Rifle Eye had made provision for their
care--blinked solemnly at him. Bill parked his truck and started down
the trail.

The trees, well-leafed, shaded the way and a soft wind blew. A doe, with
a fleet fawn at her heels, leaped across the path, and a robin sang
happily. Bill rose out of his despondent mood to get in tune with that
which was about him. A person might have dire forebodings when he
started into the woods, but it was impossible to keep them after he got
there.

Bill came to the creek, and without stopping at any lesser pools, made
his way downstream to where the big brook trout lived. He slunk,
crawling on his hands and knees, and very careful not to move any grass
or brush so that such motion could be detected from the pool. He knew
that he would have to make a perfect stalk and do some near-perfect
fishing.

The late afternoon sun slanted long shadows across the pool, and a cloud
of tiny black insects danced in the air. Bill studied them carefully.
Rifle Eye knew his fish and his fishing, and a black gnat was right.

The wind was dying but it had not yet died and Bill forebore fishing.
Very wise, the big trout would be tempted by nothing that was not
exactly right. A wrong move could send him into hiding and keep him
there. Bill held the rod erect and let the fly dangle. The
almost-weightless fly was still moved by eddying zephyrs. He did not
cast until there was no wind that could be detected.

His head was raised just far enough so that he could look into the
pool, and he knew at once that he had made a good cast. Nothing
happened. Bill retrieved his fly and cast again. That time, when he
retrieved, a small trout darted out and went back to lurk near the
pool's bottom. A black shape against the white sand, the fish did not
move again.

Bill drew in his fly and waited. The smaller trout was not frightened
but neither would he strike. Bill guessed that they were not feeding
yet. He waited until the long shadows of late afternoon became the deep
ones of early evening.

Upstream, in another pool, he heard the splash of a trout rising to a
fly and falling back into the water. There was another splash, and
another. The night hatch of flies was getting under way in force. Bill
cast again and held his breath.

There were other, smaller trout in the pool where the big one lived.
Bill tensed, hoping that one of them would not strike. He watched his
fly float down the pool toward the barrier of logs, and his heart sank
as a small fish darted at it. Bill prepared to retrieve the fly and keep
it away from the darting trout.

Just as he was about to bring the fly clear, a shadow appeared. One
moment it was not there. The next it was at the edge of the logs. A
monstrous thing, it was even a little frightening. As effortlessly as
the water flowed, the big trout glided past the smaller one and smashed
into Bill's fly.

Bill stood erect, and a trickle of perspiration dribbled down his
cheek. Unaware of that, and of everything else save the monster fish on
his line, he braced his feet and battled. The rod was again a live
thing, a magic wand that had a mind and a will of its own, and that knew
how to help whoever understood it.

For a few furious seconds the trout circled insanely, trying with brute
force alone to rid itself of the line's pull. Bill gave him the tip and
let him fight, but when the trout charged downstream, Bill had to give
line. With all the skill at his command, he strove to turn the fish and
keep him away from the logs. At the last possible second, he succeeded.

Smashing upstream, the trout splashed in shallow ripples and again
circled insanely. He drove back toward the logs, wrapped the leader
around an outjutting snag, and just as Bill's heart pounded in his
throat because he was sure the leader must break, the fish came back in
exactly the same way and unwound it.

Time stood still. There was nothing in the world except the stream and
the savagely-fighting trout. Its courage and vitality had no limits. But
finally the weary fish turned on its side at the edge of the pool and
wriggled helplessly.

Keeping the line taut, Bill jumped down the bank, thrust his fingers
through the trout's gills, and lifted his prize clear of the water. A
leaping ecstasy coursed through his whole being. Bill had fished in many
places and with many people, but never before had he seen a brook trout
this big. It would, he estimated, weigh well over seven pounds. He
gathered long streamers of wet moss from a bubbling spring and wrapped
them carefully around the trout. He wanted to preserve as much of its
sheen and color as possible until tomorrow, when he had to have some
pictures. The trout swinging from his hand, he fairly danced back up the
trail.

    *    *    *    *    *

Night had fallen, and Axel Helgeson, Bill Gowen, B. B. Jones, and
Ten-Trap Gallagher were in the store with Gosmer and Janice when Bill
got back to Elk Shanty. Carefully he stripped the wet moss from his
prize and held it up for inspection. Gosmer's eyes glowed, for he had
caught trout such as this when Elk Shanty was new and he himself was
young. Janice was delighted and three of the others were impressed. Only
Ten-Trap remained aloof.

"Nice fish," he admitted, "but there's bigger ones."

"You've seen 'em?" Bill Gowen questioned.

"I've seen 'em in Hammer Stone Crick an' Catamount Crick."

"How come you never brought any in?"

"I gets my fish for eatin', an' who wants to sink his teeth into
somethin' that big?"

"It's a good fish."

"I already said that much."

"There ain't many bigger."

"There is, too."

"Ah, you got rocks in your head!"

Bill laid the trout in chipped ice and went to bed happy. He might never
make a success of the store, but definitely he had succeeded as a
fisherman. Living in Elk Shanty had its points.

The next morning he borrowed John Prosser's camera, took two complete
rolls of films, and sent the films down to Blissville with Barney Jumas.
Three days later Barney brought the processed films back, and Bill
examined them with pleasure. Even on a picture the trout looked huge.
Bill inscribed the back of one with, "This is the kind of trout we have
around here," signed his name, and sent it to Richard Montgomery, his
attorney. An ardent angler, the lawyer would know how to appreciate a
brook trout that size. Two other pictures Bill captioned, "Brook trout
taken by the manager of Elk Shanty's store," and sent them to the papers
in Blissville and Cannasport. A little free publicity couldn't possibly
do any harm.

Bill soon forgot about the pictures and devoted himself to the various
routine jobs that go into the running of a store. There was always
something to do, with few idle moments. Bill was rearranging a shelf
when Barney Jumas burst into the store. He was half an hour earlier than
usual, and so excited that he had even left his car running.

"Look!" he yelled. "Look what I got!"

In his hand was a Western Union envelope. Barney held it at arm's length
and squinted, as though hoping to look right through it.

"Thirty-one years I've been carrying mail-order catalogs and postcards
to Elk Shanty!" he exclaimed. "Many's the time I've had it up to my
neck. I've said to myself, 'Barney,' I've said to myself, 'you're in a
rut. You'd best find another career while there's still time.' Only last
week I said that to myself again. And now look! This is the first
gen-oo-wine telegram I've ever fetched to Elk Shanty! It gives a body
new ideas!"

"Who's it for?" Bill inquired.

"You. Why do you think I fetched it in here?"

"Let's have it."

Bill took the telegram, opened it, and Barney Jumas crowded close to
look over his shoulder. "Somebody's prob'ly dead," he said hopefully.
"Maybe there's been an accident and two-three people are killed. Or do
you think somebody's house might of burnt up?"

Bill straightened the folded message and read:

    JOE AND MYSELF ON WAY STOP BE IN TUESDAY STOP FIND US A PLACE TO
    STAY AND SAVE US A COUPLE LIKE THAT

      RICHARD MONTGOMERY

"Who's Joe and himself?" Barney Jumas demanded.

"A couple of lawyers from New York. They're coming to fish."

"All the way from New York? Just to ketch a fish?"

"That's right."

"_Pah!_" the mail carrier ejaculated. "I always figgered New Yorkers was
crazy, and now I'm sure of it!"

As Bill reread the telegram, he was aware of Janice beside him. Slowly
he lowered the message and stared at the wall. She asked impatiently,
"Aren't you going to tell me?"

"I sent a picture of my big trout to my attorneys, Kincaid and
Montgomery. Now they're both coming here and they want a place to stay.
The wire says they'll arrive Tuesday."

"That's today! Bill, we can put them up! There are spare rooms!"

"That's asking a lot from you."

"Oh, what's two more at the table and two more beds to make? Besides, we
can certainly use the money. How much shall we charge? Two dollars a
day?"

"Four dollars a day each."

"That seems like a great deal."

"It isn't excessive and they can afford it. Jan, this will mean a lot of
extra work."

"And a lot of extra money! Don't you worry."

Janice skipped away to prepare two more rooms while Bill took care of
the store. He did not know how long the two fishermen intended to stay,
but it seemed hardly likely that they would come all the way from New
York for less than three or four days of fishing, and if they stayed
that long, board and room money would be more than the profit he had
taken from the store in any two weeks.

Bill waited halfheartedly on the few customers who wanted to buy. He was
disturbed by the germ of an idea, and both restless and faintly annoyed
with himself because he could not pin it down. He knew only that there
was something to be done, and in time he would figure out what it was
and how to do it.

Just before evening the two fishermen arrived. They came in Richard
Montgomery's sleek black sedan, and at once a crowd of curious
youngsters gathered to stare at it. Not since anyone could remember had
a luxury model like this been in Elk Shanty, but Richard Montgomery and
his partner seemed to fit in. Both were dressed in outing clothes, and
both wore old crushed felt hats in which fishing flies were stuck. They
carried suitcases with rods strapped to them, and both seemed a far cry
from the suave and polished attorneys who so effectively ruled a
metropolitan law firm. They shook hands with Bill.

"So this is what you found?" Richard Montgomery asked.

"This is it."

The attorney murmured, "All this and big trout, too. Did you get us a
place to stay?"

"Jan says you can stay right here with us."

"Who's Jan?"

"My assistant. Her grandfather, Gosmer Wisman, lives here, too."

Joe Kincaid looked into the store. "Is that Jan?"

"Yes, that's Jan."

"There are times," the attorney sighed, "when a man wishes most heartily
that he were thirty years younger. I really don't blame you for sticking
around here."

Lamb Chops came up from the creek, sneered in canine fashion at the two
attorneys, and entered the store to go to his accustomed bed in the
corner. Bill escorted his guests in. They were shown to their rooms and,
after dinner, which consisted of immense broiled steaks, coffee,
fresh-baked rolls, a salad that Jan had made from such vegetables as she
could gather, and strawberry pie, they sat comfortably on the kitchen
chairs while Bill and Jan did the dishes.

Richard Montgomery said contentedly, "Now all we have to do is to wait
until morning. Are you going with us, Bill?"

"I can't. There's a lot to do here. But I think Rifle Eye Smith will
guide you."

"Rifle Eye, eh? Sounds like a character out of a dime novel. Is he
good?"

"He knows every trout in these mountains by its first name."

"That's good enough. Are you sure you can get him?"

"Quite sure."

They had not asked about guiding fees, and Bill knew that they would not
protest anything reasonable. But he had never hired a guide and he did
not know how much Rifle Eye should charge. However, both attorneys had
fished in Canada and they had had guides there.

