The Auto Boys' Mystery

"Sure, I am worried sick to know what ever I would ha' done, a gettin' to the hoose an' not findin' of ye there," put in Daddy O'Lear with a sorrowful shake of his head.

Mr. Beckley's faithful follower had already given that gentleman and MacLester an account of his adventures ending in his sudden appearance on the north shore, as the three sat by themselves in the boat some time earlier. Now the story was repeated for the information of all.

Mrs. Beckley, it appeared, having learned of the flight of Grandall wished her husband to be informed of this development. He had cautioned her that he could receive no letters without revealing where he was, and she could not write or telegraph. So with many instructions as to secrecy she sent the old family gardener, Daddy O'Lear, to tell all that had occurred.

The well-meaning old fellow left the train at a town to the north of Opal Lake, as told to do. He became quite confused and lost in the woods as he sought the clubhouse, and when he chanced to learn from MacLester that he had actually reached Opal Lake, though quite without knowing it, he was greatly alarmed. He feared the nature of his errand would be discovered by the young campers.

On the pretext of going for his baggage he walked back into the forest, MacLester accompanying him, instead of crossing over to the boys' camp. He wanted to gain time to think and plan. He finally decided that, a long way into the woods, he would give MacLester the slip and later reach the clubhouse and Mr. Beckley secretly, by walking around the lake to the other side.

This plan might have been more successful had "Daddy" not lost himself more hopelessly than ever, before he was ready to put it into execution. And if it had not been for Dave serving as his guide, at last, the good-natured Irishman never would have found his way to the lake again at all. This he freely admitted.

"I was satisfied that the stream we found must lead to the lake, or to some larger stream that would do so," MacLester explained. "We were a long time getting here, but when I saw the fire burning so terribly I didn't know whether to be glad or sorry we had saved ourselves. Then I saw the raft, and–believe me!"

Very soon after reaching his friends MacLester had learned of the loss of the automobile. Naturally thoughts of the car were in the mind of every one of the boys, even in the midst of all they had lately passed through. But no word of complaint or grief was spoken. Possibly Mr. Beckley noticed this for his own thoughts were not idle.

The rain still fell in torrents, hissing and steaming in the smoldering ruins of the great fire. But the heat was almost gone now. The shore could be approached without inconvenience. Mentioning this, the golfing man suggested that it would now be possible to see if the general suspicion concerning the suit-case Grandall had thrown to the water's edge was correct.

The skiff was moored to the raft. Dave and Phil entered the boat and rowed up past the rotting and now half burned timbers of the old pier. The leather case had fallen partially into the water they saw, but quickly they recovered it.

"In spite of what has happened to this money, and we all know the terrible history now–I suppose we must agree that this bag and its contents are still the property of the Longknives Club," said Mr. Beckley solemnly. For, unopened, Phil had passed the discolored case at once to him. "At any rate," the speaker went on, very soberly, "we will see what is in it. I have a few things in mind regarding the club's disposition of this matter."

Without hesitation Mr. Beckley picked up the leather case and eyed it with a growing suspicion. It was now battered, almost shapeless. More than that it looked, somehow, almost too small. Finding that it was locked, he cut open one of the sides with his pocket knife.

But, instead of packages of bank notes and bags of gold and silver coin, there was disclosed brushes, comb, and a few other toilet accessories, together with a limited change of underwear and one bosom shirt. Of course these were soiled by mud and water, but not unduly discolored.

The varied expressions of dismay, vexation and amazement shown by those on the raft and in the skiff were almost comical.

Nels Anderson ventured an opinion that the bag was Grandall's, but wondered why the man had heaved it over first instead of jumping with it himself.

"He must have been crazed by terror," said Mr. Beckley. "But the question now is what did he do with the larger suit-case. He certainly had it somewhere, or that chap Murky wouldn't have been hanging round."

"Do you think both those men were burned to death?" This from Dave.

"I don't see how either could have escaped. The building was in flames when they disappeared. It is almost night and we're all tired. I think we perhaps had better to go back to camp, sleep quietly, and then in the morning we can search the ruins and see what we may find."

