November Joe: Detective of the Woods

Front matter

NOVEMBER JOE Detective of the Woods

NOVEMBER JOE

Detective of the Woods

Chapter I

NOVEMBER JOE

CHAPTER I SIR ANDREW'S ADVICE

It happened that in the early autumn of 1908 I, James Quaritch, of Quebec, went down to Montreal. I was at the time much engaged in an important business transaction, which, after long and complicated negotiations, appeared to be nearing a successful issue. A few days after my arrival I dined with Sir Andrew McLerrick, the celebrated nerve specialist and lecturer at McGill University, who had been for many years my friend.

On similar occasions I had usually remained for half an hour after the other guests had departed, so that when he turned from saying the last good-bye, Sir Andrew found me choosing a fresh cigar.

"I cannot call to mind, James, that I invited you to help yourself to another smoke," he said.

I laughed.

"Don't mention it, Andrew; I am accustomed to your manners. All the same1"

He watched me light up. "Make the most of it, for it will be some time before you enjoy another."

"I have felt your searching eye upon me more than once to-night. What is it?"

"My dear James, the new mining amalgamation the papers are so full of, and of which I understand that you are the leading spirit, will no doubt be a great success, yet is it really worth the sacrifice of your excellent health?"

"But I feel quite as usual."

"Quite?"

"Well, much as usual."

Upon this Sir Andrew bent his pronounced eyebrows and brilliant dark eyes upon me and put me through a catechism.

"Sleep much as usual?"

"Perhaps not," I admitted unwillingly.

"Appetite as good as usual?"

"Oh, I don't know."

"Tush, man, James! Stand up!" Thereupon he began an examination which merged into a lecture, and the lecture in due course ended in my decision to take a vacation immediately,—a long vacation to be spent beyond reach of letter or telegram in the woods.

"That's right! that's right!" commented Sir Andrew. "Nothing will do you more good than to forget all these mining reports and assays in an elemental moose-hunt. What do the horns of that fellow with the big bell, which you have hanging in your office, measure?"

"Fifty-nine inches."

"Then go and shoot one with a spread of sixty."

"I believe you are right," said I,―for in the short periods I have been able to spare from my business, I have made many hunting trips, and know that there is nothing like them for change of thought—"but the worst of it is that my guide, Noel Tribonet, is laid up with rheumatism and will certainly not be fit to go with me just now. Indeed, I doubt if he will ever be much good in the woods again."

"But what if I can recommend you a new man?"

"Thanks, but I have had the trouble of training Noel already."

Once again Sir Andrew allowed his penetrating black eyes to rest upon me. Then he broke into his short, rare laugh.

"I can guarantee that you will not find it necessary to train November Joe."

"November Joe?"

"Yes, do you know him?"

"Curiously enough, I do. He was with me as dish-washer when I was up with Tom Todd some years ago in Maine. He was a boy then."

"What did you think of him?"

"I hadn't much opportunity of judging. Todd kept him in camp cooking most of the time. But I do remember that once when we were on the march and were overtaken by a very bad snowstorm, Todd and the boy had a difference of opinion as to the direction we should take."

"And Joe was right?"

"He was," said I. "Todd didn't like it at all."

"Tom Todd had quite a reputation, hadn't he? Naturally he would not like being put right by a boy. Well, that must be ten years ago, and Joe's twenty-four now."

"And a good man in the woods, you say?"

"None better. The most capable on this continent, I verily believe."

I was surprised at Sir Andrew's superlatives, for he was the last man to overstate his case.

"What makes you say that?"

"A habit of speaking the truth, my dear friend. If Joe is free and can go with you, you will get your moose with the sixty-inch horns, I have very little doubt."

"I am afraid there is very slight chance of his being free. You must not forget it's just the beginning of the still-hunting season."

"I know that, but I believe he was retained by the Britwells, who employed him last year, and now at the last minute old man Britwell has decided that he is too busy to go into camp this fall. But there may still be this difficulty. I understand that November Joe has entered into some sort of contract with the Provincial Police."

"With the police?" I repeated.

"Yes. He is to help them in such cases as may lie within the scope of his special experience. He is, indeed, the very last person I should like to have upon my trail had I committed a murder."

I laughed.

"You think he'd run you down?"

"If I left a sign or a track behind me, he would. He is a most skilled and minute observer, and you must not forget that the speciality of a Sherlock Holmes is the everyday routine of a woodsman. Observation and deduction are part and parcel of his daily existence. He literally reads as he runs. The floor of the forest is his page. And when a crime is committed in the woods, these facts are very fortunate."