Bill said, "You seem to be sort of pioneers in these parts. As far as I
know, nobody else has ever wanted to hire a guide and nobody knows a
guide's fee. Just how much is it?"

"I've usually paid eight-fifty a day," Joe Kincaid said.

"That'll be all right with Rifle Eye."

At five o'clock the next morning, Janice knocked on Bill's door. He
rose, washed, and when he went into the kitchen the two fishermen were
already sitting down to a hearty meal of pancakes and some of Ellery
Ganson's homemade sausage. Janice fixed a sack lunch for each of them,
and driving his truck so he would have a means of getting back, Bill
guided them up to Rifle Eye's house.

When Bill pounded on the door, Rifle Eye got up, poked a sleepy head
out, and came wide awake. His warm smile flashed, and Bill knew that the
two fishermen had found a guide. Bill swung his truck around and started
back to Elk Shanty.

Just before he reached the long slope leading into the village, the
truck sputtered and died. Trying the starter produced a churning sound
but no life in the engine. Bill got out, raised the hood and searched
for the source of the trouble. Everything seemed to be in order, but the
motor wouldn't start the next time he tried it. He checked the plugs and
the points. It was only when he had taken the carburetor apart and
cleaned some fouled intake valves that the truck started.

Bill got back to the store at half-past-eight and Janice met him at the
door. Her eyes were dancing; a smile seemed to be permanently fixed on
her face.

"Bill, I've rented our other two rooms!"

"You have!"

"Not an hour after you left, four fishermen came in from Cannasport.
They saw the picture in the paper and they don't mind sleeping two in a
bed. I sent them out with Ten-Trap Gallagher."

"Wow!"

"And that isn't all!" Janice was bubbling with excitement. "There have
been two other cars since! I sent one up to Ellery Ganson's and one to
Axel Helgeson's. I'm sure they'll find rooms there."

At a quarter to ten another car full of fishermen came in, and
forty-five minutes later there was another. All had seen the picture in
the Cannasport paper and one of them showed it to Bill. It had a box of
its own on the front page, a caption, "MONSTER BROOK TROUT," and a few
words to the effect that it had been caught by the owner of the Elk
Shanty store.

The fishermen were dispatched to B. B. Jones's and Bill Gowen's houses
with instructions to say that they had been sent from the store. If they
could find rooms, and Bill was reasonably sure they could, B. B. and
Bill were perfectly capable of showing them the streams. If they did not
want a guide, they should try any stream at all because there were trout
in all of them.

Before noon there was another car with six fishermen. Janice went out to
find rooms for them, but she couldn't do it. None of the occupied houses
in Elk Shanty were big; there were children in every family, and few
rooms available. However, if they cared to do so, the fishermen were
welcome to sleep in Ellery Ganson's barn.

That afternoon one of the cars that had been there earlier pulled up in
front of the store and a fisherman stamped out. Bill recognized him as
one of those they had sent to B. B. Jones, but this morning he had been
an anticipatory fisherman. Now he was a broken-hearted one, for in his
hands he held what remained of a fly rod. The butt was broken just above
the cork grip; the tip was fractured too, and the line and leader were
snarled around the rod. The fisherman laid it on the counter.

"Look at it!" he moaned. "Just look! Thirty-five dollars worth of trout
rod, and I still wouldn't mind if I had the trout that did it!"

"A fish did that?" Bill asked.

"In a big hole about two miles up, and right beside the road! I couldn't
even move him off the bottom, and when he decided to get out of there,
he just went! Sell me another rod! I'd like one that'll handle sharks!"

"We haven't--" Janice began.

Bill silenced her with a look. "It may take a few minutes. Will you
drive me up the road?"

"Take the car," the fisherman said. "All I want to do is sit here and
plot my revenge on that fish! Whatever you do, bring me a good rod! I
want to get back in that same pool."

"You'll have a good one," Bill promised.

He drove up the valley, swerved on a rutted road that led toward the
creek, and stopped in front of Asa Dorr's house. It was a three-room
place, but Asa did all his living in one room. In the other two he had
his work shop and cured the wood that went into his matchless rods.

Bill went around to the back and looked through the open doorway to see
Asa sitting on a three-legged stool. There was an almost threadlike
sliver of bamboo--Asa got his raw material through the mail--in his
hands and he was caressing it as affectionately as some men might stroke
a favorite horse or dog. His sensitive fingers probed the wood, feeling
for imperfections and flaws so minute that they were not visible to the
eye.

A shy and gentle man, Asa was always uncomfortable in the presence of
more than one other person. But he and the wood he worked with were one.
He was that rarest of creatures, a true handicraftsman who is also a
true artist. He loved the material he worked with for its own sake
alone, and into it he worked the perfection that he felt in his heart.

Bill said, "Hello, Asa."

"Hello, Bill."

"Do you have any rods to sell?"

"There are four finished."

Bill hesitated. Asa made two grades of rods, perfect and those with some
minor flaws. The laminated strips of which they were fashioned might not
have seasoned as Asa liked, or they might have some slight flaw. Asa
charged his good friends only the cost of the material used. Those who
paid for rods were charged twenty dollars for any with minor flaws, and
thirty for perfection. But the fisherman waiting at the store had paid
thirty-five dollars for a rod not as good as any of Asa's, and Bill knew
enough about trout tackle to have some idea of what Asa's perfect rods
were worth.

"Will you let me have a couple of them?" Bill asked. "I can sell one
right away, and maybe more after that. The store will keep twelve and a
half per cent commission, but I'm going to ask thirty-five and fifty
dollars."

"Take them, Bill."

The rods beside him, Bill drove back to the store. He must make it a
point to see Fanny Gowen as soon as possible and ask her to tie an
assortment of flies that he might offer for sale. But right now there
was a customer waiting.

The man jointed up both the rods Bill had brought. He tested them with
his left hand and switched to his right. Alternately he picked up one
and then the other, and he finally selected the better rod.

"This baby's for me. How much?"

"Fifty dollars."

The fisherman took a wallet from his pocket, laid five ten-dollar bills
on the counter, unjointed the rod, and ran back to his car. Gravel
spurted from beneath the rear wheels as he rushed back toward the pool
where he had lost the big trout. Bill watched him go. These fishermen,
or anyway some of them, had money such as no Elk Shantyite dreamed of
having. Furthermore, they were willing to spend it. Bill sat down on the
counter, then jumped up suddenly and whooped, "I've got it!"

Janice looked startled. "Good heavens! What have you got?"

"The house!" Bill shouted. "The big white house on the hill!"

"What about it?"

"Don't you see? A few pictures in the right places and what happened?
Fishermen are here sleeping in barns because there is no other place!
Jan, if we had that house and remodeled it to make a sportsmen's hotel!
Now do you see?"

Her eyes sparkled. "If we can do it!"

"Who owns that house?"

"Grandfather will know!"

Jan disappeared into the apartment. A moment later she returned with a
slip of paper in her hand.

"It's owned, Grandfather thinks, by the Wilson Lumber Company. The last
Grandfather knew, this was their office address." She handed him the
slip of paper.

"Take care of the store, will you, Jan?"

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to write a letter to the Wilson Lumber Company," said Bill.
"Let's hope they're still at that address."




  CHAPTER NINE

  _Trouble_


After three days, well satisfied with the sport they had enjoyed, the
fishermen from Cannasport left. Almost immediately the rooms were rented
again. All the fishermen who had come had taken at least one good-sized
trout, and those who had left had spread news of the fine trout fishing
to be found around Elk Shanty. They had also advised their friends that
accommodations were hard to find, and some of the more recent arrivals
brought tents.

However, though most of the campers also brought their own supplies,
there was always something they forgot and they had to have it from the
store. Those who boarded fishermen also needed more than usual, and now
they had the cash to pay for it. Fanny Gowen's hand-tied flies were in
such demand that she was working full time just to maintain the supply,
and Bill had sold another of Asa Dorr's rods. He needed leaders, lines,
fly books, reels, and landing nets, because some fishermen were always
losing or breaking theirs and they did not want to go all the way to
Blissville or Cannasport for replacements. Bill sent a letter to Pete
Marrett, asking him to mail an assortment of the necessary articles, and
Pete had sent them by return mail.

Every man in Elk Shanty who wanted to do so could guide fishermen. For
the first time the store was showing a reasonable profit. But Bill was
restless.

He had come to Elk Shanty hoping to find in the store a reasonable
foundation for building a business of his own, and he had stayed on
largely because he had refused to be frightened away. Now, at last, he
saw real opportunity. Elk Shanty had no industry, but it had natural
beauty, fish, game, and peace. All of this was essential to city
dwellers and they were willing to pay for it. Every fisherman had seen
an abundance of game. A fair share of them had declared their intention
of coming back when hunting season opened.

However, if Elk Shanty was to take advantage of this bonanza, it had to
be prepared. Bill had been concentrating on how best to make ready.

As yet he had had no reply from the Wilson Lumber Company, and there
were formidable obstacles in the way, even if he should manage, somehow,
to acquire control of the big white house. When and if he got it, the
house would still have to be remodeled into a hotel and that would take
money--more than Bill had. The store's profit was by no means large, and
much of it had to go into new stock to supply an increasing demand.

There was no furniture at all in the house. Every room would have to be
papered. It was in need of paint, inside and out. The grounds would have
to be cleared and graded. The driveway would have to be repaired, and
though there needn't be a garage right away, there must be a place to
park cars.

Bill strolled outside and looked intently down the road. Every day he
had been on pins and needles, awaiting the arrival of Barney Jumas with
a letter from the Wilson Lumber Company, and Barney seemed to know it.
He took his time about bringing the mail, and often, after delivering
his daily load of fresh bakery and dairy products at the store, he stood
around for a half hour or more, voicing his usual list of terrible
things that were about to occur. Barney not only knew who in Elk Shanty
got mail, but he was also pretty sure of what was in every letter; and
certainly he read all the postcards. But though he might have done it,
he had refused to give Bill his personal mail promptly. Not able to feel
important all the time, Barney took full advantage of any opportunities
that were presented.

Barney was not yet in sight, and Bill strolled restlessly around the
store. Beneath the back porch, almost hidden, was a wooden box that had
not been there yesterday. Bill paid scant attention to it. The store was
a convenient meeting place. Frequently someone who went into Blissville
or Cannasport brought parcels for those who couldn't go and left them at
the store to be picked up.

Dripping wet, Lamb Chops came up from the creek with another sucker in
his mouth. Bill had at last discovered the gaunt hound's fishing
technique. Lamb Chops waded around in shallow pools until he saw a fish.
When he did, he leaped upon it, and though he often had to chase a dozen
before he caught one, sooner or later he succeeded. Lamb Chops wandered
up the hill behind the store, scraped a hole with his front paws, laid
the fish in it, and covered it by pushing dirt with his nose.