As everyone was weary, this received general assent. They were not only weary but discouraged. The unexpected and mysterious loss of the suit-case containing the money was, in itself, an unlooked-for defeat, and just as everyone felt sure that their difficulties were solved.

Scarcely had they reached the old camping ground than out of the still smoking wilderness came a loud shout. Link Fraley, his shapeless old hat pulled down almost over his eyes, his horses and wagon steaming wet and coated with ashes, drove up at a trot.

"Well, well!" he cried. "We've been worried about you all. Staretta's gone wild over this fire. Worried about the Andersons and the Auto Boys; and I'm more worried about what I saw on the way here."

"What do you mean by that last?" asked Mr. Beckley, who was quick to hear the unusual note in this final remark by Fraley. "What did you see?"

"I ain't certain; but I'm almost sure I saw that scowling fellow we called Murky. I didn't get but a glimpse. 'Twas a mile or so back, where the half burnt logs was piled up thicker than usual near the trail. Before I could stop my team he was gone. No use to foller; besides, I was in a hurry to get on to where the camp was, hoping I'd find you folks all right."

Link's news occasioned somewhat of a flutter among the weary party thus gathered at the ruins of what had once been the Auto Boys' camp. After some discussion, while Chip and Worth were roasting potatoes and preparing hot coffee, it was determined that, after eating, they would return with Fraley to Staretta and sleep in warm beds once more. After that plans might be made for investigating what Link had seen on the way over.

They hastened their meal and then, all climbing into the wagon, they started back. Probably a mile further on Fraley pointed at a confused tangle of fallen trees and logs which the fire had partially consumed, yet left in such profusion as to form a sooty labyrinth where a fugitive might easily escape unseen in that growing twilight. By now the moon was shining, for the rain had long passed. Link stopped the wagon and was pointing out where he had caught this flying glimpse. He was about to start on again when Phil Way, crouched at the wagon's tail-board, cried out as he jumped off:

"Hold on a minute, Link! I think I see something!"

Mr. Beckley, beside him, had seen it too, for the moonlight made things more distinct than when Fraley had passed an hour or so before. Beckley also descended.

When he reached Phil, the boy was raising up a sooty, battered leather suit-case with several holes burnt partially through its thick sides. A wide flap was cut through the leather. It hung down as Phil held it up. It was some larger than the other bag and Beckley instantly knew that he was looking at the receptacle that had held the money.

Had held it, but now no longer.

"It's empty, Mr. Beckley. How did he come to leave it here?"

"Why, don't you see? Look at those holes." Beckley pulled at the edge of one and the burnt leather parted easily. "Murky–of course it was he–must have seen that this bag would no longer safely hold his plunder."

"Then he's taken it out and put it into something else," said Way. "Perhaps his coat, if he had one left."

"No; here's what looks like it had once been a coat."

Further search under the moon revealed only that certain foot tracks, found by Paul Jones, led off to the left through the wet ashes, as if the party who made them was in a great hurry. But, search as they might, only one pair of foot tracks could be seen.

"Evidently Grandall did not survive," said Beckley. "No wonder! He must have been all in when that scoundrel dragged him back inside the burning building. But how could Murky have gotten out alive? Probably Grandall, in his frantic haste, must have caught up the wrong bag, for it was the money he was after. When Grandall was finished his companion would, of course, try to make sure of the loot which both had schemed so hard to get and keep."

Reasoning thus, they all went on to Staretta, for nothing could be done that night, or without bloodhounds, which the county sheriff was known to have at his home at the county seat.

CHAPTER XII

WAS THIS THE END OF MURKY?

When the still struggling Grandall was dragged inside by Murky and hurled through the burning bedroom door into the flames beyond, the latter had one resource left, though it is doubtful if he would have thought of that but for one fact. In the brief struggle they had stumbled over another suit-case than the one Grandall had heaved to the water's edge.

Murky recalled that when he had at first entered he had seen two bags. One was the bag containing the money. Another, a trifle smaller, was the one brought by Grandall containing articles for his personal use while in the woods. In the fight Grandall had grabbed the smaller, whether by mistake or not will never be known. But in such a death-and-life struggle as went on, with Murky indisputably the best man, such a mistake was likely, more than likely, to have been made by the despairing, frightened thief then being overpowered by a more ferocious, desperate rogue.

