|-
--


z TWISTED TRAILS,
HENRY OYEN .


TWISTED TRAILS
BY
HENRY OYEN
Author of “the .#.
FLAT,” “GAston olar,” etc.
NEW © YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
C.
|* -
&e


- - *-
i:33.8%
i * . , 8
R l L.
COPYRIGHT, 1921,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY, ,
PROPERTY
0F THE
NEW YORK
SOCIETY LIERARY
COPYRIGHT, 1920, 1921, BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA


|
TWISTED TRAILS





TWISTED TRAILS
CHAPTER I
OOK, m'sieu! There is a girl.”
“Where?”
“On the point—look!”
Stephen Warren leisurely raised his head from the
bottom of the becalmed pirogue and peered beneath the
boom of the red sail in the direction which the excited
guide indicated. A lazy, sun-drenched day in November
was drawing to a close over the southern Louisiana
swamp.
High above in the heavens a long-legged crane was
moving majestically toward the west where the sunset
was painting the horizon with flaming colors. On the
bayou the wild hyacinths and water lilies were closing
their petals against the coming of night; and in the eve-
ning calm the lifeless sail of the pirogue was reflected like
a splotch of blood upon the sun-gilded waters.
Ambrose LaFonte, the red-shirted Barataria guide,
was staring at a girl who, half-hidden in the rushes and
deepening shadows, was watching them from a point
where the two bayous forked.
“We are lost, m'sieu,” said he, “and the night comes
on. We must ask that girl yonder where we are.”
7
* -
--


8 TWISTED TRAILS
Warren nodded lazily . He was experiencing that state
of pleasant mental haziness which comes from being
drugged with the enervating rays of Southern sun; for
though it was November the springlike air of the swamps
was of a sort to cause a young man on a vacation to doze
and dream indolently.
“Suit yourself, Ambrose,” he muttered comfortably.
“We can't be badly lost in a country where Cajun girls
are running round.”
Ambrose swung his paddle and drove the pirogue over
the mirrorlike water toward the point.
“M'sieu!” he whispered suddenly. “That is no Cajun
girl.”
“Cajun or not, it's all the same to a Yankee like me.”
“It is a grand lady, m'sieu.”
Lazily Warren pulled back the sail to get a better view.
He sat up. The nose of the pirogue had slid into the
thick lily bank guarding the point, and Stephen saw that
Ambrose was right. Although the girl was in conceal-
ment from the rushes and the shadows of a blue-gum tree,
it was obvious that the face which peered out from the
reeds, and the sun helmet, the middy-blouse and skirt of
white flannel, and the great black and yellow boar hound
which she held by the collar, were not those of a native
of the bayous.
The dog growled. -
“Herod" said the girl sharply, and at the sound of
her voice Stephen suddenly became conscious that a week
in the swamps does not make for a prepossessing appear-
ance. He wished lazily that he had shaved.


TWISTED TRAILS 9
“I beg your pardon for frightening the dog,” said he,
“but I assure you we are quite harmless, appearances to
the contrary notwithstanding. You see, we are lost.
There's really nothing wrong with us outside of that.
The red shirt which makes Ambrose here look like a
pirate indicates vanity, not viciousness. This,” he rue-
fully rubbed the growth of beard on his jaws, “represents
nothing worse than sheer laziness. I don't blame the dog
but we are lost, that's all.”
The faintest of chuckles came floating out from the
shadows.
“It doesn't seem to worry you much,” said the girl.
“Ambrose does the worrying. You see he's the guide;
it hurts his prestige to admit that he's lost.”
“Where do you wish to go?”
Warren wrinkled his sunburned brows in an apparent
effort at deep thought, and presently looked up with the
swiftly breaking smile of one who has solved a weighty
problem.
“I don't know,” said he.
“What?”
“Strange but true. I know we're lost, because Ambrose
says so; but what we're lost from or where we're going
I don't know.”
“You must be badly lost indeed if you don't know
where you are going,” she retorted.
“On the contrary, how can one be lost if one isn't going
any place in particular?”
“Isn't a person lost who is just drifting about without
any destination?”


10 TWISTED TRAILS
“I suppose so.” Warren looked about. “Well, where
would that bayou lead us?” he asked, pointing to the
bayou which came down from the north.
“That? Oh, that's Lily Bayou,” she replied. The
shadows from the gum tree had deepened now and she
was barely visible. “That would take you out of the
swamps into the Cajun country.”
“Evangeline's country?” he asked eagerly.
“Yes, but you won't find much of Evangeline about it
now, I fear. Lily Bayou would take you back to civiliza-
tion”—even in the half dusk he could see the gleam of her
teeth as she flashed a smile at his beard—“and all its re-
sponsibilities. If you paddle it for a day you will come
to Lily City, and to the great Hartland sawmills, and such
things. But it's a hard bayou to paddle, upstream and
full of lily drift, as you see.”
“And the other bayou?” he inquired, pointing to the
stream that ran eastward. “Where will that take us?”
“Oh, that's an easy bayou to travel; with the current,
as you see. That will take you into the heart of Deep
Swamp, and to the great Black Woods where no one goes,
into what is almost forest primeval.”
“‘This is the forest primeval,’” quoted Stephen, look-
ing down the brown current. “And a fellow has only to
put the pirogue in and let her drift, and be happy. And
the other way it's upstream, to houses, people, towns,
Hartland's sawmill and,” he rubbed his beard thought-
fully, “the responsibilities of civilization. What shall I
do? Shall I drift and be happy? Or shall I paddle up-
stream, back to civilization, and—be useful, maybe?”


TWISTED TRAILS 11
“Don’t you know which you wish to do?”
“In the face of this pleasant sunshine, I confess I do
not.”
“Do you dread the struggle upstream?”
“This climate isn't conducive to a desire for struggling,
is it?”
“Then, don't you want to be useful?” she laughed.
“Does any one—in such sunshine?”
She laughed again and drew farther back into the
shadows, pulling the dog with her.
“Estella!” called a man's voice from round the bend.
“Coming!” she replied. -
“Choose for me!” said Warren, rising to his knees in
the cranky craft. “Suppose I should choose the wrong
way! Can you accept the responsibility?”
“I deny the responsibility,” was her instant response.
“Don’t you want to be useful?” he demanded.
“Does any one—in such sunshine?” she retorted, and
laughing, she disappeared round the point.
Stephen rose and stepped out of the boat onto the
knees of an old cypress stump. From this elevation he
could, by rising to tiptoes and craning his neck, look over
the rushes and see the girl as she stepped aboard a racy
little motor boat which had been waiting for her. An
old man, dignified and aristocratic of bearing, with snow-
white hair and Vandyke beard, was seated in one of the
cane chairs in the aft, and a tall young man, the image of
what the older one must have been thirty years before,
was waiting to help the girl in.
“What did Herod bark at?” he asked.


12 TWISTED TRAILS
“Oh, just a couple of hunters in a pirogue,” Stephen
heard her reply.
As she stepped nimbly over the side the young man
was behind her for a moment, and in that moment Stephen
Warren saw that which left him sick and cold with
shock and anger. The young man bent low over the girl's
neck. His hands were poised above her like claws, his
under jaw protruding, his whole attitude that of a beast
of prey about to strike. As if warned by some subtle
instinct the girl turned swiftly round, but more swiftly
than her movement the man had effaced the mark of the
beast upon himself, and was again the smiling courtier.
The older man solicitously slipped a cloak about her
shoulders and she seated herself beside him while the
young man stepped forward to the engine. The boat
glided away with the purring of a powerful motor, and
in a moment had swept smoothly round a bend, and
there was left only the diminishing roar of its engine to
tell of its existence. Presently, for the boat was a flyer,
that was gone too; and upon the waters the tristness and
silence of eventide came wholly into their own.
“And what shall we do now, m'sieu’” muttered Am-
brose.
“Camp for the night,” came the quick command.
“And in the morning?”
“That way,” Warren pointed to the brown waters of
the bayou which ran eastward. “Into the swamp and
the wilderness—where no one goes.”


CHAPTER II
MoRNING came like the lifting of a million gossamer
veils from the face of the bayou country. At the
call of the sun's first rays the night vanished into the
heavens, and upon its dark heels rose the shreds of its
pall, the vapor mists, by night dank layers of fog, now
dainty filaments of emerald and amethyst rising upward
at the beck of the dawn.
Stephen Warren, Steppy as he was more generally
known among lumbermen—looked about him and found
the world good to be in. He had in his pocket a letter
from Mr. Hartland, of the Hartland Lumber Company,
offering him the position of superintendent of the Lily
City mill, but he was in no hurry to see Mr. Hartland.
He had deposited with a banker in New Orleans drafts
for a good lump sum representing the proceeds, of his
logging ventures in the North, and for a week he had
drifted about in the sun-warmed swamps in company with
the red-shirted Ambrose LaFonte, lazily falling in love
with the lovable, lazy country, but nevertheless keeping
an eye open for a good piece of timber. He looked at
present like a prosperous, contented tramp, but it was
obvious that a shave would have revealed a firm and busi-
nesslike jaw.
“Into the wilderness—where no one goes!” he laughed
as they thrust the pirogue into the bayou which ran into
13


14 TWISTED TRAILS
-
Deep Swamp. “Ambrose, why do men bother about fight-
ing each other to make money? Why don't they just
drift round in the sun and live?”
“Me—I do,” said LaFonte, as he steered the little craft
into the swamp.
“Wise man, Ambrose!”
“But this—I do not like this drifting—to the Black
Woods,” said the guide with a nervous look round.
In Deep Swamp the darkness of night still held sway.
The gentle morning sun which had dispersed the darkness
overhead had as yet been unable to penetrate the swamp's
roof of moss-draped cypress branches and reach the water
beneath. The tops of the gaunt trees were purple in the
sunlight, but the festoons of gray moss, hanging low from
the lower branches, were as yet in darkness, and through
their arches and loops the morning mists were oozing
upward in uncannily writhing wisps and streamers.
“You don't like it, Ambrose?”
“This? Yes, this is all right. But not where we are
going—Black Woods. There are bad stories about that,
m'sieu. That is why no one goes there.”
“Fine!” laughed Warren. “Tell me the stories, Am-
brose.”
“Not me, m'sieu!”
“All right. Want to turn back?”
“No, m'sieu.”
“All right. Paddle on.”
It was near evening when they reached their destination,
and upon the broad lakelike stretch of open water between
cypress jungle and the high ground of the pine, lay the


TWISTED TRAILS 15
long cool shadows of sunset, scarcely disturbed by the
infinitesimal drift of the placid current. Between the
shadows the sun was rosy upon the water, tinting the
masses of purple wild hyacinths, the tiny white water lilies
and green lily-masses in their patient, incessant drift
toward the sea.
Warren halted the canoe at the edge of the cypress
swamp and trained his glasses upon the high ground be-
yond the open water. The timbered land lay like a great
island, an oasis of solid ground rising up in the heart of
the submerged swamp. Round its shore stretched a lily
bank and a belt of rushes so dense and uniform that it
seemed as if no craft ever had, or could push through it
to the shore. Beyond, on higher ground, the lordly long-
leaf pines reared their crowned heads royally, serried rank
after rank of them as far as the eye could reach, a veri-
table sea of green tree crowns, their size and density domi-
nating the scene as a mountain dominates the foothills at
its base.
“That comes about as near being the forest primeval
as I’ve ever seen,” mused Warren with the glasses to his
eyes. “It’s beautiful—and there's a fortune in it. Why
isn't it being logged, Ambrose? Who owns it?”
“Who owns it?” repeated Ambrose in the shocked whis-
per of one who had heard sacrilege uttered. “Who
knows? The devil perhaps.”
“Yes?” said Warren. “Then the old boy has got a
nice little fortune waiting to be saw-logged.”
“As for cutting it—you could get men to log hell,
m'sieu, as soon as log the Black Woods.”


16 TWISTED TRAILS
“As bad as that, eh? All right, Ambrose, what say if
you raise your sail?”
Ambrose reluctantly thrust the craft out upon the open
water and stepped his mast and ran up the red lateen sail.
A light breeze was blowing out of the swamp upon the
lake and the little sailing pirogue lifted its bow from the
water at the pull of the canvás and with its red sail re-
flecting upon the water, went dancing out over the sun-
tinted lake toward the dark woods.
Warren sat in the stern with the tiller under his left
arm and his glasses to his eyes. He could see but little.
The darkness within the woods was apparently like the
gloom of night in which no spear of sunlight was to be
seen. Stephen had the impression that he was looking
into the mouth of a sepulchral cavern rather than into a
forest. From the forest exuded a silence that was de-
pressing. As they approached it the lapping wavelets be-
neath the bow of the gliding pirogue seemed to grow
hushed; a zone of chilly air seemed to ooze out from the
gloom, and in the bow by the mast Ambrose shivered dis-
tressingly. And then the silence was rent by the curt
note of a rifle in the pines. One shot. Then all was silent
again.
The evening breeze played upon the sun-tinted waters
and upon the smiling, unruffled face of nature with no
hint that anything of significance had occurred; but War-
ren and Ambrose knew better. In the red lateen sail, a
foot or so above where LaFonte's head had been, there
appeared a tiny and eloquently sinister round hole.
Warren held to the tiller as if nothing had happened,


TWISTED TRAILS 17
but his thick dark brows were in a thundercloud, and his
face was hard, as he peered beneath the boom toward
the pines whence the bullet had come. Not a word was
spoken for several seconds. Ambrose, hearing the
whistle of the lead after it had passed, had dropped like
one stricken to the bottom of the pirogue. There he
lay, open-mouthed, his face greenish white beneath the
clay-colored skin, staring now at Stephen, now at the
hole in the sail. He put his hand to an ear.
“M'sieu!” he gasped.
Stephen gave him only a quick glance. “You're not hit
—only ripped your ear on the nail in the mast.”
The tiller in his hand did not move. Low-crouched to
peer beneath the sail, he stared straight ahead, and from
his tightened lips came half-whispered the inevitable
American term for the concealed bushwhacker. The
course of the pirogue had been set straight for the pines,
and the shot had merely stiffened Warren at the tiller.
The wind had not altered or shifted at all to adjust itself
to the situation. Steadily it held taut this red sail; stead-
ily the pirogue tore on toward the pines.
“Ah—Dieu !”
The return of speech to Ambrose's lips came with a
note of prayer. As if in response the rifle in the black
woods spat again and a second hole appeared in the sail
within a hand's breadth of the first. Even now, though
they were within a hundred and fifty yards of the high
ground, there was no one in sight. There was no sign
of smoke or of a rifle barrel. The marksman apparently
was far inside the forest line and well hidden in the shad-


- TWISTED TRAILS 19
“That girl said no one goes to Black Woods,” said
Ambrose ruefully, “but the devil is º
“Wake up!” said Warren, pointing to the bullet holes
in sail and hull. “Those holes were made by bullets from
a rifle about .30 caliber, fired by a regular human man
who is a first-class shot.”
“We do not know—we saw no one.”
“But we do see the holes,” said Stephen grimly. “Am-
brose, it's the same game all over, here as elsewhere.
Fight! Play the tiger! Grab and hold. I'm going
back there some day. I want to talk with the fellow
who fired those shots. Just now we'll travel along to
Lily City and get your ear fixed up and learn who owns
that timber.”


CHAPTER III
LILY CITY was old, as Cajun villages are inclined to
be, but its age was like the age of one of the magnolia
trees or rambler rosebushes which adorned it and which,
with the passing of years, steadily acquire new facets of
charm to conceal or nullify any hint of decrepitude. It
lay in a crescent along a single shell-paved street curving
gently along the lily-banked shores of a bay in the bayou,
a tiny place, mellowing placidly beneath the spreading
branches of vast and ancient live oak and magnolia trees;
and it was as contented as it was proud.
The cause for pride was not obvious at first glance.
There were, as a first impression, two squares of low
rambling stores, each with its wooden awning stretching
over the stone sidewalk and each apparently striving to
excel its neighbor in maintaining the leisurely atmosphere
which prevailed. Along the water front lay a careless
clutter of docks and boat-houses, and from this point of
view the town seemed to consist mainly of tiny frame
houses conspicuously covered with the omnipresent white-
wash. But this unfavorable first impression was because
most of Lily City was so hidden beneath its spreading
arbor, with only the gray church steeple piercing and sur-
mounting the dense branches, that but little of it was
visible at first glance. Back from the street, mellowed
20


TWISTED TRAILS 21
- by many unchanging decades in their parklike grounds,
stood mansions of a cool, white-pillared dignity calculated
to make architect or artist or mere lover of beauty pause
and stare with delight—the seignioral homes of the old
Cajun aristocrats of the district.
The single oppressively modern touch here was to be
found in the big Hartland sawmill with the yellow-painted
company town round it on the east side of the bayou,
across the bay. But this was a physical phenomenon.
Lily City had accepted it and such other modern touches
as a brick railway station, and a trig white building on
its bayou front bearing the legend: Hartland Lumber
Company, without permitting them to disturb or affect in
any way its spirit of permanent contentment and leisure.
Normally it dozed genially in its white sunshine or deep -
shade, the mingled odors of lily growth and magnolias
diffused over it like a faint, pleasant drug, subduing even
the businesslike “whan-ng-ng!” of Hartland's saws across
the bayou to a pleasantly droning hum. As the spirit of
the place, so the spirit of its people. At times one might
hear turbaned old negro servants on the water front bar-
gaining with the fishermen in Cajun French for lack of
practice in a strange tongue called English.
On the afternoon that Stephen Warren and Ambrose
LaFonte came paddling their patched pirogue up the bay
toward the water front, however, Lily City was not
a-doze. An air of unnatural alertness and tension pre-
vailed among the group of Cajun citizens who were gath-
ered upon the wharf to greet the newcomers. Normally
such a group would have lounged at ease and would have


22 TWISTED TRAILS
greeted the boat's occupants, neighbors or strangers
as they might be, with a genial smile and wave of the
hand. This group on this day did not lounge. Nor did
it greet the approaching pirogue at all. It bunched closely
together behind two men who stood well to the forefront.
One of these men, sallow, hawk-nosed and heavily mus-
tached, with a star on his shirt and a gun on his hip, was
Pete Martel, sheriff of the parish. Beside him stood
LeJeune, his deputy, a preternaturally tall and hollow
youth who casually nestled a double-barreled shotgun in
the hollow of his left arm.
As Stephen steered the pirogue alongside the dock and
stepped out he had the sensation of having stepped into
a trap. The sallow sheriff stood with his arms akimbo,
appraising the pair of strangers with the grim gaze of
the man catcher, a gaze which critically condemned them
from first glance. The hungry deputy held the shotgun
so carelessly poised that a single flip of the arm would
have flung its muzzles to cover either of the new arrivals.
It was an old-fashioned gun, and the youth's large, brown
hand rested casually upon the hammers.
“Well!” Stephen met the sheriff's hostile gaze and
checked the friendly greeting which rose to his lips.
“What's the idea? You look mean enough to want to
bite us, friend.”
“Leave that gun in the pirogue,” snapped the sheriff.
“Oh, ho! So that's it? You think we've been break-
ing the game laws?”
“You just leave that gun where it is.”


TWISTED THAILS 23
“I was going to. Anything to be agreeable. But you're
dead wrong, sir. Ambrose—”
“Stop that!” The sheriff's hand glided toward his hip.
“Stand apart! Stick up your hands!”
A silence, complete and sinister, fell suddenly upon the
scene. The group froze, each man motionless in the at-
titude in which the movement had caught him. For the
newcomer did not put up his hands. He turned slowly
from Ambrose and faced the sheriff. His hands were
hooked in his belt and he left them there.
“I won't put up my hands,” said he. “I won't do it.”
The sheriff's big mustache twitched. The shock of
this unexpected turn of events left him at sea.
“If you would be kind enough to explain your business
with us we might get somewhere,” suggested Stephen.
“I’ll explain!” growled the sheriff, slipping his fingers
round the butt of his gun. “You stick up them hands!”
“You tell me what all this is about.”
The sheriff hesitated for one fatal moment. If he
drew his gun and this stranger still refused to elevate his
hands which, by the cold gleam in his gray eyes, was un-
doubtedly what he would do, the sheriff would have to
fire or back down, and as he relished neither idea just
then, he let the gun remain in its holster tentatively.
“You’re just about the height and build of a certain
party I'm looking for,” said he with the man catcher's
portentous threat in his tone.
“My name is Warren,” said Stephen. “Is that the
name of the man you are looking for?”
“Warren, eh?” said the sheriff suspiciously. “I ain't


24 TWISTED TRAILS
so sure it is. I ain't sure you ain't the party known round
here as the Snake, and who did a little robbing over in
the oil fields last night.”
“Last night,” said Stephen, “we were sleeping in that
pirogue down at the edge of Deep Swamp.”
“You say you were, you mean. Bastien!” A half-
grown Cajun boy stepped forth from the group. “You’ve
seen the Snake. Does this man look like him?”
“Naw,” said the boy after a long vacant stare. “That
Snake is a hunchback. Got a big hump.”
“Look at his face, you fool! Does he look like him?”
“Couldn't see the Snake's face,” was the reply after
another stare. “Snake had a mask all over his head.”
“How about his size?”
The boy nodded.
“About the same size, I reckon.”
“That's what I allowed,” said the sheriff shrewdly.
“That hump could be put on same as the mask. Young
fellow, we don't know you; if you can't explain yourself
I reckon you'd better come along.”
“I can explain myself fully,” said Stephen. “I have
letters which identify me, one of them from Mr. Hart-
land who owns the mill over there.”
Warren had no time to produce the letters, however.
A motor car which had slipped out of the grounds of one
of the stately old mansions which were Lily City's pride
had rolled up the street on the way to the bridge across
the bayou and was now slowly passing the dock. Warren
saw that the driver was the tall young man of the speed
boat who had been guilty of that gesture behind the girl's


TWISTED TRAILS 25
back down on the bayou two days before. The aristo-
cratic old man of the boat was in the rear seat of the
machine, and the girl sat beside him. She was arrayed
for motoring now, but even beneath her green veil Stephen
saw that her clear, rosy complexion was not that of the
bayou country; he saw also the flash of her eyes as she
recognized him and Ambrose.
“Why, it's the two men who were lost in the pirogue
down the bayou!” she exclaimed.
The car stopped.
“What's up, Pete?” asked the driver languidly.
“Well, I ain't overlooking any suspects,” replied the
sheriff, almost slavishly. “This stranger is about the
Snake's height and build.” -
The girl laughed and leaned forward.
“I see you took the way back to civilization after all!”
she called to Stephen.
“Yes,” he replied. “And I knew I was back in civiliza-
tion because the moment I arrived I was greeted with the
invitation to hold up my hands and be arrested.”
“Estella,” said the old man beside her, fingering his
white Vandyke, “do you know these men?”
“Do you vouch for them?” supplemented the driver,
laughingly.
The girl rose up slightly and looked closely at
Stephen.
“Of course,” she said, sitting back.
“Let them go, Pete!” laughed the young man, and the
car went on. Stephen followed it with his eyes while it
swooped along the crescent of the street, while it left the


26 TWISTED TRAILS
street and swung onto the bridge at the head of the bay,
and while it disappeared behind a clump of live oaks
guarding the road on the eastern shore. He felt well re-
warded for his trouble, for as the car crossed the bridge
the girl turned and looked down on the two scarecrows
from the swamps for whom she had vouched so reck-
lessly. He fancied that she laughed.
“Well, sheriff?” said Warren, turning back, but the
sheriff had gone. Followed by his deputy, who now was
carrying his shotgun by the barrel over his shoulder, the
officer of the law was moving slowly away. He halted,
however, when the car from which he had received such
positive instructions, was well out of sight and hearing.
“I ain't satisfied,” he called back. “I’m keeping an eye
on you long as you stay round here.”
“Do you want to see my letters, sheriff?” called
Stephen. +
The sheriff only glared at him and went on his way.
The crowd followed. Only one member of it remained,
and this one now cried out:
“Kill me while I’m dreaming! Don't let me wake.
Bo, do I hear you talking honest-to-goodness United
States, or am I asleep?”
Stephen looked at the speaker and was forced to smile.
He was a strange figure to be found on the water front
of a Cajun bayou town. His bºy was that of a boy
of sixteen, but his freckled face, beneath a thatch of fiery
red hair, was hard and lined with the experiences of a
man. In addition he was arrayed in a worn suit of loud


TWISTED TRAILS 27
checks, cut so tightly that every line of his hard, wiry
body was definitely revealed.
“Bo,” he said, in a voice trembling with emotion,
“Caruso never spilled anything easier on the ears than
your talk is to me right now. Mitt me, bo, mitt me. Me
moniker's Terry McGurk and just now I'm timekeeper
over at the mill here.”
Warren introduced himself briefly.
“Go on, keep talking; talk some more!” pleaded the
timekeeper.
“Who were those people in the car?” asked Stephen.
“Miss Reid and Georges Martel and his old man,” was
the reply. -
“Does this Mr. Martel give the sheriff orders here?”
The youth shot a swift look at his questioner.
“The Martels? Say, bo, they're to this neck of the
woods what the boss of Tammany Hall is to New York,
and then some. Pete Martel, that's the sheriff, is one of
their poor relations. They tell 'em all where to head in
round here, the Martels do.”
“You don't belong down here yourself?” asked
Stephen.
“Belong down here? Me belong down here? Say, bo,
if I ever get back to me old stamping ground round Bel-
mont Park it'll take all the coppers in New York to drive
me away. Soit'nly not, I don't belong down here! Can't
you hear I’m talking straight United States? I'm up
against it, bo, that's why I'm here. I'm a horseman, that's
what I am. I land in New Orleans with a sick horse and
a bank roll so flat you could run your hand over it and


28 TWISTED TRAILS
never feel a bump. I know that Bomb Carkey's foreman
for the Hartland Company so I run over and brace him,
and he puts me on as timekeeper so I can pull down
enough jack to pay me horse's board over at the track.
Talk about hard luck! If that Nailer of mine was in
shape I'd be living at the St. Charles and going out to
the track in a limousine. Oh, well; cheer up, Terry; some
day they got to run for you.”
Warren asked for Mr. Hartland.
“Who-the Main Squeeze? Say, what would he be
doing here this P.M.P Don't you know it's opening day
over at Jefferson Park to-morrow? That's where every-
body's gone who can get away. I'm going myself on the
limited to-night. Carkey's over there already. Mr. Hart-
land spends most of his time round the office in New
Orleans anyhow. If you want to see him you'd better
breeze over there.”
“Is there a doctor here?” asked Stephen. “Ambrose
had a little accident to his ear.”
“But it is nothing, m'sieu!” protested Ambrose. “A
scratch—what is that?”
“I know,” replied his employer, “but I wouldn't feel
right letting you start for home without having it tended
to.”
“But to spend good money for a scratch!” muttered
the canny Cajun.
“They soit'nly do hate to let go of money, these birds
down here,” volunteered young McGurk. “They ain't
strong for hustling round to get it, but if they've got it—


TWISTED TRAILS 29
wow! Old Doc Thibodeaux's got 'em educated though.
If they try to stall him there's something doing.” -
“Then there is a doctor here?”
“Is there a doctor here?” repeated McGurk. “Bo,
there's one of the doctorest doctors here you ever saw
dish out a pill. And a card, believe me! Been a soldier
and a pill shark all over the world, and now he's down
here sewing up the dinges when they get cut in the mill
and dishing out dope for the Cajuns. And there with
the conversation! Who, me? Well, mebbe I am, bo,
mebbe I am. But can you blame me, bo, when I get a
chance to talk to some one who uses the same language?
Come on, let's hike up to Doc Thibodeaux's and grab an
earful of real talk while your Cajun gets his ear sewed
up. The doc lives in the old place under those big trees.
He's Miss Reid's uncle.”


CHAPTER IV
THE house toward which Terry energetically led the
way was a small cottagelike affair so smothered be-
neath the branches of live oak and magnolia trees as to
be barely visible from the road. A path led through
the picket fence between two rows of oaks to a screened
gallery running along the front of the house, and as they
turned in Stephen paused in amazement. The garden
about the house was a solid, odorous sea of rosebushes.
They grew in a profusion that would have been incredible
in any other soil and climate. They crowded about the
walls of the house, about the stables in the rear. The
mosquito screen of the gallery was fairly covered with
vines of the rambler varieties, and there was such an
abundance of kinds that in spite of the season flowers
were plentiful.
“What do you know about it, eh?” whispered Terry,
with the proprietary pride of a guide who displays a scene
that makes an impression. “Can you imagine it—in No-
vember? Come on.”
The screen door of the gallery was open and he led the
way in on tiptoe. “Dr. Armand Thibodeaux, Office,”
read the sign on another door opening into the house and
Terry whispered:
“Take a peek inside.”


TWISTED TRAILS 33
“What's your moniker—your name? -Tell him who
you are,” whispered Terry.
“Ambrose LaFonte, m'sieu,” said the Cajun timidly.
“LaFonte? LaFontef There are no LaFonte's in this
parish.”
“I come from Barataria Bay.” -
“You should have stayed there—and netted shrimps,”
was the instant response. “They are very good, Bara-
taria shrimps a la Creole. So are gumbo de crevisse and
fricassee champignon. What are you doing over here,
LaFonteP”
“I come with M'sieu' Warren >
“Yankee. Bunker Hill. Go on.”
“He want to make the big pirogue trip through the
swamp. I come with him. Do not be 'fraid, m'sieu'; he
pay you—”
The deck chair was suddenly convulsed. A rift ap-
peared in the cloud of smoke. The small, trig, military
figure of Doctor Armand Thibodeaux landed in one bound
before the three visitors, his stubby white hair seeming
to bristle with anger.
“‘Do not be afraid, he will pay you!' Is that what you
said, LaFonte?” he thundered with a pyrotechnical display
of Gallic gestures. He came close to the big Cajun,
his eyes flashing behind their thick glasses, and shook a
long brown finger beneath his nose. “Say that
again »
He stopped abruptly. Above the head of the Cajun he
saw Warren and he got no further. Steppy tried to
smother the grin on his face, failed completely, and re-


34 2 TWISTED TRAILS
turned the doctor's stare frankly, grinning his widest the
while. The doctor's belligerent expression seemed to van-
ish and gave way to the expression of the student inter-
ested in the scrutiny of a rare specimen. He thrust
Ambrose to one side without moving his gaze and came
close up to Steppy and looked straight into his eyes.
“My name's Warren,” said Steppy.
The doctor continued his scrutiny a moment longer,
toying slowly with the tiny, white goatee on his square,
brown chin.
“That has nothing to do with it,” he snapped and turned
to his patient.
“What did this?” he asked, when he had examined the
torn ear. “A nail? Were you trying to drive a nail into
your thick head, LaFonte? It bent, did it not? Terry,
what are you laughing at?”
“Bent the nail—bent the nail!” chortled Terry.
“You're there, doc, you're there! That's better'n 'solid
ivory'ſ”
“Out!” cried Doctor Thibodeaux. “Oh, you were not
trying to drive a nail into your head, LaFonte? Then
perhaps you were trying to hang yourself upon a nail?
A nail in the ear; it is a strange place for a nail, you must
admit. Sit down.”
“It was in the bottom of the mast of my pirogue, doc-
tor,” said Ambrose.
“Then how did it get into your ear, my poor LaFonte?”
“I—I put the ear against it, m'sieu.”
“So-still, still! It burns? Of course. So you put
your ear against the nail in the bottom of the mast in


TWISTED TRAILS 35
your pirogue? A strange place for an ear, LaFonte.
Come, my son,” he continued with a change of manner,
laying his hand on the guide's shoulder in paternal fash-
ion, “you must not mind if I jest a little. You are a
good Cajun, and so am I. If I have hurt your pride, I
beg a thousand pardons. You must forgive an old man
his fun.”
“It is I who should beg pardon for troubling you,
m'sieu doctor,” replied LaFonte. “A cut in the ear, what
is that? But, M'sieu Warren insisted we must see a
doctor. He will see, he says, that he send me home as
good as he found me.”
“It is the Yankee way, LaFonte, the Anglo-Saxon
way,” chuckled the doctor, busy at his work. “Knock a
man down, kick in his ribs, call the Red Cross.”
“Pardon, doctor, not M'sieu Warren—”
“All alike. Every one of them. Do not contradict.
They love to help-after they have whipped. Sit still!”
“It was an accident, m'sieu,” protested Ambrose. “I
threw myself down blindly—the bullet was so close.”
Doctor Thibodeaux paused with the swab of iodine
held daintily between thumb and forefinger.
“Bullet?” said he, his eyes questing Warren.
“We were sailing past Black Woods, doctor, down
there in Deep Swamp,” explained Steppy, “and somebody
took a couple of shots at the pirogue.”
“Oh! A couple shots. Casually. It is a common ex-
perience to you, then?”
“No, I wouldn't say common,” replied Warren. “Fact
is, I wanted to stick round and see how about it, but


36 TWISTED TRAILS
Ambrose is prejudiced and superstitious against having
anything at all to do with Black Woods.”
“And you, my young Yankee, you have no such preju-
dices or superstitions yourself?”
“I haven't about Black Woods, at least. It's one of
the most beautiful pine forests I've ever seen.”
“Ah! Beautiful, is it?” -
“Yes, sir,” concluded Warren practically, “and whoever
logs it ought to clean up a nice piece of money if he knows
the game. I'm down here in that line, doctor,” he added.
“Do you know who owns it?”
“Pierre Martel,” said the doctor, turning to his work.
“Do you happen to know if he would sell?”
“The Martels? For ready money they would sell their
souls—if they had any. Now that is all I have to say
about that.”
He turned all his attention to the task of bandaging
Ambrose's ears, his manner indicating plainly, and yet
in a way at which no one could take offense, that the con-
versation was over. His thin, skillful hands flew about
with the swiftness and precision of long practice, and
presently he fastened the end of the bandage in position,
slapped Ambrose on the back and said:
“Go home, LaFonte; your wife will be lonesome. I
know the ways of good Cajun wives; they are very af-
fectionate. Get out—out, out!”
“Merci ->
“Out—out—out!” The doctor flung himself into his
deck chair, his back to the door, and resumed his com-
munion with the black monkeylike figure on the wall. “I


TWISTED TRAILS 31
Stephen looked into the room and saw first of all the
white top of the large, closely cropped head of a man
reclining comfortably in a canvas deck chair. The man's
back was toward the door, and his gaze was apparently
riveted on a hideous gargoyle which leered down from
its lofty pedestal on the opposite wall. But for the
presence of the white head in the deck chair Stephen
realized that he would have been attracted by the gar-
goyle first of all. It was horribly vivid, two feet or
more high, and carved out of some dense black wood
by a master craftsman. Its position, on a tall white
pedestal, was strategic. From there its hideous leer
greeted one the moment the threshold was passed. From
its pedestal the Thing looked down on everything in the
room—looked down upon and sneered contemptuously
apon every one and everything with a sneer that seemed
to make it offensively alive. .
Terry grinned impudently back at the gargoyle; Am-
brose shuddered and crossed himself surreptitiously;
Stephen turned his attention to the large white-cropped
head. The owner of the head was mostly hidden in
the chair, but it was apparent that he was small of body
and almost mahogany colored of complexion from ex-
posure to the elements. A precise military mustache and
tiny goatee, both as snow white as the closely cropped
hair, adorned the dark countenance. Apparently he was
so deeply in communion with the ugly figure on the wall
that he was unconscious of the arrival of the visitors.
Between his teeth he held a long bamboo cigarette
holder containing a phenomenally long brown cigarette,


32 TWISTED TRAILS
but he did not smoke in the accepted fashion; he blew deli-
cately through the holder to keep the tobacco burning,
and the faint, snaky streams of pungent smoke rose lan-
guidly upward, like incense burned to the leering figure
that sneered down upon it all. By no word or sign had
the man indicated that he heard his callers arrive. Yet
suddenly he burst forth without moving:
“No, no! I am occupied. Do you not see I am occu-
pied?”
Steppy looked carefully at the little man, fearing that
some detail of the doctor's occupation had escaped
him, but as far as he could see he had not moved. He
lay stretched out at leisure in the long chair, presently
blowing another thin stream of smoke into the air, en-
tirely idle if ever a man was idle.
“Because I am not doing something with my hands
you think I am not occupied,” said he quietly.
Warren started. The doctor's back was turned toward
him so the latter could not see him, yet that was just
what Steppy had been thinking at the moment.
“What an ass is man!” continued the doctor confiden-
tially to the gargoyle. “He finds a virtue in skittering
about, doing things with his hands. The water bug
skitters, and the monkey has hands. Cannot you see I am
busy: I am consulting my honest friend, Solomon, about
the Snake. Go away.” -
“There's a guy here got his ear ripped open, doc,” sug-
gested Terry.
“Who is he?” asked the doctor without moving.