"In what way?"

"My dear James, have you never given any consideration to the markedly different circumstances which surround the wide subject of crime and its detection, where the locality is shifted from a populous or even settled country to the loneliness of some wild region? In the midst of a city, any crime of magnitude is very frequently discovered within a few hours of its committal."

"You mean that the detectives can get after the guilty person while his trail is fresh?"

"Yes, but in the woods it is far otherwise. There Nature is the criminal's best ally. She seems to league herself with him in many ways. Often she delays the discovery of his ill-doing; she covers his deeds with her leaves and her snow; his track she washes away with her rain, and more than all she provides him with a vast area of refuge, over which she sends the appointed hours of darkness, during which he can travel fast and far. Life in the wilderness is beautiful and sweet, if you will, but it has its sombre places, and they are often difficult indeed to unveil."

"All things considered, it is surprising that so many woods crimes are brought home to their perpetrators."

"There you are forgetting one very important point. As you know, my profession, that of medicine, touches, at one point, very closely upon the boundaries of criminal law, and this subject of woods crimes has always possessed a singular fascination for me. I have been present at many trials and the most dangerous wit- nesses that I have ever seen have been men of the November Joe type, that is, practically illiterate woodsmen. Their evidence has a quality of terrible simplicity; they give minute but unanswerable details; they hold up the candle to truth with a vengeance, and this, I think, is partly due to the fact that their minds are unclouded by any atmosphere of make-believe; they have never read any sensational novels; all their experiences are at first-hand; they bring forward naked facts with sledge-hammer results."

I had listened to Sir Andrew with interest, for I knew that his precise and accurate mind was not easily influenced to the expression of a definite opinion.

"For some years," he continued, "I have studied this subject, and there is nothing that I would personally like to do better than to have the opportunity of watching November Joe at work. Where a town-bred man would see nothing but a series of blurred footsteps in the morning dew, an ordinary dweller in the woods could learn something from them, but November Joe can often reconstruct the man who made them, sometimes in a manner and with an exactitude that has struck me as little short of marvellous."

"I see he has interested you," said I, half smiling.

"I confess he has. Looked at from a scientific standpoint, I consider him the perfect product of his environment. I repeat there are few things I would enjoy more than to watch November using his experience and his supernormal senses in the unravelling of some crime of the woods."

I threw the stump of my cigar into the fire.

"You have persuaded me," I said; "I will try to make a start by the end of the week. Where is Joe to be found?"

"As to that, I believe you might get into touch with him at Harding's Farm, Silent Water, Beauce.

"I'll write to him."

"Not much use. He only calls for letters when he feels inclined."

"Then I'll cable."

"He lives twenty-seven miles from the nearest office."

"Still they might send it on to him."

"Perhaps; but it is a lonely part of the country, and messengers are likely to be scarce."

"Then I'll go to Harding's and arrange the trip by word of mouth."

"That would certainly be the best plan, and, anyhow, the sooner you get into the woods, the better. Besides, you will be more likely to secure Joe by doing that, as he is inclined to be shy of strangers."

I rose and shook hands with my host.

"Remember me to Joe," said he. "I like that young man. Good-bye and good luck."

Chapter II

CHAPTER II

NOVEMBER JOE

Along the borders of Beauce and Maine, between the United States and Canada, lies a land of spruce forest and of hardwood ridges. Here little farms stand on the edge of the big timber, and far beyond them, in the depths of the woodlands, lie lumber-camps and the wide-flung paths of trappers and pelt-hunters.

I left the cars at Silent Water and rode off at once to Harding's, the house of the Beauce farmer where I meant to put up for the night. Mrs. Harding received me genially and placed an excellent supper before me. While I was eating it a squall blew up with the fall of darkness, and I was glad enough to find myself in safe shelter.

Outside the wind was swishing among the pines which enclosed the farmhouse, when, inside, the bell of the telephone, which connected us with St. George, forty miles distant, rang suddenly and incongruously, high above the clamour of the forest noises.

Mrs. Harding took up the receiver, and this is what I heard.

"My husband won't be home to-night; he's gone into St. George. … No, I've no one to send. … But how can I? There is no one here but me and the children. … Well, there's Mr. Quaritch, a sport, staying the night. No, I could n't ask him."

I came forward.

"Why not?" I inquired.

