The Golden Pears/Chapter 9

Durm Clinchell galloped out to the St. Francis Trace, where he met Sheriff Ferris and another posse on their way out to help in the search for Sue Belle, who had been missing for two nights and a day. They returned to the plantation, and by the time they arrived there twoscore or more of the settlers from the surrounding country had ridden in to join in the hunt.

What could they do in the Dark Bend swamps? There were hundreds of square miles of almost trackless brakes. There were tens of thousands of acres of cypress and tupelo-gum morass, where the surface of the ground was but a thin crust upon a deep, soft muck. There were cane-brakes so dense that old swamp-angels had been known to lose their way in them for days at a stretch, circling around and around. There were deep bayous and shoal lakes where American lotus grew in tufts—lakes whose bottoms were partly hard, white sand, partly quicksand, and partly fathomless mud. Worse than the dark gloom of the timber depths were some of the people who scouted out in the densest of the timber, like the big, red, cane-rooter hogs.

Clinchell had offered five hundred dollars to any one who would find the missing girl in the brakes. He had offered another five hundred for the arrest and conviction of any one who had harmed her. The assembled swamp people broke up into squads to go out in every direction to ransack the woods.

Before they had fairly started, sawmill hands said that they had seen Lunmer Andrest at daybreak out by the Blue Bayou, on the trace there.

"What was he doing there?" a white man demanded.

Then cotton-pickers told of seeing the shanty-boater going through the cotton-fields that same morning.

"I remember now," said the old planter. "I saw him yesterday morning myself, going out around. I was up in the cupola when I saw him, but I didn't think anything!"

"We'd better go ask him—"

"We stopped there at his shanty-boat," the plantation overseer interrupted. "He denied having seen her. He said he'd been out coon-hunting."

"I think I'll ride down and have a talk with him myself," Ferris said.

No one protested, and the sheriff, with two deputies, rode out of the plantation, cut down the trace, and struck across to the shanty-boat eddy. There was the boat, with a little curl of smoke in the chimney, but no one was on board.

Ferris hesitated a little while, and then one of his deputies picked the lock and they all entered. They found the boat scrupulously neat, with the floor clean, the walls well painted and hung with a few pictures and tricks.

They looked back and forth through the living-room and the kitchen, but found nothing to awaken their immediate interest. On the table was a stack of papers and pamphlets, and one of the deputies exclaimed:

"Hue-e! This shanty-boater's reading right smart! 'How to Make Money Work,' 'Money Invested'— Sho!"

He held up a slip of paper and pointed his finger at the signature—"Sue Belle."

All three men read the note that had summoned Andrest upon his nocturnal errand to the Blue Bayou.

"That's evidence!" Sheriff Ferris exclaimed thoughtfully; adding: "The reason I wanted to come here, boys, was because old Durm's been tearing mad about that boy and Sue. Belle. Like's not they've run off together."

"Old Durm said he was here this morning—the stove's hot yet!" The deputies reminded their chief.

"And he was there, those mill hands said, there at Blue Bayou!"

"And he circled back away out in the cotton-fields, away from folks!"

"Rip Morlung 'lowed as old Clinchell hired him to tear up this boat, and he done it," Ferris repeated thoughtfully. "That's why he don't blame Andrest none for taking him in for the reward. I can't get the meaning of this thing nohow. Shanty-boaters are mostly no-'count; but I kind of like Andrest—I sure do! 'Stead of killing old Clinchell, he acted like a gentleman and had him peace-bonded. Course, if he's harmed that girl—if he's harmed her! We got to find him, boys; but it's best not to talk none about this—swear me that, boys!"

"We won't say a word, suh!"

"There's more to this than we know. I want to get to talk to that boy; but if he's done any crime, why, of course—"

"Course, we got our duty to do, suh!" Sheriff Ferris carefully folded the note and put it into his wallet. They retreated from the shanty-boat and, having locked the door, rode away, discussing the matter in low tones.

"I just wish he'd stolen that girl and done with it!" Ferris shook his head. "I wish he'd 'loped with her! If he'd done that old Clinchell couldn't have touched him. But his being here, and his sneaking around, and her gone two nights—it looks bad. I tell you, that boy's sure in trouble! He'll need all the money he's got in bank to get him out, too!"

"If they wait for him to fight it out," a deputy suggested.

"We'll sure have to hide him out around, if it comes to that," Ferris returned. "I sure want that boy to have a fair trial!"

They met two hounds in leash and a posse coming down the St. Francis Trace. One of the men—Si Hed Jesnie, the swamp man— had a shoe that belonged to the girl in his hand. At intervals he gave the dogs a sniff of it, so that they wouldn't forget what they were looking for.

The dogs picked up a cold trail; but when a clear footprint was found, the swamp man knew that it was more than two days old. It was an old track, made before the girl disappeared.

"She was always riding out on this trace," Jesnie declared. "I saw her walking along with young Andrest a week or so ago, right through here. She was real common thataway, not proud at all. She'd walk along with anybody she knowed, just to talk. Course, there's been some talk about her an' Andrest—"

"What talk was that?" Ferris asked casually.