TWISTED TRAILS 37
am occupied. By all the devils of civilization! Cannot
you see I am occupied? The fee is three dollars.”
“Ain’t he a card, bo, ain't he?” demanded young
McGurk, as they walked back toward the office. “What
d'you know about a bird like that, eh?”
Stephen replied carelessly, his mind busy with a quite
different matter. The tract of pine locally known as
Black Woods had not been gobbled up by the Hartland
Company or by any other corporation, but was still in
the hands of private ownership. This meant that it could
be bought. He considered the fact that it was strange
that no lumber company had purchased the tract, but he
did not let this deter him in the least. The tract was well
down in the Deep Swamp and he had seen enough of the
Cajun country to know how effective might be a barrier
of fear and superstition such as had been thrown round
Black Woods. Outside timber cruisers had probably seen
the woods, but—he wondered if they, too, had been
greeted by some first-class shooting by a hidden marks-
man? If so, the reason for the tract remaining untouched
was easily explained.
The fact that he and Ambrose had been so effectively
warned away from the timber did not trouble him now.
That was an incident. Black Woods was in private hands
—that was the all-important fact. In the trees of Black
Woods he saw the way to a fortune.
“You say that Mr. Pierre Martel has gone over to the
races?” he asked as he followed Terry toward the mill
office. “Do you know when he will be back?”
“No,” replied Terry, haughtily flicking an imaginary


38 TWISTED TRAILS
speck of dust from an imaginary glove, “Mr. Pierre
Martel didn't stop and wise me up about that, but I'll see
him over’t the track to-morrow and ask him. But there's
Octo Landry, the bookkeeper, quitting work, and Octo's
sort of nephew to the old man and he may know. Hey,
Octo,” he shouted to a slightly built Cajun youth who was
leaving the office, “how long is Old Man Martel going to
stay over at New Orleans?”
The clerk glanced contemptuously at Terry, but paused
as he saw Stephen.
“Have you business with Mr. Martel, Senior, Mr.
McGurk?” he asked.
“Aw, can it, Octo, can it!” cried Terry. “You needn't
pull that up-stage stuff on me. I got your number; I
know when it comes down to cases you're one good old
scout. How 'bout it? When does the Old Duke of Lily
City expect to be back?”
“I am not familiar with Mr. Martel, Senior's expec-
tations, McGurk,” was the dignified reply.
“That's a little better. Don't mister me again, Octo,
old scout, unless you want to see some fireworks.”
“I wanted to see Mr. Martel on business,” interrupted
Stephen.
“He has gone to the races,” replied the bookkeeper cour-
teously. “It is uncertain when he will return. If there
is anything I could do—”
“Thank you very much, but it's something I have to see
Mr. Martel personally about.”
“It is too bad he is not here. I could telephone over
to-morrow morning. He stops at the St. Charles.”


TWISTED TRAILS 39
“Thanks. That will do,” replied Stephen. “Thank you
very much.”
Landry bowed; Stephen bowed; Terry bowed.
“Can you beat 'em?” demanded the latter as he watched
the bookkeeper walk proudly away. “I suspect I'll have
to pin one on that bird's chin some day just to make him
human. Well, I wouldn't care much for his job, handling
the money here, with the Snake floating round and pulling
his stunts. Say, bo, I'm going to beat it to New Orleans
on the next train to-night. How 'bout you? You know
the old saying—when in rum do as the rummies do.
Come on, bo, better follow the crowd and go to the
races.”


CHAPTER V
IT was opening day of the racing season at New
Orleans, the day to which thousands looked forward
for the thrill of the stirring cry: “They're off!”
Apparently Nature approved of the sport, for the day
was in complete accord with the occasion. The sun shone
like June. A breeze which had been born in Yucatan and
nurtured by the Gulf, lazied its way over the city.
It was a soothing breeze, a lulling one. It whispered a
fib, but the fib was easy to hear. It whispered that winter
and care did not exist, that there was only spring and
pleasure; that there never would be any season but spring.
The breeze moved languorously over and through the
moist, devious ways of the Old French Quarter, seeping
dreamily into old courtyards long since abandoned to
mold and the odor of mold, to ancient, indigent mammies,
to the ghosts of tender, dead loves. It crossed Canal
Street swiftly, rather offended at the Yankeelike bustle
and modernity of that great business thoroughfare, and
went a-search for congenial scenes and plaisance.
It left the city behind and reached the race track as
the first early railbirds were passing through the turn-
stiles, and there it found a congenial atmosphere, so it
lingered and stayed for the races. It swept the manes
of the thoroughbreds and made them whinny, touched
40


TWISTED TRAILS 41
the nostrils of gaunt old timber toppers loosening up for
the long, rough steeplechase, stroked the sleek coats of
the rollicking two-year-olds prancing about with stable
boys on their backs, and it seeped into the clubhouse pa-
vilion, danced vagabondishly down a row of seats next to
the rail and rustled the program in Stephen Warren's
sun-browned hands.
Stephen had accompanied Terry McGurk to New
Orleans and had tried in vain to find Pierre Martel. He
had met Mr. Hartland, a stocky, good-humored man of
fifty, who had immediately offered Stephen a job.
Stephen had requested two days for a decision. In those
two days he expected to learn if he had a chance to get
hold of the timber of Black Woods. He was at the race
track for that purpose, as he had been informed that Mr.
Martel, Senior, would appear there that afternoon without
fail.
Warren knew horses and therefore he loved horses for
their own sake. Mainly he knew working horses, the
great clumsy patient 1600-pound animals of the logging
woods, and the smaller work beasts of farms. But the
thoroughbred is king; he is to work breed what a prince
of the blood is to his strong peasant subjects. Warren
was out early to feast his eyes on the perfection of horse
flesh, the dainty, fiery-eyed gallopers, which, playing with
the stable boys on their backs, came cavorting, dancing,
stepping sidewise, past the stand. A long-legged young
bay colt, a baby racer by his lines, was fox-trotting
leisurely toward the paddock and Warren tried to pick
him out on the program.


42 TWISTED TRAILS
“That's Nailer,” said some one near by. “Number 7
in the third race. Don't play him. It's a full mile, and
that baby ain't in shape to go a furlong. Martel is play-
ing his horse, The Hammer, to win. The tip is he ain't
quite ready either. Here's The Hammer now—the big
black.”
A pair of racers, one remarkable for his size and the
blackness of his coat and the redness of his fiercely dis-
tended nostrils, swept past on their way to the paddock.
As if in answer to a challenge the bay called Nailer
reared, tossed his head, and in spite of his rider, danced
away in vain pursuit. A curt snatch of laughter from the
gangway leading toward the betting ring attracted War-
ren's attention. It attracted the attention of others,
women as well as men.
“Georges Martel, the big plunger,” whispered a woman
behind Steppy. “Owns The Hammer, you know.”
“Some man!” whispered her companion.
Warren had risen to go to the paddock to watch the
horses at closer range and presently he found himself
following in Martel's wake. The latter apparently was
well known. As he leisurely made his way toward the
betting pavilion behind the grand stand his passage drew
an occasional greeting, an occasional look and question.
Women in particular looked at him, his tall figure and
handsome features attracting their attention even in the
hurly-burly of the moment. At times he paused and
bowed, spoke a word, shook hands, passed on. Steppy
found no difficulty in keeping him in view.
In the betting pavilion Martel's reception was peculiar.


TWISTED TRAILS 43
Several bookmakers turned their back when they saw
him coming; all seemed to know him. He wrote a ticket
and presented it to the leading bookmaker at the meet,
and passed on toward the paddock without troubling to
note how the layer received the bet.
“Here, Mr. Martel!” called the bookmaker excitedly
as he read the figures on the ticket.
“Well, Levy?” Martel paused but did not turn round.
“That's a whale of a big bet, Martel—if you lose. I
ain't taking markers this year.”
Martel carelessly drew a wallet from an inner pocket
and displayed a wad of yellow bank notes.
“Oh! All right.” The bookmaker fell back respect-
fully and Martel passed on without having looked at him.
In the jam of the paddock Steppy lost sight of his man.
The crowd was shifting and milling about the horses that
were being led in, and Steppy, caught in the confusion,
drifted carelessly with the excited throng down the length
of the stalls. A shift in interest, a new horse being led
out into the paddock, and the crowd flowed back like
quicksilver. Stephen was about to drift with it, but from
one of the stalls near by came a muffled curse and the
sound of a blow.
In the paddock at the end of the stalls Terry McGurk
was gripping Nailer's bridle with his left hand while in
his right he brandished the whip with which he had just
dealt a stinging blow. -
“Don’t you kick my horse out of the way, you big
stiff!” he cried. “Don't you go trying that!”
The large, thick-set man whom he had struck, drew


TWISTED TRAILS 45
Always makes him ugly. The nag there was in his way
and he took a kick at him. He’d a kicked a tiger just the
same. Beat it—hell, it's too late!”
Carkey had suddenly sprung to his feet, whirling round
in the air, throwing his coat one way, his hat the other.
“Who did it?” he bellowed. “Who's looking for it?”
His eye fell upon Steppy, the only one of the crowd who
did not give back before his menacing glare. His eyes
widened and closed shrewdly, his lips straightened, grew
thin, and he sucked his breath in so noisily that it whistled.
“Here, kid,” he whistled, tossing a twenty-dollar bill
to the boy he had manhandled. “Pay the damage. Worth
it. Got me into a real fight at last.”
“Beat it, son, beat it!” pleaded the old horseman, trying
to thrust Steppy away. “It’s Bomb Carkey—fought the
champion, you know. Beat it!”
“Naw, you don't!” whistled the drunken giant. “Stand
away from him there, you. He knocked Bomb Carkey
down from behind and he's got to explain. Don't be-
devil him, you fools. He understands; he's got the eye
of a fighting man. Throw your coat, young feller, or I'll
knock you kicking right where you stand.”
“No, you won't, Bomb!” screamed Terry, picking up
the hammer, and aiming it at the back of Carkey's head.
“I’ll cave in your dome for you!”
“Put that down, son,” laughed Steppy. “It’s all right;
put it down.” º
“Do you see, do you hear?” growled Carkey. “Didn't
I tell you he had the eye of a fighting man? Up with


46 TWISTED TRAILS
your dukes, young fellow, and leave your address where
you want your body sent.”
“Carkey, have some sense,” pleaded onlookers. “Beat
it, young feller! Beat it; we'll hold him while you make
a getaway.”
“Ah! You will?” cried Carkey. He crouched like a
bear for a spring, his eyes glaring, huge fists swinging.
“You will, eh? Then look out, I'm ->
“Carkey!”
The ex-pugilist froze in the very instant he was about
to leap. For a few seconds he stood with his fists tensed
ready to strike, his legs bent for the spring. Then he
subsided; his eyes went to the ground.
“All right,” he said sullenly, then hesitated a moment,
picked up hat and coat and turned away.
In amazement Warren turned to see who had spoken.
The crowd, with a quicksilver change of interest, was
shifting back toward the paddock, and the broad, well-
groomed back of Georges Martel was disappearing round
a COTITCT.


CHAPTER WI
ARREN found himself alone with Terry who, as-
sisted by his jockey, had caught the bay and was
soothing him as one might soothe a terrified child.
“So, Nailer! Poor old Nailer! Steady, steady, old
boy. Ain't nobody going to put anything over on you
while Terry's round. Easy, old boy, easy. I'm with
you.”
The horse, which during the excitement had been vainly
trying to climb a ten-foot fence, was in a bad way. The
soothing tones of the boy stopped his jumping, but the
muscles under his black hide played nervously, and his
fiery thoroughbred eyes roved about in wild alarm.
“So, boy,” said Warren, and at the strange voice the
horse went into the air, dragging the boy off his feet.
“So, boy,” repeated Steppy and came forward and laid
a hand on the slender neck. The racer started, looked at
him, blew a great blast from his distended nostrils and
grew still.
“Well, I'll be darned!” said Terry. “That's the foist
stranger he's let touch him since he got sick.”
Nailer was a splendid young animal; the rampant life
of the two-year-old thoroughbred was in his eyes. The
lines of him showed that his breeding was of the finest,
but his bearing did not live up to his lines. His coat was
47


48 TWISTED TRAILS
a dead, dusty bay in color and his dainty feet shuffled un-
certainly as he moved them. Only his eye remained true,
fiery, dynamic—the warrior eye of the thoroughbred race
horse.
“What's the matter with him?” said Warren. “He
looks as if his grain wasn't doing him much good.”
“You think he's a mutt?” retorted Terry belligerently.
“I don't know anything about race horses,” replied
Warren. “He looks to me like a pretty good animal in
very bad rig.”
“Pretty good! Pretty good! I suppose Salvator would
have looked pretty good to you, eh? Or Roamer or Colin
Or Say, bo, Sassin was this baby's granddaddy.
Does that mean anything to you?”
“Not a thing,” replied Stephen, rubbing the horse's
nose. “Don’t hit me; I'm not kicking him, you know.”
McGurk grinned until his freckled countenance was
split in twain.
“Gee, bo! That was some bouquet you handed Carkey.
I—I guess you saved me a beatin' all right. Say, did you
make the bird who called him to time? That was Georges
Martel. Every time I see him I wonder how does he ever
escape the movies. All that guy'd have to do'd be to
vamp some Jane through six reels and they'd have to call
out the reserves to keep the skoits from crashing through
the box office.”
“Why in the world did Carkey stop at a single word
from him?” asked Warren.
“Bo, if I had a buck for everything over there I don't
know or understand I’d have John D. Rockefeller bitin'


TWISTED TRAILS 49
his nails and waiting for me to come down and lend him
jack enough to keep his oil carts going. Martel must
have something tough on Bomb Carkey, all right, to stop
him cold like that. I know Bomb Carkey; used to know
him when me stamping ground was between Belmont Park
and Thoid Avenue and Fourteenth, up in New Yawk. He
ain't no piker any way, for nerve or anything. In half
an hour he'll be back here making it all right with me,
see'ſ he don't. So, Nailer, poor old feller! Nothing
but hard luck since we started south. First we get into
a train wreck that wrenches his neck and drives him
crazy, and then he gets the flu. And here he is entered
for the thoid race and he ain't fit to go a furlong.”
“Do you own him?”
“Who owns you, Nailer? Listen to him, old boy!
Who raised you from a baby up there at Jamaica, when
they were going to shoot you because they thought you'd
put your shoulder out crashing through that fence? Who
slept in the stall with you, and worked as stable boy to
get jack enough to feed you? He's mine, sir; and he's
every one and everything I’ve got in the world. But—
but he's a race horse, bo, he's a stake horse, not an over-
night purse chaser. And some day, when I get him into
condition and have a little luck, he's going to prove it.
I got him nominated for the Mardi Gras Handicap next
February. Gimme two months with him at a decent
training place and I'll beat 'em all. Say, bo, you done me
a favor, and I'll slip you the only thing I can in return.
Lay off this baby to-day. He can't go the distance, and


50 TWISTED TRAILS
I just got him in there on the ghost of a chance of getting
a piece of money to train him on.”
“We'll give that big black Hammer a chase though,
Terry,” said the jockey, slapping his boots with his whip.
“I’ll make the bird upon him ride.”
“For about half the distance, Monk,” said Terry.
“Then we'll fade and drop back—poor old Nailer. The
favorite will beat about three horses. But cheer up, Terry,
cheer up; some day they got to run for you.”
Warren made his way slowly back toward the club
house. The park was rapidly filling. The mellow sun-
shine lay over clubhouse, grand stand, track, infield and
paddock. Trains, street cars and motors were pouring a
crowd through the welcoming gates. It was like a sum-
mer crowd, for though the month was November the
unusual warmth had brought out a throng in summer
array, summer manners and gayety. As Warren passed
through the betting ring the band in the grand stand
poured forth The Star Spangled Banner; then a pause,
and to the accompaniment of laughter, cheers and con-
tagious animation, Auld Lang Syne.
A variegated throng was crowding the clubhouse pa-
vilion, an animated talking throng, the talk exclusively
of King Horse. There were horsemen and gambling
men: Kentuckians to whom horse racing was meat, wine,
bread, tobacco and religion; and the inevitable contingent
of gamblers to whom a race horse was merely a counter
on a sublimated roulette wheel. Northern tourists rubbed
shoulders with Spanish-speaking South Americans,
courtly dignified horse breeders and horse lovers were


TWISTED TRAILS 51
jostled by hard-jawed, curt-spoken bookmakers and graft-
ers. The drawl of the South, soft, lingering, friendly,
was in the air, and through it might be heard French and
Spanish and Portuguese.
Dark-skinned Latin ladies, grand dames from old plan-
tations, graceful, olive-skinned Creoles, and the more ro-
bust ladies of tourist parties from the North made up a
gayly dressed feminine element, with here and there one
of the flashily dressed, over-bediamonded and effulgent
ladies of the tracks. In that crowd, charged with a vitality
as keen as that of the horses about to race, a man or
woman must be exceptional to attract attention, to make
the crowd pause its buzzing and observe for even a mo-
ment, yet at the moment that Steppy reached the head of
the stairs leading into the pavilion the portion of the
crowd nearest the clubhouse was in that momentary state
of suspense and silence which even at race tracks occa-
sionally stills the babble and chatter.
Estella Reid had come out of the clubhouse escorted by
Pierre Martel. Stephen, looking closely, saw a tall, white-
haired man whose dark skin, snow-white imperial and
courtly bearing marked him apart as of aristocratic
lineage. Alone, the old man would have been the focus
of many eyes in any crowd, yet now he was merely an
appendage, a foil to the girl he was escorting.
Romantic Latin blood had joined with blood of a
Northern race in creating in her a woman who to one ob-
server might appear all fire and languor, to another ice
and strength, so intricately and so subtly did two natures
seem to be mingled in Estella Reid. Physically she was


52 TWISTED TRAILS
taller and more strongly built than the Creole type, and
more animated and gay than the woman of the North.
Spiritually she seemed at the moment a lambent flame of
carefree youth, a carefree apotheosis of the scene about
her. She walked slowly beside her distinguished escort.
Her high-held head was surmounted by a girlish mass
of brown hair upon which shimmered an impression of
red; her blue eyes were girlishly eager under the stimulus
of the crowd. Yet she was not of the crowd. She was
different. Some time later, when she was not present,
Warren heard two women discussing her:
“How was she dressed, do you remember?”
“No! I never noticed a thing.”
It was her usual effect, exercising itself even upon the
fading, sophisticated women who in their hearts hated
her for her beauty and youth. It was expressed by the
soft, tense whisper of a Brazilian:
“La Louisiane!”
The pair passed to the front of the pavilion to a corner
box at the rail, and as Warren's eyes followed he saw that
Georges Martel and Mr. Hartland were seated in the box.
Georges Martel, as he greeted her, bent playfully over her
hand and laughed with a flash of white teeth. Warren
was too far away to hear what was said but the girl
looked up suddenly, a flush and a troubled smile came upon
her face, and she looked away.
The silvery notes of a bugle down by the judge's stand
suddenly stilled the crowd and swerved its attention to-
ward the track. Warren did not take his eyes from the
box, for in the instant that bugle had blown, when every-


TWISTED TRAILS 53
body's eyes went to the track, he had seen Georges Mar-
tel bend over the girl's neck as she leaned over the rail
to see the horses, as he had bent over her down on the
bayou. Martel's face was congested with blood, his eyes
protruded, his lips worked nervously, and his large white
hands moved like a pair of claws. It was only for an
instant. Then he straightened his tall figure, his face
calm, indolently assured and composed, his fingers toying
playfully with the thin watch chain across his vest, as he
joined in the scrutiny of the parade for the first race of
the season and laughingly made some comment on the
horses. -


CHAPTER VII
TEN-THOUSAND-TONGUED roar shook the
pavilion and echoed up to the blue sky as the
crowd, coming to its feet, announced that the racing
season at Jefferson Park was opened.
And then Warren had his second shock within a few
seconds. With the interest of her companions suddenly
transferred from her and concentrated on the race, the girl
looked round, and he saw that though she could not have
seen Martel's gesture behind her back some fine sense of
intuition had troubled her. Her blue eyes were calm, but
the light of pleasure had gone from them. They were
wide and questing, with the hint of loneliness in them,
a hint of tragedy. Instinctively Steppy found himself
leaning toward her, and in that instant her eyes found
his. He had forgotten himself so completely that he was
staring at her frankly, and at the sight of this she looked
away. It was an instinctive movement; Warren would
have been surprised if she had done anything else. But
she looked back, and she smiled a little as she recognized
him as the lost one on the bayou and saw that he recog-
nized her.
For the moment it seemed that in spite of the great
crowd, or because of it, the two of them were quite alone.
Out upon the track a well-matched field was swinging
54


TWISTED THAILS 55
round the turn; in pavilion, grand stand and on the rail
thousands were tense with the thrill of racing; and
Stephen and the girl looked only at one another; and then
she smiled again and turned to watch the race.
Warren's countenance promptly took upon itself the
noncommittal mask of complete indifference with which
his breed mask the tale of excitement, and though his
heart leaped distractedly he turned his attention to the
track and watched the finish of the first race with apparent
interest. Cheers greeted the finish; the favorite had won.
The crowd, in relief from the tension, began milling
round, laughing, chattering; and presently Mr. Hartland
rose, looked round and saw Stephen.
“Hello, Warren!” he called. “Come down here; got a
chair for you.”
In a daze and confusion, though his countenance was
calm and composed, Stephen found himself being intro-
duced. The older Martel greeted him courteously, studied
his face and saw nothing but a good-natured athletic boy,
and grew cordial at once, while Georges Martel smiled
indolently, the brown eyes under his thick lashes keenly
interested but inscrutable.
“Miss Reid, Mr. Warren.”
Warren stammered a formal acknowledgment of the
introduction but Miss Reid nodded and smiled mischiev-
ously.
“You’re not lost to-day, Mr. Warren, are you?”
“Well, no, Miss Reid, not exactly—not as badly as I
was lost the other day.”


56 TWISTED TRAILS
“Ah! You are acquainted with Mr. Warren, Estella?”
said Georges Martel.
“Oh, dear, yes! Haven't I spoken of him? Mr. War-
ren of-of Deep Swamp. He-he gets lost there, don't
you, Mr. Warren?”
“He does,” agreed Stephen.
“Think of it!” she said solemnly. “He was lost in the
wilds of our own bayou!”
“Ah! Then it was you the sheriff had, Mr. Warren?”
interrupted Georges. “I am glad you—didn't turn out
to be the Snake.”
“Thank you,” replied Warren, pleasantly, “but it was
Miss Reid who helped me, you remember.” -
“H'm, h’m!” said Mr. Hartland promptly. “Talking
about that, have you made up your mind about that job?”
“Not yet, Mr. Hartland. I'm afraid that when it comes
to making decisions I'm rather slow.”
“That's all right; you said to-morrow. Stick to it;
that's business. You're a business man. That's why I
feel sure you won't turn my job down. Johnson, my old
superintendent, succumbed to the climate. Threw up a
fine job to be a bum.”
“Oh!” Miss Reid interrupted with a petulant stamp of
the foot. “How can you say that, Mr. Hartland? Mr.
Johnson fell in love, really, truly in love.”
“He went crazy about a little Cajun girl, if that's what
you mean, Miss Reid.”
“Me, too—Ah am poah lil Cajun gal, M'sieu,” she
said, and Hartland bowed his gray head contritely.
“I stand corrected. Will you forgive me?”


TWISTED TRAILS 57
“Let me see—will I?” she put a finger thoughtfully to
her brow. “Yes, Cajun gals are generous. I forgive
you—if you'll not use the word “bum' in describing John-
son's romance.”
“All right,” laughed Hartland. “Well, Warren,
Johnson went—fell in love with a little bayou beauty and
let the job go smash.”
“Quite proper, too,” said the girl. “He couldn't let
his business interfere with his romance, could he?”
“Well, he didn't at all events. So the job is open.
Lily City Mill means a good thing, Warren.”
“But, Mr. Hartland, perhaps Mr. Warren would fall
in love, too,” persisted Estella.
“Ha hal” said Georges Martel mirthlessly. “Estella,
you do not understand the modern business man, in spite
of your Northern education. Johnson would not permit
business to interfere with his romance. A good business
man—a strong business man—such as Mr. Warren—will
not allow his romance—if he is weak enough to have one
—to interfere with his business.”
“Is that true, Mr. Hartland?”
“I should hope so! If I thought it wasn't, I wouldn't
offer him the job. Lily City Mill is too big a plant to fool
with. It's really a fine thing, Warren. You ought to
jump at it.”
“Is that what Yankee hustlers do?” asked Estella sol-
emnly.
“What's that, Miss Reid?”
“Jump. Jump at it—whatever it is. It must be fun
to see them do it, isn't it? I’ve never seen a Yankee


58 TWISTED THAILS
hustler jump. Do they do the standing high jump or the
running broad? It would be very thrilling, I think.”
She flashed a swift, mischievous glance at Stephen and
saw by his smile that he was enjoying it all to the fullest,
and she made an attempt to continue solemnly, but his
smile was too much for her, and she gave vent to a peal
of hearty laughter.
“I’m rude,” she said uncontritely. “Are you thinking
over the job at the Lily City Mill, Mr. Warren?”
“Yes.”
“Won't that be nice!”
“He is only thinking it over, Estella,” said Georges
Martel softly.
“Until to-morrow,” rejoined Stephen, smiling upon
Georges.
“I perish with anxiety,” said the girl calmly, and turned
her attention to the track.
“There's the field for the third race coming out,” said
Mr. Hartland. “There's The Hammer, black and red.
Betting on him, Georges?”
“Of course. He has only to beat Venus Delight, the
chestnut, yellow and purple.”
“And the nice bay horse in the lead, with the pretty
green and gold colors?” asked Estella.
The men, except Warren, laughed.
“Nailer. Owner, Mr. Terrence McGurk.”
“Little Terry over at the mill?”
“The same.”
“Oh!” she cried, “I’ll root for him.”
“To beat The Hammer, Estella?” purred Georges.


TWISTED TRAILS 59
“I know it's too bad, Georges,” she replied, “but I do so
love green and gold colors!”
“Warren,” said Georges, turning with false deference
to Stephen, “what is your opinion?”
“No!” Steppy laughingly refused to be drawn in.
“The Hammer'll beat Nailer, but he'll finish behind the
favorite. He isn't in shape; that's the consensus,” inter-
posed Hartland. “That's my idea, too.”
“Ah!” said Georges seriously, with a lifting of the
brows. “But,” he added after a moment's pause, “it is
highly important that the consensus on this race is wrong.”
“Important to you, you mean, eh?” laughed Hartland;
but Warren had seen the look that Georges bestowed upon
the back of Estella's head and knew that was not what he
had meant at all.


CHAPTER VIII
HEY’RE off!”
The crowd rose again at the ringing shout, but
almost instantly there followed a groan of dismay.
“The favorite's left! The favorite's left!”
Down at the starting line a perfectly aligned field had
leaped forward at the drop of the flag—except one horse.
The chestnut filly bearing Number One, the favorite,
Venus Delight, had been caught flat-footed. Six horses
flashed into view in a closely crowded bunch, while two
lengths behind the outwitted jockey upon the favorite,
to the tune of imprecations from the stands, was striving
with whip and heel to make up the distance he had lost.
“The Hammer leads! The Hammer leads!”
Georges Martel flecked the ashes from his cigarette
as the race swept past the pavilion, but did not rise.
“There he goes—The Hammer! He's got a length
on 'em!”
A sudden hush. Then a bellow of surprise and dis-
may rose from the crowd as the bunch struck the first
turn.
“Number Seven!. Number Seven!”
“Who is it?”
“Nailer!”
Stephen leaped to his feet.
60


TWISTED TRAILS 61
“Nailer!” cried the girl. “Oh, good!”
Out in the lead by a good length. The Hammer had
leaped at the turn, and as if at a signal Nailer had leaped
after him, eating up the daylight between them in a won-
derful spurt, crowding the black horse's flanks with his
clean, bay head, moving up from flank to shoulder, run-
ning neck to neck for a stride or two, and suddenly show-
ing his nose ahead of the big black.
“Nailer! Wat d'you know! Watch him run!”
Nailer was running with a long easy stride that was
the perfection of thoroughbred running, running at top
speed as easily and naturally as an eagle swoops at its
fastest. The boy on his back sat immobile, crouched and
guiding only, knowing the splendid animal beneath was
running with every ounce of speed in his sturdy heart.
So perfect was the running form of the bay horse that
though the speed with which he swung round the turn
caused the wise ones on the rail to look at one another,
there was no appearance of effort or hurry in his move-
ments. Beneath his bay hide the long muscles moved with
the smoothness of swift slipping water, each muscle well-
ing and relaying in accord with the whole, the whole tes-
tifying eloquently that here was an animal bred to race,
to run its best at highest speed though the effort dropped
it dead on the track.
The spirit of the race seemed to have transformed the
sluggish animal that Steppy had seen in the paddock.
The flaming spirit of him seemed to flare out and shine
through the dull color of his coat. As if his racing heart
had surmounted the weakness of the flesh and bone his


62 * TWISTED TRAILS
dainty feet, which had moved uncertainly in the paddock,
now seemed to spurn the earth, gripping it only with a toe
hold for the drive forward.
“Nailer! Nailer!”
A half length of the bay showed ahead of the out-
stretched black nose of The Hammer as they whirled into
the straightaway of the back stretch and between them
and the rest of the field a full two lengths of daylight was
visible. The favorite was forgotten. All interest cen-
tered upon the terrific struggle between the two leaders.
With the long straightaway before his eyes Nailer seemed
to let out another link in his speed. The boy upon The
Hammer was using his whip right and left.
Georges Martel rose leisurely to his feet and placed his
glasses to his eyes.
“Yes, he runs very prettily, Nailer, and should,” he
said calmly. “He is bred in the same blood as The Ham-
mer. But—no condition. There he goes.”
A half-smothered groan had escaped the lips of the girl
in the front of the box. And many an old horseman
groaned with her, in sympathy for the gallant Nailer and
what had happened out on the back stretch. For at the
half-mile post Nailer had faltered and lost his stride.
His pace shortened. The great, flashing stride which had
carried him over the half mile at close to a record for the
track was gone in an instant. He had given the best that
was in him, had run his best as he had to do to keep The
Hammer from distancing him, and now he was through.
The indomitable spirit was there, striving to drag the


TWISTED TRAILS 63
lagging body on, his effort diminished not in the least,
but the legs would not, could not, respond.
“The Hammer—creeping up!”
“Yes. It is the time,” murmured Georges.
The black horse had crept along the bay's flank in a few
strides. Neck and neck they raced, Nailer, a beaten horse,
fighting like mad to keep even; then the black's nose
showed in front.
“Nailer's finished,” said Martel, and turned his glasses
elsewhere. But Nailer though he was beaten was not
quite finished. A silk-clad green and gold arm glimmered
in the sunlight as his jockey flashed the whip in the air
and brought it down with a vicious cut. With a leap that
was only a thing of will and nerve the indomitable horse
responded, gained a foot or two, raced neck and neck for
a few strides, then began to fall back.
“The Hammer! The Hammer!”
The crowd was hailing the leader vociferously, but
Georges Martel had his glasses trained elsewhere, and a
rush of blood suffused his face, thickened his neck, while
his lips drew into a thin, straight line of rage, defeat and
hate unspeakable.
“Damn it!” he muttered. “He wasn't ready, after all!”
Out on the far side of the closely bunched trailers two
lengths behind The Hammer, a low-running, lean chestnut
filly had struck her stride, and, swinging far toward the
farther fence, went wide to be clear of her field. The
race of Nailer was over: the pace had told and was telling
harder upon The Hammer; and the chestnut filly, though


64 TWISTED TRAILS *
outclassed by two horses in the field, was demonstrating
the invincibility of perfect condition.
Trained to the minute, just right for this hour, she
had just begun to run her race. Running like a machine
she cleared the ruck, still going wide; at the curve she
cut across the track and reached Nailer's heaving flanks.
She swung to the rail, her nose at The Hammer's rump,
her tail before Nailer's nose. Like three machines they
were outlined against the rail in this order as they swung
round the curve for the finish—then it happened.
A space of daylight showed between the side of the
hard-driven Hammer and the white-painted rail. The
whip of the boy on the filly flashed in the air. Like a
bullet the chestnut flew into the gap, filled it, and with
whips flying The Hammer and Venus Delight swung in
for the finish on even terms, with Nailer a bad third.
“The favorite! The favorite!”
The fickle crowd had changed its tune.
“Venus Delight! Come on—Venus!”
Nailer was through. He dropped back and a rangy
bay nosed him out of the money before the finish began
to be ridden. Out in front the filly and The Hammer
were fighting like the true racers they were. For a space
the big black held his own through the power of the breed
in him. Then the chestnut showed her nose ahead. There
was only the semblance of a struggle on The Hammer's
part. For a stride he responded to the spur of the whip,
but as the filly crept ahead the fight went out of him.
“Venus Delight! Come on!”
The Hammer quit. The boy flogged him to the


TWISTED TRAILS 65
finish line, but he had quit too soon to have a chance.
Like a flash Venus Delight went forward and made the
race safe. A length in the lead she flashed by the judges.
The Hammer second, the rangy bay third. Somewhere
back in the ruck was Nailer, overlooked, forgotten—no,
not quite.
“Poor old Nailer!” murmured Estella. “What a
shame!”
“Venus Delight wins!”
“Venus always wins,” murmured Georges Martel.
“Even over The Hammer.”
“Lose much?” asked Hartland.
Georges looked at him curiously a moment.
“Oh, so-so,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders.
“Nevertheless, it was quite important that I should win.”
He smiled easily; but the face of his father, the aristo-
cratic Pierre Martel, had become drawn and sunken; the
old eyes were blazing and his cheeks were the color of cold
ashes.