Bill walked clear around the building, looked again for Barney Jumas,
and when he didn't see him he went back into the store.

There were no customers, and delicious odors from the kitchen wafted
into every corner of the place. Richard Montgomery and Joe Kincaid had
intended to stay only five days, but on the fifth day, in some wild
stream to which Rifle Eye had guided them, Richard Montgomery had
located another big trout. He had stayed for two extra days to try for
it and early this morning he had gone back for one last attempt. But now
time was running short. He had to return to his office, and the two
attorneys--Joe Kincaid had been entirely willing to stay and fish--would
be in about mid-afternoon, have dinner, and start back.

Bill went into the kitchen and leaned on the back of a chair. He sniffed
again at the good things cooking; Janice had wanted to make the
attorneys' final meal one to remember.

"How about a sample?" Bill inquired.

"Hands off," she warned. "You'll get your share."

Bill grinned, stared out the window, and looked at his watch. "What do
you suppose is the matter with Barney?"

"He'll come."

"Yes, but he's twenty minutes late already."

"Maybe he had a flat tire."

"Do you think the Wilson Lumber Company got my letter?"

"They must have. Otherwise it certainly would have come back to you. You
did have a return address on it."

"Maybe they just threw it in the waste basket."

"Give them a little time, Bill. Maybe you had the wrong address and your
letter was forwarded, or something like that."

"I suppose that might be. Jan, if we had that house and made it into a
hotel--"

He told her again, as he had already told her twenty times, of the plans
he had. Elk Shanty needn't ever be a ghost town. Given the right
facilities, it could be a popular vacation center, and sooner or later
somebody was sure to develop it.

They heard someone enter the store, and Bill rushed out to meet Barney
Jumas. The mail carrier had a crate of milk and, on top of it, a carton
of assorted baked goods. He put them on the counter, grunting heavily as
he did so, and turned around to wipe his face with a handkerchief.

"Don't know how long I can keep hauling this," he said plaintively. "Too
much lifting is like to give a man a rupture, and then where is he?
He's in the hospital with big doctor bills to pay, that's where he is.
Every cent he's got goes for doctor bills. I just don't know how I'm
going to pay them all."

Bill asked impatiently, "Barney, is there mail for me?"

"Yeah, there's mail for you."

"Let's have it, will you?"

"I'd like to, Bill. I'd really like to. But Sadie Cadner, she hands the
mail out. All I do is haul it. If I handed yours to you, and the
Guv'mint found it out, they'd have the postal inspectors here in no
time. You know what they'd do to a man. Why they'd--"

The door to the apartment opened and Janice appeared. "Bill, can you
help me? Oh, hello, Barney."

"Hi, Jan!"

"Excuse me, Barney," Bill said.

Bill went into the apartment, closed the door behind him, and Janice
winked.

"I'm a deceptive wretch, aren't I? There really isn't anything to do,
but I heard him say there's mail and I know you'll develop an ulcer
unless you get it. Stay here until he goes."

Bill waited until he heard Barney leave, and then waited another ten
minutes. Sadie Cadner was not the one to tolerate any nonsense, and
everything that she herself did not think of came under that heading.
All she wanted from Barney was the mail as quickly as possible, and she
didn't want it dripping with Barney's conversation. But if Bill went to
the post office too soon, Barney might buttonhole him again and continue
where he had broken off.

When he thought Barney must be gone, Bill went to the post office, got
his mail, and thumbed through it. There were the usual advertisements
and circulars. Then he came to an envelope with "Wilson Lumber Company"
printed in the upper left-hand corner, and with fingers that almost
trembled he tore it open. He read:

    Dear Mr. Rawls:

    In answer to your letter of the 19th, we do not care to sell the
    property in question. We might, however, consider a long-term
    lease.

    Please advise us if you are interested.

      Sincerely,

      H. C. Wilson, Jr.

Bill knew a mighty disappointment, and then a flash of hope. For the
first time it occurred to him that, even if the property were for sale,
he wouldn't have been able to buy it. He still didn't know how he was
going to lease it, to say nothing of remodeling the place so that it
would be capable of receiving vacationists. Bill thought of asking some
of his friends at Tenngale for a loan, but dismissed the idea. Those who
weren't earning at least part of their expenses were getting by on
skimpy budgets.

When Bill reached the store, he found Janice taking care of a customer.
He waited until she had finished and handed her the letter. She read it,
and when she gave it back her eyes were thoughtful. An orphan, too,
Janice had discovered for herself that there isn't any pot of gold to be
picked up, even if the foot of the rainbow can be discovered, and hopes
built too high can topple with a terrific crash. She seemed on the point
of speaking, but said nothing. Absorbed in his own thoughts, Bill
scarcely noticed.

"There _must_ be a way!" he said fiercely. "There _has_ to be a way!"

"A way to do what?"

Both young people had been concentrating so intensely that neither had
heard the front door open. Now they turned to face Richard Montgomery
and Joe Kincaid. Both looked happy, but neither carried any big trout.

"Didn't you get him?" Bill inquired.

"I did not," the older man said cheerfully, "but I had a lot of fun
trying and I'm coming back to try again. Now what the dickens are you
two troubling your heads about?"

For a moment Bill did not answer. He had a dream, but so far he had
discussed it with nobody except Jan. A man with the attorney's
experience might consider it a nightmare. Bill decided to find out.

"Do you think that other people would come to Elk Shanty if they knew
what we have to offer?" he asked.

"Certainly they would!"

"I think so, too, and--"

Bill told him of the big white house. He spoke of fishermen who, having
enjoyed themselves on Elk Shanty's streams, had expressed a desire to
come back in hunting season. He was frank about his financial
situation, and he knew that remodeling the house would take a lot of
money. But he still thought that if he only could acquire control of the
house, he could somehow find a way to do it and to make everything work
out as he thought it should.

The two attorneys did not interrupt while he spoke, and for a moment
after he finished they made no comment. Then Joe Kincaid said, "I've
worked with Wilson's chief attorney, a chap named Graves. He's a
reasonable sort. Why don't you let us take this matter up with him,
Bill?"

"I just don't know what to do. If I could persuade them to accept
payment after the hotel shows a profit--"

Richard Montgomery said, "You spoke of repairs, and if it's that big
white house on the hill, it can certainly use some. Having their
property in presentable shape should be worth something to Wilson. Maybe
we can work from that angle."

"Do you think you can?"

"We can certainly try. Let me have that letter, will you?"

"Suppose we have something to eat before talking any more shop," Janice
suggested.

"Another first-class idea," Richard Montgomery agreed.

They sat down to the turkey dinner Janice had prepared, ate until they
could eat no more, and the two attorneys went reluctantly to their rooms
to change their clothes and prepare for the drive back. Hearing a
customer enter the store, Bill went out to sell Axel Helgeson's wife a
fifty-pound bag of flour.

He took the ten-dollar bill she presented in payment, counted out her
change, and asked, "How's it going?"

"Busy." She beamed. "Ach yah! Iss goot!"

Carrying the bag of flour as easily as most women carry a purse, she
left and started toward home. Bill looked thoughtfully at her retreating
back. He was not the only one who would gain if Elk Shanty could be
properly developed. In one way or another, all of Elk Shanty had already
benefited. About to go back into the apartment, Bill stopped as another
car rolled to a halt in front of the store.

It was a late-model car with the distinctive black and white coloring of
vehicles used only by the State Police, and on its door was painted the
state emblem and motto. Bill wondered idly at their mission--not since
his arrival there had the State Police visited Elk Shanty--and he waited
as two natty young troopers, whose waists were encircled by gun belts
containing revolvers and polished silver bullets, got out and came into
the store.

There was about neither any of the blustering braggadocio which in some
of the more lurid detective stories is supposed to be an indispensable
accessory of all policemen everywhere. They did possess
self-assuredness. Although they were courteous, it was as if they were
in complete control of the store and everything in it from the moment
they entered.

Bill asked, "Is there something I can do for you?"

"We would like," one said, "to see William Rawls."

"I'm William Rawls."

"Have you been in Cannasport recently, Mr. Rawls?"

Bill felt bewildered. "Yes, I was there the day before yesterday."

"What was the purpose of your visit?"

"To buy stock for my store."

"Who did you buy from?"

"Zunder Brothers, on River Street."

"Is that your only business contact in Cannasport?"

"No, I also buy from Brislow and Adams and from Pete Marrett."

"Were you at either of these places on your last visit to Cannasport?"

"No. I needed fishing tackle, but I asked Pete to mail it and he did."

"You do sell fishing tackle, then?"

"Yes. Say, what's this all about, anyhow?"

"We'll come to that, Mr. Rawls. Did you need this fishing tackle badly?"

"Yes. There are a lot of fishermen in here and there is a demand for
it."

"You are acquainted with River Street?"

"Yes."

"Do you by any chance know where Chatham and Riley are?"

Bill strove to recollect, and recalled seeing the name on one of the
wholesale houses--he thought a sporting goods house--somewhere on River
Street. He could not remember the exact address.

"I know about where they are."

"Do you identify this as your property?"

He took a soiled envelope from his pocket and handed it to Bill. Looking
at it, Bill saw that the envelope, containing a routine report from
Zunder Brothers, was addressed to him. The letter had been opened, but
he could not remember exactly when he had received it. As he handed the
envelope back, he saw that Richard Montgomery and his partner had come
into the store and were listening.

Bill said to the trooper, "Evidently this is one of my letters."

"Mr. Rawls," the trooper said crisply, "three days ago a clerk put a box
containing three dozen Maddenburg reels on a shelf in Chatham and
Riley's warehouse. This morning, when he went to take them out, they
were missing. This letter was found in the warehouse. Explain that,
please."

Bill's head whirled. Maddenburg reels were worth fifty dollars each, and
thirty-six of them were worth eighteen hundred dollars. Bill gasped,

"I don't know anything about it!"

"Yet--"

"Just a moment, Officer."

Richard Montgomery came forward, and Bill knew a vast relief. He had
been overawed by the questions and overwhelmed by the implied
accusation, but Richard Montgomery had had previous experience with
policemen. Conversely, the young trooper had faced many attorneys. He
asked, "What is your interest here?"

"I'm an attorney and this young man is my client. Bill, could someone
else have put that letter there?"

"They could have picked it up around the trash pile. I burn everything I
don't want, but that letter might have blown away from the fire."

The attorney asked, "Isn't that reasonable?"

"It's possible," the trooper admitted. He addressed Bill. "Do you have
any reason to suppose that anyone at all would go to such lengths to
embarrass you?"