In less than a second Murky knew that there lay the treasure for which he had run such a terrible risk, and also that his only competitor was gone. Little would the fire leave of Grandall for after-recognition, when the ruins were searched. The heat was unbearable; Murky's clothing was already ablaze in spots. On the stand was a can of water, left by the now dead man.

In a twinkling he poured it over himself, seized the suit-case already scorched, and dashed for an open closet door. In this closet was a displaced trap door. Murky knew that under this was the hallway leading to the cellar stairs. In the cellar might be present safety–if he could make it. The clubhouse had caught from the roof. Probably the cellar was not yet reached. All this in less than no time, as he darted to the closet, kicked aside the trap which Grandall had overlooked, and jumped boldly down to the floor he had glimpsed beneath.

Murky was strong, tough, and such a leap was easily made. Already the lower rear rooms were blazing, and he had barely time to rush through the advancing flames to reach the stair door. Jerking it open, he stumbled through, hurrying down into the obscurity below. It was not so dark as usual, for the wide flare of the burning house above lighted up the cellar dimly, also showing to Murky the gleam of a cellar window off to one side, the last side to be encroached upon by the fire.

There were smoke and sparks outside, while sundry sparkles overhead told him that the floors might shrivel into flames at any minute. In fact crumbs of blazing embers already were filtering down. In the light thus afforded, he saw some tow-bagging piled on one of the boxes that littered the cellar floor. At the same time a jingling thud announced that some of the coin had fallen from the scorched suit-case.

At once he seized the bagging, picked up the chamois-bag of coin and wrapped it round the leather case, including the escaped coin. With a rock from the crumbling wall he broke what remained of the window and crawled through.

Fortunately for him he was on the opposite side from the balcony where the amazed group on the raft and skiff were still watching, although they, too, were on the point of quitting.

Which way should he go? The rain was beginning to fall though the woods were still burning. But, close by, a small lagoon began. It was a part of the water that separated the point on which the clubhouse was built, making it an eligible site for the purposes of the Longknives when they erected the house. It offered Murky a chance and he jumped at it as a drowning man will dash for a straw. The water was shallow, yet deep enough to keep off much of the heat as he waded along, crouching, half creeping, his treasure now over his shoulder as he hurried to where the lagoon widened towards the open lake.

Here he waited while the rain poured down drenchingly, gradually putting out the fires that here had not the fierceness that had driven them in from the westward. As soon as it was possible he stepped ashore, walking as he thought towards the east and south. He was still trying to make sure of his course and the rain was still coming down when he heard the rattling of wagon wheels off to his right.

"Blame me!" he ejaculated. "What the–the–what can that be?"

Twilight was near, the air dim with falling rain, when a rough wagon, drawn by two horses driven by one man whom he thought he knew, came in sight. Before Murky could get out of view behind the sooty, smoking logs, he himself was seen. Link Fraley had been urging his horses faster. Before he could slow down the scowling face he had seen was gone, as Link himself had told the others.

He felt sure that he knew that face, but being unacquainted with the events at the clubhouse, already described, he was in too great haste to reach the lake to stop and further investigate. So Link passed on while Murky, now sure that he was headed wrongly, turned away.

In order to make greater haste he took the money, bills and all, from the dilapidated bag, thrust it all inside the tow sack, and turning at last to the course he had mistakenly thought he was following, he disappeared within those slimy, sooty depths of the fire-ruined forest.

He plodded on, wondering at times if he was going right. Later in the night it became cloudy and there were symptoms of more rain. Strange to say, he did not reach any farms or houses or other signs of the railroad which he felt sure must run in this direction. That is, if he had kept the course previously laid out by himself.

As may be imagined, the going was not easy. The earth, at times strangely swampy, grew more and more difficult to pursue. He wiped the sweat from his head and neck more than once.

"Blame me!" he ejaculated. "Why don't I git somewhere? Looks like I've travelled long enough and fur enough!"

When it began to rain again he was compelled to take off his one remaining coat to wrap round the tow sack of money to keep it, at least, partially dry.