CHAPTER IX
TEPHEN excused himself and hurried from the
pavilion the moment the race was over. He shoul-
dered his way through the excited throng in the betting
ring, through the crowd in paddock, down the long line
of stalls and finally came upon Terry and his beaten
horse.
“Gee, Terry,” the disconsolate jockey was saying, “I
tell you I thought I had 'em all beat. He had more in
him for that first half than any nag I ever had between
my knees. He—”
“Aw, can that chatter, Monk,” muttered Terry. “Ain’t
you told me that thoity times? Don't I know it? Didn't
I give you the dope on it before the start? Well, cheer
up, Terry! Some day they got to run for you.”
“How much money do you need to get him in shape
to do himself justice?” asked Warren abruptly.
“What?”
The question was repeated.
Terry McGurk shook his red head, rubbed it, staring
meanwhile at Steppy as if he doubted his ears.
“That's funny,” he said at last. “That listens like a
dream.”
“I mean it,” said Warren.
“Here comes Bomb Carkey a minute ago and says:
66


TWISTED TRAILS 67
“Terry, you up against it?’ ‘Up against it hard, Bomb,”
I says. “I was drunk, you know,’ he says, “when I pulled
that rough stuff.’ ‘That's all right, Bomb,' says I. ‘I
shot my wad on the wheel last night,’ says Bomb, or I’d
stake you.’ And here I'm wondering why it couldn't be
some guy who hadn't shot his wad who was willing to
stake me—and you come along, and—say, why do you
want to kid me, boº”
“I’ll stake you if it won't cost too much,” replied War-
ren. “I don't know anything about the game; that's up
to you. But I'll stake you to training expenses so you
can get him in shape.”
“But—what's the game?” stammered Terry.
“No game. I feel he ought to have his chance. If
you can get him in shape to run a full race the way he
ran the first half mile it seems to me you’d win some
money.”
“You don't know anything about the game, eh?” said
Terry shrewdly after a pause. “Well, you made a pretty
good guess then. If I get him in shape to go a full race
at that speed he'll be right; and if he's right—that's the
day the ponies soit'nly will run for little Terry Mc-
Gurk. How strong is your bank roll, bof Can you scare
up five hundred berries? Fine! *
“Now, get me straight, bo, I can't see myself letting
you stake me to training expenses for Nailer. You took
a chance with Carkey for me, and—and that went a long
ways with me. If you want to back Terry McGurk's
stable now|whenſit's in Whº you get in on it when it
wherºwfisashin. I've got Najlººd I
| OF THE
NEW YORK
| SOCIETV 1 tº A. Tº Y A


TWISTED TRAILS 69
straight to the office of his lawyer. It was after bank-
ing hours, but at Stephen's behest the lawyer succeeded
in converting the young man's draft for five thousand
dollars into fifty new one-hundred dollar bills. With this
in the inside pocket of his coat Stephen, in company with
the lawyer, took his post in the St. Charles Hotel to wait
for the return of the older Martel from the track.
“If you're going to do any business with the Martels
keep your eyes open, Warren,” warned the lawyer.
“They're a fine old family in name, but they've ruined
themselves by gambling and other things, and there are
some bad stories round about them.”
“All right, Gambier,” replied Stephen. “I’m taking
you along to see that everything's all right. There they
come now. Georges goes into the bar to have a drink,
and his father goes alone to his room. Fine! Come
along, Gambier; I want to talk to the old man by himself
and I want to begin the talk with a good, big quotation
from the works of Uncle Sam's treasury department.”
He wasted no time after they had been admitted to the
old man's room and the greetings were over. -
“I am told you are the owner of the Black Woods,
Mr. Martel,” he said. “I want to buy the pine on it if
it's for sale. I'll give you a better deal than the Hartland
Company. They probably will tell you it's just an ordi-
nary piece of swamp. I admit frankly it's a wonderful
piece of timber. There's a lot of it. I'll cruise it care-
fully with your own cruiser, and then we can agree on a
just price. In the meantime I'll deposit five thousand
dollars of the purchase price with you for the option,


70 TWISTED TRAILS
and,” he concluded, swiftly producing the proceeds of the
certified check, “I’ll do it right now.” -
Mr. Martel glanced casually at the little package which
Stephen had placed on the table before him, saw that it
contained fifty one-hundred dollar bills and assumed an
air of tolerant indifference.
“They are very impetuous, these Yankees, when it is a
matter of business, eh, Gambier?” said he lightly. “What
makes you think I wish to sell the pine, Mr. Warren?”
“Five thousand dollars,” repeated Stephen absently,
riffling the crisp contents of the package. He did not
look at Martel's face, but he watched the old man's long,
brown hands and the fingers were trembling. “If you
want to do business, give me an option and—take the
money. If not—I'll take it away.” He riffled the yellow
bills again.
Mr. Martel's fingers worked nervously as Stephen made
a gesture as if to return the money to his pocket.
“This is not a thing to be decided so abruptly,” he said
with affected lightness. “I am not in the habit of selling
tracts of timber so suddenly.”
“And I’m not asking you to close the deal right now.
I'm offering you that five thousand dollars for an option,
in case you want to sell. If I'm wrong, and you don't
want to sell—I'll take the five thousand away.”
“I have not said that I wish to sell it,” said the old
man in a faint voice, while his eyes ran desperately round
the room but returned as if fascinated to the pile of ready
money on the table. “I have not said I wish to sell.”
“Then I'm sorry to have troubled you, Mr. Martel,”


TWISTED TRAILS 71
Stephen swept the money into his pocket and out of sight
for an instant, then drew it forth and replaced it on the
table while he apparently arranged some papers in the
pocket. “I have to apologize to Mr. Gambier, too, be-
cause I dragged him over to draw up a memorandum in
case you wished to make a deal and keep the five thou-
sand. I'll have to pay him for his time, while you, Mr.
Martel, will just have to forgive me for troubling you.”
The old man's eyes were on the money and as Stephen's
hand stretched forth to sweep it out of sight again, he
spoke swiftly:
“It has been no trouble,” said he.
Stephen paused, his hand near the money.
“Perhaps after all,” continued Martel nervously, “I
might consider selling. I—I am not sure.” He stretched
his hand toward the money and withdrew it sharply. “An
option, you say, Mr. Warren?”
“Yes,” said Stephen, “but if you don't want to sell
there's no use talking further. If you want to sell—
want to give me an option right now—there's the money;
but since you're not sure I suppose I'd better take it away
and put it in some safe. It's too much money to lie round
loose—five thousand dollars.”
“I will sell!”
Mr. Martel had risen suddenly in his chair, his long
hand reaching like a claw for the money. The packet of
bills crinkled and crumpled in his grasp.
“Yes! I will sell!” he snapped recklessly. “Gambier,
draw up the paper!”
His face was flushed and swollen, and he swayed like


72 TWISTED TRAILS
a drunken man. Suddenly he seemed to shrink and, as
if from some invisible menace, he cowered and sank
slowly back in his chair, his eyes livid with fear of
something that no one save himself could see. He
clutched the packet of bills as a drowning man clutches
a rope. The struggle shook him like a dead tree in a
storm, but at last he dropped the money with a sharp
groan.
“No! No, I cannot sell—I mean, I will not sell!”
He stammered. “Take your money away—take it out
of my sight!” he almost screamed. “You—”
“Martel!” said Gambier softly.
The old aristocrat drew himself together proudly and
rose and bowed with courtly dignity.
“I thank you for your offer, Mr. Warren,” he said
formally, bowing them from the room. “It was a privi-
lege to receive it but—Black Woods is not for sale.”


CHAPTER X
TEPHEN took the defeat of his venture with
philosophic calm, as a business deal that did not go
through, but Gambier knew old Martel and the latter's
conduct had astounded him.
“It is beyond me,” said the lawyer as he and Stephen
parted. “He was ready to sell his soul for ready money,
but he was afraid to sell that timber. If it was any one
else I would say there was something illegal about it
but Martel has no respect for traditions. He has dis-
graced himself long ago by flouting the law.”
“He looked as if he'd seen a ghost.”
“Yes, that was my impression too.”
“Do folks see ghosts down here?”
“Not as a regular thing,” said Gambier, “but there are
some ugly stories about the Martels—very ugly. Take
my advice,” he concluded; “have as little to do with
them as possible.” -
Warren nodded and turned toward the desk, and as
he did so he saw Georges Martel emerging from the bar.
In a wish to avoid him Stephen sought to slip away but
Martel had seen him and it was too late. *
“Ah, Mr. Warren?” With no apparent movement on
his part Martel somehow seemed to project himself into
Steppy's path.
73


74 TWISTED TRAILS
He proffered cigarettes from a gold case, produced a
tiny golden lighter, laughed and chatted with such easy
good fellowship that Warren at once found himself
laughing and chatting in response. That the defeat of
The Hammer had cost young Martel a sum large enough
to hurt was the last thing that any one would have sus-
pected from his manner. On the contrary one might
well have supposed it was a field day for him, by the
lightness of his spirits. With the effortless ease of the
polished man of the world he controlled the conversa-
tion, leading it playfully to the races, to the incidents of
the day, including the affair with Carkey, all as if he
had not a care or aim in the world.
“That was skillfully done, Warren—I refer to that
little incident with Carkey,” he said carelessly at last.
“On the spur of the moment—no delicate means at hand,
no instinct for selection, therefore no waste of time—
made the best use of what you had—even a sack of grain!
I have been thinking of it as a typically Yankee feat.”
“Well, it served,” said Stephen.
“Ah! Again typically Yankee. It served. What more
is to be said? What of possible consequences?”
Steppy refused to respond with the obvious question.
“There are always consequences—potential conse-
quences, you know, Warren. In this case for instance,
your target practice with a sack of oats—what lamentable
consequences might it not have had.”
Still Steppy remained silent.
“If you should enter Hartland's employ, for instance,”
murmured Martel softly, and waited.


TWISTED TRAILS 75
Warren's countenance slowly took upon itself the non-
committal expression natural to him when instinct whis-
pered the approach of a crisis. He waited; already he
knew that he was a better waiter than Martel.
“You see, Warren, our thick-necked friend, Mr.
Carkey, is a foreman over at Hartland's at Haute Isle
Camp.”
“Really?” drawled Steppy, without a change in his
tone of expression. Martel hid his irritation with a smile.
“Really. As I say, Mr. Carkey—a foreman at Haute
Isle. A remarkable personality, Mr. Carkey. He and
the position of foreman over there seem almost created
for one another. As a position, frankly it is not a nice
one. Hartland cannot choose the men who are willing
to work in the swamps over there. Whites—he must
have some whites, of course—do not go to work in those
swamps unless there is some other compensation besides
that of pay. Isolation—security, for instance. It is
quite out of the way over there—almost out of the world
one might say. Troublesome people seldom come that
way—sheriffs, detectives, for instance. No, they do
not like to come over there, and so a white man—any
white man—in those swamps is usually quite safe as
long as he remains in them. We will not be crude; we
will not say they are bad, rough boys hiding out, but—
you comprehend, I am sure. Well, such free, original
spirits are, of course, not angels. They do not lose their
peculiar characteristics simply because they are there.
Control—for there must be control—control over them


76 TWISTED TRAILS
is a problem which requires a peculiar personality for its
solution.
“Then there are the blacks. Children—restless chil-
dren with no sense of responsibility, and with the child's
delight in frequent change. Quite innocent, of course,
but Hartland cannot afford to have his labor force sud-
denly depleted by the foolish whim of these children—
cannot have men quitting when they please, and going
off and—and bearing tales perhaps. To keep enough
labor at work over there is not so easy. You see, it must
be a peculiar man to control these conditions. I will say
that Mr. Carkey is peculiar.
“You know, of course, why he lost his chance for the
heavyweight championship. No? Well, because he was
too tough. Delicious, isn't it? Barred from the prize
ring for being too tough. Where should such a man go?
Where on earth find a place for him? Warren, there is
a niche in this world for every peculiar personality in
existence. There he is, Carkey, a perfect flower of his
type, blooming in the soil for which he is adapted. A
little embittered, perhaps, because of a noble ambition
thwarted, but—perfect for his present job. You under-
stand, Warren? The job—the man.”
“Why, yes,” said Steppy slowly, “but what's all that
got to do with me?”
Martel expressed a volume with a smile and a shrug.
“The sack of grain—the peculiar Mr. Carkey—his
pride was touched—he does not forget—if you should
meet over there—”
Another smile and a shrug. .


TWISTED TRAILS 77
“It gives you something to think of, I see, Warren.”
“Yes, it does,” said Steppy. “I was wondering why
you could control him and curl him up as you did with
one word. I wonder if he isn't a big four-flusher.”
There was a moment of tense silence, though so calm
were both men that none of the throng about them
noticed that anything unusual was taking place. Martel
laughed carelessly.
“No, he is not a four-flusher; I assure you of that,
Warren,” said he.
“See here, Martel,” said Stephen suddenly, “let’s be
frank with one another. Have you any objection to hav-
ing me as a neighbor over at Lily City?”
“My dear fellow! How could you imagine such a
thing?”
“All right. Then let's drop Carkey. I just had a
talk with your father.”
“Indeed?”
“I came within a shade of getting an option on Black
Woods from him.”
Martel sobered so suddenly that he swayed forward
from the shock.
“But—you—did not get it?” he asked slowly.
“No! Your father seemed to want to sell, too. Tell
me, Martel, what's wrong with Black Woods?”
Martel was cold sober now. The flush had gone from
his handsome face and for a moment his expression was
one of suspicion and alarm.
“Do you think there is something wrong about Black
Woods, Warren?” he asked, his tone and manner such


78 TWISTED TRAILS
that in substance he was asking: “Dare you, a Yankee
outsider, question anything which concerns the Martel
family?”
Stephen replied deliberately:
“I hadn't thought so—until now,” and by the uncom-
fortable silence which followed he knew he had scored a
hit.
Martel puffed his cigarette appreciatively, his head
thrown far back, his eyes staring at the ceiling. When
at last he spoke it was with the manner of one who speaks
the final word of discussion.
“Black Woods—in all confidence, Warren–Black
Woods is an excellent spot for you to forget.”
“In all confidence,” retorted Stephen, “what is wrong
with that tract? What is the mystery ?”
“Forget it—absolutely,” repeated Martel, turning
away. “Especially forget that you fancy there is some-
thing wrong about it.”


CHAPTER XI
Thoroughly nettled by Martel's manner Stephen
set out at once to find Mr. Hartland. His mind
was made up. Hitherto Black Woods had interested him
as a business proposition, but Georges Martel, by his
words and attitude, had removed the matter from that
category and had made it a personal affair. There was
enough of the boy left in Warren to be lured by the ad-
venture which Black Woods promised; and there was
enough of the fighter in him to be roused by Martel's
command, disguised as advice, to forget about the tract.
He considered the strange conduct of Martel, Senior.
There was something wrong with the tract, that was
sure. Gambier had given the Martels a black reputa-
tion and had hinted at certain ugly stories. It was all
interesting, all alluring, and in the midst of all came the
white-hot memory of Georges Martel and his bestial
gesture behind Estella Reid's back, and the look in her
eyes which hinted tragedy.
Stephen recalled the three rifle shots which had driven
him from the Woods two days before and smiled. It
was rather obvious that visitors to Black Woods were
not desired; and the conduct of Georges and his father
implied that there were serious reasons for this desire
for exclusiveness. And Estella Reid had smiled at
Stephen when she recognized him at the track.
79


80 TWISTED THAILS
Warren went to Mr. Hartland's room determined to
tell him that he was not ready to accept the position at
Lily City until he had investigated Black Woods; but to
his surprise Hartland called out:
“You’re a fine one! I was just starting on the war-
path for you.”
“And I was looking for you, Mr. Hartland. I—”
“Whoal” Hartland held up a broad solid hand.
“Hold up a minute. This is a serious matter, a mighty
serious matter. Don't you know it is?”
“I don't know what you mean.”
“Mighty—mighty serious,” continued Hartland,
wagging his iron-gray head ominously. “Why, I was
beginning to get acclimated, Warren; getting into step
with the climate; and here you come along and give me
a prod by reminding me of how things ought to be done.
Haven't you got any mercy on a fat old man who's quit
hustling? Yes, sir, it's serious—so darn serious that
you and I have got to hunt up a nice quiet place and
have a nice big dinner before discussing the matter any
further.”
“But we haven't discussed it at all,” protested Stephen.
“I looked you up to tell you »
“Stop! Business is business, but dinner at La Creole
is an art. I've been severely shocked by your conduct,
young feller, and I won't be fit to discuss it until we've
seen what little Charley Benoit can do for what ails us.”
Little Charley Benoit could and did do much for them.
La Creole Restaurant was known for its food rather
than for its jazz, and the tiny proprietor led the pair to


TWISTED THAILS 81
a quiet table, appraised their tastes and capacities ex-
pertly, and thereupon proceeded to give his art full sway.
Through the smoke of a Corona following the thick
black coffee at the end of the meal Hartland at last turned
a twinkling scrutiny upon Stephen and chuckled:
“Young feller, what were you trying to do to old
Martel? Trying to steal a march on me, eh? Ha!
You've got your nerve! Yes, sir, you've got a lot of
brass. It-it's just what I would have tried to do when
I was your age.”
Between leisurely puffs at his cigar Stephen responded:
“Well! The old gentleman must have made rather
quick time bringing the news to you.”
“He didn't. Not a word have I heard from him.
Haven’t even see him.”
“You’ve seen Georges then?”
“Nope.”
“Gambier?”
“Nope.”
“I’ve had three guesses; I give up,” laughed Stephen.
“How did you hear about it?”
Hartland chuckled with relish.
“Old Martel's pretty ward, Miss Reid, told me,” said
he. “Lord, what a girl she is. If she wasn't a lady she
would be a regular spit-fire when her temper is up. She
certainly did rake you over the coals, Warren.”
Stephen blessed the size and quality of his cigar which
made it possible for him to instantly mask his counte-
nance behind a dense cloud of smoke.
“Did she?” he asked casually.


82 TWISTED TRAILS
“She did. She was disappointed in you. She had
been foolish enough to fancy you were a little different
from the ordinary money-grabber. Of course, she had
been a fool for ever permitting such a notion to enter her
head. One has only to look at your jaw, and your
clothes, to know you're a typical sample of that abomina-
tion known as a snappy business man.”
Hartland suddenly gave vent to the explosive laughter
which had been welling up in him. “Man, Oh, boy!
She certainly did tell me what she thought of you. She
was disappointed; no question about that. She wanted
to know if I was thinking of bringing that sort of a man
—meaning you—to Lily City?”
“What did you reply?” asked Stephen.
“I said, ‘You bet your pretty little boots I am—if
he'll come,’” was the emphatic answer. “And then she
sailed into me. That was just what was to be expected
of my kind. She had known it all the time—the first
time she laid eyes on me. And you, too. We are a couple
of low money-grabbers. It shows all over us. Please
don't ever speak to her again. The idea of your rushing
into old Martel's room when he was ill in bed and trying
to bully him into selling Black Woods.”
“What!”
Stephen sat up so violently that the pink candle-shades
on the table danced dangerously.
“The very ideal” continued Hartland. “A brute. A
low, sneaking brute, that's what you are. Well, what
are you staring at. It's so, isn't it?”
“No !”


TWISTED TRAILS 83
“Hell!” laughed Hartland. “I’m disappointed.”
“Mr. Martel was not ill when Gambier and I saw him
in his room.”
“He wasn't?”
“No, sir. He was well enough to grab my option
money and throw it back at me and show us out of the
room.”
“Tell me about it!” cried Hartland; and Stephen re-
lated the story of what had taken place in the elder
Martel's room. He said nothing of his meeting with
Georges, regarding that as purely a personal matter.
“I see,” chuckled Hartland behind his cigar. “It was
your strongarm tactics that put him in bed. He switched
the story a little to Miss Reid; said you found him in bed.
He's sort of slippery, Martel is.”
“I don't see why he should trouble to lie about a
straight business proposition like that.”
“No,” said Hartland slowly, “unless it wasn't all
straight on his part. There's something a little funny
about that piece of timber. If you had come to me first
I could have told you it wouldn't work, even though your
psychology was right on the ready cash proposition.”
“How could you know?” demanded Stephen.
“Well, you see, Warren,” Hartland paused to grin,
“I’ve been trying to buy that timber myself for the last
two years.”.
“Ouch!” exclaimed Stephen.
“Cheer up! I haven't succeeded. You did better than
I did; you kept your money. The old rip got three thou-
sand out of me for an option.”


84 TWISTED TRAILS
“The more I hear of Mr. Martel,” said Stephen, “the
worse he gets. He had sold you an option on Black
Woods and yet he was going to sell one to me. He's
good! How long does your option hold?”
“That's the funny part of it,” responded Hartland.
“There's a hitch in the deal. Did he make any stipula-
tion to you? No? Well, it's very unbusinesslike. I
started in to get the piece two years ago, feeling him out
to get his lowest price. A year ago I offered him a hun-
dred thousand dollars flat. That's almost half as much
as the thing's worth. And still he wouldn't sell. A
while back he began to be more willing to listen to reason.
I suppose he was hard up for money. At all events, a
couple of months ago, about the time his ward, Miss
Reid, came back from school he offered me an option for
five thousand dollars which is what I'd offered him right
along. He got three thousand; I made him come down.
But heaven knows when I'll be able to exercise the
blamed thing.”
“Why won't he sell outright? What's the hitch?”
“It's that darned stipulation on the option. I shouldn't
have agreed to it; it isn't business. I've been rooting and
praying for it to come off. Pray with me, will you,
Warren? Then we can log Black Woods. Are you
rooting?”
“Certainly,” laughed Stephen. “What's the stipula-
tion?”
“Martel will sell Black Woods to me as soon as his
son Georges—they're engaged—marries Miss Reid.”
Stephen was conscious that he was mechanically go-


TWISTED TRAILS 87
depend on up to the hilt and I need him right away. The
payroll money is getting too big for young Landry to
handle alone. Good boy, you know, but—well, Pete
Martel, the sheriff over there, doesn't seem to have any
luck keeping the Snake from making a haul every so
often, and if I were a robber—of course, my competitors
say I am, but that's all right—if I were robbing with a
gun for a living and you were taking care of some money,
I believe I'd size you up and leave that money alone.
That's one reason.
“Now, there's Camp Haute Isle, too. Bomb Carkey's
foreman down there. A good man, you know, but,”
Hartland tapped his head, “a whole lot of bone up there.
It means I need a walking boss between the two places.
You take it, Warren; and when Georges gets married or
anything else happens so Martel will sell Black Woods
you get first crack at the deal. I'll turn my option over
to you. How does it sound to you?”
Stephen had smothered the impulse to vent his mood
in bitter laughter, and was as hard and cold as steel.
In the few minutes that Hartland had rattled on about
his need for a new superintendent his listener had fought
and won a battle.
A man couldn't mix anything else with business; that
much was certain. A girl who could look at a man the
way she had done in the grand stand, and a few hours
later talk about him as she had done to Hartland—
Oh, hell! They were all that way. What was the use
of letting it bother a fellow? Accept them as they were;
don't take them seriously; put them entirely out of mind.


88 TWISTED TRAILS
“Will you draw up an agreement to that effect, Hart-
land?” he asked.
“That's the boy—that's business!” said Hartland. “I
will, gladly.”
“All right. You've hired some one.”
“Fine! When can you take hold over there?”
“When is the next train?”
“That's the way to talk, Warren! And let me tell
you, my boy, I sincerely hope you'll soon have the chance
to get at Black Woods. Warren, here's hoping Miss Reid
will soon be Mrs. Georges Martel!”
Stephen raised his glass in response. His hand trem-
bled in spite of himself. At last he fairly roared: “Here's
hoping!”


CHAPTER XII
T was perhaps at night, preferably a night of light
shifting clouds and a pale autumn moon, when the
bayou's water was sprinkled with black and silver, when
the tops of the great trees were alight with the moon and
the spaces beneath them were great caverns of mystery
and gloom relieved only by rays of moonlight filtering
through the foliage, that Lily City was to be seen at its
best. The flitting moonlight suggested rather than re-
vealed; it fascinated and lured with promise rather than
with broad fulfillment. A corner of a stately mansion, a
drifting pirogue with a pair of deeply engrossed young
folk in it, a bower of roses, a deep, bosomed negress
crooning laughingly to her child, and everywhere the
inevitable evening promenade which the coming of eve-
ning coolness brings forth in all warm climes. There
were snatches of song and soft laughter; and the atmos-
phere was like the ineffably contented sigh of a woman
happy in her love.
Stephen Warren stood on the pier of the Hartland
Mill and looked across the light-streaked bayou toward
the lights of Lily City. It was the evening after his first
day in charge of the plant. In the saw-mill behind him
tiny electric lights gleamed in the darkness and the clang
of a saw told of a gang working overtime. To and fro
89 - z


90 TWISTED TRAILS
past an open window shot a log carriage bearing a log
against the saws. The huge black sawyer rode the car-
riage with the grip of a gorilla, his long arms handling
the levers with uncanny ease. A ripping sound as the
saws whipped through the log, a whist of steam as the
carriage came shooting back, reset the log, and flashed
back to the saws. The carriage came to a standstill,
empty, and the big black leaned easily on the levers.
“That's all,” came a white man's voice. “Shut 'er
off.”
The whirr of the saws and the throb of an engine
ceased. The long low building grew silent. Silent men
came forth, white with saw-dust, tamping tobacco into
their pipes or rolling cigarettes, not to be lighted till they
had passed through the gate of the mill-yard with its one-
armed old watchman. Then burning tobacco perfumed
the night air, and said the night watchman:
“How does work feel for a change, eh? He'll make
you like it. Good-night, boys.”
There was plenty to do at the mill. There was plenty
to keep a man who had accepted the doctrine that girls
were fickle jades, so occupied as to preclude his thinking
about anything but the task in hand, if he so desired.
Lily City Mill was a large, modern plant in need of a
Man, without which even the largest and most modern
plants are elaborately inefficient. As Stephen had en-
tered the yard that morning under the escort of the head
sawyer who was temporarily in charge he sensed at once
the haphazard fashion in which the mill was operating,


TWISTED TRAILS 91
and set his jaw with grim satisfaction over the man-sized
job that was before him. As he rolled up his sleeves,
both figuratively and literally, he experienced the sense
of satisfaction which comes to the expert putting his
hand to the wheel, and for the time being he was quite
sure that the emotional disturbance of the day before was
a thing of the past, an inconsequential incident, done for,
forgotten. But, he also thought with an inward chuckle,
there would be a surprise for the Martels and Estella
when they grew tired of the races and returned to find
him boss of the Lily City mill.
As Mr. Hartland had said, Johnson, the manager who
had preceded Stephen at Lily City, had succumbed to
the climate. It had “got him.” A tall, blonde Scandi-
navian by race, he had required the bracing air of his
native North to keep stirred the wells of energy latent in
his large frame. Under the caressing sun of Lazy Land
he had softened, slowed up and succumbed to the lure
and languor of the bayous. He had married a Cajun
girl as small and dark as he was large and fair, had built
himself a shallow-draft lugger and said to Hartland:
“Take your old job; I've found something better.”
With his tiny wife as crew, he had manned the lugger
and drifted down the bayou, down through swamps and
lakes and bays to a lazy, contented fisherman's existence
in the sun of the Gulf of Mexico.
The mill, which was a comparatively new plant, had
sagged badly and Stephen saw a world of labor awaiting
him in the task of bringing equipment and personnel up
to a proper pitch of efficiency.


92 TWISTED TRAILS
“Smoke up,” chuckled the sawyer to his men. “Things
have changed in this mill, niggers. We got a lumber man
here now.”
From the log pond, where the towboats emerged from
the swamps to turn their long tow of logs over to the
endless chains which gripped them and hauled them up
the chutes to the carriers which passed them on to the
whirling saws, to the loading yards where the finished
lumber went forth in trainloads, Stephen went over the
plant that day, seeking to speed it up to full capacity
production. The plant was good, all it needed was a
man to run it. Up to this time the supply of logs had
been more than adequate to the capacity of the mill.
Time and again the towboats had been forced to wait
for space in the log pond to deposit their tows. But
before the day was over this was changed. By nightfall
the pond was empty, and the great saws whirred aim-
lessly, waiting for the boats to bring up more logs.
The supply of saw logs must be increased. And the
logs came from Camp Haute Isle, where Carkey, the ex-
bruiser, was foreman.
“I’ll go down there and jack them up,” said Stephen
as he stood in the moonlight and looked at the empty
log pond. He had worked hard enough during the day
to send him to bed with the sense of a day well spent,
but to retire was the last thought in his mind. He had
accomplished enough to give him the sense of satisfaction
which comes to the expert at his craft, and his mind was
busy with new ideas and plans for the morrow; and yet
it all did not satisfy.


TWISTED TRAILS 93
Perhaps it was his loneliness, perhaps the cavernous
darkness of the mill buildings, tomb-like now in their
silence, and emptiness; but at all events Stephen turned
from the mill and stared across the placid bayou toward
where the lights of Lily City were reflected upon the
water. He was thinking of Black Woods and the Mar-
tels. That was business. He had an interest in the
future of that timber. He steeled himself and refused to
let his thoughts stray from his business.
Black Woods might mean a lot to him. He owed it
to himself to find out all he could about the tract, why
the Martels were so mysterious about it; if possible when
he might expect to profit by Mr. Hartland's option. Doc-
tor Thibodeaux—he smiled as he thought of him. Doctor
Thibodeaux would know. Stephen stepped into a pirogue
and paddled across the bayou to the mirrored lights of
Lily City and turned his steps toward the house of Dr.
Armand Thibodeaux. It was a moonlight night, and the
water of the bayou was like a silver mirror, occasionally
ruffled by a bit of floating lily drift. The shell road about
the bay gleamed in a white crescent; and within the
grounds of the mansions of Lily City the black shadows
of trees lay like islands upon a sea of silver light.
Stephen entered the doctor's gallery and knocked
lightly at the door marked Office. Through the screen
door he could see the little doctor as he had first beheld
him, stretched out in the deck chair, the inevitable holder
and cigarette in his mouth, and his attention apparently
concentrated upon the hideous gargoyle Solomon, which


94 TWISTED TRAILS
leered down from the wall. By no sign did the doctor
indicate that he had heard. So Stephen said:
“Pardon me, doctor, are you busy P”
“As you see,” came the instant response.
“I don't wish to intrude.”
“But you do, nevertheless, being a Yankee.”
“Yes,” said Stephen, a little nettled, “I do—being a
Yankee. And you, being a physician, ought to turn
round and ask what's the matter when a potential patient
presents himself.”
“You are not a potential patient.”
“How do you know? You haven't seen me.”
“Do you think I am a child, that I must see with the
eyes?” demanded the doctor impatiently. “I have ears.
I can hear. I heard your step upon the gallery and your
knock. I hear your voice now. You do not need or
desire medical assistance.”
“Guilty!” laughed Warren. “I want to talk with you
about Black Woods.”
“I am not interested. Speak to the Martels.”
“I did,” said Stephen; and he told of how he had
bargained for Black Woods and of Pierre Martel's weird
refusal at the end. He had meant to speak of the
strange clause in the option, but the words stuck. After
all, he would not bring her into his business.
Doctor Thibodeaux waited until the tale was ended
before moving. Then he twisted himself round and
stared at his visitor for a moment. The deck chair flew
into a corner, the doctor lit on his feet before Stephen.
“Come!” said he, grasping the young man's arm. “We


TWISTED TRAILS 95
can speak better outdoors. You have asked, and I will
tell you something about the Martels. At night, that is
the time to talk of them, and in the dark. It comports
itself with the dark, unhappy Martel soul.”
Doctor Thibodeaux led the way through the house and
through a rear door into a garden thickly planted with
rosebushes. In the heart of the garden was a tiny pa-
goda, and from it, through a vista in the bushes, was to
be seen a streak of moonlight on the bayou and its float-
ing lilies. As they seated themselves the doctor again
laid his hand on Stephen's arm, after the manner of a
scientist carelessly interested in the appraisal of mildly
interesting material. -
“Yes, yes, a very fine male specimen of the two-legged
animal—of the alleged civilized type,” said he. “Among
my old friends, the Marquesas Islanders, the young
women would scarcely look at you. My young friend,
I wonder if you know anything worth knowing? At
first sight of you I seemed to see comprehension in your
eyes. I wonder if I am right? What have you in that
head of yours? Is there in it any true comprehension
of life? Any real intelligence? Or merely the usual
dreary storehouse of alleged facts with which the white
man drugs his immortal soul down to the sad levels of
civilization, and which he calls education? Listen, Yan-
kee, I have seen a Kanaka pilot, to whom you would be
a plaything, kicked out of a whaleboat for being a weak-
ling; and a sacred llama, at whose feet I sat respect-
fully, scourged from a Tibetan monastery for a fool.
Shall I tell you the great difference between the civilized


96 TWISTED TRAILS
white man and the alleged savage? It is that the sav-
age is not a hypocrite. And the most savage animal on
the face of the earth? It is the educated, civilized white
man on the trail of money.”
Doctor Thibodeaux placed a new cigarette in the long
holder, and blew out a fresh puff of smoke.
“What an ass is man!” he broke out enthusiastically.
“He makes a virtue of movement, of travel. He pur-
sues the thing which does not exist, the reward which his
instincts promise him. He is so self-important that he
considers it important that he must move about on the
earth and see with his own eyes.”
“Referring to me, doctor?” chuckled Warren.
“Referring to myself, Yankee. See what comes of
it. If I had remained here on the bayou, keeping slug-
gish Cajun livers properly agitated with proper doses of
calomel, I would naturally have assumed my proper re-
sponsibilities, and I, instead of Pierre Martel, would
have been the guardian of my niece, my sister's daugh-
ter, Estella Reid. But, no. I am one of those who must
see the great world. I must go here and there, must
live in the tents of all sorts of people—black, red, yellow
—must see them at peace and at war, at work and at
love. I must adventure. So I do just that. It has
been my life, until I have satisfied my colossal curiosity
and acquired common sense. Then I come home and
cultivate my roses. I assure you they are much more
worth while than man. But then it is too late.”