"There is somebody here who would like to see me leave Elk Shanty."

"Go on."

Bill told of the slugging, and of the falling tree that had been felled
to hurt Rifle Eye and himself. The trooper listened, and when Bill
finished he asked, "Why didn't you report this to the authorities?"

"I thought I'd handle it myself."

"Nobody takes the law into his own hands."

"I didn't do anything about it."

"Why not?"

"I never found who was responsible."

"Do you have any ideas?"

Bill remembered the healing welt on Tarzan's cheek, and Rifle Eye's hint
that a bullet was responsible. But there still was no proof, so he
answered, "No."

"You deny this theft?"

"I deny it!"

"Do you object to our searching the premises?"

"Go ahead and search."

Janice came into the store. Wide-eyed, frightened, she lingered beside
Joe Kincaid and listened.

The second trooper, who so far had not said a word, walked back into the
apartment and Bill heard him go out the back door. Three minutes later
he came back carrying the wooden box that Bill had seen under the porch.
He lifted the top that was already loose, and still without speaking,
took thirty-five reels out of it and arranged them on the counter. The
trade name "Maddenburg," that was printed on each box pointed at Bill
like so many accusing fingers.

The trooper who had questioned Bill faced him squarely. Bill stared at
the reels, unable to believe what he saw, and he answered the question
in the young trooper's eyes. "I _didn't_ steal them."

"Who did?"

"I don't know."

Richard Montgomery said almost casually, "If you care to accuse my
client formally, do so. I'll go down to Cannasport with you and take the
necessary legal steps to protect his interests."

The young trooper said, almost wearily, "There will be a formal
accusation when we establish definite guilt. This man claims his
innocence, and I have only circumstantial evidence to prove that he is
not telling the truth. Of one thing you may be sure; somebody is guilty
and we intend to find him."

"It is not me," Bill said. "Will it help you to know that the box was
put there last night?"

"How do you know that?"

"If it had been there before, I would have seen it."

"You saw it this morning?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you investigate?"

"People are always leaving parcels around here for others to pick up. It
was nothing unusual."

"All right, Mr. Rawls. You will be available when we need you?"

Bill's anger flared. "I'll be here! What's more, somebody in Elk Shanty
either knows who put that box there or else he did it himself. Give me
thirty days and I'll either find out who did it or plead guilty myself!"

Richard Montgomery warned, "Bill!" But the young trooper smiled
meaningly and said, "That's fair enough. We shall depend upon it. I
must, however, advise you once more that under no circumstances are you
to take the law into your own hands. When you find the guilty party, and
if you do, call us."

"I will. You said there were thirty-six reels?"

"That's right."

"But you counted only thirty-five. Somebody has the missing one."

"We have taken that into account. And we will see you again."

Bill said, "You'll know where to find me."

They left, taking the reels with them, and those remaining in the store
watched them start toward their car. Tarzan, walking down the road,
looked sideways at the store. Paying no attention to him, the two
troopers stood for a moment beside the car. Exactly at that moment, Lamb
Chops came around the corner.

It was as though the gaunt hound had some prearranged plan to which he
had given much careful thought. Silently he glided up behind the pair of
troopers, and when he was near enough he nipped the one who had
questioned Bill. Before the astonished man could wheel, Lamb Chops had
glided on.

Directly to Tarzan he went, and paced companionably on the far side of
the beefy youngster. The trooper shouted and Tarzan looked around. Now
he and Lamb Chops were beside a field of uncut hay, and Lamb Chops
disappeared into it. For a second Tarzan stood stupidly, facing the two
policemen, then he ran like a shot-stung deer.

Richard Montgomery's hearty laughter rang out. "That's quite a dog you
have!"

"Yes." Bill stared at Tarzan, running across the field. He looked for
Lamb Chops, but he was nowhere to be seen. Bill grinned wryly. Lamb
Chops had nipped the trooper for reasons of his own, and then had run to
Tarzan, and walked on his far side, to escape the stone or club which
he was sure would come his way now. But the impression he had created on
uninformed witnesses was that he belonged to Tarzan, and Tarzan's wild
flight had detracted nothing from this idea. The anger of anyone at all
who is attacked by a dog is directed in equal measure at dog and master.

Richard Montgomery said, "We'll be going, Bill. We'll see Wilson for you
and let you know what luck we have. As for this other matter, if there
is more trouble, keep your mouth shut. Don't under any circumstances
admit to anything you didn't do. Get in touch with us at once."

"Thank you very much."

The two young people watched the big car whirl down the road, then went
into the store.

"What's the next step, Bill?" Janice asked quietly.

Bill said grimly, "First things first. Somebody doesn't want me in Elk
Shanty."

"So?"

"I'm going to find out who it is before I do anything else. After I find
him--"

"He warned you not to take the law in your own hands."

"I won't," Bill promised. "I'll abide strictly by the law. But there
isn't a law in the land that says you can't defend yourself if somebody
else takes the first punch!"




  CHAPTER TEN

  _Battle_


All afternoon the store was crowded, but not by people who wanted to buy
a great deal, though all bought something, even if it was only a penny's
worth of jawbreakers. The State Police had visited the village, and the
villagers were not going to be happy until they found out why. Bill
waited on B. B. Jones' garrulous wife.

"Now, let me see," she said, laying a finger beside her chin, "B. B.
told me to be sure and get some gum. Give me a package of gum, Bill."

Bill gave her a package of gum and stood grimly silent while she
puttered around. He knew very well what she wanted and he was as
determined not to tell her anything as she was to learn everything. She
scanned merchandise that she had no intention of buying.

"A stick of cinnamon," she said, after she had dallied as long as
possible. "B. B. always did say that a stick of cinnamon to chew on
keeps the innards clean. Too bad we don't have something to keep the
mind clean, too! Then there'd be no need for State Police!"

"Uh huh."

She warmed to the subject. "When I heard they were here I just couldn't
believe it! They did stop at the store, didn't they?"

"Yes."

"Oh, dear! I suppose they wanted to see somebody?"

"I suppose so."

"Well, I do hope it's nothing bad."

"So do I."

Unable at the moment to think of anything else that cost only a few
pennies, and thus of an excuse for keeping Bill occupied, she told him
that she would look around for whatever else she needed. Bill went over
to wait on Bill Gowen, who looked at him suspiciously while he tried by
the same roundabout method to find out the reason behind the troopers'
visit.

Bill fought a rising irritation. These, his neighbors, were good and
kindly people afflicted by nothing save a very human bump of curiosity.
But right now Bill did not feel like gratifying their wish to know what
had taken place; he didn't want to talk about it because he was too
troubled and worried to talk. In late afternoon, Ten-Trap Gallagher
entered the store and he did not bother to be subtle.

"Heard tell there was law men about," he stated.

"That's right," Bill agreed.

"Was they lookin' for me?"

"Sure they was!" hooted Bill Gowen, who was lingering in the store
again. "I heard 'em say myself, 'Is there a little man hereabouts who
wears a cap like an umbrella tent? We think his name's Gallagher.' Looks
like they got you tagged, Ten-Trap."

"Shut up," Ten-Trap ordered. "Was they lookin' for me, Bill?"

Bill grinned, and some of his nervous tension melted away. There were
rumors that in addition to running his ten traps, Ten-Trap Gallagher had
an illicit still up in the mountains. Nobody had ever seen it and nobody
had proof, but no trapper ever made a living with only ten traps, and
Ten-Trap usually had money.

"They weren't looking for you," Bill said.

"Who did they want?"

Bill said quietly, "Me."

A sudden silence enveloped the store and those in it looked uncertainly
at each other. Bill squared his shoulders and set his jaw. The Elk
Shantyites had at last found out what they wanted to know, and their
reactions would differ. Until late tonight some would deplore the fact
that they had a criminal in their midst and would wonder what Bill had
done. Some, no matter what happened, would remain Bill's friends.

"You, huh?" Ten-Trap said. "Bill, I know a good hidey-hole up in the
hills. The whole blasted State Police force will never find you in it,
an' if they did, they ain't but one man at a time can go up that draw.
Git yourself a rifle an' a hand full of cat'tidges an' you're all set."

"Thanks," Bill said, and he knew that the offer had sprung from true
friendship and a warm heart, "but I'll stay here."

"They kin find you here."

"That's the whole idea."

Ten-Trap looked puzzled, then shrugged. "Given you change your mind,
come see me."

Ten-Trap left the store without buying anything, and the rest drifted
away. They had learned what they wanted to find out and there was no
longer any reason for staying. Tight-jawed, Bill went about his work.
Sooner or later the story would have come out and he would have had to
face his neighbors anyway. It might as well be now.

Bill was certain that some things added up. Whoever had slugged him and
felled the tree across the road, had also planted the stolen fishing
tackle so suspicion would point to him. Certainly it was someone who
lived in Elk Shanty, but most of the Elk Shantyites were automatically
eliminated. Bill thought his enemy was Tarzan, and he intended to find
out. But first there were some facts that Jan could tell him.

The store was empty and no new customers appeared. Janice moved to
Bill's side, and her eyes were soft with sympathy.

"You don't have to care what they're thinking," she said.

Bill grinned wryly. "Yes I do."

"Why?"

"I can't last here unless Elk Shanty's on my side. It's too big a job
for just one to tackle. Everybody will have to pitch in hard if we're
going to get things rolling."

"What are you going to do?"

"Square things with whoever's been trying to frame me, or move out.
There is no other way. Jan, does Tarzan mean anything to you?"

"Why do you ask?"

"The first time I saw you together he called you 'Sugar.' I wondered if
there was a reason for it?"

She said quietly, "He was around the store quite a bit before you came,
and I did go to dances and movies in Blissville with him."

"You never thought of--Well--Marrying him?"

"Look here, nosey, isn't that my affair?"

Bill said morosely, "I reckon it is."

She gentled. "I'm sorry, Bill. I didn't mean to get on my high horse. He
asked me three times to marry him, and I always said I'd let him know.
He did take me out and I didn't want to hurt his feelings. No, I never
thought of marrying him."

"Is there anything at all between you?"

"Bill, why are you asking all this?"

"Answer me first."

"There's nothing between us. Now you explain."

"I've a notion that Tarzan's the one who slugged me, that he felled the
tree across the road, and that he knows who put that box under the
porch."

Her eyes became troubled. "Do you have any good reason for suspecting
him?"

"Rifle Eye saw somebody that night and he shot to crease him. Remember
when Tarzan came in with a welt on his cheek and said he'd spiked
himself while riding a horse? Rifle Eye asked him if the horse was
carrying a rifle?"

"I remember."

"You thought it was Rifle Eye's idea of a joke, but that's what he
really meant."