"The bulk of this money is paper," he reflected. "Paper won't stand too much wetting; not even gov'ment paper such as money is made of. Blame me! Wish I had a rubber blanket!"

Crossing a log over a slough just before daylight, feeling his way slowly, yet not daring to stop until he reached some sign of railroad or clearing, or at least a house or barn, his foot slipped on a log and down he went into a black pool of mud-encrusted water.

"Ugh–ow-w-w-wh!"

Would his feet never strike bottom? Yes–at last. But the water was up to his shoulders: the bag, coat and all was partly in the slime that wrapped him coldly, icily about. Though the night was summery, the chill of that involuntary bath was unpleasant. More than unpleasant; it was exhausting, even terrifying. He tried to wade out, but the mire deepened. He turned and tried to find the log again, but in the darkness all sense of direction seemed to have left him.

At last, when even Murky's resolution was about to give way to despair, his outstretched hand touched a limb. Convulsively he grasped it, both arms going out in eager hope to grasp something tangible amid that inky, nauseous blackness. As he did so a cry broke from him, for he felt the bag slipping from his shoulder. He clutched it desperately.

"Oh! Ugh-h! My Gawd!" The cry broke into stranglings as his head went under. A furious struggle then began, for Murky was not one to give up his hold on life, or plunder, or anything valuable to him, without fighting.

Somehow he grasped at the unseen limb. It broke just as his weight began to hang thereon. More splashings, strugglings. He found another limb, all dead, sooty, yet wet from the now pouring rain.

This one seemed to hold. Inch by inch Murky drew one leg, then the other from the sucking mud below, but as fast as one leg was released the other stuck fast again. It was like working in a treadmill, only far more perilous, fatiguing, and terrible. Would he ever get out–rescue himself?

After all, love of life was more powerful than money or aught else.

CHAPTER XIII

SEARCHING FOR CLUES

The next morning, though it was still cloudy and rain was falling, Link was prevailed to return with his team to the place where he had seen the man with the scowling visage. Meantime Nels Anderson and family had been made comfortable in a disused cabin in the edge of the village.

Nels, being comparatively useless, also remained. To him later in the day came Chip Slider, saying:

"I went with them folks and they didn't do nothin' much, except that Paul picked up a gold piece right near where they found that old suit-case. All at once it come to me that something's got to be did."

"Vell, vot you bane goin' to do?" Nels spoke indifferently, for he had his own troubles heavily on his mind.

"I don't want you to say much to the others. But if you find they ain't goin' to foller up that trail we lost in them burnt woods, 'count of the rain, I'm goin' to foller it myself. Say, Nels, I want to get your wife to cook me up some grub–on the quiet, see?"

"On de qviet–heh? V'ot for you bane goin' to do?" Nels was vaguely suspicious but kindly.

"They've gone for the sheriff and the dawgs. But they won't get back afore ter-morrer. I want that grub right away–see?"

Nels grunted a surly assent, adding: "Don' you forget to bring dat grub."

This Chip proceeded to do, managing to secure through Billy Worth and Phil Way a limited amount of flour, bacon and one or more minor ingredients. But both were curious, naturally.

"Look here, Chip," remarked Phil casually. "You ain't going to leave us, are you? We–we rather like you, boy."

Chip took them both aside as he explained his purpose to some extent.

"You know Paul found a gold piece where that suit-case was picked up. That shows as how Murky, or whoever it was, must 'a' been puttin' the money in something else. It's rained on that trail, and even if the sheriff comes with his dawgs, they can't foller it to do any good."

"Well then, how the mischief can you follow it?" demanded Worth. "You just can't! Believe me, Chip, you're going up against a hard thing."

But Chip persisted. The sooner he got off, the better. After all, seeing he was bound to go, they wished him luck. But meanwhile Paul had come up and was listening eagerly. When Phil and Billy turned away, he clapped Chip on the back, saying:

"Chip, you're the goods–sure! I'm going with you, see?"

Chip looked so astonished that Paul hastened to add: "Don't you worry! I'll have some grub of my own, too. More'n that, I'll get a couple of our camp blankets. Now that our Thirty is gone, we won't be using much of our camp supplies. Say, it's up to us to help get back that twenty thousand dollars or what's left of it–hey?"

