Chapter XVIII: Seeing Is Believing

So that was that. I told Tom of my encounter with Rivers and he said, “Well, I suppose that settles it.” Brent was even more brief. “Hmph, funny,” he said.

“Tom,” said I, “did Rivers ask you for that job; I mean working out near the end of the trail?”

“Sure, why?”

“Why--I don’t know,” I answered hesitatingly. “I suppose you’ll say I’m always getting impressions, but it seemed to me as if--well, when I happened along the road it seemed to me as if he was startled. And it occurred--it just occurred to me--that maybe he wanted to be right there.”

“Why?”

“Well,” I hesitated; “maybe so he could sort of be on the lookout. You think not?”

“Nah!”

“All right, then that ends it,” I said.

“What I’m thinking about,” said Tom, “is the trail you saw--or didn’t see. I’d like to get a line on _that_. Either there is one or there isn’t.”

I was rather annoyed at being twice discredited; once by Rivers and once by Tom. “If there was an east wind and rain, I could show it to you readily enough,” I said, rather sharply.

“Sure it wasn’t part of your dream? Remember the face.”

“I am not likely to forget it,” I retorted. “But I’m perfectly willing to leave it out of our reckoning. Let’s say it was a vision. All right, you saw the footprint. Now do you want to go up the mountain and see the other one? And also what’s scratched on the rock? Trail or no trail we can get up that far--I did it. Maybe I’m not a man of the woods, but I did it. As for the spook trail, as you call it, it’s there whether it can be seen now or not.”

“Maybe it caught cold in the rain and can’t come out,” Brent said.

“I’ll find it if it’s there,” Tom said conclusively.

“Atta boy,” said Brent.

“Wait till twilight,” Tom added.

“When the slow declining sun sinks beyond yonder hills,” said Brent. “Sounds like a play, doesn’t it?”

But just the same the twilight did play its part in Tom’s plan. Daggett, Burke and Heinie were out on the lake after their day’s labor. Rivers was down the wagon trail still working; he seldom observed the regular hours. Thus, unseen by any save Brent and myself, Tom climbed the huge elm which overspread our lodge. It was fifteen minutes or more before he descended.

“You’re right,” he said conclusively, “there’s a trail all right. This is getting interesting.”

“Is it up there in the tree?” Brent asked.

“Come ahead,” said Tom as he explained volubly. “You know how it is at twilight, the light’s the same all over--while it lasts. Get up high somewhere and look down and if there’s a trail you’ll see it. Why in the war the aviators used to discover trails that had never been seen down below, just little trails made by soldiers going single file--new trails. Twilight’s the best time. Or very early morning if there’s no mist. This trail runs from--well, between those two cabins, up past those rocks, and on up.”

“Do you believe now that I saw that face?” I asked.

“What’s this got to do with faces?” he snapped. “Come ahead, follow me.”

“To-morrow evening, at twilight, I’ll climb up the tree and take a nap up there,” said Brent. “Then I’ll be able to tell you if your dream was true.”

“Well, don’t take a nap down here,” said Tom. “Come on, let’s get away from here before the boys come in.”

On he went, pausing now and again to examine the ground or scrutinize some brush or tree that we passed. I could not see any sign of trail. Brent accompanied us with a kind of whimsical submissiveness. Tom was so detached and preoccupied that he did not question him. Here indeed he was at his best, the true scout, and seeing no guiding line beneath our feet, I marveled as he verged to right or left acting, apparently, on the hint of some stone or drooping bough. Once, when we were well upon the mountainside he paused, whistling in preoccupation, as he studied a tree trunk from which he said an obstructing branch had been broken off within a month or two, he thought. “Didn’t you notice that the other day?” he asked me. He looked about and found the severed branch in a grassy gully near by. “See?” he concluded triumphantly.

“There is only one Houdini--or was,” said Brent.

I am certain that our route was not the same as that I had followed in my haphazard ascent. Yet once or twice I did recognize trifles that I had seen before. Probably in places I had been on the trail. Tom’s progress was more purposeful, and he moved from one significant thing to another as one proceeds by means of stepping stones across a stream. I was astonished by his discovery of little signs that seemed sufficient to guide him. At one place he paused in a perfect tangle of underbrush, Brent and I dutifully pausing also while he stooped to inspect a stone which he had discovered by stepping on it. He said it was a trail stone, meaning that it had been much stepped on.

“The only thing this thoroughfare lacks is a name,” said Brent, as he started again, lifting his lanky legs high out of the dense growth. “Be on your watch for a traffic cop, Tommy.”

Soon we came to _my_ discovery, the long wisp of pliant wood tied around the tree at the head of the declivity. “Here it is,” I said triumphantly.

“You can see I didn’t dream it. Now that’s there to grab hold of. Am I right?”

Tom was too preoccupied with his inspection of it even to answer me. “Why, it hasn’t been here long, either,” he said; “it’s fresh, look here.” And he pulled a long strip of bark from it. “Look at the color of that_--feel_ of it.”

“Well,” said I with a slight touch of disdain. “What did I tell you?”

“That’s a kind of a--let’s see--that’s a--no it isn’t--yes it is,” Tom said. “That’s a colly knot. I haven’t seen one tied like that since I was overseas. Come ahead, let’s go up and look at these rocks.”

“You will find them as represented,” I said with an air of quiet triumph.

“If not, we get our money back,” said Brent.