"Why, no harm into it," Jesnie said hastily. "Just that they were friendly. He gave her a wild turkey once in a while, or a mess of game fish, or enough for a squirrel pie—but so we all did, for that matter. People talked, I suppose, because they were both about an age, and young Andrest wasn't so bad-looking. You know how people talk thataway—course they talk!"

"Oh, of course they talk!"

"Course, Andrest's a shanty-boater."

"But he's been along here right smart," Ferris suggested.

"Yes—five-six years. Time of the big overflow he had two rafts and his shanty-boat loaded of people. He was sure a useful riveh-rat those days! Take those riveh people, and they know how to keep on top the water and live. Good-natured fellow, that Andrest—real friendly."

Ferris left the posse to its trailing and rode on to the plantation. He found old Clinchell pacing up and down on the veranda, his hands twitching, his face working, his eyes rolling.

"Find that scoundrel to home?" Clinchell demanded.

"No, suh."

"Hunt for him?"

"Why, we didn't look around none," Ferris said. "I suppose he's out searching for Sue Belle, the same as the rest."

"Same as the rest!" exploded old Clinchell. "I tell you, I'll make that scoundrel talk, or—or I'll whale the living daylights out of him with a mule-skinner!"

"Why, Mr. Clinchell, what makes you talk thataway?"

"Warn't he out by the Blue Bayou all night? Didn't we find his tracks there? And didn't he come sneaking back in the morning, 'stead of following the trace, going out around through the cotton?"

"What's that got to do with it? You said he was out coon-hunting."

"What was he doing to Blue Bayou all night? There's his tracks, plain as day."

"You know his tracks?"

"You bet I do—a patch on the left sole and slip-nails into the heels, five in one, four in the other. If that man don't answer up I'll shore mess him around; I shore will!"

"Don't forget that peace bond, Mr..Clinchell," Ferris remarked gravely. "It holds, you know—it holds, all excepting in self-defense."

"It 'll be self-defense! I'd shoot him down like a dog! That man's impident!" Sheriff Ferris watched the old man tearing up and down the veranda, swearing and growling, waving his hands and shaking his shaggy head. The sheriff had watched a good many men in his time, good men, bad men, mean men, men who were in earnest and men who put on.

"Yes, sir!" Clinchell shouted. "I'll shoot him like a dog! I know that young scoundrel—I know him!"

"If you lay hand on hair or hide of Lunmer Andrest, you forfeit that bond," Ferris declared sharply. "Don't you blame any man till you know he's guilty."

"That bond won't hurt me!" Clinchell exclaimed. "I can pay forty bonds!"

Summons to dinner took the sheriff, his two deputies, and Clinchell down to the dining-room. They found an abundant meal there, and wagons carried lunches for the searchers out on all the traces and roads leading from the plantation into the timber-brakes.

After dinner Ferris and the two deputies rode away again. At the edge of the clearing the sheriff, who had looked back often, turned to his deputies and remarked:

"The old man's all waked up!"

"Mostly about young Andrest," one of his companions suggested bluntly.

"Just what I was thinking. We'd better find Andrest and get to talk with him. The old man's powerful strong-acting when somebody's watching, but he ate his dinner same as the rest of us, and about as much. I'm not satisfied, not the way things are looking. You ride over to that shanty-boat and get Andrest to come down to Deerport. I have some business to attend to."

The two deputies rode away as ordered, while Sheriff Ferris touched spurs to his horse and cantered down the trace toward Deerport. He rode into the county seat two hours later and went at once to the bank.

"Hello, sheriff!" Urgone greeted him. "Just in time—we should have been closed in a minute or two."

"Here's two reward moneys— five hundred dollars for information showing where Sue Belle Clinchell is, and five hundred for the arrest and conviction of any one who has harmed her, if she has been harmed. It's offered by old Clinchell."

"Haven't found her yet, then?"

"Not a sign of her. There's something funny about it. I thought I'd run down and see you and Lesgar. Old Clinchell's bound to blame young Andrest, and he's threatening to shoot him on sight. There's that peace bond, you know—"

"Yes, I know, and there's something else, too, sheriff. Lesgar's inside—go in and talk to him. I'll be in as soon as I've closed up shop."

Ferris entered the bank office and found Lesgar poring over a handful of papers. His face wore a puzzled expression. He looked up and greeted the sheriff with an absent-minded nod.

"Hello, Lesgar!" Ferris said. "What's the matter?"

"Why, nothing special. Did you find that Clinchell girl?"

"No. There's something funny about that matter. Old Clinchell's telling around that he's going to tear young Andrest to pieces. I thought I'd better come down and let you know. There's something wrong somewhere. You signed his peace bond, you know."

"What? Yes, but I've a mortgage to cover that, personally, you know."

"It's because I know that I'm telling you," the sheriff continued emphatically. "You know old Clinchell. I'm not saying anything against him, mind you—I know better than that. I'm just telling you."

President Lesgar stared at the papers which he had been examining. Then he looked across the table to where the sheriff had seated himself.