CHAPTER XIII
HAT is too late?” asked Stephen to break the long
pause that followed; but Doctor Thibodeaux
waited until the mood moved him before continuing.
“While I am busily poking my nose into the tents of
far-away tribes the call of duty to my own—my sister
and her flesh and blood—sounded, and I was not here to
answer it. While I am away my sister is married to a
Northerner named Thomas Reid. He dies, and my sis-
ter also; there is left alone the daughter, my niece—
Estella. Pierre Martel, the grand seigneur of the par-
ish, is appointed her guardian; and all because a fool,
named Armand Thibodeaux, in his young days had the
restless feet.
“Of course, it is not to be said that I would have been
a more businesslike manager than old Martel. On the
other hand, I do not gamble—not since I have discovered
the thrill of growing roses. Pierre Martel—all the Mar-
tels—gamble as you breathe. They have been masters so
long it is natural for them to feel all things should obey
their whims, the whirl of a little ball on a wheel, a
horse on a track, a card in a box or pack. But these
things have whims of their own.”
He flipped the cigarette out of the holder with an im-
patient twist of his wrist.
97


98 TWISTED TRAILS
“Five years ago,” he broke out suddenly. “Estella
was fifteen then. That was when I came back to the
bayou. She was bare-footed, she was bare-legged, and
it was morning. She was sitting on a log down there
by the lily bed fishing for catfish in the bay. Wild?
The eagles in the swamp are no wilder. That was how
they had let her grow up—the Martels. Can one have
money to waste on one's ward when the little ball on
the roulette wheel or the horses on the track or the card
in the faro box refuse to obey one's imperious will?
First the elder Martel, then young Georges, the son. It
has been a heavy load for the property to carry. First
the Martel property went; it is mortgaged as far as it
will go. Then—Estella's—the child's.
“Fifteen she was, a child, but beautiful. Her skirt
reached only to her knees, and her long round legs were
sunburned and scratched by briars. It was summer then,
but in the autumn she was to have a long dress, and
stockings and shoes. Yes, yes, yes; in the autumn. For
then they were going to send her to the convent. She
was to have one year of it—before becoming the bride
of Georges Martel.
“You see, my young friend, when one has done queer
little tricks with a property it is prudent and convenient
to have the ward become a member of the family. So
they were going to put her in the convent for one year,
and then, having grown old enough, she would have been
marched to the altar and”—his thin brown hand flashed
up, tore a rose from its stem and crushed it ruthlessly—
“like that. But you see, I did come back. Just in time.


TWISTED TRAILS 99.
Had I been the proper type I would have come back
with money. Having no money I made use of what I
had. That was a complete disregard for the life of an
enemy, and not a too high regard for my own. It is the
latter, young man, I assure you, that is the sword. The
Martels possess the first of these qualities but not the
latter. So I took Estella from them.”
“Bully!” cried Steppy.
The doctor turned upon him with a quizzical smile.
“You find something to admire in that, my young
friend?”
“Great! Go on.”
“I am a good raconteur, then?” dallied the doctor.
“Oh, come on!” said Warren impatiently. “What
did they do?”
“They did—nothing. It had come to that point where
men who appraised their own lives a little too highly
could do—nothing. I had looked into the eyes of Es-
tella, and I had said that the flame in them should not
be snuffed out by the walls of the convent and the arms
of Georges Martel. Not at least until the mind was
grown, and the girl could understand and choose for her-
self.
“Thus I had something to make money for, so I
began to practice again. It is the one thing in my life
I have done as it should be done. The sick Cajuns of
the parish did not know why I made them pay so
promptly. Other doctors did not know why I worked
so hard. Five years in a Northern school. It costs
money. Gowns—could I have her poorly dressed? She
1º


100 TWISTED TRAILS
had displayed her scratched, brown legs long enough.
And now she is home, and the Martels are after her
again. It seems that it is very important that Georges
marries her. If he does, I presume they will patch up
something by throwing both properties into one, sacri-
ficing Estella's perhaps to save their own.”
He paused abruptly, pulled down a small rose, sniffed
it, and let it fly back while he lay in his chair, staring
straight up at the dark sky.
“Was her father a good business man?” asked
Stephen after a pause.
The doctor sat up. “Why in the name of all the
devils of civilization did you ask that?” he demanded.
“That is what has been puzzling me. Thomas Reid was
a good business man. He turned the old plantation
here into a gold mine. He was method itself. And yet
he left things as he did—entirely in Martel's charge. Is
it comprehensible to you?”
“Of course, he left papers if he was a business man,”
said Stephen.
“That is what I have told myself,” rejoined the doc-
tor, “but he did not—nothing. I cannot understand it
that Reid should not have left my sister and the child
properly provided for. It was not in keeping with his
character. Something has been lost or hidden—or
stolen. Yankee, what did old Martel look like when he
gave back your money and said no?”
“He looked as if he had seen a ghost,” said Stephen.
“Perhaps he did, who knows? - A guilty conscience
may produce the effect of hallucinations, and the con-


TWISTED THAILS I01
science of Pierre Martel must be black, if he has one.
Let us sum up: There is my niece's ruined property,
which should be worth a fortune; there is Pierre Martel
as her guardian, and Pierre Martel is in the clutches of
Felix Dautrive, the money lender. And now we have
the Snake—and a ghost. What a pretty little devil's
brew it is, to be sure!”
“The Snake? You mean this outlaw? What in the
world has he to do with this, doctor?”
Doctor Thibodeaux turned to Stephen as if he had
just become conscious of his presence.
“You are going to remain in Lily City, Mr. Warren?”
he asked formally.
“Yes.”
Doctor Thibodeaux was suddenly up on his feet.
“Good night, Yankee,” said he. “Go home and pon-
der upon the wicked greediness of man. I return to
my communion with my honest friend Solomon. Solo-
mon has no illusions, therefore I can endure his com-
pany with pleasure.”
“By the way, doctor,” interposed Stephen, “I’ve been
wondering why you have spoken to me, a stranger, like
this?”
“Why did you come to me and ask—you a stranger
to me?”
“Business. I am interested in Black Woods—in a
business way.”
“You man,” said Dr. Thibodeaux emphatically, “your
education has failed you. It has not taught you how to
lie. Good night.”


CHAPTER XIV
ERRY McGURK had not been idle. Neither had
he gone to the bookmakers with the hundred dol-
lars given him by Stephen, as might have been sup-
posed. Temptation had whispered seductively, as it al-
ways whispered when he felt money crinkling in his
pocket, but he had resisted with an effort. Terry had
worked at a regular occupation as time-keeper at Lily
City Mill for several weeks and to his sporting spirit,
accustomed to the irregular, if precarious, existence of
the race-track follower, the regular hours, the steady
task, the responsibility were as the walls and bars of a
prison. For no one else in the world but Nailer would
he have submitted himself to the trying ordeal of steady
work; for no one else would he have resisted the tempta-
tion to begin at once the problematical but thrilling ven-
ture of running a hundred dollars up to a bank roll.
But all men have a fetish before which they serve, and
to hard, weazened, little Terry McGurk the unproved bay
colt served as this symbol. He had said that he owned
Nailer, but he would have been more accurate had he
admitted that Nailer owned him. The colt represented
the only ideal the boy had ever known, a perfect race-
horse. The world might scoff at Nailer, and did; at
least such small part of it as was aware of his existence.
IO2


TWISTED TRAILS 103
Horses which were no better than rank second raters
might race him off his feet and show him the way to the
wire; it made no difference to Terry. His faith was too
deep, too instinctive to be ruffled even. In the presence
of the horse he renewed his faith after each discourage-
ment; with each set-back the determination to prove
the quality of the colt grew a little firmer. Nor was it
selfishness which prompted and confirmed Terry in this
resolution. None knew better than he the wealth and
fame which would accrue to him as the owner if, rather
when, Nailer should race according to his expectations.
But though Terry appreciated to the ultimate the pleas-
ures of life which money may purchase, it was not for
the sake of himself but Nailer that he resolved to bring
the horse into his own; and only he who has loved a race-
horse will understand why.
Therefore, the book makers saw none of the hundred
dollars in Terry's pocket. He paid the board bill of
Nailer, bought an extra blanket from a trainer, and
turned his back upon the track and New Orleans.
On the morning after Stephen's visit to Dr. Thibo-
deaux the way-freight shunted a box car down the sid-
ing to the white-washed cattle chute at Lily City and a
grimy, weary little figure emerged from the side door
leading a weary, beaten looking horse. Truly it was
no impressive appearance that Terry and Nailer made
upon their arrival at Lily City. A day and a night in
a box-car had not tended to improve Nailer's health and
spirits, and as for Terry he had not closed his eyes the
night through. The colt stood with uncertain legs on


104 TWISTED TRAILS
the soft black ground beside the tracks and hung his
head with weariness. The clean sun and air, the thick
green grass at his feet, and the quiet and peace of his
new surroundings failed to arouse in him one discernible
trace of interest. He turned a soft, mournful eye on
Terry, and Terry, smitten to the heart, looked away.
“Hey! There ain't any glue factory here.”
Terry jumped as if some one had struck him foully
from behind. The descent of the horse at the cattle
chute had attracted a trickling of loafers from the sta-
tion with Sheriff Pete Martel and his attenuated deputy,
LeJeune, in the lead.
“Mebbe you figure on starting a glue factory over at
the Mill?” continued the Sheriff, in the character of a
wit before his toadies.
“No,” snapped Terry, “I brought him out here to catch
The Snake.”
The Sheriff was taken aback, but he countered:
“Going to turn detective, kid?”
“Not me,” said Terry. “Jackasses haven't made good,
so I thought something with horse sense might be a
help.”
“Don’t get smart, kid,” growled Pete: “whatever you
do, don't try to get smart with me.”
“And don't you get to talking “glue' about my horse!”
flared Terry. “Nobody's going to knock that horse,
don't care who he is?”
“You allow that it is a horse, do you, Terry?”
drawled LeJeune good-humoredly.
“Oh, hello, LeJeune; that you?” greeted Terry.


TWISTED TRAILS 105
“Thought it was a fishpole somebody had stuck in the
ground.”
“You shore'll have to stuff a right smart of feed into
that bone-bag to make it look like an animal, Terry.”
“Oh, I don't know. Not any more than it would take
to make you look human.”
“You better get him out of here if he can move,” said
the Sheriff. “If he dies here I'll run you in and it will
cost you to have him hauled away.”
A terrible, bleak smile spread across Terry's hard
mouth as he sought for words strong enough to reply
and failed. Nailer, hearing the harsh voice and sensing
the sheriff's threatening presence, laid back his small
shapely ears and raised a hind hoof suggestively.
“Hey, Nailer, Nailer!” cried Terry, pulling him for-
ward. “Come away from there! Want to go spoil-
ing your feet?”
Heartened a little by the conviction that he had not
come off second best in this chaste and elegant exchange
of repartee Terry turned his back upon the sheriff and
set forth, leading Nailer, to find Warren.
He was sorely disappointed. Warren was only
mildly interested in the advent of Nailer.
“That's so,” he recalled, “you said you were going
to train him over here. If it interferes with your job
you'll have to make room for a new time-keeper.”
Terry puzzled desperately for some time over the al-
tered attitude of his benefactor before the light of under-
standing flashed over him. The Big Fellow was on the
job; that was the difference. All right; he would get


106 TWISTED TRAILS
on the job, too. Nailer went into the livery stable for
the day and Terry went back to the slavery of work.
When evening came he sped for the barn and to his re-
lief found Nailer beginning to evince an interest in his
oats. The peace and quiet of his new surroundings had
proved so beneficial to the bay that, colt like, he pranced
about at Terry's appearance, impatient at being impris-
oned in the stall all day.
Terry never tired of feasting his eyes upon Nailer,
of following the lines of his perfect conformation, from
the delicacy of the nostrils to the hang of the tail, or
of noting the fire in the racer's eye. The horse was to
him a dream—nay, a thousand dreams!—come true.
And this specimen of perfection was his, Terry Mc-
Gurk's, to care for, to nurse and to bring into his own,
and to profit by. The reflection always made him feel
humble. Reverently he saddled the colt, mounted, and
rode forth. The evening shadows were lengthening, and
the heat of the day had given way to a suggestion of
coolness. A pair of saddle fillies stood tied before a
store, and the colt, catching the scented air in his nostrils,
threw up his head and gave vent to a trumpeted whinny
which shattered the evening peace with the imperious
message that a young thoroughbred stallion was among
those present.
Terry turned the colt's head away from the little street
by the bayou and rode beneath the arched magnolia on
the way toward the open country. Nailer was content
to go at a walk, and by this Terry knew how poor was
his condition. But there was a whole winter, in which


TWISTED TRAILS 107
Nailer would have nothing to do but browse in the favor-
able climate of Lily City, and grow strong for the Mardi
Gras Handicap. He would not be ready for training
for several weeks to come. Then Terry would start him
off with light work-outs to harden him for the serious
conditioning to come, and two weeks before the Mardi
Gras he would go to New Orleans into the expert hands
of Pop Daly for a final polishing off for the great con-
test.
Terry thrilled at the thought and sat up with a jerk.
He was passing the gloomy grounds of the Martel place
and in the stately white house hidden behind a great
hedge lights were gleaming. Terry pulled up. He had
not realized that it was growing so late. As he pre-
pared to turn about a dog bayed savagely on the lawn.
It was Herod, the great boar-hound which Terry knew
was kept locked in the house when Georges was away.
“That you, Pete?” came Georges' voice from the
gloom near the veranda.
“No,” said Terry, a little shaken.
He swung round and sent Nailer back toward town
at the trot. At the stable he was greeted by LeJeune
who from a comfortable rest on an upturned bucket
grinned up in friendly fashion.
“I believe he is a horse, after all, Terry,” said the
deputy as Terry dismounted. “He shore looks a lot
better'n he did this morning.”
“Does he?” demanded Terry eagerly.
“Shore does. He's picked up fast. Do you own him,
or does that new mill-boss. Warren, own him?”


TWISTED TRAILS 109
“Him—the Big Fellow—a dick?” exploded Terry.
“How do you get that way? No! He's mill-boss; ain't
that good enough for you. He's the works. Think any
dick living has got brains enough to run a saw-mill like
Hartland's? I should say not!! If he did he wouldn't
be a dick.”
“Reckon that's right, too, mebbe,” chuckled LeJeune
rising. “Shore sounds like sense.”
“Wait a minute, LeJeune.” Terry's mind was work-
ing rapidly. There was something behind this and if it
concerned the Big Fellow it was his duty to try to find
out. Therefore he wickedly took advantage of the
lanky deputy's known weakness. “I was just going
down to Bicou's and get a bite to eat.”
LeJeune paused. He looked at Terry sadly.
“Why do you want to go tell me that and make me feel
bad?” he said mournfully.
“You look sort of empty yourself, LeJeune.”
“Shore am.”
“You look as if you could put away a little bite your-
self.”
“Shore could.”
“Well, come along and keep me company,” said Terry
artfully. “I got a piece of coin and I hate to eat alone.”
The restaurant of Lafayette Bicou, Fish a Specialty,
was an old house-boat moored on the bayou front, and
liere Terry McGurk guilefully, with the aid of Bicou's
crisp brown catfish, proceeded to lay snares for the heart
and confidences of the impressionable LeJeune. When
he was hungry, and he was always so, food was to


110 TWISTED TRAILS
young LeJeune something akin to what whiskey is to
the drunkard. He could not resist it when put before
him; he would never refuse it when offered; and its con-
sumption seemed to create in him only an insatiable
yearning for more. At the sight of him stooping to
enter the low door of the house-boat the pudgy face of
Lafayette Bicou, the proprietor, grew morose and truc-
ulent.
“LeJeune, you owe me eight bits,” said he ominously.
“That's all right, Lafe,” said Terry easily. “Le-
Jeune's going to have a bite with me.”
“You going to pay?”
“Sure.”
“For him?”
“Yes.”
“Let me see your money!”
Satisfied of Terry's solvency Bicou retired to his skil-
lets and began to fry fish, saying with a glance at Le-
Jeune: “Tell me when to stop.”
“Needn't stop on my account, Lafe,” chuckled Le-
Jeune. “Just keep right on frying.”
“When did the Martels get back?” asked Terry cas-
ually when the meal was before them.
“This afternoon,” replied the deputy.
“What happened to 'em? They came back all of a
sudden, didn't they?”
LeJeune was too busily engaged with serious matters
to reply.
“They had intended to stay over till the Mississippi
Stakes and that isn't till day after to-morrow.”


TWISTED TRAILS 111
It would have been physically impossible for LeJeune
to have spoken without danger of choking and he was
in no mind to expose himself to such a risk.
“How did they come to suspect that Warren is a de-
tective?” demanded Terry sharply.
“Didn't know they did, Terry.”
“Who told you to feel me out about him?”
“Pete—Pete Martel.” Terry pondered a moment.
“Was Pete up to Martel's since they came back?”
A nod answered the question in the affirmative.
“And then Pete came to you and sent you fishing
round me?”
Another nod. LeJeune was too blissfully occupied to
be conscious that he was telling secrets. Further than
this, however, he could not go for the simple reason that
the sheriff had volunteered no information beyond his
simple instructions. Terry sought in vain to discover
why the sheriff or the Martels might be interested in the
possibility of Warren being a detective but though Le-
Jeune under the soothing influence of a vast meal was
pathetically eager to make such returns as might be in
his power he could tell no more.
“What would an outside detective be doing down
here?” persisted Terry. “What's there going on down
here—” He sat bolt upright as a thought leaped into
his mind.
“The Snake!”
Deputy LeJeune grinned lazily.
“There's several detectives been looking for him,” said


112 TWISTED TRAILS
he, “but we've managed to keep 'em away from Lily
City so far.”
“Keep them away? What for?”
“I donno. Sheriff does it. Wants his chance at the
reward, I reckon.”
“I see,” said Terry. “And if the Big Fellow was—
but he ain’t. But if he was, say Pete Martel would look
purty trying to make him move on!”
“Yes,” he muttered to himself as he paid the bill, “and
any time you catch me feeding you again you'll know it,
you—you big ostrich in pants!”


CHAPTER XV
THE unseasonable period of summerlike weather
continued. Though the calendar reprovingly called
attention to the fact that Autumn was passing and win-
ter drawing near, the bayou country refused to acknowl-
edge that a year was drawing to its close. It played that
it was still Spring and that Spring always would remain.
In more sober lands the stern season was enforcing its
might, as the incoming flight of wild-fowl testified, but
on the shores of Lily Bayou the humming birds still
throbbed musically above the hearts of the roses.
Stephen sat at a desk in the office of the Hartland
Lumber Company and worked with Octave Landry in
the preparation of company pay-roll. It was pay day for
the mill hands, and the money was due on the morning
train. Stephen's desk faced the window which looked
directly out upon the lily sprinkled waters of the bayou.
A bland, springlike sun flooded the scene with warmth.
Not a breath of breeze was stirring, and the lilies and
shrubs and trees along the shore were mirrored perfectly
in the motionless waters of the bay. From the mill on
the other side of the bayou came the musical drone and
whine of the flashing saws, and in the middle of the bay
a green-painted sailing pirogue, its green sail hanging
idle, was lying becalmed. Warren was too deeply oc-
II3


114 TWISTED TRAILS
cupied with his task to pay any attention to the scene;
for while Octave Landry was a good fellow and a per-
fect little gentleman, his capacity as a bookkeeper indi-
cated room for improvement.
“Hark!” said Octave suddenly, blissfully ignorant of
the thoughts in his superior's mind.
Some one was singing out on the bayou, and the song
drifted faintly through the screened door and windows
of the office.
“Zephine, the world grows old; never again this hour;
Never again this moon shall gleam for us as now.
Zephine, my heart is faint; calls to your heart for hope.
Zephine, the world grows old;
Come, let our hearts be young!”
It was Estella Reid. She was sitting at the rudder
of her pirogue patiently waiting a breeze and apparently
not in the least concerned whether it came or not. A
great mass of wild hyacinths was drifting down the
bayou. It moved slowly, its tiny blue flowers erect in
the dense tangle of foliage, but it moved irresistibly, and
its course carried it straight toward the becalmed pirogue.
“She came back last night,” said Octave. “I tell you
what, Mr. Warren; I shore wouldn't be surprised if we
soon have a wedding round here. That Georges Martel
is shore one lucky fellow.”
“Better foot that column again, Octave,” said Stephen,
tossing a sheet of figures across the desk. He turned


TWISTED THAILS 115
back to his task. Presently he lifted his eyes and looked
out upon the bayou.
“Zephine the world grows --
The song broke off abruptly. The oncoming mass of
lily drift had intruded itself upon the singer's vision and
she sat up suddenly and bent forward. Stephen
watched, expecting to see the flash of a paddle and the
pirogue shooting forward out of the course of the float-
ing foliage. Instead the girl straightened up with a
gesture of irritation. For a moment she looked round
as if seeking something, then with a glance at the ap-
proaching lily drift she began to paddle with her bare
hands. The effort came a trifle too late. An outspread-
ing lily root under water caught and held the bow of
the pirogue.
She attempted to back water, but another concealed
root was at the stern. For a moment she struggled vig-
orously with her hands to free the craft, but the move-
ment of the floating mass of foliage was insistent. It
pressed on, nestling about the little craft and holding it
broadside to the current. Presently she gave up the
struggle and with a laugh settled herself comfortably in
the stern while the blue-flowered lily drift carried her
slowly away downstream.
“Octave,” said Stephen, “you'd better hop into a
pirogue and go out and give her a hand.”
“Me—in a pirogue, Mr. Warren? I ain't no pirogue-
runner. I'd tip over.”


116 TWISTED TRAILS
Warren watched the helpless craft for awhile as it
was dragged downstream by the drift and laid down
his work.
His pirogue lay tied to the tiny dock before the of-
fice building, and soon the light dugout was leaping be-
neath the drive of his paddle. Seeing him come, she
called crisply:
“There's no hurry. I'm quite comfortable, I assure
you.”
The coldness of her tone kept him silent.
“I merely forgot my paddle,” she said.
He nodded.
“The breeze died down as I was beating back to the
dock. I thought I might float in but along came this
floating island of wild hyacinths and got affectionate
and insisted that I go with them downstream. I pro-
tested as well as I could with my bare hands, but the
lilies wouldn't have it. They just wrapped themselves
all round and here I am, helpless but contented. Really,
I hoped it would be longer before any one saw me and
came to my rescue.” -
“Perhaps I’d better turn back then?” he said at last.
“Oh, no; not so long as you're here,” she said indif-
ferently. “I reckon I might as well be rescued now as
later on.”
“You're in no hurry about it?”
“Certainly not. Why should I be?”
“What's the second verse of that song?” he asked, as
he came alongside.
“What! Were you listening?”


TWISTED TRAILS 117
“I plead guilty. I was hoping there'd be more of it,
and then the lily drift came along and spoiled it.”
“There isn't any more of it,” she said stiffly. “It’s
one of Uncle Armand's!”
“Doctor Thibodeaux?”
“Yes. Does that surprise you so?”
“It does. Of course I've only met the doctor a couple
of times, but he is the last man in the world I would sus-
pect of writing songs.”
“Then you don't appreciate Uncle Armand. I could
suspect him of everything fine in the world.”
“I agree with you.” w
“But you wouldn't suspect him of writing songs?” she
said, looking at him critically as he briskly drew her
pirogue free of the lily drift. “I suppose you have no
time for such foolishness yourself?”
“Foolishness? I didn't call it foolishness.”
“But you must think it so—a brisk Yankee business
man must think so.”
Stephen looked round as he towed her boat toward
shore.
“Why do you say that?”
“I heard about your enterprise in trying to purchase
Black Woods,” she said swiftly. “Is that the way Yan-
kees always do business?”
“Why, Miss Reid!” he laughed harshly, “you're more
than half Yankee yourself.”
“Am I? Perhaps. But I may have certain preju-
dices nevertheless.”


118 TWISTED TRAILS
“But was there anything wrong in my trying to buy
Black Woods?”
“I suppose not, from your point of view. It's a chance
to make money. What else matters?”
“A whole lot of course,” he replied. “But you must
admit, that matters, too.”
“Oh, don't be so modest, Mr. Warren,” she said with
a short laugh. “Don’t place the making of money sec-
ond to anything else in the world.”
He paddled in silence for a moment.
“Very well, I won't, if you insist.”
“That's right,” she said, with a subtle hint of mocking
in the words of approval. “You came down here to
make money. Be true to your colors.”
Warren looked up, caught the flash of her eyes and
the curl of her lip, and looked away.
“Very well,” he said, “I did come down here to make
money.”
“What else would you or your kind be anywhere for?”
“My kind?” -
“Yes; grasping business men.”
The pirogues were now slightly above the landing
place and with his paddle idle he allowed them to drift
slowly in toward the dock.
“Guilty,” he said finally.
“And unashamed,” she added.
“Yes. Unashamed.” The bow of his pirogue struck
the shore, he leaped out, drew her craft in and helped
her out upon the dock.
“Guilty, as charged,” he continued, “but still I don't


TWISTED THAILS 119
understand what heinous crime I'm guilty of in offering
to buy Mr. Martel's timber?”
She looked at him with an expression of pained skep-
ticism.
“Just out of curiosity,” she said coldly, “don’t you
really see anything reprehensible in your conduct? Or
is that the way you pushing business men always trans-
act business?”
“No,” said Stephen, “I think they are usually more
successful.”
She rewarded the remark with an indignant toss of her
head. For a moment she seemed to be seeking a prop-
erly barbed retort.
“Perhaps old Mr. Martel wasn't sufficiently ill to serve
your purpose?” she suggested.
“Mr. Martel was not ill when I called on him,” said
Stephen.
“Oh, excellent, splendid!” she cried mockingly.
“Really, your acting is convincing—almost.”
“Is Mr. Martel ill, now?” he persisted.
“No, not now. Fortunately he is quite recovered
from his attack in spite of your pushing business meth-
ods of rushing into his room, you and your lawyer,
while he was helpless, and trying to bully him into sell-
ing his property.”
Stephen was silent. He looked at her and saw by
her expression that her opinion was fixed. Nothing that
he, an outsider, a Yankee, could say on this matter would
be accepted as anything but an attempt at an excuse.
Why should he make any explanation? He looked at
*


120 TWISTED TRAILS
her and laughed, and he was glad at the sight of the
flash of anger in her eyes. With one of those lightning
changes which were so startling in her she dropped com-
pletely into the Cajun character:
“Poah lil Cajun gal am glad she mek fun foh grand
Yankee biznais man.”
Warren laughed again.
“You're angry,” he said, “and you can't hide it.”
“No; poah lil Cajun gal not so angry as grand Mistoh
Warren.”
“I—angry?”
“Shore! Man, what yoh angry 'bout? Yoh laugh
sounds lak somebody stole yoh precious money. Poah
Mistoh Warren! Lil Cajun gal feel sorry for man what
got nothing left if folks steal his money.”
He stared at her dumbfounded. Which was the real
girl: Miss Reid, or this pattering Cajun? Now he
smiled.
“It's too bad, really,” he said. “I’m sorry I said
anything—Miss Reid—I x-
“Pardon me,” interrupted Miss Reid coldly. “I
really fear I’ve kept you from your business too long,
Mr. Warren,” she said. “I am obliged to you for tak-
ing the time and trouble to help me out. Of course,
I expect to reimburse you for the time you have lost.”
“Where shall I send the bill?” he flashed out.
She looked back for one swift instant, the smile upon
her lips and eyes a gleam of mischievous triumph. He
understood. She was glad, glad because she had teased
him and touched him on the raw l—A man was a fool


122 TWISTED TRAILS
“You see, I really thought Mr. Martel was ill.”
“Oh, bosh!'Stella,” interrupted Georges. “Why drag
that up now? We're here on a little call—”
“He told me he was ill,” she continued with a slight
tightening of the lips, “and you see I had grown up
believing every word he said was true, so I believed him.
I know now he was—mistaken. I am not apologizing,
merely explaining.”
“I am sure Mr. Warren appreciates it,” said Georges
with one of his mocking bows. He was furious, furi-
ous with her and with Warren, yet his manner was en-
tirely suave and friendly. “My father was a little up-
set. An old man; it's all a trifle.”
“Now I have explained,” said the girl. “That is
what I came for. Entirely out of consideration for my
own sense of the proper thing to do.”
Stephen almost laughed; in that moment she was so
much like Dr. Thibodeaux, the same trick of elevating
the chin, the same flash of the eyes.
“Yes, yes, yes; of course,” said Georges swiftly.
“Now that we have that little matter out of the way let
us turn to more pleasant things. You've taken hold with
a will here, I understand, Warren. How do you like
Lily City?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“Thinking of locating here, Warren?”
“Of course he is,” said the girl. “Isn't it a chance
to make money?”
“Estella!” protested Georges, greatly pleased.
“Nonsense! It's true, isn't it, Mr. Warren?”


TWISTED TRAILS 123
“It is.”
“I told you so. Come, Georges. I have explained.
That is all I came for.”
“Have you been to Camp Haut Isle, Warren?” called
Georges from the doorway. “No?—I understand the
climate down there—and Bomb Carkey—are not favor-
able to strangers.”


CHAPTER XVI
LANG, clang, clang!”
The ringing alarum of a great iron triangle smit-
ten by a hammer in the black hands of the cook awoke
Warren a few days later in his bunk in the little shack he
had occupied upon his first visit to Camp Haut Isle. Haut
Isle was a tract of comparatively dry ground in the heart
of the swamp, deriving its name from an infinitesimal
elevation above the normal water level. Civilization was
much further removed from Camp Haut Isle than the
mere measure of miles indicated. It was a tough camp.
The crew was half white and half black, and all bad irre-
spective of color. And Foreman Bomb Carkey was
lord and tyrant over them all by virtue of the skill and
promptness with which he swung his two hard fists.
It was Sunday. The men were sleeping late. The
morning sun, which usually found them out in the swamp
standing in water up to their knees, waiting for sufficient
light to begin the day's work, was high and warm in the
heavens by the time the breakfast gong sent its iron
alarum through the silence upon the camp. The mists
of the morning were gone from the swamp. Mocking
birds, robins and blackbirds flashed in the sunlight, and
above the coal-black kinky heads of the men gathered be-
fore the negro bunk house, a scarlet tanager hung to a
124


TWISTED TRAILS 125
festoon of gray tree moss and idly surveyed the Sabbath
scene. Even the clatter of breakfast in the two grub
shacks seemed to have a subdued, sleepy note, and finally
the clatter diminished and died away. Silence reigned
for a space, and presently, from the colored quarters,
arose the sound of primitively melodious voices raised
in plaintive hymns. The colored loggers with Deacon
Hogfoot, the biggest man and the best singer in camp,
to lead them, were “having church.”
“Lawd, it's me, standin' in the need of prayer,”
chanted two score deep voices slowly, and were silent.
“”Tain't the elder, Lawd,” chimed the solemn voice
of the deacon.
Wailed the anguished voices of the congregation:
“No, Lawd, it's me!”
“Lawd, it's me, standin’ in the need of prayer.”
“”Tain't mah bruddeh, Lawd.”
“No, Lawd, it's me!”
There were a dozen verses to the strange song, and by
the time it was finished the voices of the deacon and
the chanters had worked themselves up to a quavering
pitch.
Suddenly a fresh voice broke out jubilantly:
“It’s deh old-time religion!
It's deh old-time religion!
It's deh old-time religion!
And it’s good enough foll me!”
The congregation joined in with a vim that shook the
roof:


126 TWISTED TRAILS
“’Twas good enough foh Moses,
'Twas good enough foh Moses,
'Twas good enough fon Moses,
And it’s good enough foh me!”
“Can that bellering, you dinges!” The bull-of-Bashan
voice of Carkey, the camp foreman, came roaring out of
the open door of his bunk shack next to Steppy's. “Stop
it, I say, or I'll be over there and make alligator food
out of a bunch of you.”
The singing ceased. Silence reigned.
“Mistah Cahkey,” spoke a voice plaintively, “ain't the
rules say as how we can have church Sundays?”
Carkey came rolling out of his shack like a great
bear aroused and angry.
“Who was that talking?” he demanded as he marched
across to the bunk-house door. “Who's the wise dinge
that's pulling the rules on me?”
He casually knocked down a colored chore boy who
incautiously peered out, and snarled:
“Cat Head? That sounded like your voice.”
“No, suh, no, suh, Mistah Cahkey!” replied Cat Head.
“Hogfoot—let's hear you.”
“'Twan't me, suh,” said the deacon.
“Huh!” Carkey stood with his head thrust into the
silent bunk house. “Why don't you speak up now, some
of you? I'm here; why don't you tell me about the
rules now?”
“Rules!” he snarled. “I’ll give you rules. I'll tell


TWISTED TRAILS 127
you when you sing and when you shut up. You don't
want to sing now, do you? Eh, Hogfoot?”
“No, suh, Mistah Cahkey ->
“Well, then, sing, damn you! Sing! You hear me?
You don't want to sing, eh? Well, I say you'll sing
and do it now. I'm the rule maker here; I’m still mak-
ing 'em, even if there is a new company pet down here.
Sing! You hear me? I'll let you all know, company
pet and all of you, who's boss of this camp! Sing!”
Terrified first into silence, then into song, the negroes
broke out:
“Deh fieh of deh Lawd am righteous,
Deh fieh of deh Lawd am warm.
Oh, Lawd, have a pity on dis poh old sinneh,
And don't let it do me any harm.”
f
“Shut up!” The singing stopped. “Stay shut. I'm
running this camp and every one in it—pets included.”
McGill, the white engineer of the pull-boat which drew
the rafts of logs out of the swamp to the bayou, chuckled
with the familiarity of a favored toady as Carkey re-
turned to his shack.
“You're the boy who can give it to 'em, Carkey.”
But Carkey's ugly temper knew no friends this morn-
ing. It never did the morning after the Saturday night
before. Carkey was a man most regular in his habits,
deplorable though those habits might be.
“Who the devil asked you to butt in here?” was his
response.