"Tarzan tried to kill you?" she exclaimed incredulously.

"Somebody did his best."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"I'm going to see Tarzan."

"Don't do it! He's very strong and he might hurt you."

"On the other hand, I might hurt him."

"Please, Bill!"

"Jan, I have to get to the bottom of this. I'll never be successful in
Elk Shanty unless I do."

A battered black convertible with the top missing stopped in front of
the store, and Bill looked at the three young men in the seat. All were
husky and well-muscled, and all, Bill guessed, were between twenty and
twenty-four years old.

Bill recognized none of them, but Janice said, "The driver is Killer
Kress."

"Who's Killer Kress?"

"A boxer. He fights around Blissville and Cannasport. Tarzan took me to
see him one night."

"Wonder what he wants here?"

"I can't imagine."

There was a sudden, raucous blast as the driver pressed the horn button.
He pressed it again, and again, then leaned on it to make the air
hideous with noise.

Already tense and nervous, Bill became angry. He whirled away from
Janice, went outside, and said, "You fellows want something?"

The driver, a stocky man half an inch taller than Bill, merely stared at
him. One of the others half shouted, "Yeh? You the man who stole all
that fishin' tackle an' got in trouble with the police?"

Passing on the far side of the road, Bill Gowen swung around to look. A
door opened and slammed shut as someone else came out of his house to
listen.

Bill tried to control his rising anger but he couldn't do it. He said,
"Suppose you three go back to wherever you came from."

"Hear what he said?" the one who had spoken jeered. "He steals, but when
honest people come around to ask him why, he says they should go away!
What's the matter, Bub? Would you like us better if we'd come out of
jail?"

Bill felt leaping rage, and he clenched his fists. He was aware that
Janice said something, but he was too preoccupied to know what it was.
Now he knew why the three in the convertible were there; they had come
looking for trouble and certainly they knew something about the stolen
reels. His anger was fanned to white heat, but he spoke clearly. "You
three seem to know all about it! Which one of you did it?"

The driver, who had said not a word, smirked like a bull terrier about
to go in for the kill. With the lithe grace of a trained athlete, he
slid out of the car and rippled toward Bill. The other two flanked him
on either side, and Bill waited. It would have been sensible to run and
ordinarily he would have run; one man alone just doesn't whip three,
each of whom is as big as he is. But Bill was too mad to run.

Three yards away they stopped, and for the first time the driver spoke,
"What was that you said?"

Bill gritted, "Which one of you three stole that fishing tackle?"

They came on, their arms swinging and deadly intention in their eyes.
The three spread a little farther apart, to take Bill from three sides.

The blast of a rifle seemed suddenly to build an invisible wall that
stopped them in their tracks. The loose shirt sleeve of the man on the
outside right moved as though by an invisible wind. Rifle Eye Smith
slouched around a corner of the store.

He said as casually as though he were talking about his truck, "I walked
this time, Bill. Took the short cut over the ol' mountain an' come down
behin't your store. Which one of these mud puppies do you want? Or
should we ought to send the whole business down the holler yipin'?"

Bill grinned savagely, and again he thought clearly. He was not afraid
of the three, but at the same time he knew the folly of fighting all of
them at once. The only possible result would be a savage beating for
himself. He said very clearly, "Let 'em pick their own, Rifle Eye."

Rifle Eye said, "You heard the man. Which one of you hair-shanked
donkeys wants to be first? Or are you scare't without you fight three at
a time?"

The driver stayed where he was. His two companions fell back. Rifle Eye
waved his rifle almost carelessly. "Give 'em room. If anybody takes a
notion to get in, don't do it."

Bill felt suddenly relaxed, as he always felt when ready to go into a
fight. All his attention was riveted on his opponent, so that he
scarcely saw the ring of people surrounding them. Bill waited for the
other to bring the battle to him.

He came catfooting across the short space that separated them and in his
eyes was a vast certainty. Killer Kress had faced too many boxers in
Blissville's and Cannasport's smoke-filled halls of sport to have any
doubts. He knew the game he was about to play, but he had played it only
in small-time arenas.

He feinted with his left hand, flicked his right, and now he betrayed a
little surprise and a little uncertainty. He knew as soon as he tried
and failed to smash him down at once that he had misjudged his opponent.

Never moving his feet, Bill evaded the other's expert lunge merely by
swaying his body, and in that moment he found out everything he had to
know. The other was a good boxer, but not by any means in the same class
with Alan Chesterton. He wasn't as good as fighters Bill had defeated,
and when he moved away Bill ducked in to swing at his midriff.

He missed, and landed an almost harmless glancing blow on the other's
ribs. Bill followed up with a quick left that rocked his opponent's head
and sent him staggering back. Killer Kress's ham-like fist shot forward.

Bill gasped. Deliberately low, the blow had caught him in the groin and
for a moment he knew agony. His breath came in choppy gasps; red lights
danced in front of his eyes. He retreated almost to the spectators, who
moved back to give him room. He shook his head, gasped lungs full of
fresh air, and stepped aside when his enemy charged. He had forgotten
for the moment that this fight was not governed by rules of any kind and
the oversight had almost been disastrous.

For another moment Bill gave ground. The burning pain in his side faded
to a numbed dullness. Anger flared. He pivoted and drove furiously in.
This time, when he swung for the midriff, he connected full force and he
saw the other's face go a shade paler. Now he knew one of his enemy's
weak points.

They sparred, neither doing more than bruise the other, and Bill ducked
another deadly blow aimed at his groin. He stepped back, satisfied with
what he had seen. When Killer Kress swung that way, he left his guard
wide open for the fractional part of a second. That was all a boxer
needed.

Bill made a direct frontal attack, feinted at the head, and swung again
to the other's midriff. He felt a fist crash into his mouth and knew
that he was tasting his own blood. Though he still remained almost
unaware of the spectators, he heard Janice shout, "Knock his ears down,
Bill! Lay him out!"

With deliberate fury Bill went in again. His cheek throbbed and he
supposed he must have been hit there. He could still taste blood in his
mouth. But he knew exactly how this fight was going to end.

He dropped his guard, inviting another smashing blow to the groin. His
eyes remained on the other's face and he timed everything exactly. The
blow, meant to disable him, skidded past instead and for the merest
speck of time Killer Kress's jaw was exposed.

Bill whirled close to the other and put every ounce of weight behind his
driving right fist. He connected squarely, right on the jaw. At once he
followed with a left to the midriff and flung his right again. Killer
Kress brought his guard up, but now it was a weak guard that could be
smashed down. When he attempted an offensive, his striking fist went
wide. Bill hit again, and again, smashing alternately into the jaw and
midriff and now making no effort to keep his own guard up.

Killer Kress took three stumbling backward steps, looked wildly about,
and fumbled with his arms. His knees buckled; his head rolled drunkenly
on a nerveless neck. Like a fire-seared straw, he collapsed slowly on
the ground.

Breathing heavily, Bill stepped back. Killer Kress groaned, made a
feeble effort to lift himself with his arms, and slumped forward. Bill
took a deep breath and looked at Rifle Eye.

"I'm ready for the next one."

Rifle Eye was grinning crookedly, and he had never before looked at Bill
as he was looking at him now.

"Next man!" he sang out. "Who wants to try it?"

Killer Kress pushed himself to his hands and knees, rose uncertainly,
looked sidewise at Bill, and stumbled to the convertible.

Bill knew suddenly that he was very weary. He stared at the encircling
spectators, but no face was clear. He knew that he must wash his face
with cold water, and after that he wanted sleep. Bill stumbled back into
the store and he heard the key turn as Janice locked the door behind
them.

He sat on a chair and felt the soothing touch of a cold cloth in
Janice's hand. She washed the blood from his cheek and mouth, and
brought a fresh compress to hold against his cuts. He noted with
surprise that her hand was trembling.

"You big potato-head!" she burst out suddenly. "Brawling like a common
thug!" Her voice choked on a sob. "Oh Bill! You might have been hurt!"




  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  _Arrest_


Lamb Chops had been uneasy for the past several days and at no time had
he ventured very far from the store. Not even once had he gone down to
the creek to indulge in his favorite hobby of chasing fish around
shallow pools. The gaunt hound fretted because Bill was troubled and
gloomy, and nothing seemed able to bring him out of the melancholy into
which he had subsided.

Lamb Chops had brought Bill three suckers, a discarded inner tube that
he had found and buried against the time when he might have need of such
a thing, a rubber ball that he had found in the road, and a live rooster
from Ellery Ganson's poultry yard. This last Lamb Chops had carried
carefully, and when he delivered the chicken not even one of its
feathers was ruffled.

However, magnificent though Lamb Chops knew them to be, none of his
gifts had brought any response aside from the fact that Bill had taken
the rooster back and released it near Ellery's house. The hound had
stopped bringing presents and he was almost at a complete loss. The fact
that he did not know what else to do was no solace, and lately he had
been staying very near Bill. He even slept at night close to the door
leading into the apartment, instead of in his usual bed in the corner.
That helped a little but not much, and he was rapidly becoming
frustrated.

Now he lay in his corner, stretched out but not sleeping, and followed
every move as Bill waited on a customer. There seemed to be no
spontaneity whatever about him, and none of the joy of everyday living
that until now had marked him and made him a delight to live with. He
went about his duties as though he were a mechanical thing that was
moved by the timed turning of gears.

The customer left and Bill sat idly on the counter. Lamb Chops closed
his eyes and went to sleep. Lots of times when he had been unable to
decide exactly what he should do he had slept, and then figured out a
course of action after he awakened. The white hound began to snore.

Bill remained seated on the counter and devoted his thoughts to the many
perplexities with which his days had been laden. He had known from the
first that putting the Elk Shanty store on a paying basis would be a
hard and uphill fight. He had almost lost, then found a way to gain, and
now everything was trouble.

A week ago he had had a cordial letter from Richard Montgomery to the
effect that they were negotiating with the Wilson Lumber Company and
finding them stubborn. There was still hope that everything would work
out very well but it would take time. As soon as there was some definite
word, Bill would be advised.

Bill worried about that, but he worried more about the immediate
problems confronting him. Sure that Tarzan was the one who would like to
drive him out of Elk Shanty, all his certainties had been upset by the
arrival of Killer Kress and his hoodlum companions. Why had they come
with the obvious intention of beating Bill up? Where was the tie-in
between the three and events in Elk Shanty? Bill was sure that one
existed. But he had reported everything to the State Police and after
investigating carefully, they had proven beyond a doubt that Killer
Kress and his friends had not been near Cannasport for a month. They
couldn't possibly have stolen the reels.