"These are interesting documents," he said, as if to change the subject. "It's curious that I have that mortgage right here. Do you know those timber-lands?"

He read off a list of several mile-square sections.

"I don't know—not for certain." Sheriff Ferris shook his head. "But I know a man who does—who knows every foot of that Dark Bend swamp."

Ferris took the desk-telephone and called a number.

"Hello, Sitson! Come over to the bank, will you?" he said.

Five minutes later the cashier and another man entered the office. The other man wore long, well-dressed leather boots, a gray wool shirt, and heavy woolen trousers, and carried a gray hat in his hands.

"Mr, Sitson," said the sheriff, "you're some experienced in timber-looking—"

"Well, yes—the stave business," Sitson admitted.

"Would you mind telling us about these lots?"

Sitson looked at the list.

"Well," he drawled at last, "some of that might make cotton-land, if it was ditched and leveed."

"I mean the timber on it," Ferris asked, as the two bankers shut their teeth hard.

"Oh, there's some there—the east end of Netormine Gospel Lot is fair—the rest is all culled. If you're looking for timber, there isn't much on those sections. Of course, this isn't to be repeated around, if it means anything. Old Chnchell owns all that land."

"It would have saved me a good deal of money if I'd called you in a while ago," Lesgar said frankly. "Clinchell has caught me—and he is pinching me hard!"

The timber-looker made no comment at first, but as the silence grew oppressive he said:

"I've talked frankly with you gentlemen in confidence; I'd rather pull out now, if you don't mind. I don't want any trouble with Clinchell. You know how he is. You can see the lands for yourself."

"We won't involve you in the least," Lesgar assured him. "No one will know. One more question—if that land were skinned down to the bone, what would the profit be?"

"Ten thousand dollars would be a big profit."

The timber-looker excused himself, and the two bankers and the sheriff remained at the table.

"I knew there was something wrong!" Ferris said. "Old Clinchell isn't acting right. He's awful mad when you're looking at him. He wants to kill Andrest on sight, and he'll likely do it. That would leave you in a hole!"

"He's shooting a scatter-gun, Ferris!" Lesgar exclaimed. "That peace bond is only part. These other papers are notices from the banks at Bandsaw and River Bridge. Fact is, we've been borrowing a good deal of money. He's taken up a lot of our obligations—we didn't know he had them. He's been to Mendova and traded in our notes. He's held back twenty thousand in checks, or more. Now they've come down on us with all of them, and that peace bond—that's just an indication!"

"One thing he hasn't figured on," Ferris suggested thoughtfully and with hesitation. "You understand, I don't want any trouble with him."

"Well, I do want trouble with him now," Lesgar replied hotly. "I want trouble with him, and I want lots of it! I know what you are thinking about, sheriff. I'm going to go see him just as soon as we can get to him!"

"Of course, that's up to you; but you know—"

"I know all about it. These papers came in here by a special messenger on the afternoon train. He's all ready for something to happen; he wants it to happen, and, by the skinflint's own hide, it's going to happen!"

Two minutes later Lesgar's automobile drove up to the bank. It was the only car in Deerport, and the three men entered it, to drive out to Clinchell's plantation. The journey took them a little more than an hour—which was good time, considering the fourteen miles of road they had followed.

Old Clinchell was at the mansion, but his horse was saddled, and a posse was gathered at the block. The old planter ran down the mound-side steps as they rode up.

"Oh, Mr. Clinchell! I'd like to talk with you a minute on business," said the bank president.

"No time to talk business, sir!" Clinchell replied, reaching for the horn of his saddle.

"What's the hurry?"

"We're going down to catch a danged river-rat—name of Andrest."

"If that's the case," Lesgar retorted, but with a soft voice, "I hereby surrender you into the hands of the sheriff. I no longer care to remain on this man's peace bond, Mr. Sheriff. Take him into custody!" "Of course, if you say so, I'll have to do it," Ferris answered, with a politician's propitiating voice.

"What?" Clinchell exclaimed, staring at the men in the automobile as the sheriff stepped down with his right hand on his revolver-butt.

"You are in my custody, Mr. Clinchell," Ferris explained. "You'll 'low us to ride back in the automobile, Mr. Lesgar? It 'll be a favor."

"Oh, certainly—with pleasure!" replied the banker.

"Just step into the automobile with us, Mr. Clinchell—"

"But—but—my daughter—Sue Belle's stole! I—that river-rat!"

The planter was caught unawares. As Sheriff Ferris had suggested, he had overlooked one contingency.

"I will leave my deputies in charge of the search—it won't be any less thorough," Ferris told the planter. "Get into this automobile, sir!" he added sharply.

Clinchell blinked, and his heavy goatee bristled up like the back of a porcupine. Not daring to resist the sheriff, he stepped into the car.

"Home, Sam!" Lesgar ordered, and the automobile backed around and headed down the St. Francis Trace.

The old planter had been forestalled in his plan to violate his peace bond; but there wasn't a man in the car with him who did not realize that this was only the beginning of a cruel little financial feud in the St. Francis bottoms.