128 TWISTED TRAILS
“I ain't butting in, Carkey, I was just saying xy
“Don’t say so much. Use your mouth for poking food
into. If you don't you may get it hammered off you.”
“Aw, come on, Bomb, you know »
“Get out of the way.”
The engineer laughed with mock cheerfulness and,
seated on a near-by coil of cable, resumed his toadying.
“That new guy, Warren, won't try to horn in here, if
he knows what's good for him, eh, Bomb?”
“What do you know about it?”
“Who, me? I don't know nothing. You're the boy
who knows. I don't have any chance to know anything
about what's going on round here.”
Carkey, engaged in splashing water in his face, paused
suddenly.
“What do you mean by that, McGill?” he asked after
a moment of silence.
“Aw, say, Bomb—”
“Do you mean—anything?”
“Of course not. I don't mean anything. I just meant
about this new guy, this kid, coming in here, that's all.
Who is he, Carkey? How's he come here?” º
There was a period of silence; then Carkey spoke.
“He’s a pet. I suspect the old man has picked him
for his kept poodle dog.”
“Huh ! Pretty soft for him. Wish some millionaire
would pick me for his pet.”
Carkey laughed shortly, a laugh like a contemptuous
bark.
“You get out of here!” he roared in a fresh access of


TWISTED TRAILS 129
rage. “Get away from my shack. First it's those
dinges, then you have to hang round. Go on, beat it!”
Stephen lay perfectly still in his bunk and smiled
grimly up at the rough-slabbed ceiling. He had avoided
Carkey as much as possible, for there was a world of
work to be done in raising the camp to a satisfactory
plane of productivity, and a clash with the foreman would
not have aided in this work. Carkey being a man of .
simple mental processes had accepted the new superin-
tendent's diplomacy as a tribute to his own well-known
physical prowess. The tribute did not please him, for
Carkey was too near the primitive to be capable of any
definite sensation of vanity. Had he been capable of dis-
cerning and appreciating Warren's present mood he
would have been startled. Warren was a high-brow, an
expert, an educated man; and to Carkey's mind it would
have been impossible to believe that such a man might
be in a mood in which a fight would be as welcome as to
any rough-neck in camp.
“It will have to be out of camp, though,” thought
Steppy. “It wouldn't do to let the men see their bosses
fighting.”
Having decided upon this course, he leaped from his
bunk, shaved carefully, and stepped out to greet the
world with a cheerful countenance. After a breakfast
of fried catfish, corn bread, molasses, and coffee as
black and strong as only a Cajun cook dares to make
it, he locked up his shack and started out upon the
low ridge of solid ground which ran north from the
camp. Carkey, watching him from his shanty door,


130 TWISTED TRAILS
waited until Steppy was at the edge of the camp clear-
ing, then called sharply:
“Hey!”
Steppy stopped cheerfully.
“What is it, Carkey?”
“Where the devil do you think you're going? You
do too much snooping around to suit me. Understand?”
Stephen nodded good-naturedly.
“Sorry. Don't mean to.”
“‘Don’t mean tol’” mimicked Carkey. “I asked you
where you going?”
“Trail along and see,” said Stephen blithely, and went
on his way.
Four miles north of camp, on the edge of the swamp,
Terry McGurk had found an abandoned training track,
and it was there he was waiting with Nailer. The track
was on an old abandoned plantation. Fire had de-
stroyed the buildings. Underneath a mass of vines
Terry had found the remnants of a room of the burned
mansion, four crumbling walls thoroughly concealed
from the eyes of the world by the mass of vines, and it
was from the doorway of the ruin that he called a greet-
ing when Warren came pushing out of the canebrake on
the trail from the camp. -
“You’re late, bo, you're late,” was his greeting.
“What'd you do—wait for the whistle to wake you?
Me, I'm up with the humming birds this morning. I'm
up before the whistle would have blown if it was a week
day. “Terry,’ says I, ‘to-day's the day when you'll know
if Nailer has got a scrapping chance to make a come-


TWISTED TRAILS 131
back.' You know, bo, I've been feeling him out a little
these last few days. A rest was what he needed, and
I give it to him. ‘Nailer,' I says, ‘you’re a sick baby
in a sanitarium. You've been up against the white
lights, and now you're going up the river to get the jazz
juice outa your system and the old pep in. You're going
to rest first, Nailer, then start with a little light road work
for your wind.”
“Hey!” Terry bridled at Warren's smile. “You
think he didn't understand me, eh? Listen! Hey,
Nailer, here's a bird who don't think you're hep to my
spiel. How 'bout it, old baby?” Nailer whinnied ea-
gerly. “There you are. How d'you like it? You tell
me horses don't understand what you say to 'em? Well,
maybe they don't from some birds. Some dubs ain't
fit to speak to horses. But I used to sleep in the same
stall with this old baby when he was a colt and I was
curing him of that wrenched shoulder. In the morning
he'd lean over and bite me ear to wake me up. Am I
handing it out straight, Nailer?” The horse's prompt
whinny seemed to corroborate the statement. “So I
give him a rest, nothing to do but inhale his oats and
lay round in this sun and let it soak through his bones.
I believe the flu's all out of his system and his coat is
beginning to shine a little.
“Bo,” continued Terry hoarsely, “you're the guy that's
made it possible to get that baby looking right, and—
and—awright, bo, awright. Say nothing, it is, but—
you're hep to how I feel about it.
“So I begin to give him a little exercise. When do I


TWISTED TRAILS 133
“Go!” shouted Warren and threw down the flag.
Nailer leaped forward, eager with the colt's eager-
ness to run from the drop of the flag, but the hands and
arms of the boy on his back were against the notion.
Terry held Nailer in with a grip of iron. The blood
leaped in his veins as he sensed the new energy of the
animal beneath him struggling desperately for his head.
“Living dynamite!” thought Terry. “Oh, baby, if
you only can work up enough bottom to stand the gaffl”
For a furlong the colt fought for his head, and then
Terry felt that the time was ripe. He spoke softly, and
Nailer, subsiding, became in a flash the perfect running
animal that he was. His time was not fast—the soft
old track precluded the possibility of that—but his stride
was superb, his gait a flashing, rippling thing that
seemed as spontaneous, as tireless as the flowing of swift
water. As he swept past Warren on the first round of
the quarter-mile track Terry grinned, but as he swept
round on the second lap the grin vanished and his
freckled face grew tense with apprehension. Nailer was
going good so far. He reached the great live-oak tree
beneath which showed the halfway mark on the track
with never a falter in his stride. Terry's mouth flew
open and his breath came in short gulps as he swung
into the finish and saw Steppy's figure at the side of the
track. There was where the test would come. A half
mile Nailer could run at top speed on nothing but his
nerve—had done so at New Orleans on Opening Day.
Then he had faded, had died away, because the strength


134 TWISTED TRAILS
was not in him to race farther. What would he do now?
Would he falter, would he fade?
Terry scarcely breathed. He crouched like a graven
gargoyle above the withers, afraid to move, to speak,
for fear of spurring the horse to a burst beyond his
powers. Nailer was running close to the rail and true
as an arrow. There was a passing flash. They were past,
past the half-mile mark, and Nailer was going strong!
“Oh, baby!” murmured Terry in ecstasy.
The quarter post flashed past. Five-eighths, and
Nailer still going strong. From his place at the starting
point Warren was watching for the break which must
come soon now. He had eyes only for the horse. The
second post on the track showed up distinctly against
the trunk of the great live oak.
“If he makes it without breaking,” mused Warren,
“he will have run three-quarters of a mile at top speed,
and—”
“Good God!” he cried aloud, and in an instant was
racing across the infield as fast as he could run.
As Nailer swept toward the halfway mark a man
had leaped out from behind the tree and tossed a large
branch at the horse's head. A cry from Terry, a shud-
dering leap on Nailer's part, and the missile flew wild;
but Nailer was doing his best to climb the rail that sepa-
rated the track from the field.


CHAPTER XVII
HEN Warren arrived on the scene Terry had
quieted the horse and was on the ground, hurling
shrill imprecations at the man who had so dangerously
stopped him.
“Are you drunk or crazy, Carkey? You big stiff,
don't you know you might have hurt somebody? For
two cents I'd jump the horse all over your carcass, you
big mutt!”
Carkey paid no more attention to Terry than if he
were a buzzing mosquito. He stood squarely planted on
his thick legs in the middle of the track, watching through
slitted eyes the figure that came racing across the field.
He waited until Steppy had ducked under the rail and
onto the track, then he blurted sneeringly:
“What the hell do you think you're going to do?”
There was no need to say more. He had expressed
the purpose of his move clearly.
Steppy understood. The inevitable clash with Carkey
had come. It had been thrust upon him, and he could
not avoid it.
“Terry,” he said easily, “I thought you told me this
Carkey was a pretty good sort of fellow.”
The silence that followed was breathless. Terry looked
from one to the other, and swallowed a lump in his
I35


136 TWISTED TRAILS
throat; Carkey stood motionless, his eyes nearly closed,
waiting. Through the stillness came Steppy's voice,
saying easily:
“Why, he's nothing but a bully and a four-flusher.”
It would have been difficult to say who struck first.
Terry McGurk was unable to say. He saw Carkey's arm
swing at Warren's last word, and to his amazement heard,
in the same flash, Steppy's left fist smack against Carkey's
mouth. Carkey had been waiting, keyed up to land
the first punch, but Warren had been watching him,
and even as he finished speaking had launched his first
blow.
They drew back after the first exchange, Carkey
growling with an animal sort of joy.
“That's what I was after, that's what I was after!
'Tis not I wanted to hurt the nag or the kid. You're the
bird I want a crack at. Beat me to the first punch, eh?”
The battle mood was on Carkey; he had no fresh liquor
in him, but he was fight-drunk and though his speech was
thick and incoherent his movements were uncannily tiger-
ish for a man of his bulk.
“The first punch. So be it. A big, strong kid, with
lots of meat on his bones to pound up. Ye young stiff,
ye hit me with a sack of oats—me, Bomb Carkey.”
He struck as he uttered his own name, a blow with his
full body weight thrown behind it to drive the sparlike
arm crashing through any possible guard, and though
Stephen leaped back, he felt a thud on his breastbone
which shook him to the heels and sent him staggering
backward.


TWISTED TRAILS 137
“Hi, Carkey!” muttered the foreman. “What's the
matter? Falling short?”
Feinting and ducking to draw attention, he slid his feet
skillfully forward and suddenly unloosed an uppercut.
Caught and drawn to close quarters by the trick Steppy
saved himself only by the youthful flexibility of his neck
and body. Instinctively he threw his head far back.
The blow barely clipped the point of his upturned chin,
yet though it caught him going away it lifted him in the
air and threw him back on his shoulders his length
away.
The pride of youth, aroused and outraged at being
knocked down, saved him further, for he leaped instantly
to his feet just in time to escape Carkey's crushing kick,
leaped in time to stop the big man's rush with a furiously
wild overhead swing which landed solidly on Carkey's
flat nose. Stopped in his tracks the ex-pugilist shook
his head like a man rising from a long plunge and vented
an inarticulate growl of relish.
“Few could do it, few could do it after that knock-
down,” he muttered in his fight-drunk tone. “Ah, it's
going to be a grand fight, Bomb Carkey. Hammer and
tongs. He'll last more'n a round or two. You'll need
no whisky to-day, Bomb, you'll need no whisky to-day.”
“So that's the way you fight,” said Stephen.
A yelp like the bark of a wolf rose from Carkey's
lips.
“He don't like it, Bomb!” he roared. “You’re too
rough.”
For answer Steppy ducked a wide swing and drove


138 TWISTED TRAILS
his head solidly against the lower ribs of Carkey's enor-
mous chest. Again Carkey laughed his ugly laugh.
“Butt away, kid, they’re solid; butt away.”
He leaned forward, sticking out his barrel-like chest.
“Butt me!” he challenged. “Ram your head against
it and feel of a man.”
Steppy feinted with his head as if to butt, and instead
lashed out with his left to Carkey's eye.
“Ha, ha, Bomb! He's foxy too. He knows some
tricks. All right. Now we'll show him a few real
ones.”
Then followed a slashing display of every trick of the
ring, fair or foul, every trick of rough and tumble fight-
ing. Stephen, warned by the weight of the uppercut that
had knocked him down, dropped all attempt at fighting
back, and sought only to keep away. His long legs -
nullified Carkey's rushes, and his caution brought the
tricks to naught.
“He ain't a fighter, Bomb,” muttered the foreman,
“he's a dancer. Stand up like a man, ye stiffſ"
Warren continued to step away and Carkey continued
to rush and follow him until his poor condition asserted
itself and be began to breathe hard. When he paused,
Steppy was on him like a whirlwind, driving both arms
like pistons, feinting, striking, ducking, dancing away,
jumping in, striking at head and body, and forcing Car-
key to guard, strike, duck and step at top speed to avoid
hard punishment. Few of the young man's blows went
home through the erstwhile professional's skillful guard.
On the defensive Carkey's trained fists and arms formed


TWISTED TRAILS 139
a barrier before him, picking off Warren's blows in the
air, while behind the barrier Carkey grinned contemptu-
ously.
To Terry McGurk, crouched in excitement, the scene
was one of agony; to any untrained observer Steppy's
efforts would have seemed futile, pitiful. Carkey's hands
moved with the precision of an invincible machine, his
head rolled easily when the occasion demanded, his foot-
work made Steppy miss widely time and again. When
the opening offered the expert would send over one well-
timed blow, driving his opponent back, and holding him
helpless. It seemed as if Carkey was playing with his
opponent, as if he were holding him in the hollow of his
hand, letting the fight run along merely for the pleasure
of the thing, and ready and able to end it whenever he
saw fit. And so he would have done but for the little
incidents of age and lack of condition.
Carkey had ceased his talking. He was fighting easily,
but silently and with an intentness that contrasted with
his looseness at the beginning. Steppy watched the
thin, wide mouth. The lips were closed tightly, but by
the ridges of muscle at their sides Warren knew they
were held so by an effort. He waited his opportunity
and drove his long left arm at Carkey's middle. The lips
popped open with a groan. Carkey snapped them shut
again, but the tale had been told. Carkey lowered his
head and rushed in to end it at once. His fists flailed into
thin air. He leaped after the fleeing Steppy, barely
touching his retreating guard with his blows, rushed
again, slipped and fell. Instantly Carkey rolled himself


140 TWISTED TRAILS
into a ball, curving his thick arms over his head to guard
against a crushing kick. Warren stepped back and
dropped his hands. Carkey, in the act of rolling away,
looked up. Puzzled for an instant at the sight of his
opponent at rest, presently he understood.
“Huh!” he growled, springing to his feet. “You’re
one of these fancy fair-play, no-kicking mitt artists, are
you? All right. If you don't want hash I'll give you
mincemeat. I'll cut you to pieces according to the rules.”
He fought savagely again, cursing furiously, but he
fought without the foul tricks and without kicking, fought
as Steppy did, fairly and hard. And Steppy, as he fought
back the best he knew how, began to respect and even
admire and like his opponent. Carkey was miserably
out of shape. His bearlike strength, ferocity and skill
were sufficient to render him deadly to any man foolish
enough to come to a clinch or slow enough of foot to be
caught, but against a man of Steppy's youth and build
and temperament it was simply age against youth with
the inevitable result. Carkey's chance to win had been
high during the first five minutes of the fight, but the
minutes had passed, and his chance for victory was gone
and he knew it. He fought fair. His mouth was open,
his breath came whistling, his legs were like lead. He
was losing: every second now carried him nearer to de-
feat—but he fought fair.
That was what won Steppy. He did not let up for
the simple reason that the stout-hearted Carkey was rush-
ing in a way that made any slackness dangerous, but
stronger than the grim glow of victory in the young


TWISTED TRAILS 141,
man's heart grew his appreciation of the courage of the
old bear who rushed and rushed and fought fairly and
asked no quarter. And deep down in the twisted, mor-
dant soul of Carkey there was coming a change, or rath-
er he was admitting to himself the truth, that he had
respected Warren from the moment the young man faced
him in the paddock at New Orleans, and that now he
was beginning to see him in his true light. Carkey
began to have for Warren the strange respect and even
liking with which the fighting man regards the man
who can beat him fairly in physical contest. So he
rushed all the harder, sought all the more desperately
to do all the damage he could. A glancing blow on the
temple brought Steppy to his knees, and Carkey yelped
with delight, but the young man rose like a panther and
knocked his opponent down with a blow that started from
near the ground.
“You’re there!” growled Carkey, rising.
Steppy's acknowledgment was to drop him again and
again. He stood over the fallen man, ready to rush the
instant he was on his feet, but Carkey looked up, resting
on hands and knees and instead of rising he calmly sat
back upon his haunches. For several seconds he sat
there, his chest heaving painfully, his mouth wide open,
his eyes glaring up at Steppy through a welter of bruises
and bumps.
“I’ll lay off the booze,” he panted finally. “I’ll take
off about fifty pounds of fat. Then you and me will
have a fight!”
The golden summer weather came to a gradual end


142 TWISTED TRAILS *
shortly after Christmas, and the season which Lily
Bayou considered as Winter came upon the scene for
a brief sway. Heavy gray clouds filled the heavens
from horizon to horizon, and the bayou country, reflect-
ing the mood, became a region of mist and moisture and
listless dun and gray days. It rained and the wind blew.
The delicate streamers of Spanish moss on the trees be-
came heavy and sodden; the running water was reddish
brown from the flood as it rolled sullenly toward the sea;
and the dead gray rushes whistled a dreary monotone as
the harsh wind broke them at its will.
The sun ceased to shine, and the wet, drab mood of
Winter dominated the scene. The steady rain raised
the waters of rivers and bayous, lakes, and bays to the
high water mark, and Lily Bayou ran like a river. Cy-
press and pine logs, torn from timber rafts on the lakes
upstream, bobbed up and down on its tossing current,
and LeJeune, the deputy sheriff, noted them and saw the
opportunity for an easy harvest.
LeJeune was a man of action when the action might
be foisted upon some one else. At the sight of the first
logs coming downstream he grew thoughtful. Those logs
had come far. Their ownership had been lost during
the trip down the bayou, and there was a good, steady
market for logs right across the bay at the Hartland
mill. Each log meant at least one full meal. LeJeune
slouched down to the mill office and found Stephen.
“Mawnin', Mr. Warren.”
“Hello, LeJeune.”
“Busy this mawnin', Mr. Warren?”


TWISTED TRAILS 143
“Always busy, LeJeune. What can I do for you?”
“Like to talk about a little business deal if you got
, time.”
“Always got time to talk business. What is it?”
LeJeune rubbed his lank jaws gratefully.
“I’d like to sell you some logs, Mr. Warren.”
“All right,” said Stephen. “Bring them in.”
“Will you buy them?”
“Certainly. Where are they?”
“I’ll deliver them at the mill,” replied LeJeune.
From the office he walked briskly down the bayou road
to the boathouse restaurant of Lafayette Bicou, Fish a
Specialty.
“Heat me up a couple bowls of cou bouillon, Lafe,”
said LeJeune, draping his storklike figure upon one of the
fligh stools before the oilcloth-covered counter. “Then
I'll have a little gumbo, if you got any, and some fried
catfish.”
Bicou casually whisked the cracker bowl out of reach
and folded his arms.
“You owe me eight bits, LeJeune,” said he sternly.
“Man,” said LeJeune, “don’t argue about eight bits;
feed me. I'm in the log business. Just made a contract
with the mill. I'll have all the money you want by to-
night. Come along with that bouillon.”
Having convinced Bicou of his sincerity, and having
nourished himself to an extent that caused even the ex-
perienced cook to stare, he leisurely unhooked himself
from the stool.
“You sure ain't satisfied?” said Bicou sarcastically.


144 TWISTED TRAILS
“Of course not,” said LeJeune, “but I got to let that
little snack do me, 'cause I got business on hand. Gimme
a piece of rag, Lafe.”
With the rag and a piece of soap he polished up his
star till it shone brilliantly. Then he went home and
got his shotgun. -
Presently there appeared on the bayou front two stal-
wart but badly frightened negroes. LeJeune walked be-
hind them with the shotgun carelessly draped in the
hollow of his left arm, and his deputy-sheriff star shining
for all the world to behold.
“Get in,” said LeJeune, pointing to a sturdy bateau.
The bateau set forth. The negroes rowed; LeJeune
sat at comfort in the stern. A sixty-foot log of pine came
bobbing along on the flood-current.
“Get it,” drawled LeJeune.
The bateau was rowed alongside and made fast. Le-
Jeune lolled at his ease while the negroes bent to the
oars and rowed the heavy tow across the bay to the
mill.
All day long LeJeune sat in the stern of the bateau
and drowsed, and all day long the two black vagrants
whom he had conscripted toiled at the task of salving
outlaw logs. Toward dark the deputy sat up and began
to betray an interest in his surroundings. A storm was
raging somewhere down in the swamps to the south-
ward and the disturbed water fowl were flying north.
Now and then a flock of wild geese, winging their way
up the bayou, would sight the town and mill and rocket
straight upward in fright. They were large, fat birds
º


TWISTED TRAILS 145
and LeJeune's mouth watered. The vision of one of
those succulent birds browning under the skilled hands
of Lafayette Bicou rose vividly before his eyes, and the
vision of wealth swiftly acquired through the logging
industry faded.
Luck favored him. A whistle of wings sounded down
the bayou and a dozen great birds suddenly swept over
the bateau. LeJeune rose up and pumped two loads
of buckshot into the flock. Two birds fell, two plump,
gray honkers, and LeJeune, holding the birds by the
necks with his left hand, his shotgun in his right, grinned
hungrily and ordered his men to row him to Bicou's
dock.
The wind was rising. By the time the clumsy bateau
was approaching the dock the waves were tossing it
about precariously. LeJeune stood up to jump as the
boat washed alongside, but a treacherous wave spilled
him into the water between the boat and dock. Down
he went out of sight in the brown water while the
boat swung against the dock, then swung out again.
LeJeune's head popped up like a cork, and Bicou, who
had run out from the boathouse, caught him and whisked
him up before the heavy boat could swing in and crush
him. LeJeune's hat was gone; so was his shotgun and
one shoe, gone irrevocably in the shifting mud of the
bayou's bottom. But he grinned.
“I saved 'em!” said he, and held up the two geese,
still tightly gripped by the necks. “I certainly did save
them geese!”
The wind grew stronger during the night, and in the


146 TWISTED TRAILS
morning it was a sullen whistling storm. Warned by
LeJeune's success in catching drifters Stephen was in his
speed boat at daylight flying down the bayou toward
Camp Haute Isle. Halfway between camp and mill he
found two long tows caught in the storm, the towboats
stranded, and the logs piling up in a tangle that ap-
proached the nature of a Northern log jam. The swollen
stream was slowly forcing the logs back toward the
mouth of a wind-whipped lake, and already scores of
huge timbers had been snatched from the rafts by the
brawling brown waters and were whirling away on a
trip to the Gulf of Mexico. Cowed by the howling wind
and catastrophe, the tow crews, colored and white alike,
were cowering at the edge of the water, while Carkey
growled and cursed impotently in the face of a logging
problem which his experience had not fitted him to
cope with. Stephen threw himself at the task with all
his energy.
“Get the cable off the nearest towboat!” he roared
above the wind. “We’ve got to run a boom across the
channel below the logs!”
Carkey worked willingly. He drove the men into
the water with blows and worked like a Trojan him-
self and soon a solid cable-bound boom of logs was be-
ing built across the channel to hold the rafts from being
blown into the lake.
“Straighten out the jam!” bellowed Stephen, as soon
as the work was near completion. “Break it, spread it
out before it gets heavy enough to crash through the
boom!”


TWISTED TRAILS 147
Carkey grasped a cant hook and sprang out on the
tangle. But Carkey was so little the logdriver that he
wore boots with no caulks in the soles. A wet log
turned under him and he slipped and was out of sight
beneath the heaving logs in an instant. A moment later
his head appeared farther down stream; then he went
down again, a floating butt rubbing him under as if he
had been a chip.
“He gone!” There was no regret in the voice of
Deacon Hogfoot. “Carkey gone. Hard man. Cruel
man. Devil got him.”
A lank, scarred white man spat deliberately into the
water where Carkey had disappeared and laughed. Ste-
phen dropped the cable he was holding, struck the man
so hard on the mouth that he felt the teeth crack, and
dived beneath the logs. His hands groped as he swam
and he found the foreman pinned by both arms between
two sticks of timber. At the cost of precious seconds
and the risk of his life he tore him free. His bursting
lungs cried for air at once and he thrust his head up,
gulped a mouthful of life-saving air and caught hold
of a floating timber. Slowly he lifted Carkey's great
weight till the foreman's mouth was above water, and
Carkey coughed, breathed, opened his eyes.
A cry from the men warned them that the boom had
given way. No one had taken up the cable that Stephen
had dropped when he leaped to the rescue, and now the
logs were sweeping down the channel into the lake as
through a mill race. With a heave of his body Stephen
threw himself upon the log he had caught and drew


CHAPTER XVIII
THE wet, cold weather agreed but poorly with Nailer.
During the warm, bright days the horse had thrived.
His coat shone as if burnished to a high polish, and his
muscles were beginning to ridge beneath the supple hide.
But when the depression of the first raw days of winter
had made itself felt Nailer began to droop. His spirits
suffered from the change in the weather, and in such a
highly sensitive creature a falling away in physical con-
dition followed inevitably.
Terry McGurk grew grim and silent. The flow of
chatter which normally welled out of him like water
from an over-full spring dried up to a mere trickle of
monosyllables, and the cheery whistle which formerly
had announced the little red-head's approach, ceased
completely. The relapse of his pride and hope dealt
him a blow which it required all his stubborn gameness to
withstand. Then, recovering himself, he bucked up to
fight the trouble. One morning he opened Nailer's stall
in the livery stable and found the horse sneezing vigor-
ously, and he felt a distinct sensation of cold below his
own ankles as he heard the sound. Was Nailer going
to have the flu again? Was he going to-
“Nailer!” groaned Terry, catching the racer about
the neck. “Nailer, old boy!”
I49


150 TWISTED TRAILS
The horse attempted to reply with a shrill whinny of
joy, but all he achieved was a dismal snuffle, and Terry's
mind was made up in a flash. As soon as Nailer had
eaten his morning's oats and had his morning rub he
was carefully blanketed and led forth. A crowd of
loungers, with Pete Martel, as usual at their head, noted
that Terry was leading the horse in the direction of Dr.
Thibodeaux, and they followed idly after.
Terry tied his animal to the old horse block beneath
the great magnolia trees before the Doctor's yard, and
strode up the path and knocked at the gallery door.
“Hey, doc,” he called fraternally. “Got a patient for
you.”
The doctor appeared in the doorway, gravely scrutiniz-
ing his young visitor.
“Good morning, Terry,” he said. “I hope you have
no need of my services?”
“No, it ain't for me, doc. If I could get sick it
would have been the wooden overcoat for me years ago.
It's a friend of mine. Come out and give him the once
over, will you, doc?”
Dr. Thibodeaux understood Terry too well to be
shocked.
“You may bring your patient in, Terry,” said he.
“Can't do it, doc. He's too big.”
“Too big, Terry. You cannot bring him in? Then
he is disabled ”
“Just about, doc,” said Terry. “There he is; look at
him.”


TWISTED TRAILS 151
The doctor carefully adjusted his glasses and looked
whither Terry pointed.
“Ah, yes,” said he. “But Jules Simone is the veteri-
nary of this community, Terry.”
“Doc,” said Terry confidentially, “letting a rube hoss
doctor 'tend that animal would be like asking you to
'tend an ordinary horse.”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed is right. You come on. Nailer's a gent, he
is.”
Entirely confident that the doctor would follow, Terry
strutted down the path to the block. To his anger he
saw a group of men had gathered about the animal, and
as usual in an idle group there the Sheriff was at its
head.
“I say he's got hoof and mouth disease,” drawled the
officer as Terry appeared. “Reckon he ain't fit to be
allowed round here.”
Dr. Thibodeaux greeted each member of the group
by name and received in return greetings of deepest re-
spect. And then he had his first glimpse of Nailer. The
doctor came forward slowly, peering closely at the colt's
head. He adjusted his glasses and walked around the
animal, scrutinizing it with his head cocked to one side.
“But—but—but it is a race-horse, Terry!”
“You’re darn right it's a race horse, doc?”
“If I am not mistaken it is a Sassin colt!”
“You named him, doctor.”
“A Sassin colt—in such condition! You sacrilegious
young devil, have you no respect for superior beings?


TWISTED TRAILS 153
the dread outlaw, Pete? No? No, it is difficult to have
ideas. Shall I give you my opinion, Pete? It is this:
The Snake is nothing more or less than an idea. Just
that: Some one's idea of the perfect outlaw. He is just
a trifle too perfect in an imperfect world to be the genuine
article.”
“Well, he hadn't better come fooling round here,” said
the Sheriff.
Dr. Thibodeaux's lean, brown hand, tenderly caressing
his tiny white goatee, hid the slight smile that appeared
upon his mouth. He looked at Pete intently for a few
seconds. “I agree with you, Pete,” he said at last. “He
hadn't better come fooling round here.”
Thus Nailer came to trade his damp, draughty quar-
ters in the livery stable for a snug, dry box-stall in Dr.
Thibodeaux's stables. The doctor went over him from
hind hoofs to nostrils and stood back to regard him, not
with the expression of critical contempt with which he
paid his respects to humanity, but with a gleam of ap-
preciation approaching admiration in his eyes.
“You were right to bring him to me, Terry,” was his
verdict. “To have placed him in the hands of Jules
Simone would have been sacrilege.”
Nailer responded so promptly to his new environment
and scientific treatment that within two days he did his
best to kick the box stall as testimonial of his recovery.
“Oh, the darling!” cried Estella. “He’s so full of the
joy of life that he can't stand still. He wants to get out
and run. I shall ride him.”
“I believe not—not at present,” was the doctor's re-


154 TWISTED TRAILS
tort. “I have too much love for you, petite, to wish to
see you up on Nailer. He is not quite a lady's horse.”
“If he were I wouldn't care a bit about him,” laughed
the girl.
“He is very wild at times.”
“So am I, uncle. Sometimes I feel as wild as the
little swamp angel you found splashing her bare legs in
the water. I know just how Nailer feels, cooped up in
that stall. There are times when I feel that way, too.”
“Yes, petite,” chuckled the old man. “You are still
very young.”
At first Nailer did not take kindly to the presence of
Estella near his stall. There had been no women in
the bachelor existence of Terry and himself and this
strange creature, bringing into the stable an aura so
different from that which surrounded men, was subtly
disturbing. Once when Estella came into the stable alone
Nailer reared and pounded at the walls of his stall in
an effort to drive her away. When he subsided he saw
the girl still standing there, calmly awaiting the end of
his tantrum. Nailer breathed deep and grew calm. He
was a little surprised. The aura which surrounded this
strange creature was distinctly one of sympathy, of
friendliness. It was a strangely different aura which sur-
rounded the beloved Terry, and yet there was in it some
of the same lure and attraction, and as Nailer yearned
for the feel of Terry's hand upon him when the little
fellow was near, so now he was attracted toward this
strange being. He hesitated for awhile because he was
a prince of the blood and very exclusive, but after an-


- TWISTED TRAILS 155
other long, assuring breath he thrust his beautiful head
over the stall door. He knew at once that his sixth sense
had guided him right.
“Nice Nailer!” she said. Nailer whinnied softly.
Her hand moved lightly down his neck.
“Oh, you darling!” she murmured. “You splendid
beauty!”
After that day their friendship grew rapidly. When
Terry took him out for, his training gallops the horse
frequently reached for the bit and despite all the weight
Terry put on the reins would prance over to Estella and
bow his head for the touch of her hand. The colt was
becoming accustomed to the raw weather and under the
care of the doctor and Terry was rounding steadily into
form. Dr. Thibodeaux was intensely solicitous for the
racer's welfare.
“Shall I tell you why?” he said one evening as he super-
vised Terry's application of the pungent body-wash on
the colt. “It is because Nailer may deal the beloved
Martels a knock in the pocket book. That is why I
regard him highly.”
“He'll soon be in shape to try out a full mile at his
limit,” said Terry. “I ain't saying anything, doc, you
understand; but get your watch out when we run it.”
One evening Stephen found Terry McGurk waiting
for him at the office with the light in his eyes of the en-
thusiast who sees his dreams realized.
“Say, Big Fellow, you ought to come and take a look
at Nailer this evening,” said Terry. “Remember we're


TWISTED TRAILS 159
question about the appropriateness of the word, but a
look showed that Georges was on the brink of anger and
he desisted. “Let it go at that,” he said. “There—he's
starting.”
Terry had put Nailer on the starting line a mile away.
Georges' stop watch came out swiftly, and as the crowd
shouted: “Go!” he set the second hand going. As the
horse came down the road like a flying arrow and swept
past he stopped the watch and looked at the dial.
“How fast?” asked Stephen. -
Martel put the watch away.
“Oh, not so very fast,” he drawled; but as he turned
away he cast a look at the colt which spelled murder.
Georges Martel knew race-horses. For a hundred years
there had been fast horses on the Martel plantation, and
the instinct for the thoroughbred was bred in the young
man's bones. He had misjudged Nailer sadly at New
Orleans, deceived by the colt's poor condition, and since
the horse had come to Lily City he had scarcely given
him a thought. It would have been ridiculously im-
proper to admit to oneself that a penniless hanger-on like
Terry might possess an animal fit to be classed with The
Hammer. In the space of a trifle over a hundred seconds
this evening Georges' appraisal of Nailer had undergone
a complete reversal. It was not merely that the bay had
run a fast mile; it was the manner in which the feat had
been accomplished. The first quarter of the mile had been
slowest; in each succeeding quarter Nailer had clipped
a second off the quarter preceding; and he was running
his fastest at the finish. Nor was that all. Georges' ex-


TWISTED TRAILS 161
Nailer couldn't win the Handicap on his merits, but why
not make sure he wouldn't win accidentally. Terry could
clean up a big slice of real big money. Real Big Money,
you understand.
“Pull him?” gasped Terry in horror. “You mean—
pull Nailer?”
Words failed him and he looked around for a weapon
of offense, and the stranger went away hurriedly.