The State Police had also hinted somewhat strongly that though they had
probed into every corner, no other leads concerning the theft had been
unearthed. In less than two weeks, the thirty days would be up and if
something had not been discovered by that time, Bill must go into
Cannasport for more intensive grilling. He was still suspect. In fact,
he was the only suspect. There was not a shred of evidence to prove that
anyone else was even remotely connected with the theft.

There were a few bright streaks in the somber clouds that darkened
Bill's personal horizon. The store had suffered a small loss of business
because some Elk Shantyites, certain that Bill was a criminal of no
small stature, refused to trade with him. But it had gained more
because, as it developed, Killer Kress was a local boy of considerable
fame. Several native Elk Shantyites who fancied themselves with their
fists had been defeated by him, and remote mountain families who would
have found it as easy to trade in Blissville came to Elk Shanty instead.

In addition, Bill had been approached by two hopeful promoters, one from
Blissville and one from Cannasport. Both advised him to forget what they
described as a jerkwater store in a hick village and fight
professionally. He was a sure-fire drawing card, and the promoters were
vehement about the fact that he could earn more money in five years in
the ring than he could in fifty in Elk Shanty. Bill had declined their
offers with thanks. He knew enough about professional boxing to know
that his chances of ever rising above the Blissville-Cannasport circuit
were small.

Bill slid off the counter and strolled restlessly about the store. Lamb
Chops raised his head to follow him with his eyes, and Bill grinned
faintly at the big hound. Lamb Chops' efforts to console him and to be a
friend in time of need had not gone unappreciated, but where human
beings failed, dogs could not work miracles.

A couple of fishermen driving a sleek station wagon, the rear loaded
with camping gear and fishing tackle, stopped and came into the store.
After buying two loaves of bread and a pound of butter, and asking where
they might set up their tent, they drove away. Bill stared soberly at
the station wagon as it rolled up the road.

Elk Shanty was busier and more prosperous than it had been since the
lumber crews left. The first few fishermen who came might have been only
venturesome souls who would go anywhere if there was even a remote
chance of finding good sport. But those who were coming now were doing
so because they were sure the fish would be awaiting them. All the
earlier visitors were satisfied, all were anxious to come back, and they
had lost no time in telling their friends of this rare place. Elk Shanty
already had a reputation as a sportsmen's paradise, and that reputation
was growing.

Gosmer Wisman, so out of tune with the life around him that he was only
vaguely aware of its existence, came into the store and puttered
meaninglessly with a folded paper. A gentle old man, and a proud one, he
remembered clearly only that time when Elk Shanty had been a rip-roaring
boom town. The automobiles that purred up the Tower Hill Road were less
real to him than the ox teams that had plodded it.

Janice came softly in to stand by her grandfather's side. There had been
little change in his condition and he still slept a great deal of the
time. It was not, Bill reflected, a bad life. Gosmer Wisman had been
through bad and good, but he remembered only the good. The bad had been
claimed by flying years. When he was ready, Janice quietly led him away.
. . . A moment later she came back.

"I should have brought a scoop shovel," she remarked.

"You should?"

"Uh huh. Have to make a path through all this gloom somehow; it's a foot
thick on the floor. Bill, why don't you snap out of it?"

"Is it that bad?"

"It's terrible," she assured him. "I think it has been a million years
since I've seen an honest-to-gosh smile on your face. You look like a
sky full of thunderheads."

"Oh, I don't know," he defended. "All the girls back in Tenngale thought
I was pretty handsome."

She smiled. "You are, in an ugly sort of way. Now, see here, you can
mope around the store for the next forty years and that's all the good
it will do you. Don't you know of a fish you can go catch?"

"So! Want to get rid of me, huh?"

"Of course. There's quite a lot of money in the box and as soon as I can
get you out of the way, I'm going to run off with it. Go out on the
streams, William. Breathe the scent of summer flowers. Listen while the
leaves rustle and the birds sing. Bare your soul to the freshening sun.
Let Nature, the unsurpassed redeemer, relieve your body of its ills and
your mind of its burdens."

Bill said sarcastically, "You've been reading books again."

She laughed. "I have not! I made all that up myself and I think it's
good, even if some people around here don't appreciate noble thoughts.
Why don't you have a holiday, Bill? You haven't been out in a long
while."

"Might be a good idea at that."

"Now you're talking sense. The store has been here seventy-five years
or so. I doubt if it will sprout wings and fly away in the next few
hours. Are you going up to fish with Rifle Eye?"

"No, I think I'll just go down Elk Shanty Creek."

Elk Shanty was the main creek and all the upper sections were easily
reached from the highway. However, it was not over-fished. Most of the
fishermen who visited Elk Shanty had golden dreams of some seldom or
never-visited wilderness stream where the trout were big and would hit
hard. Too many of them had had sad experience with trout water close to
a highway, and not one in ten ever tried Elk Shanty Creek. There were
good trout in it, and that Bill knew because he had taken some and seen
others.

He put on the oxfords and trousers he had worn that day--and it seemed
so long ago--when he hadn't known where Elk Shanty was and had started
out to walk to it. Both shoes and trousers were battered and worn beyond
hope of repair, but they still made a good fishing rig. Though all the
streams around Elk Shanty were spring-fed and therefore cold the year
around, they were not so cold in summer as to make boots necessary. And
it made no difference if shoes and trousers that had already been
soaking-wet a dozen times were soaked again.

Lamb Chops kept his nose at Bill's heels as he walked up to the bridge,
and the gaunt hound sat on the bank when Bill cast. He retrieved and
cast again, laying his fly in a sun-sprayed ripple and letting it float
down. There was a splash of color in the depths as a trout came up,
looked at the fly, and went back. Twice more Bill laid the fly across
the same stretch of water, then worked his way downstream. The trout
that had looked at his fly was not big.

For the first time since the State Police had visited him, Bill felt
better and almost lighthearted. Troubles and problems shut in any four
walls always loom larger than they really are. But the out-of-doors
itself is so big that, compared to it, the many irritations which beset
human beings are almost petty. It is impossible for a true fisherman to
be on a trout stream and worry about anything at all.

Bill stopped and breathed his pleasure. A doe and her spotted fawn were
standing belly-deep in a little side eddy. Both were watching him, and
when he came nearer than they thought he should they splashed out of the
pool and disappeared in the forest. Bill worked another ripple, then a
pool. He took a foot-long rainbow and creeled it. Twenty minutes later
he took another of the same size, and then a third. Three such fish were
all that he, Jan, and Gosmer could eat. He settled into the earnest
business of tempting a big one.

Starting at the bridge, Elk Shanty Creek flowed to the base of the
mountain on the other side of the valley, skirted it, and came back in a
huge U, to flow within a hundred feet of where the Tower Hill Road
climbed the mountain. Then the creek plunged down a wild valley to spill
into the river just above Blissville.

At the farthest curve of the U was a long and deep pool, where three
times Bill had seen a big brown trout. Though he had never seen it
clearly, he guessed that it weighed five pounds. Each of the three times
the trout had been near a trickle of water that flowed from the mountain
into the pool, and Bill supposed that it liked to linger there because
of the insects that washed down the smaller stream.

Lamb Chops trailed along the bank. Bill waded to his belt in the cold
water, going toward a spit of land that jutted into the pool and from
which he could conveniently cast toward the trout's chosen lair. Jumping
down onto the spit of land, Lamb Chops joined him. The gaunt hound
glanced disinterestedly downstream.

Bill followed his gaze. The pool, about three hundred yards long,
trailed out in a ripple and there was a big sycamore overhanging the
water at that point. Just this side of the sycamore, another fisherman
was casting into the lower end of the pool and Bill recognized Tarzan.
He paid no special attention. The beefy young man lived on a farm at the
foot of the hill and probably this was a convenient place for him to
fish.

Bill cast and saw his fly blown back by an unexpected gust of wind. He
retrieved and cast again, tensely excited as he waited for a strike and
not particularly disappointed when he did not get one. Stalking one
particular big fish was an art in itself. The fact that it was almost
always hard to make a big fish strike only made such fishing more
interesting.

Absorbed in what he was doing, Bill glanced downstream when he retrieved
his fly. He saw the sycamore at the foot of the pool and now there were
two men beside it, but his mind registered what his eyes saw in a hazy,
offhand manner. He was too interested in trying to catch the big fish to
concentrate on anything else.

He cast again, laying the fly perfectly on the water, and there was a
swirl beside it. His heart pumped fast and a little smile curled the
corners of his mouth. Once more he cast.

This time the line tightened and the rod bent almost double as a big
fish struck so hard that he hooked himself. Bill kept his right thumb
and forefinger on the reel, stripping in line inch by inch while a happy
grin lighted his face. He knew that he was fighting a big trout and
would need all the skill at his command to land it.

The fish--a savage, furious thing--charged straight across the pool and
turned to go back. Powerfully it bored toward the bottom. Bill played it
with the supple rod. Even his big brook trout had not battled more
fiercely than this fish. Certainly it weighed more than five pounds. The
fish started down the pool and Bill let him have line.

Suddenly the line went slack and the fish was gone.

His heart still pounding, Bill reeled in. He grimaced and swallowed a
rising disappointment. He never minded losing small trout, but big ones
like this were real prizes and well worth having. His lips framed a sick
grin. The trout he had just lost would become a never-never fish. Of
course he would try again to catch it, but no matter how big a trout he
caught in this pool, it would never, never be as big as the one he
hadn't caught.

Bill walked back to the bank and started downstream. About a quarter of
a mile down, he knew of another pool that harbored a big trout, and
evidently trout were feeding. He might have a chance at the other one.
Keeping near the water's edge, so that he might avoid the tangle of
weeds and brush which are usually found along stream banks, Bill ducked
to avoid hanging willow branches.

He rounded a copse of willows, reached the leaning sycamore, and came
face to face with Tarzan and the boxer from Blissville, Killer Kress.

Arms folded across his chest, Tarzan stood at the water's edge and
blocked Bill's path. His face was expressionless. Killer Kress leaned
against the sycamore. Bill halted in his tracks, looking from one to the
other, and his first reaction was anger. He did not know what the pair
wanted, but whatever it might be, it was not intended to do him any
good.

Lamb Chops sat down close to Bill, and the latter knew a moment's
uncertainty. When he had first seen Tarzan, the other had been fishing.
Or had he? Bill could not be certain now whether or not there had been a
trout rod in Tarzan's hands. He asked, "Are you looking for something?"

Tarzan's thick lips were set in a mirthless grin. "Yeah. You."

Bill murmured, "Should I be flattered?"

"You was told--" Tarzan grunted. "You was told once before that we don't
need no city men in Elk Shanty."