So it was arranged. During the afternoon Mr. Beckley and a constable came back but without either the sheriff or the dogs. To the anxious queries put to them Beckley shook his head discouragingly.

"We talked to the sheriff. He seemed anxious to do all he could; but he was positive that the rains and the strong scent of burnt ashes over soil would baffle the hounds. Said he: 'I'm used to bloodhounds. I know what I am talking about. My dogs are useless here.' But he was insistent on our notifying the police of the nearer towns by wire. He also 'phoned to the nearest big cities, in case Murky turned up at any of them. We gave a description of the fellow as best we could, and also charged him with murder."

"I suppose you mean Grandall," remarked MacLester.

"Certainly! I think, considering what we saw on the balcony especially when Murky was dragging Grandall back into the burning building, there can be little doubt but that Murky made an end of him. It was undoubtedly to his interest to get Grandall out of the way; especially if Murky had a notion of making off with the plunder himself."

No one disputed this. And so the matter rested. During the day men were sent off to notify the nearest settlers. In case Murky appeared, they were to arrest the man or, if unable to do that, to let folks in Staretta know at once.

Meanwhile Link Fraley, having turned the store over temporarily to his father, who was the real proprietor after all, and an assistant, spent most of his time going round with the Auto Boys and Mr. Beckley.

"It's this way," he remarked. "I've been so much with you lads in this business that I feel somehow as if we were all interested. By the way, kids, where is that chap Slider? And I don't see your chum Paul round here."

These remarks were made along in the afternoon, after a busy morning of investigation involving a good deal of running round generally. For the first time it suddenly occurred to three of the Auto Boys that one of their number had not showed up, even at the dinner taken at noon at the one tavern of the place. Also, where was Chip Slider?

"Gee whiz-z!" Phil wondered that he had not noticed their absence before. "I remember him and Chip whispering together after we got back. Don't you, Link?"

Link did and said so emphatically, adding:

"Now come to think, I seen them two moseyin' off down where the Andersons be."

"By ginger!" This from MacLester. "I bet they're off to help Nels fix up that old cabin a bit. It sure needs fixing if I'm any judge."

"Tell you what, boys," put in Worth, "suppose we all go down there and give poor Nels a lift. He's half helpless himself. These Staretta folks sent them in some things. We'll do our bit while we're waitin' for Mr. Beckley to get that automobile he thinks he needs."

Now that the Thirty belonging to the boys had been destroyed Beckley, on reaching Staretta, had sent a man to the nearest town to bring some kind of motor car, for it was plain to him that if he was to get anywhere with his faithful assistant Daddy O'Lear, some kind of assistance more to be depended on than Link's scraggy horse team should be secured.

So while Beckley waited the boys set out for Anderson's cabin. But upon reaching there no sign of either Paul or Chip was to be seen. Instead Nels himself sat despondent in the doorway, while inside Mrs. Anderson and the child were striving in a desultory, hopeless way to arrange the inside of the unkempt cabin.

"We came down to see if we could help about anything to make you all more comfortable," said Phil, still looking for Jones and Chip. "We kind a thought Paul and that Slider boy was down here."

"So they was," remarked Mrs. Anderson, apathetically wiping out a frying pan, "but they went off soon as they had their grub cooked. And a job it was, too."

"Just what do you mean, Mrs. Anderson?" put in Billy uneasily.

"They was goin' somewhere, I think. Then–"

"Yah–yah!" This from Nels in the doorway. "They bane had der dinners."

Meanwhile Phil was thinking what Chip had told them that morning. Paul's absence was now explained. Worth also felt that an astonishing light had dawned on him somehow. He turned to Way, saying:

"What doughheads we were when Chip was talking so glibly about what he was going to do! Why, the thing is sheer nonsense!"

"More than that, it is dangerous!" exclaimed Phil. "Suppose them two boys meet up with Murky way off in the burnt over woods. What'll Murky do to 'em?"

"Don't talk punk, Phil!" Billy was in cold earnest now. "You know what he'd do or try to do, if he thought they had come after that money. There's nothing he wouldn't do if he could, that would put them off his trail and land them–oh, goodness! It makes me cold when I think of Paul."