CHAPTER XIX
ESTELLA REID'S desire to ride Nailer grew with
each day that she watched the colt round into
form. There still lingered within her enough of the
little wild swamp angel, who for the sake of adventure
had cruised strange bayous in her pirogue, to make her
long for one ride on the flying racer. She envied Terry
as she saw him, crouched low over Nailer's neck, with
the wind whistling past his ears during a stiff gallop;
and the fact that there was an element of danger in
mounting the fiery colt held an added lure for her.
The understanding between herself and Nailer now
was complete. She entered his box stall alone without
the slightest danger, for the horse grew docile and gentle
the moment he heard her voice. When something an-
noyed His Highness and he indulged in one of his
periodic attempts at annihilating everything within reach
of his heels, it was sufficient for the girl to appear at his
stall to quiet him.
“I will ride you,” she said one day as he muzzled her
shoulder with his velvet nose. “Don’t tell anybody,
Nailer, but some day you and I are going for a ride.”
She began by softly rubbing a bit across his lips. Ter-
ry McGurk had been so patient and gentle in breaking
Nailer to bridle that from Terry's hands he took the bit
I62


TWISTED TRAILS 163
eagerly. For a stable hand to bridle him was a task
that involved danger of battle, mayhem and broken bones.
Estelle gradually accustomed him to take the bit from
her, and soon she bridled and saddled him as easily as
did Terry.
One day, when Dr. Thibodeaux was attending an acci-
dent case over at the mill, she donned her riding habit,
and mounted into the saddle. It was a momentous occa-
sion. Nailer stood stock still in surprise. Then he looked
around curiously. He sensed that this creature was dif-
ferent from Terry, but her hands on the reins were steady
and the grip of her knees firm. The door of the stall
was wide open, and outside was the black dirt road.
Nailer whinnied with gladness, bolted through the door
and began to run.
At first Estella was frightened at what she had done,
but with the first rush of air against her face this passed
away, and she gave herself up heedlessly, recklessly to
the thrill of the matchless flight. For a space she was
entirely concerned with the problem of keeping her seat.
Nailer had gone into full speed the moment he felt the
soft dirt beneath his hoofs, and she crouched against the
whistling air and held on for dear life. So swift was
their flight that not until she felt the thud of the hard
main road under foot did she realize how they had
traveled, and then she sought to stop. But Nailer was
enjoying himself. The joy of the runner spurning the
ground was in his veins and he had no mind to forego
his fun. He reached for the bit, got it and went on with-
out slackening his stride. A little shiver ran through


164 TWISTED TRAILS
Estella. Nailer was running away! And then she be-
gan to fight for the mastery. The horse lunged against
the bit, nearly dragging her from the saddle, but the
reins in her hands did not slip an inch. Her arms ached;
at times it seemed they would be pulled from the sockets,
but she refused to relieve the strain by easing her grip.
Her little chin set resolutely and two tiny ridges of
muscles appeared on either side of her tightly pressed
lips. She gained a little and wound the reins around her
hands. Nailer shook his head angrily and she seized the
opportunity to jerk his mouth in the air. For a half mile
further he fought against her strength and will, then with
a snort of disgust he dropped from the drumming gallop
to a long slow lope, from the lope to a trot, and finally
to a walk.
“You’re a nice one!” she panted. “Oh! you are a bad
boy!”
She pulled him to a dead stop and dismounted. The
terrific ride and struggle had shaken her and she rested
until she had recovered her breath and strength.
“Bad Nailer!” she said at last and turned him toward
home.
As she prepared to mount, a motor car came hurtling
toward her at a furious speed and as she hurriedly led
the horse to one side the car came to a stop with a shriek
of the brakes and Georges Martel leaped out.
“I saw you from our windows,” said he. “I followed
as soon as I could. You are all right? He ran away,
didn't he?”
“Oh! but he can run!” she exclaimed, still thrilled


TWISTED THAILS 165
from the ride. “Isn't he a beauty, Georges?” He nodded
negligently without looking at the horse and came closer.
“You’re the beauty, Estella,” he murmured. “I never
saw you so beautiful. Your eyes are aflame and your
tumbled hair—you are adorable!” He took her hand and
kissed it passionately, and she looked at him, one hand
holding Nailer's bridle, without resistance or acquies-
CenCe.
“It's funny,” she said in a low voice, “that doesn't
thrill me at all any more. Not since I've come back
from school. I wonder if I have changed, or you?”
“Neither of us has changed, Estella.”
“Well, maybe not, but until—until I know my own
mind more clearly, I don't want you to do that any more,
Georges, if you please.”
“As you wish, Estella,” he said, smiling confidently.
“It is right that you allow yourself to become accustomed
to the old place again. But you know, of course, that
I still love you?”
“Do you, Georges?” she said, after a long scrutiny of
his eyes.
“Estella!”
“All right, all right! Don't take my hand again like
that, will you? That's a duck. Let us talk about Nailer,
Georges. Isn't he a wonder? Do you think The Ham-
mer will beat him?”
“I am sure he will,” said Georges.
“Sure? How can you be sure in a horse race?”
“Yes,” he said, “one can be sure even in a horse race.”
“How P”


TWISTED TRAILS - 167
hand and instinctively she rubbed it against her skirt.
“Now why did I do that?” she demanded, holding the
hand up to laugh at it. “Never mind; I am glad I did.”
That night she accompanied her uncle to see Nailer
bedded down for the night. As the stable door was
closed and Terry betook himself to his lodgings, a sud-
den thought filled her mind. It couldn't possibly mean
anything; she scoffed at the idea. Nevertheless she was
deeply disturbed over the memory of Georges' manner
when he asked whether Nailer was left all alone at night.
At about the same time that this thought was troubling
Estella's mind, Stephen Warren was stepping into his
speed-boat down in the swamp, preparatory to returning
to Lily City after a hard day's work. Carkey stood on
the bank, arms akimbo, looking down at the boat.
“Is Terry keeping an eye on that nag of his?” he said
suddenly.
“I suppose so,” said Stephen. “I understand he spends
all his spare time with him.”
“I mean nights,” growled Carkey. “If he's going to
make him worth a bet why the hell don't he watch him
right?”
“Perhaps he does.”
“Naw, he don't!” the foreman caught himself. Ste-
phen looked up sharply. “Anyhow, I guess he don't. It's
like him to leave him alone nights, and something might
happen to him. Might happen to-night.” Carkey shifted
from one foot to the other and spat uneasily into the
water, for Warren's eyes were steadily searching him
through and through.


TWISTED TRAILS 169
stable. All was well there. He seated himself on a
bench near the door to think it over, and presently he
sensed that he was not alone in the yard. The inexplicable
sixth sense of the woodsman had warned him before his
ears or eyes could detect a sign, and at last the swish of
a rosebush in the garden focused his attention. Listen-
ing intently he caught the faint sound of cautious foot-
steps. Some one had entered the grounds from the front
and was coming toward the stable. Whoever it was, Ste-
phen decided, was properly cautious. He caught the
sound of two carefully placed steps, then silence. Min-
utes passed, then the sound of a few more soft steps
and silence again. Stephen waited motionless, breathing
noiselessly. He waited until he could distinguish the
vague outline of a figure crouched behind a shrub a few
yards away. The size or nature of the figure he could not
determine, but he judged it to be that of a man, crouched
down to peer through the shrubbery at the stable door,
and he silently leaned forward upon the balls of his feet.
The figure behind the shrub rose likewise, and Stephen
sprang. His left hand caught a fist with a revolver in it,
his right arm flashed around the other's body. A strand
of hair flicked across his eyes. Its touch stunned him, left
him incapable of thought or action.
“Miss Reid!”
“Oh! You?”
She leaned back against his arm, and he leaned toward
her. For seconds they stood so, then he let her go. The
revolver fell to the ground. He picked it up and handed
it to her, not realizing what he did. Presently they began


170 TWISTED TRAILS
to speak to conceal the stress of the emotions which the
moment had awakened in them.
“Is Nailer all right?” he whispered.
“Yes,” she whispered in reply. “I have been watching
all night. I heard some one come through the fence and
came out.”
“You have been watching?”
“Yes. I—I felt something might happen to him.”
“I came because Carkey told me something might hap-
pen if he wasn't watched,” whispered Stephen.
For a space they stood silent. Suddenly she whirled
round. “What's that?”
“I don't hear anything.” They still spoke in whispers.
“It's a dog sniffing around the barn,” she said; and out
in the road a hoarse whisper sounded:
“Herod! Damn you, Herod, come here!”
Then the sound of swift steps running away down the
soft dirt road. -
Estella turned to go to the house, and paused.
“Did you recognize the voice?” she asked, fearfully.
“Yes.” -
“Who-who was it?”
“The Sheriff,” lied Stephen, “Pete Martel.”


CHAPTER XX
ILY CITY slumbered. Beneath a starless and clouded
sky a night of midwinter darkness lay on the place
like a pall. The wide-spreading branches of the live oak
and magnolia trees were vague shrouds of the night, and
beneath them the open spaces seemed vast caverns of
empty darkness. The night mists of January rose dense
and clammy to supplement the Stygian darkness, and
through them the infrequent lights along the bayou
glowed dully like points of a red-hot iron in a blanket
of fog.
Over the house and grounds of Doctor Thibodeaux
brooded the peace and darkness of night. In his bed-
room, a room in which were gathered the trophies of his
wanderings over the face of the world, the doctor slept
peacefully in his four-poster, a book on the floor beside
the bed, and on the book cigarettes and matches in readi-
ness for the morning's awakening. In the old slave
cabin in one corner of the grounds behind the house
Blanche, the cook, and her indiscriminate brood snored
behind windows and doors tightly closed with wooden
shutters to resist the ingress of the evil spirits of the
night. In a room in the stables, in the other corner of
the big yard, Terry McGurk dreamed vigorously of a
scene which included a race track, a mighty throng, and
171


TWISTED TRAILS 173
the light full upon her face, feasting his eyes upon the
picture she made.
“It is the darkest night I have ever known,” he mur-
mured. “So dark I could scarcely find my way even with
the flash light. Love is not blind; the man who said
that was a fool. Love has eyes to see through the night,
and it guided me straight to you.”
“The light blinds me, Georges,” she whispered.
“But I want to look at you, Estella,” he responded in
his caressing tone of voice. “I never knew before how
much I wanted to look at you. You stand there like a
ray of light and hope in a dark world. That is what
you are to me, Estella, light and hope—my only hope.”
He leaned toward her, but she drew away slightly and
he did not offer to touch her. “That is why I asked you
to come here to-night, Estella, and why I was so insistent.
We haven't had a good chance to meet for ever so long,
and I could endure it no longer. You have seemed to
avoid me ever since you returned from school. You
don't seem to trust me as you used to do. Why is it?
Have I changed; do you think I have changed?”
“No.” Her voice was low, scarcely more than a whis-
per, yet it was positive enough. “No, I don't think you
have changed at all, Georges.”
“Then why are you different? Why don't you trust
me as you used to do?”
“I was only a child, then, Georges. I didn't know
anything.” -
“But what do you know now, Estella; I mean that
should make things so different between us?”
*


174 TWISTED TRAILS
“Is that why you asked me to meet you here to-
night?” she asked.
“It is. I have to know; we can't have a misunder-
standing. Has anything happened? Have I done any-
thing to offend you?”
There was a pause.
“Put the light out,” she said presently. She drew her
cloak more tightly about her.
“Georges, you know I have grown up since Uncle
Armand came and sent me away. Before, I was only
a child. I didn't understand things. Of course, I heard
things, but I didn't know then what they meant.”
“You heard things—about me, you mean?”
“Yes. I don't want to speak of it—but I understand
things now.”
“I knew it,” said he. “That is why I asked to see you
like this. Estella, I have been wild, reckless; I admit it.
And why? Because you were not here. Now you are
here, and now I come to you and cast myself upon your
mercy. What is past is past. The future—my future—
is all in your hands. If you will marry me everything
will be different. Estella, you will, won't you? Let us
go away now, to-night, and be married at once. Then
our true lives will begin. Come. The night train will
be through soon. To-morrow we can be man and wife.
Come just as you are.”
“Georges!” she said. “Georges, you can't mean
that?”
“I do. I mean it as much as if my life depended upon
it.”


TWISTED TRAILS 177
and have it over with. I love you. I can make a go of
things if you will marry me. My father must quit
managing here. I will sell the timber in the Black Woods,
and we will be out of debt.”
“We?” repeated Estella. “Are you in debt too?
Then why don't you sell Black Woods and get out of
debt before you come and ask me to marry you? Did
you expect me to be so eager for the honor that I would
fall on your neck the moment you spoke?”
“What's this?” chuckled Martel softly. “You're
angry, I do believe.”
“You had better believe it,” said the girl.
“Because our place, too, is in debt?”
“No. Because you—because it's just as I feared. You
don't care for me; it's just an arrangement you're after.
I don't know anything about the affairs, but I see clearly
that it's not love, not my welfare, my happiness that's
in your heart when you speak; it's your own affairs that
you're considering. My eyes have been opened. I see—
I know that love has nothing to do with your feeling
toward me.”
“Your eyes have been opened,” repeated Martel quiet-
ly. “May I ask who has opened them? Let me see?”
He took the light and held it close to her face, where
he could see every feature of her expression clearly de-
lineated in the glow of the flash. She was smiling; she
was almost ready for laughter; the glint of aroused
spirit flashed in her eyes. Martel's face suddenly flamed
with passion.
“You beautiful witch!” he said, leaning toward her.


178 TWISTED TRAILS
“Poah lil Cajun gal very proud grand M'sieu Martel
offer to make marry with her,” she said gayly, and
laughed in his face.
“Do you think you can play with me?” he demanded.
“But poah lil Cajun gal say—stop!”
He checked the move he was making—froze at the
word—with his arm outstretched to grasp her.
“Stop?” he purred playfully. “Do you think you can
command me? Do you think you can play with Georges
Martel?”
But he did not complete the gesture that would have
swept her into his arms. Presently his hands dropped to
his side, and he leaned back. Estella had not flinched
at his gesture toward her; she had merely spoken one
word. Now she stood up looking at him with flashing
eyes, her lips parted, her bosom rising and falling vehe-
mently.
“So that is it?” she said. “My instinct told the truth.
You had better go away, Georges Martel.”
He bowed with the chivalrous grace that was innate
in him.
“As you wish, Estella,” he said with a chuckle. “But
I shall return.”
“Better not. My uncle might not like it.”
“Even if your uncle does not like it.”
“I won't like it.”
The shrug of his shoulders expressed regretful de-
termination better than words.
“But even so, even if you do not like it, I must re-


TWISTED TRAILS 179
turn. Yes, I owe that sport to myself—you beautiful
spitfire!”
The light went out. A few steps crunching on the
shell path and he was gone.
A whippoorwill broke forth down by the bayou. Then
all was as quiet again as if nothing had happened.


CHAPTER XXI
HE six weeks of chill rains which sufficed for win-
ter at Lily City had passed. It still rained, but
there was a softness to the showers now which told of
a coming change in the seasons. The biting winds
had passed northward. The rain no longer whipped
over the lakes and bayous in raw, chilling gusts. The
daily shower had become a gentle drizzle, and there was
a new tone to the gray clouds which hinted at a warm,
blue sky above them preparing to smile upon the sodden
earth.
Two weeks before the opening of the Mardi Gras
Carnival in New Orleans a mud-spattered horse and
rider came hurtling up the bayou road to Lily City with
the news that the Snake had held up the store at Beau-
sire. Enraged at finding only a few hundred dollars
where usually there was a couple of thousand he had
deliberately shot the storekeeper and his clerk through
the knees and vanished. There was no clue, no tracks,
no trace of how he had come or gone. It was the Snake
at his tricks again.
“Well,” said Octave Landry that night, “that means
we needn't worry about the Snake bothering us this
month.”
“Why not, Octop” demanded Terry McGurk.
180


TWISTED TRAILS 181
It was the night before pay-day for the Hartland
Company, and Landry, Octave and Stephen were in the
office awaiting the arrival of the pay-money on the night
train.
“The Snake won't be showing himself again for some
time to come now,” continued Landry. “He’s done been
safe so far because he surprises people. He shows up
when nobody is thinking of him, and at places where no-
body would look for him to come; does his job, and drops
out of sight. Then he lays low until folks done forgot
about him before he comes again. Just like an old water
moccasin, slipping back into the mud. I was talking
with that man from Beausire, and he says he's sure one
bad hombre. Looks like a wild man. Scares 'em stiff.
Well, I reckon he wouldn't scare me none.” The youth
suddenly flashed his hand to his hip and produced a
wicked-looking revolver. “How's that? I reckon I
could get my gun working about as fast as the next man.
It's just practice, gun work is.”
“Have you been practicing, Octave?” asked Stephen
with a laugh.
“Sure have. I don't allow to have any low-bred swamp
angel show up and take any company money away from
me. Watch me now.”
He went through the motions of drawing his gun while
standing and sitting, throwing his body sidewise as he
aimed at an imaginary foe.
“If he's any faster than that he's sure sudden.”
“Aw, come out of it!” exploded Terry. “You don't
know these stick-up birds, Octo; they don't give you a


182 TwistED TRAILs
chance. They stick a gun in your face all of a sudden
and, ‘Up with your mitts!' If you don't—blooey!”
“I reckon you must have been held up a powerful lot
to talk so knowingly about it,” retorted Landry. “I
reckon you horsemen are all pretty bad fellows with a
gun.”
“Aw, cheer up, Octol” chuckled Terry. “I ain't after
your goat. Horseman, that's me. And believe me, if
Nailer keeps coming the way he has I'll show you all
Mardi Gras Day. Only two weeks more—then put your
shirt on him and live easy. Have you heard about
Georges Martel? He's kept The Hammer dark, too, and
he's been getting as high as twelve to one on him. He's
playing him with every cent he can scrape up. He's right,
too; there's only going to be two horses in that race,
The Hammer and Nailer, and if the Nailer keeps im-
proving there's only going to be one.”
“What if he don't?” asked Landry.
“He will; he will.”
“The Hammer will win. Georges told me so himself.
And the Martels will make a fortune.” -
“And if he don't they'll go broke,” retorted Terry.
“Now, Octo, don't get me sore »y
“Stop it!” said Stephen. “There's the train.” -
Far across the bayou a hoarse whistle disturbed the
silence of the night. Stephen picked up the pump-gun
which he kept handy at pay time and led the way to the
station.
“She's a fat one this month, boys,” laughed the express
messenger as he greeted them. “Watch her close.”



184 TWISTED TRAILS
which no word was intelligible, yet which whirled the
three men round toward whence it came, with their
hands instinctively thrust in the air.
The Snake stood in the doorway. He filled it. And
Stephen saw that not even the Cajun tradition which had
been created about the creature exaggerated or even did
justice to the formidable appearance of the hunchbacked
desperado. Even as he stood there, in a stooping posi-
tion more akin to a great gorilla risen for the nonce
upon its hind legs, bowed forward by the great hump
on his back, the Snake was taller than Steppy. He was
so broad that the worn skin jacket upon his shoulders
touched either side of the doorway. His arms were gro-
tesquely thick, as were his legs, thick and clumsy even
out of proportion to his great body. His apparel was a
crude combination of skins and canvas cloth. A worn
skin cap covered his head, and from its edges hung a
heavy mosquito net—a curtain of slitted canvas, but-
toned fore and aft to the skin jacket, which hid from sight
his face, neck and head, and which almost effaced any
suggestion of a human head on those skin-clad shoul-
ders.
In his right hand hung an automatic pistol of largest
caliber, the muzzle of which seemed to menace intimately
the heart of each man in the room.
Warren took in these details in the instant between the
growled command and the next incident, as a man, in a
flash of lightning, notices the tiniest details of a scene
which the vivid flash reveals. The thought which swept
through his mind was: “They have named him right.”


TWISTED TRAILS 185
The very fashion in which the Snake held his pistol, so
securely and yet without effort that it seemed a part of
him, suggested the venomous head of a reptile ready,
even eager, to strike. Stephen had his share of courage
and of the calm temperament which faces danger with-
out losing self-possession, but he made no move to lower
his hands. There was no room left for the scintilla of a
doubt. He knew that at the slightest excuse the Snake
would press the trigger, and by the manner in which the
pistol was held, he knew it would not miss. He felt the
impulse to convey this knowledge to Octave and Terry,
to warn them not to court danger, but he found himself
unable to do so. The Snake fascinated and held him.
He was more than a masked robber; he was a force, a
mystery, which attracted even as it repelled. Steppy
found himself staring at him as at a nightmare; he ran
his eyes down the huge, heavily clad body to the pistol
and a chill ran through him. Yet the Snake had not
moved.
“Be careful, Terry—Octave,” Steppy managed to
stammer. “Do just as he says.” *
The pistol covered him as he opened his lips, and as he
spoke he was oppressed by the feeling that he was about
to be shot down. With a slight move of the wrist the
pistol muzzle picked out first Octave, then Terry, and as
if it were a magician's wand, motioned them to move over
to Steppy's side. Like automatons they obeyed.
“That's right,” said Steppy.
The way to the open safe now was clear. The three
men were lined up against the side wall, out of reach


186 TWISTED TRAILS
of the passage to the strong box. The Snake began to
shuffle sidewise across the office floor. His posture did
not change and his feet did not leave the floor, but he
moved swiftly toward the safe, facing and menacing his
three victims. Steppy heard Octave panting, and trem-
bling with anger.
“Don’t move, Octo, don't move!” he gasped. Yet he
felt that the Creole would move; felt the slight body be-
side him vibrating with excitement.
Within reach of the safe the Snake stopped and, with-
out turning his head to look or moving his eyes from the
three men, reached out unerringly and laid his hand upon
the moneybag.
Something in the outlaw's posture at that moment at-
tracted Octave Landry. He started, and an inarticulate
expression of surprise and incredulity escaped his lips.
Leaning forward he peered intently at the slits behind
which gleamed the eyes of the Snake, and at what he
saw there his lower jaw loosened slowly until he stood
with his mouth wide open. The Snake watched him
alertly, and for a moment they faced one another, silent
and motionless, and then whatever it was that Octave
saw it seemed to repel him. He drew back until he
touched the wall.
“You !” he managed to articulate.
The Snake fired so promptly that the roar of his pistol
drowned out anything further that Octave might have
said or tried to say. His swiftness with the trigger was
such that at Octave's single word he seemed merely to
release a pent-up volley of noise and lead.


188 TWISTED TRAILS
*
wearily to rest on the floor that brought the latter thought.
The two thoughts—that he had been killed, that he had
not been killed, but was dying—raced through his mind
with the speed of madness. Presently they clarified them-
selves; presently one thought alone held sway in his
tottering reason.
“If I fall I'm dead; if I can hold myself up I'm alive.”
His fingers were numbed and helpless, but the palms
of his hands clung to the wall with a grip as if clinging to
life itself, and he groaned: “I must not let go, I must
not let go!”
A voice seemed to answer him.
Steppy straightened and turned round slowly, for the
voice seemed to come from behind him. As he slid
slowly to a seat beside Octave Landry he saw that Estella
Reid was in the front of the group which, rushing to the
open doorway, had drawn back aghast at what was to be
seen within.
The crowd parted. Georges Martel came through it on
the run and went straight to Octave's side.
“Who did it?” he demanded. With his eyes running
from Octave to Stephen, he asked: “They fought?”
“The Snake did it!” gasped Terry.
“The Snake! He's been here?”
“Octo recognized him! The Snake shot him; Mr.
Warren jumped to save Octo, and he shot him too.”
“My poor Octol” Georges' strong arm raised the young
Cajun to his breast. “Octol Octo' My cousin, what
has been done to you? How many times I warned you


TWISTED TRAILS 189
of the Snake. You are not hurt badly, Octof Speak
to me—Georges.”
Octave Landry's slight body sagged helplessly against
his kinsman's arm. Form his whitish green face his
large brown eyes looked through the lusterless film which
was forming upon them. He looked at the agonized
faces about him with a stupid expression of amazement,
as if wondering what all the fuss could be about. Georges'
vitality seemed to rouse him from the stupor into which
he was sinking. As he looked up at his cousin a new
expression moved lightly over his face. For a space he
seemed to regain the interest in worldly matters which
had been slipping from him. With his eyes growing wid-
er, and brighter for a moment, he opened his mouth as if
in one last effort to speak, but ere the effort had begun the
interest was gone from him. The film crept over his
eyes, an enigmatical smile spread itself over his whitish
lips, a smile which told that Octave Landry had passed
on to where he had forever lost interest in the mundane
affairs of men.
Doctor Thibodeaux entered the room, and instantly
took command.
“Lay him down,” he said gently after a single look at
Octave.
“He’s gone?”
“Yes.”
“You are sure?”
“Yes. Lay him down softly.”
Doctor Thibodeaux had turned to Steppy. The latter
could feel thin, deft fingers raising the heavy lids of his


190 TwistED TRAILs
eyes, felt them skillfully feeling his pulse, yet he was too
numbed to speak or stir, too weary to care to make the
effort. He heard Terry McGurk whimpering at his side,
and with a heavy, painful effort he slowly turned his head
toward the sound and opened his eyes. Terry was on his
knees, sobbing with bowed head and did not see. Pain-
fully Steppy made an effort at speech; in vain his lips
moved in an effort to assure Terry. His helplessness
filled him with a sickening sense of disgust at his condi-
tion. He didn't care. He was dying. And then came
the clear, throbbing voice which again lifted him out of
the void of darkness, Estella's voice, crying:
“Terry! Look, Terry! He wants to tell you he's all
right!”
“Yes.” Doctor Thibodeaux's voice came crisply out
of the muddle. “It is remarkable.”
“He lives?” asked Georges Martel.
“Yes—and probably will continue to do so, since the
shock did not kill him. It is up under the arm-pit. A
heart shot that went wrong by a trifle, I presume. He
must lie flat when we carry him. If there was an old
door --
Georges thrust the crowd out of the doorway, and with
a single kick knocked loose the lower hinge of the office
door. A jerk, and the door was on the floor.
“Mon Dieu!” breathed the doctor, looking at him quiz-
zically.
“Well, put it beside him—so. Now let us carry
him. xy
“Let us take him to my father's house,” said Georges.


TWISTED TRAILS 191
“It is the least we can do, since he tried to save my cousin,
Octol”
“It does you credit, that, Georges,” said Doctor Thibo-
deaux politely, “but I must have him under my eye where
I can watch his pulse every minute for many hours to
come. So, if you please, we will carry him to my home.”


CHAPTER XXII
TERRY McGURK had lived intensely and variously
during the twenty-one years of his life, and scenes
of violence had not been unknown in his experiences, but
the sudden appearance of the Snake, the calamity follow-
ing it, had held him in a daze. From the moment that
the Snake had laid his spell upon the office by appearing
so noiselessly in the doorway Terry's mind had ceased to
function with its usual nimbleness. The effect of the out-
law upon him had been that of the serpent upon its vic-
tim, and Terry had gone through the trying experience
dazed and helpless and empty headed. It had been more
than fear or terror; it had been a numbness from which
he did not fully recover until Warren had been borne
into Doctor Thibodeaux's house and until half an hour
afterward when the doctor had appeared triumphantly
upon the gallery.
“Well, doc?” whispered Terry hoarsely. “How about
it?”
Doctor Thibodeaux bore between the delicate tips of
his thumb and forefinger an ugly gray bullet, which he
held up to a light and regarded with the air of a con-
noisseur.
“A tremendously effective missile,” he said apprecia-
tively. “Two hundred grains in weight at least; forty-
192


194 TWISTED TRAILS
shocked nerves require above all—quiet. I shall see that
he gets it. Go away.”
The fog lifted from Terry's mind as he made his way
between the great rosebushes out to the bayou road. Re-
leased from his daze his mind began to race as if to make
up for lost time, and the scene in the office, the move-
ments of each individual, the personality of the Snake,
all reconstructed themselves before his eyes, and he saw
them much more clearly than during the period of their
actual occurrence. The Snake stood out with a vivid-
ness that almost frightened him. As he had dominated
in the office, so now he dominated Terry's memory of the
affair. Every visible feature of the outlaw, his worn
swamp dweller's apparel, his posture, his shuffling move-
ment, his pistol, and the swiftness of his movement when
he vanished bearing the moneybag, all lived again before
Terry's eyes. He heard again distinctly the wild-animal
snarl of command that had announced the Snake's ap-
pearance in the doorway, as well as the laugh which sig-
naled his swift disappearance into the dark night.
“Like something that had broke out of the Zoo,”
thought Terry, with a little shudder. “And still,” his
puzzled thought ran on, “come to think of it, there was
something about him »
He was walking down the dark road and he paused
abruptly. During the few seconds which it had required
the Snake to effect the robbery Terry had not seen any-
thing about him to remind him of any one or anything.
Now as the scene lived again for him he was startled


196 TWISTED TRAILS
“Sure thing; think I'm blind? Hey? What you look-
ing at me that way for?”
“You’re sure you'd know him again?” said Martel.
“Yes, I'm sure.”
“Too bad!” said Martel with a laugh. “You had better
look out for the Snake, Terry; he always shoots people
who might know him again.”
“Then why didn't he hand it to me?” demanded Terry.
“Who knows? He may come back and do it some-
time, unless we catch him first.”
“You’re going after him, eh? 'Bout time something
started stirring. When are you going to start?”
“Not until daylight,” laughed Georges.
“Which beat you going to travel?”
“The beat which the Snake probably took—into the
swamp. Do you want to come along, Terry?”
“Going by water, eh? Well, I ain't so keen for that
swamp stuff myself, Mr. Martel. If it was riding I could
do some good, mebbe.”
“Ah, yes,” said Martel, “but what on, Terry?”
“What on? What d'you spose? On Nailer, of
course!”
“Oh,” said Georges, smiling, “Nailer.”
“Hey! Come out o' that, come out o' that!” cried
Terry, instantly roused by the tantalizing smile. “He’s
a horse now, Nailer is. He was a false alarm on Opening
Day, but he's coming round now and he'll be all right for
the Mardi Gras Handicap.”
“Really?”


TWISTED TRAILS 197
“Yes, he will; yes, he will! And if the Snake was up
on your horse, The Hammer, I'd put Nailer on the road
and catch him now, even with the start he's got. You
wait till they hook up at Mardi Gras!”
Terry turned away, realizing it was no time to allow
himself to be drawn into a racing argument.


CHAPTER XXIII
IGHT now,” mused Terry to himself, “while we're
standing here chewing the rag the Snake might be
making his get-away along the road.”
Terry's natural pugnaciousness, which had been held in
abeyance, flared suddenly into life with a demand for in-
stant action.
“They're sleeping on the job,” he muttered. “That
ain't the way to do it; they ought to shut off every chance
for a get-away, the way the cops watch the stations and
ferries in New York. Probably he did beat it into the
swamp by water. There's a chance he might be seen,
though, by some one. If the men down at the camp
knew—say, I'll blow down and wise up Bomb Carkey.
He's onto things round here and he's a white man. He
might grab the Snake by his lonesome.”
A few minutes later he was carefully saddling Nailer,
conversing with him intimately as was his wont.
“So, steady there, you old baby Nailer! I know you
ain't used to training at night, but there's a good moon
and the road's good, and we're just going for a little
exercise gallop. Whoa, boy! Say, old Nailer, you're
getting into condition. We're worked the fat off your
bay window, old baby; got to take in the girth another
hole. There you are. Now take it easy, Nailer, take it
198


TWISTED TRAILS 199
easy till you get warmed up. Somebody handed it to our
big pal, Nailer, and we're going down and wise Bomb
Carkey up about it. Bomb's a white man. Easy, Nailer,
easy!” - -
The thoroughbred danced with the excitement of being
taken out at this unusual hour, and when he felt the
straight, soft road, beneath his prancing feet he leaned
against the tautly held bit with eagerness.
“What?” whispered Teddy incredulously. “What!
You ain't jumping at it, are you, Nailer? Aw, quit try-
ing to kid me. You ain't in shape yet to be crazy to
run.
Nailer again lunged at the bit.
“Well, what d'you know about that?” demanded Terry.
He had forgotten the errand he was on for the time
being. In fact, as soon as he felt Nailer's muscles moving
beneath his knees he had forgotten everything but the
noble animal he bestrode. “Oh, you baby!” he whis-
pered. He held his mount in until they reached a stretch
of the road which he knew would be safe even in the dark-
est night. He spoke no word, but he gradually relaxed
his short grip on the reins, and Nailer, fighting every
second for his head, gradually pulled the bit forward until
his head was outstretched in proper running position,
and then, as spontaneously as a river rushes through an
opened dam, as naturally as a bird bursts into morning
song, Nailer let himself out. He ran for the joy of
running. His gait was not the tense, fighting stride of
the thoroughbred race warrior fighting for the lead on a
track. It was a romp. The speed stored up in Nailer's


200 TWISTED TRAILS
heart and body insisted on showing itself. He ran with-
out an effort, and Terry, sensing the strength of the stride
beneath him, sucked in his breath in grim appreciation,
for the whistle of the wind in his ears told him the tale
of the speed of Nailer's flight.
“Half a mile,” he estimated. “Now let's see.”
But Nailer did not falter.
“Three-quarters,” guessed Terry.
Nailer was putting the ground behind him with no
slackening of his swiftly easy stride.
“A mile! Whoa! Slow down. Cut it out, Nailer,
d'you hear? That'll be all at that gait. Shut down, shut
down!”
For the space of several seconds rider and steed fought
it out in the moonlight, and then reluctantly Nailer obeyed
the pull on the bit. Terry bent far over, feeling and lis-
tening to Nailer's breathing, and the thumping of his
heart.
“Yep, your wind's still a trifle bad, old baby,” he said,
“but you're there with the steam to carry you all the way
round, and you'll be right in another week.”
The camp on Haute Isle lay silent in the moonlight
when they arrived and, eager to chatter the great news
to Carkey, Terry steered Nailericarefully across the clear-
ing and slipped to the ground before the door of the fore-
man's bunk shanty.
“Hey, Bomb!” he called as he knocked. “Wake up!”
There was no response.
“Oh, Bomb!” he shouted more loudly, rattling the door.
“Come out of it!”