Bill remembered that spring night in front of the store, and a vague
voice speaking as his knees buckled under him and he went down. His
anger leaped and he stared directly at Tarzan. Now he no longer had to
guess who had wielded a blackjack that night. He knew. But even while
his rage mounted there was a question in his mind. Why?

He looked sideways at Killer Kress, still lingering near the tree. Bill
was thankful that he had not worn boots. They would have slowed his
footwork, and if his guess was correct, very shortly he would have to
fight both Tarzan and Killer Kress or take a beating himself.

Tarzan said again, "You was told. It ain't as if you wasn't told."

Bill said, "I was told all right." He worked the rod up in his hand so
that he gripped the heavier butt piece. When the fight started his first
move would be to hit either Tarzan or Killer Kress, whichever was
handiest, over the head with the reel. "What are you two gibbering
idiots going to do now?"

The brush rustled. Lamb Chops, who had disappeared, came back with his
jaws clamped over the butt end of a fishing rod whose mid-section and
tip were dragging. Proudly, as was always his way when offering
presents, he brought it to his friend. Bill looked down at the reel.
The trade name "Maddenburg" seemed to leap up to meet his eyes.

Thirty-six reels in the stolen carton, but only thirty-five present when
counted! Here was the missing one. Tarzan had been unable to resist
keeping it for himself, and he had thrown his rod back into the brush
when Bill came along. Bill watched the other's eyes go uglier.

Tarzan's hand slid into his pocket, and when he brought it out his
fingers curled around the rough-carved hilt of a knife. A four-inch
blade, honed to razor sharpness, glinted in the sun. Tarzan pointed the
blade at Bill's stomach.

Bill swallowed hard, and cold fingers caressed his spine. There was a
vast expanse of wilderness around Elk Shanty, with numerous caves and
crevices. An army might search for a year, and unless they were very
lucky they could easily overlook anything as small as a murdered man's
body.

Bill took a better grip on the butt of his fishing rod and kept his eyes
on Tarzan. The beefy young man had to be first now, and Bill must do as
much damage as he could as quickly as possible. If he could knock Tarzan
out with the reel, he need not fear Killer Kress. He scarcely noticed
Lamb Chops, sitting in front of him and begging with mute eyes for
attention to the present he had found in the woods. Tarzan's fishing rod
lay at Bill's feet.

Centering his eyes on Tarzan, Bill clenched the butt of his own rod and
awaited the moment to strike. He picked his spot, a place just above
Tarzan's right ear, snapped the rod back and made ready to snap it
forward.

There was a sudden unearthly shriek that, for a split second, drowned
the murmur of the water and the rustle of the wind in the trees. It was
a rising wail that had in it the suffering and agony of every mortal
being. Tarzan, intending to close with Bill, had had eyes only for his
enemy. In stepping forward, he had trampled squarely on Lamb Chops'
tail. Even as he screamed his indignation, Lamb Chops whirled. And as he
pivoted, he launched himself into the air. He was willing to let other
dogs do the hunting, but he still knew where to strike an enemy.
Straight at Tarzan's throat he aimed his terrible jaws.

Leaping backward, Tarzan threw up a bulging forearm to protect his
throat. Not to be diverted, while he was still in the air Lamb Chops
strove desperately for that extra half ounce of effort that would enable
him to drive through the barrier. He failed, fell back, and in that
split second Tarzan turned to run.

He sprang at a low-hanging branch of the sycamore, gripped it with both
hands, and drew himself up. But just as he leaped, Lamb Chops jumped,
too. His jaws closed over the slack of Tarzan's trousers, and when he
fell back he carried a generous portion of the other's pants in his
mouth. At once he shook it free and reared against the trunk, thinking
only of his enemy. Tarzan scrambled to a higher branch and crouched
there.

Breathing hard, Bill faced Killer Kress. He clenched his fists and
advanced purposefully. The boxer retreated.

"I didn't do it! I didn't do anything!"

"Who did?"

"He did!"

"He stole those reels?"

The other nodded. Bill looked up at Tarzan, sweating in a crotch of the
tree while Lamb Chops raged beneath it. He returned his attention to
Killer Kress.

"He hid the box beneath the store, too?"

"Yeh! He did that too!"

"What did _you_ have to do with it?"

"He'd give me a hundred dollars, he said, if I picked a fight with you
so you wouldn't get on his track. I should beat you up so you'd think it
was me. He said the police could prove it wasn't."

"Go on."

"He never give me the hundred dollars! I came to find out why and the
man at the farm said I'd find him fishing down here. Just after I found
him, we saw you. He said he'd make it five hundred if I'd help him take
care of you!"

Bill's head whirled. Tarzan resented his presence in Elk Shanty so
bitterly that he had tried in every way he knew to get rid of him. He
had even hired the brainless clod who now groveled before Bill to help
him.

"Did he tell you," Bill asked, "where he was going to get five hundred
dollars?"

"Yeh. Yeh. The old man's money. He had the inside track with the girl
before you come along."

"Oh, for pete's sake!"

Bill stood dumbfounded. The myth of Gosmer's wealth--and a man who had
gone to any lengths to lay his hands on non-existent money! All he had
to do, Tarzan thought, was marry Janice and he would be rich. Bill
looked at the man in the tree, and at Killer Kress. He spoke slowly, "If
I were you, I'd go back to wherever I came from. That is, if you can
still find the same den of worms. Don't come back to Elk Shanty. Not
ever."

"Are you lettin' me go?"

"I am, but I can't speak for the State Police. I'm going to tell them
the whole story. Get going and start now."

Killer Kress dived into the brush and Bill heard him crashing through
it. He waited a moment, then turned on his heel and walked away. Killer
Kress wouldn't come back, and Tarzan would be there when he was wanted.
Lamb Chops did nothing by halves. He would stay at the tree for as long
as it might be necessary.

    *    *    *    *    *

Janice was talking to Rifle Eye Smith when Bill got back to the store.
She turned from him to Bill with, "Hello, stranger."

"Hello who?"

"You aren't the same person who walked out of here to go fishing."

"You could be right," Bill said. "Rifle Eye, are you doing anything for
the next hour or so?"

"Nothin' special."

"Do you want to take my truck, run into Blissville, and phone the State
Police at Cannasport? Lamb Chops treed a possum in that big sycamore
down at the bend. The possum's name is Tarzan, and he knows all about
where those Maddenburg reels came from and how they got here."

Rifle Eye said, "I'm on my way."

"Tell them," Bill called as he went out the door, "that there isn't any
special hurry."

Rifle Eye was gone. For a moment Janice was silent. She looked at Bill
and asked, "Is it true?"

"It's true."

"Tarzan is the one?"

"That's right."

"I feel sorry for him," she said.

"Why?"

"Because he's such a big, blundering ape. Because he thinks he's
terribly clever, and isn't. Because--Bill, what will happen to him?"

"Not too much. This, I understand, is his first offense."

She murmured, "Yes it is. It's too bad he had to kill his own chances
just when everything in Elk Shanty is going so well. And it may get
better. I'm so excited. I picked up the mail while you were fishing and
there's a letter from the Wilson Company. Here. Hurry and see what it
says!"

Bill opened the letter she handed him and read aloud:

    Dear Bill;

    I suppose you think an eternity has come and gone, but these
    things usually take time. I hope the results will please you.

    To spare you a lot of legal terminology, you can have the place
    on a five-year lease if, within two years, you will repair and
    maintain it. After that, the lease will be extended to
    ninety-nine years, provided that you maintain the property in
    reasonable condition, pay a rental which is not to exceed five
    per cent of your gross, and keep a room for visiting Wilson big
    guns when and if they visit Elk Shanty. If you intend to go
    ahead with your plans, don't hesitate to sign and return the
    enclosed contracts. They're fair.

    I spend my evenings dreaming about Elk Shanty's fishing. I don't
    think, darn the luck! that I will be able to get back before the
    trout season ends, but both Joe and I plan on joining you in
    hunting season. We're bringing four more people with us, so get
    that hotel operating!

      Good Luck!

      Dick Montgomery

Bill folded the letter and said, "Gosh!"

"Are you pleased, sire?" Janice asked.

Bill didn't even hear her. "Everything's easy now! Everything's set! All
I have to do is find someone who will loan me a thousand dollars to get
started!"

Janice said, "If you asked me very nicely, I might do that myself."




  CHAPTER TWELVE

  _The Big Hotel_


Bill grinned amiably at Janice, reread the letter once more, and glanced
at the imposing legal document that was enclosed in the envelope. He did
not read that; if Richard Montgomery said it was all right, then it was.
His cheeks were flushed and a rising excitement made his temples throb.

He tapped his chin with the folded document and looked unseeingly at the
wall. The house had fifteen rooms, including a huge kitchen, a big
dining room, and a spacious living room with a fireplace. That left
twelve rooms, and all of them were big enough for two single beds and a
dresser. Some of them would take three beds. Bill concentrated fiercely
on the problems facing him.

There was a big wood-burning range already in the kitchen and a long
table could be built for the dining room. But the house had to be
completely restored, with at least two coats of paint on the outside,
varnish for the inside, and new wallpaper for every room. Paint, paper,
and the necessary materials, such as brushes for applying them, would
cost a lot of money, but furniture would cost more. It would not have to
be luxurious furniture because hunters and fishermen did not ask for
luxury. They did expect comfort, though. Bill tried not to think of the
large sums he would have to spend before every room could be ready. He
might start with a thousand dollars and have at least part of the house
ready to receive guests.

He exclaimed, "Darn the luck!"

Janice asked, "What's the matter?"

"If I'd known about this letter, I'd have gone into Cannasport myself.
Now I'll have to wait for Rifle Eye to bring the truck back."

"Cannasport will be there when Rifle Eye gets back."

"I'd like to get in before the banks close. Somehow and somewhere I have
to raise money. We could start with a thousand dollars."

Janice took a hammer from the shelf, raised it high over her head, and
let it fall to the floor. She gazed steadily at Bill.

"Did you hear that?"

He looked puzzled and startled. "Sure. Janice, what's getting into you?"

"I just thought," she chuckled, "that there must be something wrong with
your hearing."

"What the dickens are you driving at?"

"You mean you didn't hear me?"

"Of course I heard you. Why--"

"I said," she spoke very slowly and enunciated each syllable almost
painfully, "that--I--can--loan--you--a--thousand--dollars."

Bill had been so involved in his own thoughts that he hadn't heard her
the first time. Now he stared, dumbfounded.

"Where did you get a thousand dollars?"

"Hard work and thrift," she said virtuously. "I'm the best type of
American womanhood. Besides, I had some money when I came and I've
worked in this old store for a year now and where would I spend
anything? The fellows who take me out--always supposing somebody would,
she said hopefully--pick up the checks themselves."