Mrs. Harding shook her head as she stood still holding the receiver. She was a matron of distinct comeliness, and she cooked amazingly well.

"You can ask me anything," I urged.

"They want some one to carry a message to November Joe," she explained. "It's the Provincial Police on the 'phone."

"I'll go."

"Joe made me promise not to send any sports after him," she said doubtfully. "They all want him now he's famous."

"But November Joe is rather a friend of mine. I hunted with him years ago when he lived on the Montmorency."

"Is that so?" Her face relaxed a little. "Well, perhaps …" she conceded.

"Of course, I'll carry the message."

"It's quite a way to his place. November does n't care about strangers; he's a solitary man. You must follow the tote-road you were on to-day fifteen miles, turn west at the deserted lumber-camp, cross Charley's Brook, Joe lives about two acres up the far bank." She lifted the receiver. "Shall I say you'll go?"

"By all means."

A few seconds later I was at the 'phone taking my instructions.

It appeared that the speaker was the Chief of Police in Quebec, who was, of course, well known to me. I will let you have his own words.

"Very good of you, I'm sure, Mr. Quaritch. Yes, we want November Joe to be told that a man named Henry Lyon has been shot in his camp down at Big Tree Portage, on Depot River. The news came in just now, telephoned through by a lumber-jack who found the body. Tell Joe, please, success means fifty dollars to him. Yes, that's all. Much obliged. Yes, the sooner he hears about it, the better. Good-night."

I hung up the receiver, turned to Mrs. Harding, and told her the facts. That capable woman nodded decisively.

"You won't have much time to lose, then. I'll put you up a bite to eat."

As I hastily got my things together, I began asking questions about Joe.

"So November is connected with police work now?"

Mrs. Harding answered me with another question.

"Did n't you read in the newspapers about the 'Long Island Murder'?"

I remembered the case at once; it had been a nine days' wonder of headline and comment, and now I wondered how it was that I had missed the mention of Joe's name.

"November was the man who put together that puzzle for them down in New York," Mrs. Harding went on. "Ever since they have been wanting him to work for them. They offered him a hundred dollars a month to go to New York and take on detective jobs there."

"Ah, and what had he to say to that?"

"Said he would n't leave the woods for a thousand."

"Well?"

"They offered him the thousand."

"With what result?"

"He started out in the night for his shack. Came in here as he passed, and told my husband he would rather be tied to a tree in the woods for the rest of his life than live on Fifth Avenue. The lumber-jacks and the guides hereabouts think a lot of him. Now you'd best saddle Laura—that's the big grey mare you'll find in the near stall of the stable—and go right off. There'll be a moon when the storm blows itself out."

By the help of the lantern I saddled Laura and stumbled away into the dark and the wind. For the chief part of the way I had to lead the mare, and the dawn was grey in the open places before I reached the deserted lumber-camp, and all the time my mind was busy with memories of November. Boy though he had been when I knew him, his personality had impressed itself upon me by reason of a certain adequate quietness with which he fulfilled the duties, many and disagreeable, which bearded old Tom Todd took a delight in laying upon his young shoulders.

I remembered, too, the expression of humour and mocking tolerance which used to invade the boy's face whenever old Tom was overtaken by one of his habitual fits of talking big. Once when Tom spoke by the camp-fire of some lake to which he desired to guide me, and of which he stated that the shores had never been trodden by white man's foot, Joe had to cover his mouth with his hand. When we were alone, Todd having departed to make some necessary repairs to the canoe, I asked Joe what he meant by laughing at his elders.

"I suppose a boy's foot ain't a man's anyways," remarked Joe innocently, and more he would not say.

In fact, it was with such memories as these that I amused myself as I tramped forward over the rough paths.

And now Joe was grown up into a man who had been heard of, not only within the little ring of miles that composed his home district, but a little also out in the great world beyond.

The sun was showing over the tree-tops when I drew rein by the door of the shack, and at the same moment came in view of the slim but powerful figure of a young man who was busy rolling some gear into a pack. He raised himself and, just as I was about to speak, drawled out,—

"My! Mr. Quaritch, you! Who'd a' thought it?"

The young woodsman came forward with a lazy stride and gave me welcome with a curious gentleness that was one of his characteristics, but which left me in no doubt as to its geniality.