TWISTED TRAILS 201
Carkey must be an awfully sound sleeper, thought
Terry.
“Hi! Hil” He kicked till the shanty rattled. “Wake
up in there!”
From the shanty next to Carkey's came a groan and
the muttered curse of a heavy sleeper awakening.
“Huh? Who the devil's making all the racket?
What d'you want?”
“Didn't mean to roust you up, McGill. Trying to wake
Carkey.”
McGill, the engineer of the towboat, stumbled sleepily
from his bunk and flung open the door.
“H'lo, Terry,” he mumbled. “Y'gotta lotta nerve.
Whassa matter, waking people up this time o' night?”
“Want to see Bomb.”
“Bomb?” The engineer stared stupidly. “Where'd
you come from? Bomb's up to Lily City. Went up to
the office on business. I just happened to meet him when
he was slipping away on the quiet. Won't be back till
to-morrow noon. Go on, now; go 'way'n lemme sleep.”
Terry stood staring blankly at the bunk-shack door
which the sleepy engineer had slammed in his face. His
whirling mind was repeating automatically the thought:
“You're crazy; Bomb wasn't there,” but some deeper
sense prompted him to suppress the impulse to blurt the
words to McGill's sleepy ears.
Bomb had started for the office at Lily City in the
afternoon. McGill had accidentally met him when he was
slipping away on the quiet! And he hadn't shown up at
the office! Or


202 TWISTED TRAILS
Terry suddenly became conscious of Nailer's soft nose
muzzling his shoulder apprehensively and realized that
he was trembling.
“All right, Nailer,” he whispered reassuringly. The
horse quieted.
“Thought I was scared at something, eh, you big
baby?” continued Terry, throwing his arm round the bay's
head. “Nix. Nix! What is there for me to get scared
at, eh?”
Nailer submitted to the rude caress for some seconds.
Then he suddenly shook his head loose, stared at Terry
and gave a snort.
“Can't fool you, eh?” said Terry. “Well, I admit it,
Nailer, something has got my goat and got it hard. I
feel like I’d been swinging round the first turn and found
a stone wall clear across the track. What do you know
about it, Nailer; what do you know about it? Bomb
started for Lily City on the quiet. He didn't reach the
wire, didn't even show on the home-stretch. But some-
body else did, Nailer, somebody else did,” he continued
in an awed whisper. “Wouldn't it give you the willies,
Nailer; wouldn't it, on the square?”
Nailer whinnied and stamped restlessly.
“All right; all right, old sport; we'll get out of here.
Come on! Cut out that nervous stuff. It ain't any of
your business, is it? You don't have to worry about it.
All you got to do is to get in shape to run a mile and a
furlong the same way you ran that first half mile on
Opening Day. Come on now; we'll be beating it back to


204 TWISTED TRAILS
the animal drew in the scent that had disturbed him, and
he leaped like a cat, throwing his hands over the beast's
nostrils and throttling the blast which Nailer was pre-
paring to blow.
Hugging the horse's head with both arms to his chest
with a tenseness which Nailer understood and obeyed,
Terry stared from the darkness of the cane-hidden trail
across the clearing to the dark woods on the farther side.
A dim, bulky figure had slipped out of the woods into the
clearing. In the uncertain light of the moon and shadows
the figure was vague and dim. It stopped in the shelter
of the somber woods for a moment, and Terry thought
it only one of the wild swamp cattle emboldened by night
to stray within sight of buildings. Then it moved out of
the darkness. Terry saw it was a man. He moved across
the clearing in a straight line.
It was Carkey.
In the darkness of the canebrake Terry clung to Nail-
er's head with rigid arms, scarcely daring to breathe.
£arkey was coming straight toward the mouth of the
trail, walking swiftly and looking about the camp clearing
as he came on. In the dim light his big form was crude
and gigantic.
Terry began to tremble, and Nailer trembled with him.
“If he finds me hiding here,” ran Terry's affrighted
thoughts, “if he finds me hiding here ->
The time to flee was right now. Terry knew it. A
leap on Nailer's back, a kick in the ribs, and, lying low to
avoid the branches, he would be out of sight, out of hear-


208 TWISTED TRAILS
him as he tightened the reins. The deputy had his hand
<n the hammers of his shotgun. The sheriff had drawn
his revolver and Terry found himself between two armed
men whose expression indicated that they meant business.
“Say! What is this?” he demanded.
“Don’t try to run. We will shoot the horse. Get
down.”
Terry dismounted quickly, eager not to do anything
that might bring possible danger for Nailer.
“Don’t shoot the horse!” he stammered. “Fer the love
o' Mike, don't do that. What do youse want of me, eh?
What's the game?”
The sheriff laughed shortly, the deputy following suit.
“You need try no Yankee bluff here,” said the former.
“It won’t work. You try to get away, find the way too
hard, come back to give yourself up, and then ask what
is up when you are arrested?”
“Arrested?” cried Terry. “Pinched? Me?”
“Stop that!” snapped the sheriff. “Stop the bluffing.
I don't like it.”
“Pinched?. For what?”
“He does it well, don't he?” drawled LeJeune. “Guess
that's why he come back, Pete; thought he could bluff it
out.”
The sheriff put his left hand to his coat pocket and came
close to Terry.
“Did you ever see this before?” he barked, and held
an automatic pistol before the boy's eyes. “Ever see
anything like it before?”


TWISTED TRAILS 211
Well, where's your case then, bo, where's your case? If
the Snake wasn't there, and if he didn't make his get-away
with the dough, the bag's got to be somewhere round the
office, ain't it? Did you find it? Aw, you make me sick.
You ain't got no case. You're trying to frame us; you're
trying to pull off something raw, and, believe me, we'll
show you up so bad you'll toss that tin star in the bayou.
Why, say, the Big Fellow was shot by the same gun that
bumped off Octo, wasn't he? What have you got to say
to that?”
“That we don't know just what happened in the office,
but we are going to find out. You say you will show me
up. Well, I will shºw you the inside of our little lockup.
You'll have plenty time to study it. Come along.”
“You’re going to throw me in the hoose-gow? Going
to lock me up?”
“At once.”
, “But—Nailer! What am I going to do with me
horse?”
The sheriff smiled, his eyes appraising the animal en-
viously.
“Awl” screamed Terry, noting the look, “You—you're
nothing but Georges Martel's lobby-gow. You're doing
this for him. You're putting me away so I can't get
Nailer into shape for Mardi Gras.
“Hey, doc/ Oh, docſ” he shouted toward Doctor
Thibodeaux's house. “Come out here! They're pinching
me for being the Snake!”
“So?” said the doctor, coming leisurely out into the
road. “Then you should be flattered, Terry; the Snake


212 TwistED TRAILs
is a notable figure at present. Good morning, Pete; good
morning, LeJeune,” he greeted the sheriff and deputy.
“You are making an arrest?”
“As you see, doctor,” the sheriff by now had Terry by
the sleeve.
“Then you believe no more in the Snake than I do?”
said the doctor, smiling flatteringly. “It is not for noth-
ing that the people of the parish elected you sheriff, Pete.”
“I only do my duty, doctor.”
“Yes, yes, but you do that well. Georges Martel, we
will say, believes in the myth of the Snake, and goes with
his dog on a man chase to Black Woods. You see with
the eye of reason. The Snake is not convincing to you.
You stay on the ground and—take a prisoner.”
“I stay on the ground, and find this,” Pete held out
the automatic and once more went over the story with
which he had in his own way incriminated Terry. “And
so you see, doctor,” he concluded, “where my duty lies.”
“He is under arrest then, Terry?”
“Yes, doctor.”
“But me horse, doc-Nailer,” cried Terry. “I was
just beginning to get him into shape.”
“Ah, yes—the horse,” said the doctor, regarding the
animal over his glasses. “The horse, Pete, what becomes
of him?”
“Oh, we'll board him at the livery stable, I reckon.”
“But they can't, doc; it'll ruin him; he was just be-
ginning to show some condition.”
“Is that the law, sheriff" asked the doctor.
“It’s what we're going to do now, at least,” retorted


CHAPTER XXIV
MURMUR of voices outside the window awoke
Stephen. It was morning, and by the sunlight and
the odors which crept languidly in through the window
he knew that spring was returning. For the first time
since being wounded Stephen's mind was clear. He had
slept comfortably and he awoke with a sense of well-being
in spite of his fever and the numbness of his side. To his
amazement he found that he was bodily clean and arrayed
in pajamas of white Chinese silk. As he recalled his con-
dition when carried to the house he thought:
“Some nurse did a first-class job removing the gory
traces of battle!”
. He was lying in an old four-poster of darkest mahog-
any. From the tops of each of the posts looked down
upon him a tiny mahogany reproduction of the Buddha.
In the mouth of each figure had been bored a small hole
in which was securely inserted a long stick of Doctor
Thibodeaux's favorite mosquito pastille. On the wall be-
yond the foot of the bed a gorgeous golden dragon coiled
its shimmering length of ten feet across the gray silken
Chinese tapestry which covered the wall; its yawning
mouth, turned to the bed, greeting the sleeper upon the
moment of opening his eyes. The wall behind the head
of the bed was covered with a silken tapestry of deepest
215


216 TWISTED TRAILS
black upon which a grinning devil figure in vivid red dis-
ported itself in antics conceivable only in the mind of a
Chinese artist. The wall to the left was a veritable
museum of weapons. Malay creeses, Mohammedan
yataghans, ancient Japanese swords, modern cavalry
sabers, and the primitive spears of savages were arrayed
in a circle about a collection of pistols ranging from the
ancient flintlock to the most modern automatic.
Steppy fumbled with the covering of the bed and found
himself fingering a silken tapestry which one time had
covered a Chinese mandarin. He looked at the books
lying in piles in the corners, at the long cigarette holders
stuck everywhere round the walls, so that one was always
within reach, and understood. Doctor Thibodeaux had
put him in his own bed.
It was the wall with the windows in it that attracted
and held him, however. It was composed entirely of long
French windows through which one might step into a
tangle of rosebushes still bearing a few blooms which
strove their best to crowd into the room and fill it with
their scents. One of the windows was wide open, and a
heavily laden bush gently projected its load of tiny jack
roses over the sill. A daringly early humming bird poised
itself over a flower within the room. Beyond the barrier
of bushes some one was singing softly; so softly that it
seemed little more than a rustling of leaves, and the words
barely came through the window to Steppy's ears:
“Zephine, the world grows old, never again this hour;
Never again this moon, shall gleam for us as now.


TWISTED TRAILS 217
Zephine, my heart is faint; calls to your heart for hope.
Zephine, the world grows old. Come let our hearts be
3young.”
There was a moment of complete silence outside.
“Thank you, Estella,” spoke the hushed voice of Doc-
tor Thibodeaux. “It is kind of you to grant an old man's
whim.”
“Old!” laughed the voice of the singer softly. “You
are—you are Uncle Armand. There!” There was the
sound of a kiss. “I would as soon sing for you and kiss
you, as any man living.”
“So?” chuckled the doctor. “Then your opinion of
mankind is no higher than mine?”
“Oh,” said the girl with mock resignation, “we’re in the
pessimistic mood this morning, are we? And yet you've
been telling me that it is just in the time of crises that we
must not let ourselves be depressed. Not to speak even
of poor Octave; not think even of what happened. Isn't
that the lesson you've been giving me last night and this
morning?”
“You have the sense of it at least.”
“Merci, you dear old—buzzard! You preach optimism
to me, and courage, and here you sit and hint at an
awfully poor opinion of mankind, right in the middle of
these affectionate little roses—ouch! Pull that one out
of my hair, that's a duck—and on such a splendidly hope-
ful morning, too!”
“Yes, it is all very beautiful here,” murmured the doc-
tor. “Pure beauty, pure joy—that is Nature. Man is the


218 TWISTED TRAILS
muddler. Man and his civilization! Dawn, morning
freshness, sunlight, sunset, afterglow—they will all be
here, all as glorious, as beautiful and full of joy, after the
experiment of man has been decided a failure and the
earth swept clean of the strutting, grabbing, screeching lit-
tle busybody on two legs.”
“A failure? Man? And woman, then?”
“Woman?” repeated Doctor Thibodeaux with a playful
chuckle. “Let me see. Ah, yes—well, petite, there are
very few women in this world. Wait, wait! Do not
strike an old man—not until he has had his say, at least.
Very few women. Plenty of fine creatures with the fe-
male body, a world full of them, yes; but only occasion-
ally is there one who realizes the intentions of the gods.
How often has the laughable jumble which men call his-
tory recorded her? Let me see: There is the Trojan
Helen; there is Cleopatra; there is Joan of Arc. And
now one lives in a tiny hamlet on the banks of Lily Bayou
—stop, stop, Estell'—one lives at Lily City, and as a
consequence life there is becoming very complicated. For
men, you see, Estella, become magnetized when they come
within the sphere of influence of such a force. Some
grow mad with the wish to possess—there is the Trojan
war. Some—well, consider Antony. Some hate it be-
cause it is too fine and beautiful, too great a reproach
to them, so they destroy it as they burned the body in-
habited by the spirit we call Joan of Arc. Some rise under
such an influence, some fall; some—some are content to
be near, and see, and—and carry her roses.”
“My!” chuckled the girl, “uncle, it's a good thing you


TWISTED TRAILS 219
aren't young and that you're my uncle or you'd have me
falling head over heels in love with you.”
“Love? One must grow serious at that sacred word,
child. There is not much in life without that. No; with-
out it life is as barren as war—as a war with no hope of
victory.”
“Splendid, uncle! Keep it up. How many times have
you been in love?”
“Estella, you shall not mock an old man!”
“Oh, yes, I shall, uncle; when the old man has got as
young a heart as you have and is always trying to bother
his poor little niece.”
“I protest, Estell'; I protest.”
“I believe I'll have to make a match for you, uncle,
and marry you off. It's a shame to have all those beauti-
ful speeches go to waste. Think how happy they'd make
some romantically inclined lady—say a plump widow of
forty.”
“You are not romantically inclined, then? Hold no
delightful impressions after a meeting with a desirable
young man?”
“Oh, I wouldn't say that. I'm a young woman; I be-
long to the same species—”
“Stop! For the sake of decency, stop!”
“I do not dislike young men, neither can I see myself
getting crazy over any particular one. They are nice,
but not necessary.” -
Doctor Thibodeaux chuckled faintly but with great
relish.
“What a wonderful thing modern education for young


220 TWISTED TRAILS
women is, to be sure! Well, well, I think you have enough
roses, petite. Cut no more. They are precious at this
time of the year. Take them in and place them beside the
particular young man who is sleeping in my bed. They
are good for shocked nerves—roses.”


CHAPTER XXV
THE daring humming bird, drinking nectar from the
nodding rose over the window, leaped upward in
sudden alarm, poised for a moment, then flashed out of
sight. The barrier of bushes outside the window was
briskly agitated. An opening was made in the heart of
them, and in the opening appeared a huge bouquet of
long-stemmed roses and presently Estella's face appeared
beside the cut flowers.
Steppy was lying flat upon his back, but his head was
turned toward the window, and he grinned.
“Why, he's awake!” cried Estella.
“Do not fear,” spoke the doctor soothingly, “he does
not bite.”
“Have you been awake long?” she demanded.
“Just woke this second,” lied Steppy.
“Then shut your eyes for half a minute.”
There was a commotion at the window; one foot, two,
dropped lightly on the floor and when Steppy opened his
eyes she was standing inside, shaking down her skirt.
She looked at him a moment as he lay smiling, her cheeks
gradually assuming the color of the roses which she held
against her bosom.
“You looked!” she said.
“Upon my word, I didn't!” he protested.
22I


TWISTED TRAILS 223
be nursing you. What would the doctor say if he came
in and found I had depressed you so?”
He turned his head, looked at her in a way that told
how far the subject was beyon; words, then looked
away.
“Well, look at it in a common-sense way then,” she
said. “Uncle had to have somebody to help him. He
shooed every one out of the house but himself and me.
Somebody had to help, you know. There, I mustn't dis-
turb you by talking. Doctor's orders.”
“Please disobey them,” pleaded Steppy. “Your talk-
ing keeps me from thinking about things.”
“Oh, you mustn't think of that—of anything like it."
It's over now. Uncle said you were so strong and in
such splendid condition that there was no danger.”
“Physically, he meant, I guess. Mentally, I'm in ter-
rible shape. I—I guess it's the shock. I see and—feel
things.” He shuddered artistically. “Your talking drives
them away.”
“Really?”
“Go on, please. Somebody had to help-"
“Oh, yes. Well, it really was interesting; it really was
a relief to do something useful. I’m the most useless
creature in the world, you know, and I think of the women
who are doing things and feel ashamed—sometimes.”
“What for?”
“For being useless, of course. What excuse do I have
for cumbering the earth? I spin not, neither do I do
good works. With my expensive Northern education


224 TWISTED TRAILS
and my opportunities I ought to be a shining light of prog-
ress in Lazy Land.” -
“For instance?”
“Oh, I could teach the Cajun women how to keep
house, for instance. They’ve only been at it a hundred
years or so down here, so naturally they don't know what
they want.”
“Fine!” chortled Steppy. “What else?”
“Oh, there's the doctrine of fresh air and frequent
baths. And the way they bring up their children! Why,
old Mrs. Renoudet has had fourteen of them, and forty-
three grandchildren, and she never read a single book on
the subject.”
“Ho! She ought to write one.”
“No, no! You don't understand. I should preach to
her; it's my duty as an educated young woman. Oh, I
have endless opportunities for making myself a nuisance
to these contented Cajuns—sanitation, hygiene—but I
don't avail myself of them. I'm quite useless. I just live.
Now do you feel better?”
“No, not much,” said Steppy, groaning promptly. “Go
on, please!”
“Oh, that's wrong of you!” she laughed. “Sh!” she
continued, suddenly assuming a nurse's manner. “Here
comes the doctor.”
Doctor Thibodeaux entered the room with a stiff pro-
fessional manner, to be greeted respectfully from his
niece:
“Good morning, doctor.”
“Good morning, nurse. Your patient is awake?”


TWISTED THAILS 225
“Yes, doctor.”
“Did he rest well?”
“Yes, doctor.”
“Temperature?”
“Slight.”
Doctor Thibodeaux nodded stiffly to his patient, picked
up his wrist, counted the pulse, dropped the wrist care-
lessly.
“When a man has a pulse of seventy-two the morning
after an experience like last evening's,” said he, “he is
not of the sort upon which my profession thrives.”
He stalked across the room to his collection of weapons,
and returned to the bedside with a large automatic pistol
in his hand.
“This,” said he didactically, “is the type of weapon
which failed in its purpose toward you.”
“Did you ever see such an old fool!” exploded Estella,
wresting the weapon from him. “You tell me to place
roses in the room for their soothing effect on shocked
nerves; then you come in and show this horrid, ugly
thing.” -
“Nurse!”
“Yes, doctor.”
“Leave the room.”
“Yes, doctor.”
Doctor Thibodeaux drew a low chair to the bedside,
reached beneath it and dug out one of his long cigarette
holders, placed one of his long brown cigarettes in it,
lighted it and let it burn.
“Octave?” said Steppy.


226 TWISTED TRAILS
The doctor shook his head.
There was a long depressed silence.
“Did they get the Snake?” said Steppy.
The doctor took no notice of the question except to look
sidewise through the smoke of the burning cigarette at
his patient with an inscrutable expression upon his lined,
brown countenance.
“Did they get the Snake?” repeated Steppy.
Doctor Thibodeaux blew gently through the holder
to keep the cigarette burning, never taking his eyes from
Steppy's or altering his expression.
“Then there is such a creature as the Snake?” he asked.
“What? What do you mean?”
“Is there?” insisted Doctor Thibodeaux. “You must
remember that I was not among those present when you
were hurt. I saw nothing, therefore know nothing of him.
Poor Octave Landry can tell nothing; Terry is too excit-
able to be relied upon. So I ask you—about the existence
of the Snake, so called.”
“Do you mean you doubt it?”
“Doubt what, my son? The story of the shooting?
No, no, that is accepted. Some one robbed the office and
did some very quick and effective shooting. It is about
that man—the one who did the shooting—that I am curi-
ous.”
“You're more than curious,” protested Steppy.
“You’re skeptical.”
The doctor acknowledged it with a slight nod into the
scented smoke.
“Describe him, please, if you can.”


228 TWISTED TRAILS
“Haven't I?” laughed Steppy, pointing to his side.
Thibodeaux bowed with a wave of his hand.
“Some one, some human being, put a hole in you, which
does not in the least constitute you an authority. On the
contrary, it has been my experience that wounded men
know the least about the circumstances of their misfor-
tune. I speak from two standpoints: I am not without
wounds upon my own person, and I have attended many
wounded. You are clear now; you tell a definite story;
but the Snake? No, no!”
“All right,” said Stephen. “Soon I'll be convinced I
wasn't shot.”
The doctor smiled. “You will have a week to think
things over, Warren; for man must think when he cannot
be active. You will be nonactive for a week. And some
day you will agree with me about the Snake,” said the
doctor, and went out to the kitchen to instruct his cook
concerning Terry's rations while in jail.


232 TWISTED TRAILS
“Give it to me,” demanded Terry sternly. “I’m starv-
ing.”
“Well, honey, you shoain't gwin stahve long's Blanche
do cooking foh Docteh Thib'deaux,” said Blanche sooth-
ingly. “Docteh say Ah gwin feed you and Ah reckon
you ain't gwin suffeh.”
LeJeune sadly unlocked the door and allowed the cook
to pass the odorous hamper to the prisoner.
“Ah come roun' noon with 'nutheh li'l' snack,” volun-
teered Blanche. “You all lake gumbo? Ah bring you
li'1'. Or mebbe li'l' cou bouillon. Docteh say feed you,
and reckon Ah will.”
Terry spread his repast carefully upon the boards that
served as a cot, and poured the coffee.
“Kind of poor, I guess!” he murmured, as he set to
work. “Um-m-m, baby! LeJeune, what did you have
for breakfast?”
“Didn't have much,” grumbled the hungry Cajun.
Terry looked at him over a browned piece of catfish.
LeJeune was eyeing the fish, and the Adam's apple in his
long lean throat was rising and falling suggestively.
Terry concentrated his movements upon fish, corn bread,
shrimps and black coffee for several minutes, but his
mind was busy with another problem.
“Whew!” he said presently. “Little Blanche must
think I'm a whale. I'll have to tell her not to bring so
much grub next time.”
The deputy gulped painfully.
“Why?” said he.
“Oh, it ain't right to waste food,” said Terry casually.
*
__-


TWISTED TRAILS 233
“She's brought about twice as much as I need. I'll tell
her to cut my dose in half. No sense wasting so much.”
“Wasting it?” stammered LeJeune. “Good God!”
He rose and went outside, unable to bear the spectacle
of his prisoner engaged in the absorption of Blanche's
far-famed viands. Presently he returned, and lounged up
to the door in the bars.
“Ain’t no need to tell her to cut down your grub,” he
said. “Doc Thibodeaux won't miss it.”
“I know,” said Terry indifferently, splitting a piece of
golden corn bread, “but that's no reason why I should
throw good food away.”
“No need to throw it away.”
“Mean I ought to try and eat it all? It'd kill me.”
“I mean I could help you, mebbe,” said the deputy.
Terry went on with his meal without replying.
“There!” he said presently, sitting back in contentment.
“Some feed! And look at what's left—catfish, um-m!
Shrimps, corn bread, wow! And coffee that—say,
LeJeune, what'll I do with it?”
LeJeune was unlocking the cell door.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said hoarsely. “I sure will
take care of that food.”
“Look here, bo,” said Terry, “you treat me white or
I'll tell Blanche not to bring any grub at all.”
LeJeune winked fraternally as he sank his teeth in the
succulent white meat of the catfish.
“I got to be hard when the Sheriff's round,” said he,
“but man, that woman sure can cook.”


234 TWISTED TRAILS
Said Blanche on the morrow as she delivered Terry's
noon repast:
“Man, for a little man you sho can tuck away a right
smart of vittles.”
“To-morrow,” retorted Terry, “you bring just twice
as much as you've got here, understand?”
“But, man ->
“Twice as much. You said you were going to feed
me well and that's what I require. You don't see any
leavings, do you?”
“Sho don't.”
“Then double the order, Snowball, and save my life.”
In strict truth it was not quite his life that Terry in-
tended to save through the medium of Blanche's excellent
cooking and generosity, though had he been destined to
linger long in the tiny bastile, he asserted, he would have
perished of anguish and worry. But the way to LeJeune's
heart, and something else, was open to Terry via the
appetizing dishes from the doctor's kitchen. Terry had
but a poor appetite himself during these days of incar-
ceration. Only while Blanche was in sight would he pre-
tend to attack the viands with gusto. The moment she had
departed he would sit back while LeJeune, with a look
round to make sure that Sheriff Pete Martel was no-
where about, would enter the cell and put away food for
two at a rate that made Terry stare.
For the first time in his life, LeJeune asserted, he was
being properly fed. His usual meals, taken away from
the jail, were mere appetizers to whet his appetite for the
serious eating awaiting him when he returned to his


TWISTED TRAILS 235
prisoner. At the end of a week they were close friends.
Meanwhile, up at Dr. Thibodeaux's house, Stephen
had recovered so rapidly from his wound that after a
week as an invalid he was permitted to be up and round
the house. To celebrate the event Blanche, the doctor's
cook, outdid herself in the kitchen and the meal that
came to Terry in jail that evening was so generous and
enticing as to be the complete ruin of Deputy LeJeune.
“I sure hope they sentence you here for life,” he drawled
enthusiastically as he stretched himself upon Terry's bunk
after the colossal meal. -
“Thanks, Pete,” said Terry. “The same to you and
many of them.”
“Reckon it's too good to last though,” muttered
LeJeune sleepily. “Reckon they'll take you away to some
big jail and then I'll starve again. Ho hum! I could
stretch right out here and sleep till daylight.”
“Go to it!” said Terry carelessly.
“No, no.” The deputy's words were little more than
a murmur. “No, I'll just rest a minute, then I got to
lock up. Ho hum!”
It had been a heavy meal. For a week LeJeune had
been treating himself to six meals per diem, and the pace
was telling. It was very comfortable to lie there and rest
a few minutes. In fact, it would have required a con-
siderable effort to arise after having lain down; and
the overfed Cajun was not in the least inclined to effort.
His eyes closed. His mouth came open. Presently a
snore rumbled forth in the silence of the little lamplit
cell. Deputy LeJeune was taking his after-dinner nap.


TWISTED TRAILS 237
until she stood peering through the shutters of the open
library window.
The Sheriff stood inside the door, his hat in his hand,
awaiting orders. Georges Martel lounged in a chair, a
glass of whisky in his hand, while his father nervously
paced the floor.
“We’ve got to get them both out of the way until after
the race,” said Georges easily. “After that everything
will be all right. We'll have money enough to wipe the
slate clean with everybody.”
“Yes, yes,” said his father nervously. “If we win.”
“Not if—when,” corrected Georges smilingly. “Cara-
mel and Homing Pigeon are the only two horses that
could make trouble for us. Levy has seen Dugan and
Klein. Their horses will go to the post to run—but not
to win. That's settled. Now I want Warren kept out
of the way. There's nothing the matter with him. He
will be taking their horse to New Orleans if we don't
watch him. I've given Pete his instructions. Take
McGurk too. Just put them away until after Mardi
Gras, that's all.”
“I will take them to the jail at Iberia,” said the sheriff.
“Right away—to-night.”
“Yes. Right away.”
“Give him some money,” said Georges carelessly to his
father. “You've got some, I know.”
“Yes, yes; but this money, Georges, do you know how
I got it?” stammered the old man.
“No, and don't care. Hand it over.”
“And if The Hammer does not win --


TWISTED TRAILS 239
She paused, glancing at the snoring LeJeune.
“Is he drunk?”
“No; but just as good. I can get out, Miss Reid,”
whispered Terry. “Go to the Big Fellow. I'm all right.
Go to him quick!”
She was gone without another sound, and Terry,
crouching against the barred door, stared at LeJeune
and tried in vain to still the throbbing of his excited heart.
The door was locked but the key was on a ring attached
to a chain which hung from the deputy's belt. Terry
picked up the heavy iron platter upon which Blanche
had borne that evening's meal and slipped noiselessly to
the sleeper's side.
“You’re out of luck if you wake, LeJeune,” ran his
thoughts as he drew the key ring out of the deputy's
pocket; but LeJeune was in no condition to waken for
any such slight disturbance. He snored lustily while the
boy possessed himself of the key, while he opened the
door, locked it again noiselessly, and fled into the night.
Terry ran swiftly, breathlessly. He even forgot Nailer
for the moment.
“The Big Fellow!” he thought. “They're after the
Big Fellow.” -
And he fled straight toward Warren, toward Doctor
Thibodeaux's house.
In the meantime Estella had reached the house and
delivered her warning. Doctor Thibodeaux's decision
had been instantaneous.


TWISTED TRAILS 241
“Please go!” whispered Estella.
“That's different!” laughed Stephen. “I fly!”
He flew round the stables and up the street toward,
the jail where Terry had been confined. As he ran he
examined the revolver to make sure it was loaded and
in working order. In the darkness he and Terry came
full tilt together.


TWISTED TRAILS 243
The elation due to alcoholic action upon nerve centers
died rudely.
“Have you been wading in the bayou, Pete Martel?”
Doctor Thibodeaux absolutely had no respect for the
law. “Will you kindly notice that my floor is not a
barnyard? No, people do not enter my house dragging
tracks of gumbo dirt over the floors. There is a scraper
on the steps, Pete.”
The Law—the Law emboldened and aided and abetted
by alcohol—made one effort to preserve its dignity.
“What?” blurted the sheriff.
“What?” repeated Doctor Thibodeaux softly, and his
square brown jaw crept dangerously forward. “Do you
require the services of an aurist? There!”
His long lean forefinger indicated the scraper, but his
eyes did not leave the eyes of Sheriff Martel.
One of the deputies obeyed the command of the point-
ing finger. The other followed. Pete Martel swiftly did
likewise, then turned upon the doctor, and broke out:
“Now, we ain't going to take—”
“Stop!”
Doctor Thibodeaux took a step forward. In that in-
stant Pete Martel glanced nervously behind him, and
the doctor's tone changed instantly.
“That is not the way one Cajun gentleman speaks to
another, Pete,” said he. “You agree with me, do you
not?”
Pete Martel was rather dazed at being classified as a
gentleman, but he rose to the occasion with a swelling
of his flat chest.


244 TWISTED TRAILS
“Well, of course, doctor, if you put it that way,” he
said.
“Put it that way?” repeated the doctor, as if deeply
puzzled. “But, my dear sheriff, how else should I put it?
How else should one gentleman address another?”
The sheriff recalled that one gentleman had just told
another to wipe his feet and the memory troubled him a
little.
“You sure didn't start off that way, doctor.”
Doctor Thibodeaux with a single gesture waved the
muddy feet, the command to wipe them, the incident of
the scraper, into the limbo of things past and forgotten,
of which no gentleman speaks to another.
“Tut, tut! Do you not see that it is an old, irascible
man whom you have disturbed? Would you humiliate
me by forcing me to apologize for my rudeness? No!
You are too much the sensitive Cajun gentleman for that;
your name is not Martel for nothing. See, there on the
wall sits Solomon and sneers. Do you know why he
sneers? Because he sees me constantly and can do nothing
else. But forgive me, forgive me, gentlemen! Come in,
come in to my poor office. Sit down, sheriff; sit down,
Lamar, Beausire. May I offer you cigarettes? You must
not embarrass me; it is a sign of hospitality.”
“We came for the Yankee, Warren,” said Martel,
digging into his pocket. “I’ve got a warrant xx
“Stop! Is there need of papers between us? You
are my guests for the present. That satisfies every-
thing.”
But it did not quite satisfy Pete Martel. The minutes


TWISTED TRAILS 245
sped and he glanced nervously over his shoulder through
the open doorway into the darkness of the front yard.
It was the second time he had done this, but Doctor
Thibodeaux made no sign to indicate that he had noticed.
“The Yankee, Warren, has had a relapse,” said he.
“I have given him a drug. It is impossible to disturb
him at present—quite impossible.”
“I must disturb him,” said the sheriff.
“Of course. Duty is duty. But not at present. When
the time is ripe I shall give him to you of course. Ah,
there is a draft. I will close the door.”
The doctor stepped lightly toward the front door and
drew it half shut. But he did not complete the move-
ment. Instead he flung the door wide open again and,
standing in the doorway, chuckled and called, as one
might call to a naughty schoolboy, into the darkness of
the front yard, whither the sheriff had glanced:
“Come in, Georges Martel, come in Don't skulk in
the dark; you might get shot for a stray dog. Come in,
man! Your minions need you!”
He stood on the threshold, his small figure proudly
erect, and laughed a laugh that might have come from the
twisted lips of the gargoyle on the wall. Out in the yard
Georges Martel stepped out from the tree behind which
he had been hiding.
“How have the mighty fallen!” chuckled the doctor.
“Is it possible? The scion of the family of Martel skulks
about like a thief in the dark!” He leaned forward and
peered at Georges Martel as the latter stepped angrily
forward into the ray of light from the door. “Yes, it is


CHAPTER XXIX
IG FELLOW!” gasped Terry as he ran against
Stephen in the dark. “Don’t wake me if I’m dream-
ing! How's Nailer?”
Stephen's reply was to grasp the boy by the hand and
drag him toward the bayou on the run.
“Nailer?” insisted Terry.
“He’s in the doctor's stables. Come along.”
“What do you want to do, pull my arm out of the
socket?” groaned Terry, as they came to a halt on the
brink of the water.
“Stay right here; keep quiet,” commanded Stephen.
He prowled carefully in the darkness down the bayou
shore to the office pier where his pirogue lay, and came
paddling back to Terry.
“Get in.”
“But, Nailer 2x
“Get in, quick. In the bow. Sit still!”
He paused a moment, peering back toward the doctor's
and toward the jail, listening in vain for any sign of pur-
suit. Then with a strong push of the paddle he shot away
from shore and like the passing of a shadow along the
water the pirogue slipped down the bay into the maw of
the night.
For a while there was no sound in the boat louder
~
247


TWISTED TRAILS 249
was the use? I'd have had to stick around here and
they'd have picked me up again in a hurry.”
“Why would you have had to stick around here?”
asked Stephen.
“Huh ! Weren't you flat on your back up at doc's?”
“You should have escaped, nevertheless,” said Ste-
phen. “You could have taken Nailer and got away to
New Orleans and put him in the hands of a trainer.”
“I thought of that,” muttered Terry. “Two weeks in
old Pop Brady's hands and he'd have been perfect. It's
all off with him now. The Martels will have a walk-over
with The Hammer. Aw, what's the use of talking!
Cheer up, Terry; some day they got to run for you.
How's the shoulder, Big Fellow? Have they heard any-
thing about the Snake? LeJeune told me Mr. Hartland
has put his own detectives on the case but they haven't
found a trace of him. And imagine them accusing us
of pulling off the job! Well, it worked for what they
were after; they've put the Nailer out of the Handicap.
Where we going, Big Fellow; what's the game?”
“First of all, to get away and hide,” replied Stephen.
“Pete Martel and his gang will be out looking for us soon
and they'll take a run down this bayou, sure. It wouldn't
take them long to catch us with Georges' speed boat if
we stayed on the water, so we've got to get off it. We'll
hide till to-morrow night.”
“Where'll we hide?”
“Where we're heading for now,” replied Stephen.
“Sit still.”
An hour later, perhaps, they reached the ragged growth


250 TWISTED TRAILS
of cypress which told that the canebrake had ended and
the swamp begun. Here Stephen turned the nose of the
pirogue into the eastern bank of the bayou.
“In there?” demanded Terry, peering into the gloom
of the swamp. “Bo, you certainly pick sweet places to
hide out in.”
“Take off your shoes and stockings and tie them around
your neck,” commanded Stephen, swiftly setting the ex-
ample. Terry obeyed grumblingly.
“I ain't afraid of getting me shoes spoiled, bo,” said
he.
“Neither am I,” chuckled Stephen, “but I don't want
to leave any boot tracks along the bank for them to see.
They'd stand out too much; bare feet are the style down
here. Now get out and stand still for a minute.”
He lifted the pirogue cleanly to his shoulder and stag-
gered off with it into the swamp and hid the boat where
he knew it would not be visible from the water.
“Can you swim, Terry?” he asked, when he returned.
“No.”
“All right. Get on my back.”
“Hey; come out of it!” chattered the boy. “What's
going to come off here?”
“The place where we're going to hide is on the other
side of the bayou,” was the reply. “Come on; all aboard
Grab hold of my collar.”
With the boy on his back he waded out until the water
was breast deep and began to swim down the bayou.
Fifty yards away he shifted his course toward the oppo-
site bank, and presently found bottom in water up to his