"Jan!"

The sound exploded from his lips. In a wild ecstasy he stepped forward,
flung both arms around her, and kissed her. Bill stepped back, and
Janice reached up to push a stray lock of hair into place. Her eyes were
very bright.

"Oh!" she whispered. "I wish I had another thousand dollars to loan
you!"

Bill breathed, "My gosh! I never kissed a girl before!"

"William!" she chided him.

"Not that way!"

"You mean," she asked, "that I kiss better?"

"The months I've wasted! I should have done that before!"

"Why didn't you? I did everything except send you an engraved
invitation, and I was about ready to do that!"

There was a sudden, unaccountable shyness on the part of both, but a
deep intimacy, too. They looked at each other and smiled. As though they
were of one mind, they moved so that they were side by side and very
near each other. For a moment they did not speak.

Finally Janice said, "With all we have to do, a thousand dollars isn't
really very much, is it?"

"It's a lot."

She said doubtfully, "Are you thinking of everything, Bill? I'll gladly
go down and work on the place myself, and I know you will. But there's
so much to be done."

Bill said, "Leave it up to me."

"Not everything."

He said, "No, not everything. Leave it up to us."

Rifle Eye came back with the truck. As the woodsman entered the store,
being a man of wisdom, he looked knowingly on the two young people. He
realized that there had been an important change in their relationship,
and the smile on his face was not the smile of a cynic. A man who
understood many things, Rifle Eye understood and approved of this. But
all he said was, "The police are on their way, Bill."

"Good. Do you know where to find Tarzan?"

"I know."

"Want to take care of things?"

"That I do. I think I can keep ol' Lamb Chops from massacreein' Tarzan
when he comes down out of the tree. You got somethin' to be done, go
ahead an' do it."

"Thanks."

Rifle Eye said profoundly, "There ain't but one thing more, Bill."

"What's that?"

"I was the first one you met when you come to Elk Shanty. Right?"

"Right."

"Then," Rifle Eye said smugly, "I'm gonna be first to kiss the bride."

Janice laughed, and Bill grinned--and their final glances were for each
other as he went out the door. Bill climbed into the truck, turned it
around, and started down the Tower Hill Road. On the concrete between
Blissville and Cannasport, he drove faster. The afternoon sun was still
high when he arrived.

With him there rode a feeling that had been completely lacking on that
first uncertain trip when he and Rifle Eye had come in together to buy
stock for the store. No longer was he the raw and fumbling youngster
that he had been. Though he knew that he still had much to learn, he had
learned.

Bill drove to Zunder Brothers, parked in front of the warehouse, and
entered. The girl in the outer office welcomed him with a smile.

"Hi! How's everything in the big woods?"

"Wild and woolly," Bill assured her. "Is Mr. Lawrence in?"

"I think so." She spoke into the inter-office phone and said to Bill,
"He's here. Go right in."

Bill walked down the familiar corridor to Mr. Lawrence's office. He
entered, and it seemed that the person he had been when he first stood
here no longer existed. Zunder Brothers still held his jewelry, and the
store at Elk Shanty still owed nineteen hundred dollars that would have
to be paid. Bill knew only that he was unafraid. Somehow or other,
during his months in Elk Shanty he had acquired confidence.

Mr. Lawrence rose to shake hands. "Glad to see you again. Business in
Elk Shanty must be good."

"I'm not buying for the store this trip," Bill said. "I've come to ask a
favor."

"If I can extend it, I will."

"I have money but I must stretch it. Can Zunder Brothers buy furniture,
paint, and wallpaper wholesale?"

"We have channels. Don't tell me you're going to open a furniture
department?"

"No, we have a hotel--"

Bill told him the story of Elk Shanty. Neglecting nothing, he spoke of
the store and of how he had almost lost everything. Now the store was
earning money. The fishermen who visited Elk Shanty were responsible for
that; they had money and they spent it. Bill went on to speak of the
hotel. Hunters would come, too, and more fishermen, if only they had a
place to stay. Though no vast amount of money would be realized at the
start, the hotel was sure to be a paying proposition in time. That, in
turn, would affect the prosperity of the store advantageously. In the
end, all of Elk Shanty would gain. Once destined to be a ghost town, it
could be a happy and prosperous community, with something for everybody.

When Bill was finished, Mr. Lawrence leaned back in his chair. "How much
money do you have?"

"A thousand dollars."

"It won't be enough. Why don't you use your credit?"

"My credit?"

"Certainly."

"But--"

Mr. Lawrence laughed. "The first time you came in here, I didn't know
you from Adam. Since then you've dealt extensively with us and with
others. You've paid your bills on time and, all in all, you've done what
you said you would do when you said you would do it. Nobody has had to
press you and nobody has been cheated by you. Though you had no credit
rating when you started, the way you've conducted your business affairs
has earned one for you. You have a thousand dollars. Provided you aren't
unreasonable, you should be able to get everything you need, pay for it
on terms acceptable to you, and we'll arrange for you to get it
wholesale. Can you handle it?"

Bill said, "I can handle it."

Mr. Lawrence spoke into the phone, hung up, and called another number.
He looked at Bill.

"Go down to Harkins for your paint and wallpaper, and over to Jones and
Allen for whatever you need in the way of furniture. By the way, do you
have any wild turkeys in this paradise of yours?"

"Plenty!"

"Will your hotel be in operation when turkey season opens?"

"Long before that!"

"Keep a room for myself and my son, will you? We always go on a fall
hunt, and this year we'll hunt turkeys. You can count on us for the
first week of the season."

Bill said, "There'll be a room for you, and thanks a lot!"

Bill drove over to Harkins to pick up white outside paint and dark stain
for the inside woodwork. Keeping well in mind Janice's instructions and
admonitions on interior decorating, he selected various simple patterns
of wallpaper, bought paint brushes, sizing, and the tools needed for
applying paper to the walls. At Jones and Allen he chose inexpensive
beds, comfortable mattresses, and blankets. He bought lounges and chairs
for the living room and thick, hard-to-break dishes for the kitchen
department. When he was finished he had a dollar and fifteen cents left;
but except for odds and ends, he also had everything they needed.

Bill took only the paint and wallpaper with him. The house would have to
be made ready before they could move any furniture into it. At the right
time he would get Rifle Eye's truck, bring his own, and between the two
of them they could move all the furniture in one trip.

Finally, Bill went to see all the Cannasport fishermen who had visited
Elk Shanty. The hotel would be open for the last of the fishing season
and all the hunting season, he advised them. A card or letter would
reserve a room. Before he started back to Elk Shanty, he had two
reservations for the small game season and two for deer. Others said
they wanted to come, and would let him know as soon as they could be
sure of their dates.

Night had fallen when he got back to Elk Shanty, and at the foot of the
long hill he switched the lights off. Driving the truck up the crumbling
road that led to the big house, he parked it and stole quietly away. He
walked past the store to Ellery Ganson's house and knocked on the door.
One by one, he visited the other houses in Elk Shanty.

Late at night, he finally pushed the front door open and went wearily
into the store. Janice met him.

"Bill! I was beginning to worry about you!"

"Hush, woman. You behold a weary man!"

She peered through the window. "Where's the truck?"

Bill raised a languid hand. "Let us not talk shop tonight. I wish to
forget toil and turmoil."

"Do you feel all right?"

"Very well indeed. But I do not wish to be harried."

She said slowly, "Well, I think you should rest tonight. Come in and
have something to eat."

He ate the dinner she had prepared for him and fell asleep in his chair.
When Janice aroused him, he stumbled off to bed, and the sun was high
when a sharp knocking on the door woke him.

He heard Janice's, "Bill, it's eight o'clock."

"I'm coming," he grumbled.

But it was another half hour before he got out of bed, and an hour had
passed by the time he idled through breakfast. She looked at him with
puzzled eyes, but said nothing. From time to time she peeked into the
store.

"There hasn't been a customer all morning," she said. "It looks like a
slow day. Did you bring everything we need?"

"The paint and wallpaper are here."

"Let's go down and get started."

He grinned. "Fret not your head."

"Bill, I don't understand!"

"Come along and I'll show you."

Side by side they walked down the road. They saw the house, and Janice
gasped.

Standing on high ladders, Ten-Trap Gallagher, B. B. Jones, and Axel
Helgeson were vigorously plying paint brushes. Guiding a grader with
skillful hands, Ellery Ganson was working on the road. Carrying a strip
of wallpaper, Al Courtney flicked past a window. Danny Matou, high on
the roof, was re-shingling it. Almost the entire population of Elk
Shanty was busy, and Janice turned excited eyes on Bill.

"Whee! But how are we going to pay them?"

"They've been paid," Bill said. "Every person here owes the store
something and they're just working out their bills. Not a one of them
objected. They've seen for themselves what might happen in Elk Shanty
and they're looking forward to more hunters and fishermen."

"Bill, we've started!"

"We'll be open for business in three weeks. I know some more fishermen
will come, and I already have some reservations for the hunting season."

She said eagerly, "There are any amount of good slopes for skiing, and
the road's open all winter!"

Her hand stole into his. They stood side by side, watching while the old
house shed the tattered outer coating that long years of neglect and
disuse had draped about it. They saw it become clean and bright. Almost
as bright as the dream in their own hearts and the years that lay ahead.

A weight settled heavily on their feet. They looked down and Lamb Chops,
who had flopped down between them, looked up and seemed to grin.




  JIM KJELGAARD


was born in New York City. Happily enough, he was still in the
pre-school age when his father decided to move the family to the
Pennsylvania mountains. There young Jim grew up among some of the best
hunting and fishing in the United States. He says: "If I had pursued my
scholastic duties as diligently as I did deer, trout, grouse, squirrels,
etc., I might have had better report cards!"

Jim Kjelgaard has worked at various jobs--trapper, teamster, guide,
surveyor, factory worker and laborer. When he was in the late twenties
he decided to become a full-time writer. No sooner decided than done! He
has published several hundred short stories and articles and quite a few
books for young people.

His hobbies are hunting, fishing, dogs, and questing for new stories. He
tells us: "Story hunts have led me from the Atlantic to the Pacific and
from the Arctic Circle to Mexico City. Stories, like gold, are where you
find them. You may discover one three thousand miles from home or right
on your own door step." And he adds: "I am married to a very beautiful
girl and have a teen-age daughter. Both of them order me around in a
shameful fashion, but I can still boss the dog! We live in Phoenix,
Arizona."


  =Transcriber's Notes:=
  hyphenation, spelling and grammar have been preserved as in the original
  Page 59, Lamb Chop's favorite pools ==> Lamb Chops' favorite pools




[End of Cracker Barrel Trouble Shooter, by Jim Kjelgaard]