I feel that I shall never be able to describe November. Suffice it to say that the loose-knit boy I remembered had developed into one of the finest specimens of manhood that ever grew up among the balsam trees; near six feet tall, lithe and powerful, with a neck like a column, and a straight-featured face, the sheer good looks of this son of the woods were disturbing. He was clearly also not only the product but the master of his environment.

"Well, well, Mr. Quaritch, many's the time I've been thinking of the days we had with old Tom way up on the Roustik."

"They were good days, Joe, were n't they?"

"Sure, sure, they were!"

"I hope we shall have some more together."

"If it's hunting you want, I'm glad you're here, Mr. Quaritch. There's a fine buck using around by Widdeney Pond. Maybe we will get a look at him come sunset, for he 'most always moves out of the thick bush about dark." Then humour lit a spark in his splendid grey eyes as he looked up at me. "But we'll have a cup o' tea first."

November Joe's (by the way, I ought to mention that his birth in the month of November had given him his name), as I say, November Joe's weakness for tea had in the old days been a target upon which I had often exercised my faculty for irony and banter. The weakness was evidently still alive. I smiled; perhaps it was a relief to find a weak point in this alarmingly adequate young man.

"I had hoped to have a hunt with you, November," said I. "Indeed, that is what I came for, and there's nothing I'd like better than to try for your red-deer buck to-night, but while I was at Harding's there was a ring-up on the 'phone, and the Provincial Police sent through a message for you. It appears that a man named Henry Lyon has been shot in his camp at Big Tree Portage. A lumberman found him, and 'phoned the news into Quebec. The Chief of Police wants you to take on the case. He told me to say that success would mean fifty dollars."

"That's too bad," said Joe. "I'd sooner hunt a deer than a man any day. Makes a fellow feel less bad-like when he comes up with him. Well, Mr. Quaritch, I must be getting off, but you'll be wanting another guide. There's Charley Paul down to St. Amiel."

"Look here, November, I don't want Charley Paul or any other guide but you. The fact of the matter is, that Sir Andrew McLerrick, the great doctor who was out with you last fall, has told me that I have been overdoing it and must come into the woods for rest. I've three months to put in, and from all I hear of you, you won't take three months finding out who murdered Lyon."

Joe looked grave. "I may take more than that," said he, "for maybe I'll never find out at all. But I'm right pleased, Mr. Quaritch, to hear you can stay so long. There's plenty of grub in my shack, and I dare say that I shan't be many days gone."

"How far is it to Big Tree Portage?"

"Five miles to the river and eight up it."

"I'd like to go with you."

He gave me one of his quick smiles. "Then I guess you'll have to wait for your breakfast till we are in the canoe. Turn the mare loose. She'll make Harding's by afternoon."

Joe entered the shack and came out again with one or two articles. In five minutes he had put together a tent, my sleeping-things, food, ammunition, and all necessaries. The whole bundle he secured with his packing-strap, lifted it and set out through the woods.

Chapter III

CHAPTER III

THE CRIME AT BIG TREE PORTAGE

I have sometimes wondered whether he was not irked at the prospect of my proffered companionship, and whether he did not at first intend to shake me off by obvious and primitive methods.

He has in later days assured me that neither of my suppositions was correct, but there has been a far-off look in his eyes while he denied them, which leaves me still half-doubtful.

However these things may be, it is certain that I had my work, and more than my work, cut out for me in keeping up with November who, although he was carrying a pack while I was unloaded, travelled through the woods at an astonishing pace.

He moved from the thighs, bending a little forward. However thick the underbrush and the trees, he never once halted or even wavered, but passed onward with neither check nor pause. Meanwhile, I blundered in his tracks until at last, when we came out on the bank of a strong and swiftly flowing river, I was fairly done, and felt that, had the journey continued much longer, I must have been forced to give in.

November threw down his pack and signed to me to remain beside it, while he walked off downstream, only to reappear with a canoe.

We were soon aboard her. Of the remainder of our journey I am sorry to say I can recall very little. The rustle of the water as it hissed against our stem, and the wind in the birches and junipers on the banks, soon lulled me. I was only awakened by the canoe touching the bank at Big Tree.

Big Tree Portage is a recognized camping-place, situated between the great main lumber-camp of Briston and Harpur and the settlement of St. Amiel, and it lies about equidistant from both. Old fire-scars in the clearing showed black not more than thirty yards from the water. From the canoe we were in full sight of the scene of the tragedy.

A small shelter of boughs stood beneath the spreading branches of a large fir; the ground all about was strewn with tins and débris. On a bare space in front of the shelter, beside the charred logs of a camp-fire, a patch of blue caught my eye.