TWISTED TRAILS 251
waist. He waded until he found an old cypress tree with
its great roots jutting out in the water.
“That's what I'm after,” he said. “We'll leave no
tracks here.”
With his fingers clutching the crevices in the knee of
the tree he drew himself and his burden out of the
water, worked himself round the trunk, stepping care-
fully on the roots, splashed into the water beyond, and
presently found himself on solid ground.
“All right. Get down now,” he said, with a sigh of
relief. “They'll have a little trouble finding that trail.
Come on!”
He led the way northward back to the edge of the
canebrake, then turned to the west. Gamely Terry fol-
lowed, though the going was hard on his tender bare feet.
Stephen traveled as fast as the boy's short legs would
permit. In the darkness they blundered often, but Ste-
phen's woods instinct held true.
At the first peep of daylight they broke out of the
swamp into the open country of the old plantation re-
gion. Now they ran, fearful of being seen by some
chance passer-by. As the first rays of the sun tinted
the rising mists of morning, Stephen lifted the curtain
of vines which concealed the entrance to the ruins of the
old plantation house and they slipped within.
Terry collapsed the moment he realized that the need
for gameness was over.
“What'd you want to do—kill a guy?” he panted. “If
that home stretch had been a furlong longer I’d never


252 TWISTED TRAILS
have made the wire. How did you ever find it in the
dark?”
Stephen could not explain to Terry just how he had
done it, nor could he have directed any one how to find
the ruins from the bayou in the dark, but he had gone
thither with the subconscious certainty of keenly de-
veloped instinct.
“Well, it's better than being in jail anyway,” mut-
tered Terry sleepily. “How long we booked to stay
here, Big Fellow?”
“We'll hide all day and move again to-night,” replied
Stephen. “You had better lie down and get some
sleep.”
Terry needed no second urging. With a grunt of
content he curled up on the vines in a corner and in a
short time he was sleeping the restless, twitching sleep
of exhaustion.
Stephen stayed on watch. At noon Terry awoke.
Leaving the boy to watch Warren took his place on the
vines and allowed himself to sink deeply into much-
needed slumber.
Toward evening he awoke to find Terry sitting and
staring at him with his freckled brow wrinkled with
worry.
“What is it?” demanded Stephen.
“I was just making up my mind to wake you,” replied
Terry. “Did you hear it?”
“Something awoke me, but I don't know what it was.”
“It was that big man-eating dog, Herod, of Georges


TWISTED TRAILS 253
Martel's, that's what it was. I heard him barking way
off some place. There he goes again!”
Stephen located the deep baying of the big boar hound
to the eastward—toward the bayou. He knew that in
spite of his precaution the keen-scented brute had been
able to pick up a snatch of the trail.
“Pray for night, Terry,” he said, studying the rays of
the setting sun. “I don't think the dog will find us to—
night. It will be so dark in another hour that they'll
have to quit and go home. In the morning he'll pick
the trail up again and come here, but in the morning we
will be far away.”
“Come on, Night!” groaned Terry. “Come on you,
Darkness, beat 'em to the wire!”
They heard the dog bay again in anger and Stephen
smiled.
“Hear that, Terry?”
“Sure, but I don't know dog language. What does
he say?”
“He says it's a hard scent to follow and he's got to
go back and pick it up all over again.”
“Fine! Come, Darkness, come on!”
Darkness came. The dog bayed a few times more,
each time voicing anger at a lost trail, then silence de-
scended with the misty night over the scene.
“Now, then,” said Stephen, and they set forth.
The journey through the darkness was a nightmarish
maze of torture to Terry McGurk. The Big Fellow
was implacable. He led the way through canebrakes
so dense that it seemed scarcely possible that a man could


254 TWISTED TRAILS
squeeze through. Seldom did the trail he made touch
solid ground. They were in water over the shoe tops
most of the time and occasionally they plunged through
pools where Stephen whipped Terry onto his shoulder
and waded across with the water up to his chin. Time
and again they broke through the brush mire and saw
hard, open ground before them, and each time, to Terry's
amazement and disgust, they drew back from the pleas-
ing prospect as from a trap into the darkest tangles of
the swamp.
At midnight they were on the shore of the bayou, and
Stephen once more swam the stream with Terry on his
back, swimming upstream this time before landing. He
left the boy standing on the eastern shore while he
searched up and down the bank for certain signs, and
finding them plunged alone into the swamp. He was
back in a few minutes with the pirogue on his back.
While Terry gasped and stared, Stephen slid the craft
into the black water without a splash, and a moment
later they were in it, paddling silently downstream into
the darkness, toward the heart of the Deep Swamp.
The soft Louisiana night passed, and at the first hint
of dawn in the skies they searched for one of the count-
less tiny watercourses which come oozing out of the
swamp to swell the bayou. Finding one with satisfac-
tory depth of water, they turned the prow of the pirogue
into it and lay waiting until the rising mists made it
possible to distinguish the incessant lily drift on its way
to the sea. A dense mass of wild hyacinth drifted lan-
guidly within reach and Stephen caught and drew it be-


TWISTED TRAILS 255
hind the pirogue into the mouth of the tributary, anchor-
ing it by the submerged stems to the outjutting roots of
a cypress tree. -
When he had completed the task it would be obvious
to any chance searcher of the bayou that no pirogue had
passed through the lily bed into the canal. Stephen
paddled on half a mile away from the bayou and finally
came to a stop in the heart of a tangle of gum and pal-
metto shrubs.
Terry had long ago succumbed to the call of the night
and exhaustion, and with his red head pillowed in the
bow of the pirogue was sleeping uneasily.
The dawn light grew apace. The gray heavens above
became rosy; the white mists, rising upward through the
gaunt cypress branches turned emerald and amethyst and
gold beneath the first rays of the sun; little by little the
light of day crept into the swamp, driving the gloom of
night before it. Stephen stretched out in the bottom
of the pirogue till his feet touched Terry's and finally
fell asleep.


CHAPTER XXX
H E. awoke with a throbbing sound in his ears and
sat up with a jerk. The sound came from the
bayou. Though it had been sufficient to awaken him
it was some time before he recognized it as the familiar
purr of the engine in Georges Martel's speed boat.
The boat was coming from the west, and by the
sound Stephen understood that it was traveling at slow
speed. At times the engine was throttled down to its
minimum speed, the slow putt-putt of the exhaust tell-
ing the tale of how the boat was barely creeping along
while its occupants carefully scanned the shore. Next
it would be opened up for a short space till the explo-
sions rolled together in the steady purr of the boat at
high speed, only to be suddenly shut down again to its
former crawling pace.
To Stephen's excited imagination the scene out on
the bayou was as vivid as if he were beholding it with
his eyes. He had known that in time Martel's dog
would be apt to pick up the trail he and Terry had made,
in spite of the woodsmanship and tricks he had utilized
in concealing it and destroying the scent by keeping as
much in the water as possible. Here and there they
had been forced to touch hard ground, leaving tracks;
in the canebrakes their bodies and hands had touched the
256


TWISTED THAILS 257
leaves and trunks of the cane, leaving a scent which a
shrewd trailing dog could follow even with water under-
foot. As he had expected the dog had slowly worked
out the trail to the bayou, and in all probability traces
where he had put the pirogue into the water had been
found. Now Martel and his crew were searching the
bayou, probably with the dog in the bow sniffing the air,
and by the method in which they proceeded it was ap-
parent that they were searching carefully.
The putt-putt out on the bayou stopped suddenly. It
was still west of the mouth of the watercourse in which
they were hidden, and Stephen looked eagerly for the
direction of the wind. He smiled grimly when he saw
that the slight breeze that stirred the tupelo-gum leaves
blew from the bayou toward him.
“Thanks, South Wind,” he mused. “Martel, Nature
is against you.”
The boat started again. It ran slowly, and as it came
nearer the sound of its engine grew louder through the
swamp. It approached the mouth of the little channel.
Yes, they would watch carefully the opening of every
tributary to the bayou. But there were so many of those
little tributaries, they could not search them all. The
thought assured Stephen. He recalled with considerable
satisfaction the craft he had used in dragging the lily
raft into the mouth of the creek and fastening it there.
He heard the boat approach the spot with confidence.
No matter how close they looked they would never sus-
pect that any craft had gone up that creek, with its mouth
securely closed by a solid bed of lilies.


258 TWISTED TRAILS
The boat was opposite the mouth of the channel now,
he thought. It was moving slowly, but it would soon be
safely past. The boat was running so slowly now that
he counted each explosion. Putt, putt, putt, putt—it was
barely creeping along. They were probably satisfying
themselves that no pirogue had been shoved through the
lily bed. Putt, putt, putt—then the boat stopped sud-
denly.
Stephen was not conscious of any movement or ex-
clamation, yet Terry woke with a start and sat up, star-
ing in alarm.
“What's the matter?” he gasped. “What's coming
off?”
“Hush ''
Stephen waited in agony. What had gone wrong?
Had he left some telltale sign at the mouth of the creek
in spite of his care? Had the lily bed broken away and
drifted downstream? That was probably it; he had
not fastened it securely. In all probability the mouth
of the channel now was free and open, and they would
explore it and find marks of the pirogue on the bottom
where he had shoved the craft over shallows, and then
they would follow the trail to its end. As Stephen
drew forth the doctor's six-shooter to make sure it was
loaded there came suddenly from the bayou the sound
of the boat's engine. It had turned round and was go-
ing back to the west. With its engine increasing to the
roar of full speed it swept swiftly away from the danger
spot and raced out of hearing.
At nightfall they shoved back into the bayou and


260 TWISTED TRAILS
ward into a cypress thicket. There in the gloom and
silence beneath the gray shrouds of Spanish moss they
dragged their pirogue into a secure hiding place, built a
fire and broiled the squirrels, and having eaten lay down
and slept far into the night.
Hiding by day and paddling by night, avoiding the
Cajun cabins that appeared here and there in the swamp,
they made their way eastward. Occasionally as they
lay hidden deep in the brush, they heard the roar of
Georges Martel's motor boat far away on some open
water, to warn them that the chase was as desperate as
ever. Once, on the mud bank of a large island, they
came upon tracks which showed that Martel and his
crew had gone ashore to search the island, accompanied
by the big dog. But Stephen and Terry did not land.
In all their running and hiding they touched the
ground only when it was absolutely necessary, and then
they stopped to efface the tracks and signs before going
on. At rare intervals desperation drove Stephen to shoot
a duck or squirrel, which with the sweetish cane fur-
nished them with their subsistence. When at last, after
a period during which they had lost track of the days,
they reached Barataria Bay they threw caution to the
wind and paddled across in the full light of day. They
reached Harvey's Canal at dark. At midnight they
stood on the levee at the canal's mouth and looked across
the Mississippi River toward the glow of lights marking
the New Orleans water front. Along toward three in
the morning they landed from a sleepy little ferryboat
at the foot of Canal Street wearily praying for bed.


TWISTED TRAILS 261
Stephen beckoned to a night-hawk taxi-cab and gave
the name of a hotel, but the driver stared at the two
scarecrows and made no move.
“I sure want to see the color of your money before you
get in my cab,” he said skeptically.
Stephen stared back in return. He looked at Terry,
then he understood and laughed in spite of his weariness.
A policeman ambled out of the Union Station and re-
garded the two disreputables belligerently.
“What d'you know about that?” demanded Terry,
unconscious of his appearance. “They think we're a
couple of bums!”
“We are,” said Stephen. “But we can pay our way,”
he continued, drawing a roll of bills from his pocket.
“Is that enough, chauffeur?”
The sight of the money wrought an instant change
in the chauffeur's attitude.
“You got a room reserved at the hotel, suh?” he
asked, as he opened the door of his cab. “You sure
never will get in if you haven’t. Town's filled up. Isn't
a "racant room left downtown. I can take you to a place
on Carondelet xx
“Is there an empty bed in it?” interrupted Stephen.
“Sure is—just one left.”
“Then take us there as fast as you can.”
The keeper of the lodging house on Carondelet Street
led the way to a tiny garret containing an improvised bed.
“You sure are lucky to get anything at all,” he volun-
teered. “The town sure is jammed. To-morrow's the
first day of Mardi Gras.”


CHAPTER XXXI
EW ORLEANS was en fête. Once a year that
city casts off the sober mantle of care which mod-
ern industrialism is forcing upon her shoulders—which
in time will make her like other cities—and becomes for
the nonce her old merry-eycd, carefree self. Then the
carnival spirit supplants the spirit of business; the pur-
suit of money gives way to the pursuit of joy.
A band marching down Carondelet Street crashing
forth into the stirring strains of La Paloma awoke the
pair next morning. A horde of laughing children,
grotesquely masked, poured forth to join its triumphal
passage; and Terry McGurk peered out from an upper
window of the lodging house and groaned.
“Mardi Grasſ The day I was going to show 'em that
Nailer is a race horse!”
A wave of music and laughter welled up and mocked
him; a girl in a flaming red costume beckoned him with
a rose. New Orleans was happy; the carnival spirit was
in the air; but as Stephen watched the little figure by
the window he knew there was one heart in the city op-
pressed to the point of breaking.
“Terry,” he said, laying his hand on the boy's shoul-
der, “Nailer is a real race horse. Don't lose faith in him
for a minute. You know he's a race horse; and I know
262


TWISTED TRAILS 263
it; and some day the whole world is going to know it.
The luck has been running against you for a long time.
It's got to turn; it always does. I promise you that
when we get things straightened out I'll see that you
and Nailer go away where he can get the best training
there is; when he gets that you and I know what he
will do.”
“But I don't even know where he is, bo!” gulped
Terry. “Think of it, bo; I ain't seen him for two
weeks. He may be crippled or sick, or—or dead!”
“Not with Doctor Thibodeaux looking out for him,
Terry.” -
“But they—the Martels might have got him away
from the doc.”
“Not much!” chuckled Stephen. “Use your brains,
Terry. Can you see the Martels taking anything away
from the doctor that he knew they wanted very badly?
I can’t. The fact that they showed they were after
Nailer was enough to cause Doctor Thibodeaux to guard
him better than his own life. He promised that he
would take care of Nailer, didn't he? And you can bet
he's done it. I'll wager that Nailer is just as safe and
sound as when you left him.”
“Yes, I suppose he is,” agreed Terry after a pause.
“Aw, but it's tough, Big Fellow, it's tough! There I
had him just in the condition I wanted him to be two
weeks before the race, and I’d sent him to the barrier
right to the minute. It's tough; it's almost too tough
for my game.”
“Drop that talk,” commanded Stephen. “There are


264 TWISTED TRAILS
a lot of big races besides the Mardi Gras Handicap;
there are other days coming. Throw the past in the dis-
card, son, and be done with it. Get up, you little roos-
ter! Be yourself. Cheer up, Terry; some day they got
to run for you!”
“I wish I could, Big Fellow, I wish I could,” said
Terry disconsolately, “but it's too tough. I feel all in.”
A hearty breakfast with the strongest and blackest
of New Orleans coffee and a change of clothing failed
to arouse the boy's fighting spirit, as did the sight and
sound of a city turned over to the carnival. On the way
to the hotel, in accordance with the doctor's instruc-
tions, Stephen purchased the afternoon papers and
proffered the racing news to Terry, but the boy waved it
away in disgust.
“I don't want to see 'em,” he groaned. “I don't want
to know there's such a thing as a horse race in the world.”
As they drew near the heart of the city Terry's woes
multiplied. It seemed that all circumstances conspired
to impress upon him the fact that there were to be races
that afternoon. Through the gay, happy throngs
dashed newsboys shouting the latest sporting editions;
raucous-voiced hawkers offered Racing Form, One Best
Tip, Three Horse Special, and all manner of tipsters'
sheets, while at every important corner the barkers for
buses and taxis to the track bawled into his ears.
“Just starting for the races, gents! Last trip. Room
for two more!”
“Naw!” said Terry, suddenly halting. “I’m off it.
I'm going back to the room and shut the windows.”


TWISTED TRAILS 271
The horses thus adjured seemed to answer with a
burst of speed. Once more the jockey on Homing
Pigeon used the whip, and in a desperate spurt the filly
crawled up and ran nose and nose with the favorite.
The jockey on The Hammer did not move. The black
horse justified his confidence. Again he seemed to play
with the filly, letting her run neck and neck for a space,
then he began to leave her.
“There he goes! There he goes!”
The Hammer's backers began to laugh. The big black
horse had too much in him for his opponents. He would
make it a walk-away. Homing Pigeon was dropping
back. The race was
“Catch him, Nailer!” whispered Terry. “Catch him
at the three-quarters!” -
A hush had suddenly descended upon the clamoring
crowd. A bay colt, No. 9, was alone in the gap be-
tween the leaders and the rest of the field. He was
halfway up the gap—he was gaining!
Nailer had been turned loose. Monk had ridden with
hard hands up to the crucial moment, choking back the
speed which welled up in the colt, anxious to burst at
full force the moment the barrier flew up. Monk had
waited and let him go at the right second. Now Nailer
went forward as pent-up waters go at the breaking of
a dam. His stride was a thing for horsemen to glow
over. There was no apparent effort, no sense of hurry
in his movements, yet his long, clean limbs flashed for-
ward at a speed too fast for the eye to follow. He
moved without urging, he raced for the joy of racing,


272 TWISTED TRAILS
for the thrill of contest. He caught Homing Pigeon
and passed her as she drifted back from The Hammer's
terrific pace. And suddenly, a roar of surprise went
up from the crowd. A rank outsider had come from
behind and caught the favorite!
A complete hush followed the shocked outburst, and
through it there rang the clear, glad voice of a girl:
“Nailer! Nailer!”
Stephen turned toward whence the voice came. In
a near-by box he saw Estella Reid and Doctor Thibo-
deaux. Estella was leaning far over the rail, her arms
outstretched, calling:
“Nailer! Nailer!”
“Come on, Hammer! Come on!”
The roar of the crowd had in it a note of command as
it called for its favorite; and the big horse seemed to re-
spond. Confident that he would fling this new contender
off as he had flung the others he showed a fresh burst
of speed that for a moment gave him a lead of a length.
But this new contender was not as the others. He, too,
showed a fresh burst of speed; he came on, he crept up
and up, until presently his nose was on a line with The
Hammer's.
“Come on, Hammer!”
The crowd called for another spurt on the part of the
favorite, and again The Hammer nobly responded, but
there was no lead to be gained this time. Nailer also
had responded to the call for more speed, and the favor-
ite did not gain a foot.
Again a hush descended upon the throng, as the real-


TWISTED TRAILS 273
ization spread that the race was in the balance. Neck
and neck the two horses swung into the final quarter
mile. A black and red silk-clad arm flashed in the sun-
light, as the jockey on The Hammer began to whip, and
the hush gave way to pandemonium.
“Ride him. ride him Hammer! Hammer!”
Again and again the whip rose and fell, and with each
blow The Hammer seemed to release fresh bolts of speed,
but in vain. Suddenly the crowd groaned. The situa-
tion had been reversed. The Hammer's jockey was
whipping not to go into the lead, but to prevent the dis-
grace of being passed. He was struggling for all that
was in him to keep his nose even with the nose of the
light flying bay that ran at his side.
Monk crouched motionless on Nailer's back. No
rider was needed to tell this horse how to run. The
warrior blood in his veins had been fired by the contest,
and his superb muscles responded in full to the call of
his imperious will. There was no sagging this time, no
exhaustion of the vital forces of energy. The Nailer
was “right.” He was capable of doing himself justice;
at last he was justifying the faith of his little, red-
headed owner!
The voice of the crowd now had become a bellow
of rage, of command, of pleading that The Hammer
shake off this upstart and come home ahead. The black
horse was responding automatically to the call of the
whip, but his spirit was going. Laboring desperately, he
managed to keep on even terms but he could do no bet-
ter. There was no sign of quitting on the part of his


274 TWISTED TRAILS
opponent, no faltering, no slackening of speed. On the
contrary, the hotter the race became and the closer the
finish approached, the faster and the more eagerly
Nailer ran. The fickle crowd was raving, gesticulating.
cheering the great race. Neck and neck they swung into
the home stretch, the whip playing a tattoo on The Ham-
mer's flanks. In desperation he spurted with his last iota
of strength.
“There he comes—The Hammer!”
Once, just once, Monk raised his whip.
“Nailer!” screamed Terry McGurk.
The whip fell. There was a flash of bay against the
black background, a thunder of hoofs, a medley of cries,
and Nailer was in front! He was leading by a nose,
by a neck, by half a length. He ran as if at the half
mile, ran too fast for the laboring favorite to hold him.
“Nailer! Nailer!” pleaded Terry.
And in a finish that drove the crowd into a frenzy
Nailer seemed to respond to the cry, and in the hush th
fell like a bomb as the bay flashed beneath the wire, a
girl's voice cried out joyously:
“Nailer wins!”


276 TWISTED THAILS
some face was as white and hard as marble. He paid
no attention to the horses on the track, to the crowd, or
to anything but Estella, and the look which he bent
upon her was so malevolent and threatening that Stephen,
seeing it, drove his way straight through the crowd to
the stand, climbed over the rail and dropped into the
boxes between the Martels and Estella.
Georges looked at him for several seconds without
moving, without betraying the slightest surprise.
Stephen stood ready for the worst; his expression and
attitude showed that he expected it, and that he was
prepared for anything that might come. The battle
which they waged thus was none the less deadly because
it was brief and silent. Martel did not waver, but there
was not in him the calm desperation which Stephen had
won in the desperate week in the swamp. During that
week Steppy had longed to come face to face with
Georges on even terms; it was a privilege to him, and
his manner showed it. The bitterness and hatred en-
gendered during days of suffering and humiliation
welled up in him, and he leaned his face close to Mar-
tel's and whispered:
“You dirty, sneaking cur!”
The blood came rushing into Martel's pale face in
a flood; he seemed ready for an outburst, but instead
he laughed carelessly.
“How very rude, Warren—with ladies present!” he
murmured. “You won. What are you kicking about?
It seems to me if any one has a right to curse it should
be me.”


278 TWISTED TRAILS
“It is nearly two weeks, is it not, Estella, since that
night you rode him out of the stable back home? You
see, Warren, it was not to my liking that the Martels
should have their way about this. Estella, too, had a
high regard for Nailer and it happens that she can ride.
The Martels were quite sure that Nailer was standing
in my stable, losing condition day by day. They lis-
tened outside the grounds and heard him kicking his stall
to pieces. Ha! haſ bal It is truly poetic. It was a
jackass that they heard, a little gray jackass. I prodded
him with a stick to make him kick. Nailer by that time
was in the hands of the well-known and efficient trainer,
Mr. Pop Brady, who tuned him up so excellently for
this race. Nailer now represents a fortune, my young
friend. Brady says he will be the three-year-old cham-
pion without a doubt and take his place beside Colin and
other great ones of the American turf.”
“Good for Terry!” cried Stephen.
“It's very dramatic, isn't it?” said Estella. “One day
you were hiding in the swamps, and the next day you
have a half share in a fortune. I suppose it is such
sudden turns of circumstance that make racing so fas-
cinating.”
Stephen looked at her with puzzled eyes. He looked
at the doctor.
“It is Warren & McGurk, is it not?” said Doctor
Thibodeaux. “That is how he was entered.”
Stephen began to laugh.
“Good land! Do you think I'm going into the rac-
ing business?”


TWISTED TRAILS 279
Now it was Estella's time to appear puzzled.
“But why were you interested in him?” she asked.
“Why were you interested in him enough to ride him
away from Lily City at night?” he retorted.
“I love horses,” she replied, after a pause.
“So do I.”
“Nailer is a prince of colts.”
“He is! He is a king among horses.”
“And—well, there was the question of fair play.”
“Exactly!”
“It seemed a shame that he should not have the chance
he deserved.”
“There you are!” cried Stephen. “That's just what
I thought when I saw him lose that race at Jefferson
Park last November, and that's why I backed Terry. He
doesn't need my backing any longer; this Handicap purse
is large enough to carry him from now on. Terry can
pay me back the money I advanced him, but as far as a
share in Nailer is concerned—Lord, no!”


TWISTED TRAILS 281
he remained hidden in the vicinity of his crimes it must
be in some dark corner of the swamps from which he
scarcely stirred except for the purposes of robbery. The
detectives spent many tense hours inventing reasons for
their lack of success.
Mr. Hartland was at the mill office when Stephen re-
turned to Lily City. Hartland had treated Lily City to
a display of energy which was aptly described as “rais-
ing all kinds of Sam.” As a consequence Pete Martel
had suddenly resigned as sheriff of the parish, the charge
against Stephen had been squashed, and the way opened
for his safe return to the mill. Upon his appearance at
the office at Lily City Mr. Hartland was interested in
but one thing so far as Stephen was concerned:
“Are you ready to go to work?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Then you're in for a biºch of it. Carkey
has quit.”
“What?”
“Left last night. Here's the note McGill brought up
this morning with a tow: “Get a new foreman down here.
I quit. Carkey.’”
“Did he come for his money?” asked Stephen.
“No. Just disappeared from camp last night. McGill
found the note under his door this morning.”
Stephen opened his time book and gave a whistle of
surprise when he found Carkey's name.
“That's queer. He's got over two hundred dollars
coming to him.”


TWISTED TRAILS 283
teeth right now. You keep on and you get picked up
some night yohself. ‘Hey, chile,’ Ol' Devil say, ‘you
come to me.’” -
“Reckon dey be right smaht li'l' ruckus if any devil
try to carry me off,” persisted the young skeptic.
“Reckon Ah don't swing a wicked blade foh nothing.”
“Devil just pinch you like that, 'tween thumb and foh-
finger,” continued Deacon Hogfoot. “‘Come where you
belong, chile,’ say he; and he just give you toss and sling
you into the lake of brimstone like you be little red
jiggeh bug. Where yoh wicked blade den, boy? Huh!
Ol' Devil take you spite of all hell!”
Carkey had disappeared without leaving the slight-
est trace or reason for his going. McGill, who slept
in the shack beside the foreman's, had nothing to add to
the story he had told Mr. Hartland. Carkey had retired
as usual to his sleeping quarters the night before. In
the morning he was gone. McGill had found the note
addressed to Hartland under his door upon awakening.
“Coming right down to cases, Bomb was pretty much
eager to toady to a new boss. “He wasn't a classy
camp boss like you be. I guess he had good reasons for
making himself scarce, mebbe.”
“Do you know any such reasons, McGill?” asked
Stephen.
“No, sir. Except that he used to come and go with-
out saying anything about it.”
“He was foreman.”
*


TWISTED TRAILS 287
“All right. I'll run up to old Martel and close the
deal right now.”
Hartland was back in a remarkably short space of
time.
“Darn these Cajun aristocrats!” he said with a laugh.
“They won't do business on a hurry schedule. Well, it
is a pretty big deal for a man not used to making them.
“Within the week,” he said, ‘I will appear at your of
fice in New Orleans with the necessary papers.’ High
and mighty! And he's so crazy for the money he'll have
a stroke if he doesn't get it. There's something to the
front that breeding gives them, after all. How soon
can you cruise the Woods?”
“To-morrow.”
“That's the ticket!”
“I’ve wanted to cruise it for some time,” said Stephen.


CHAPTER XXXV
A STORM was raging to the southward next after-
noon when Stephen turned the prow of his speed
boat into the waters that led to Black Woods. It was
the season of sudden spring storms. He had left Camp
Haute Isle beneath a sky as blue and placid as ever de-
ceived a traveler with a promise of perfect weather. He
was anxious to visit Black Woods again; he had prom-
ised himself he would come back that first day when
Octave LaFonte and he had been warned away by three
well-aimed bullets; and as he drew near the woods his
sporting rifle, with the trigger pull perfectly adjusted
and the sights right to a dot, lay loaded close to his
hand.
From the southward came rolling a sullen clap of
thunder. The world grew hushed, and suddenly the
sun creased to shine. A wall of murky darkness was
moving northward across the swamps, and before it
the world seemed to lie helpless and supine, as if re-
signed to the blow about to smite it. The trees in the
woods ahead stood motionless, listless. Weird, snake-
like filaments of electricity flashed out of the onrushing
darkness. The thunder roared out a second threat, and
at the first whip of the wind, the puffs that preceded
the storm, the water rose, heaved the boat about, and
grew strangely still.
288


TWISTED TRAILS 289
Stephen gave one look at the coming storm and, aim-
ing straight at a great bank of lily drift rising high on
the beach, opened his engine to the limit of its speed and
sent the boat rocketing straight for Black Woods. Then
he gripped his rifle. In the darkness of the woods be-
hind the lily bank had appeared a man's figure, a hulking
form seen as it vanished behind the foliage. Crouching
low behind the steering wheel Stephen held to the course.
The darkness rolled over him turning day into murky
night, and the outline of the woods became a blur. Then
the darkness passed for the moment and he shut off the
power in time to save a crash. The boat struck with a
jar, its sharp, uptilted nose driving like a wedge into
the yielding mass of foliage; and Stephen slipped the
catch off his rifle and waited.
A man rose up from behind a mass of lily drift which
the wind-lashed waves had tossed upon the shore and
Stephen covered him instantly with his rifle. Then the
man stood up and Stephen saw it was Carkey and he
laughed with relief, tossed the rifle into the boat and
leaped out.
Carkey did not laugh. He stared at Stephen as a man
might stare who does not want to believe his eyes.
“Warren!” he whispered hoarsely. “Why did you
come here now?”
Then it was Warren's turn to stare, for Carkey's hard
face was a study of emotions. The wind howled and
drowned the sound of a footfall behind Carkey's back;
the murk deepened and hid the figure that had ap-
proached. An animal roar of triumph shattered a lull


TWISTED TRAILS 293
º:
g
ſ
was coming toward them. The sun was shining brightly
now, and Stephen saw that Estella Reid was sitting in
the bow, looking anxiously toward the woods.
From round the point of the woods where the Snake
had fled came the roar of an engine, and out from the
tangle of rushes and lily drift about the point shot a boat
running at furious speed. The Snake was crouched over
the steering wheel, and he steered straight for the boat
that held Estella Reid.
Stephen was in his own boat as soon as possible, but
precious time was lost thrusting it free from the beach.
Before he had swung round in pursuit the Snake had
covered half the distance to the on-coming boat.
Stephen picked up"his rifle and fired. The bullet whizzed
past the Snake's head and he looked back. A second
bullet ripped up the coaming near his hand; a third
bored a hole in the stern.
The Snake pulled on his rudder rope and veered away.
He had given up the attempt to reach the boat with the
girl, and was intent upon escaping. His course was
laid for the mouth of a narrow bayou running southward
through a cypress swamp. Once in there he would be
safe. Stephen likewise shifted his course and followed.
Time after time he filled the sights with the Snake's body
in the instant that he was squeezing the trigger, but he
could not quite do it. Each time he shifted his aim a
trifle and sent his bullet tearing through the outlaw's
boat. And suddenly the roaring of the Snake's engine
died down to a mere putter, then ceased entirely. The
Snake stood up and Stephen heard his curses come float-


TWISTED TRAILS 295
speaking only when necessary, until the task was done.
Then she turned upon him, her face aflame with ex-
citement.
“What does it all mean?” she exclaimed.
“How do you happen to be here?” he exclaimed in
the same instant.
“You’re not hurt? They said you were hurt?” she
cried.
“Who said that?”
“Jean, the boatman.”
Stephen turned on the man.
“Who told you I was hurt?” he demanded.
“M'sieu Georges tol’ me dat,” replied the Cajun.
“Georges Martel?”
“Yes. He say: ‘Doctor Thibodeaux is away, but tell
Miss Reid M'sieu Warren is hurt bad and beg her to
come.’”
“Don’t you see his game?” panted Carkey. “He
waited until the doc was away. He knew you'd come,
Miss Reid. He was laying for you.”
“But where is he?” she cried. “Oh, Oh! That—
that wasn't him?”
“Georges Martel was the Snake,” said Carkey pain-
fully. “I was in with him on the holdup over in the
oil fields; I was lookout for him. I was drunk when he
picked me up. After that he had me. I wouldn't work
with him any more, but I was afraid to squeal. I heard
he came here to hide after the race. I knew he was
out to get you, Warren, and I figured the best job I
could do would be to be where I could reach him and


296 TWISTED TRAILS
stop it. That's why I left camp the other night and
joined him here. He told me this morning he'd sent
Jean to Lily City after something, but I didn't know
what it was. He—he was bad enough to try anything.”
Stephen touched Estella's arm.
“Why did you come—when they told you I was hurt?”
he whispered. And by the look she gave him he knew
what her answer would have been had she trusted her-
self to speak.


TWISTED TRAILS 299
the deck chair. He was in fine fettle this spring after-
noon, was Doctor Thibodeaux.
“Terry,” he confided with great earnestness, “the
more I see of man the more I learn to appreciate jack-
asses.”
“Jacks?” snorted the boy. “They got no speed.”
“None at all. That is why. They have time to grow
wise. Man has no time for that. Of all the verte-
brates he is the only one who has no time to think. He
must do something. The gods have tricked him by giv-
ing him energy beyond his intelligence, beyond his con-
trol. Hence he must keep busy. What a hideous phrase
it is—keep busy! He must move, must keep in motion,
here, there, everywhere—like a skitter bug on the ocean.
Think? Not on your life, as you would put it, my lit-
tle redhead. The jackass, waving his ears over a peck
of oats, perhaps he has time to think—but man—never!
It would interfere with his colossal accomplishments.
Ha! hal Such noble accomplishments. Forgive me,
Terry; I only meant to say that if your friend Carkey
had possessed the brains of a jackass he would not have
permitted his guilty conscience to drive him to flight.”
“But he was afraid it would get out, doc, him being
with the Snake that once. Then he'd been due for some
years in the coop.”
“I wonder,” mused the doctor, “if that would have
harmed Carkey?”
“Aw, docſ” cried Terry. “Don’t turn him up; he's
a square guy. He—”
“He was a fool to run away,” blurted the doctor.


TWISTED TRAILS 301
The doctor beamed upon the boy with the expression
of satisfaction which came to him when, either by a
bizarre idea or startling fact, he had managed to sur-
prise his hearer into speechlessness.
“Miss Reid I" stammered Terry. “When—when did
she get it?”
“When my sister, her mother, died,” replied Doctor
Thibodeaux seriously. He sat silent for a long time,
his lips twitching suspiciously above the white imperial
on his chin. *
“You see, Terry, Pierre Martel was Estella's guardian.
He and Thomas Reid, her father, were close friends.
There must have been something good in old Martel at
one time, at least. At any rate, Reid looked upon him
as his best friend, a friend who could be trusted to the
limit, even after death. Black Woods was at one time
a part of the Martel property. It was that until a few
weeks before Thomas Reid's death. Then Pierre Mar-
tel had a horse beaten just as your Nailer beat The
Hammer; and it left him somewhat in the same condition
financially. He had borrowed from Reid till he could
borrow no more. He must have twenty-five thousand
dollars. He sold Black Woods to Reid for that amount.
Then Reid fell sick and died, and my sister soon fol-
lowed him. Martel became Estella's guardian and—
kept the sale a secret. That was why Georges, in the
character of the Snake, tried to carry Estella off into
the swamp that, day when his fate overtook him. You
see, my little Terry, the Martels were in a position where
it was necessary for them to sell Black Woods again,