This, as my sight grew accustomed to the light, resolved itself into the shape of a huge man. He lay upon his face, and the wind fluttered the blue blouse which he was wearing. It came upon me with a shock that I was looking at the body of Henry Lyon, the murdered man.

November, standing up in the canoe, a wood picture in his buckskin shirt and jeans, surveyed the scene in silence, then pushed off again and paddled up and down, staring at the bank. After a bit he put in and waded ashore.

In obedience to a sign I stayed in the canoe, from which I watched the movements of my companion. First, he went to the body and examined it with minute care; next, he disappeared within the shelter, came out, and stood for a minute staring towards the river; finally, he called to me to come ashore.

I had seen November turn the body over, and as I came up I was aware of a great ginger-bearded face, horribly pale, confronting the sky. It was easy to see how the man had died, for the bullet had torn a hole at the base of the neck. The ground beside him was torn up as if by some small sharp instruments.

The idea occurred to me that I would try my hand at detection. I went into the shelter. There I found a blanket, two freshly flayed bearskins, and a pack, which lay open. I came out again and carefully examined the ground in all directions. Suddenly looking up, I saw November Joe watching me with a kind of grim and covert amusement.

"What are you looking for?" said he.

"The tracks of the murderer."

"You won't find them."

"Why?"

"He did n't make none."

I pointed out the spot where the ground was torn.

"The lumberman that found him—spiked boots," said November.

"How do you know he was not the murderer?"

"He did n't get here till Lyon had been dead for hours. Compare his tracks with Lyon's … much fresher. No, Mr. Sport, that cock won't fight."

"Then, as you seem to know so much, tell me what you do know."

"I know that Lyon reached here in the afternoon of the day before yesterday. He'd been visiting his traps upstream. He had n't been here more'n a few minutes, and was lighting his pipe in the shelter there, when he hears a voice hail him. He comes out and sees a man in a canoe shoved into the bank. That man shot him dead and cleared off—without leaving a trace."

"How can you be sure of all this?" I asked, for not one of these things had occurred to my mind.

"Because I found a pipe of tobacco not rightly lit, but just charred on top, beside Lyon's body, and a newly used match in this shack. The man that killed him come downstream and surprised him."

"How can you tell he came downstream?"

"Because, if he'd come upstream Lyon would 'a' seen him from the shack," said November with admirable patience.

"You say the shot was fired from a canoe?"

"The river's too wide to shoot across; and, anyway, there's the mark of where the canoe rested agin the bank. No, this is the work of a right smart woodsman, and he's not left me one clue as to who he is. But I'm not through with him, mister. Such men as he needs catching. … Let's boil the kettle."

We laid the dead man inside the shack, and then, coming out once more into the sunlight, sat down beside a fire which we built among the stones on the bank of the river. Here November made tea in true woods fashion, drawing all the strength and bitterness from the leaves by boiling them. … I was wondering what he would do next, for it appeared that our chance of catching the murderer was infinitesimal, since he had left no clue save the mark on the bank where his canoe had rested among the reeds while he fired his deadly bullet. I put my thoughts into words.

"You're right," said November. "When a chap who's used to the woods life takes to crime, he's harder to lay hands on than a lynx in a alder patch."

"There is one thing which I don't under- stand," said I. "Why did not the murderer sink Lyon's body in the water? It would have been well hidden there."

The young woodsman pointed to the river, which foamed in low rapids about dark heads of rock.

"He could n't trust her; the current's sharp, and would put the dead man ashore as like as not," he replied. "And if he'd landed to carry it down to his canoe, he'd have left tracks. No, he's done his work to rights from his point of view."

I saw the force of the argument, and nodded.

"And more'n that, there's few people," he went on, "travel up and down this river. Lyon might 'a' laid in that clearing till he was a skeleton, but for the chance of that lumber-jack happening along."

"Then which way do you think the murderer has fled?"

"Can't say," said he, "and, anyhow, he's maybe eighty miles away by this."

"Will you try and follow him?"

"No, not yet. I must find out something about him first. But, look here, mister, there's one fact you have n't given much weight to. This shooting was pre-meditated. The murderer knew that Lyon would camp here. The chances are a hundred to one against their having met by accident. The chap that killed him followed him downstream. Now, suppose I can find Lyon's last camp, I may learn something more. It can't be very far off, for he had a tidy-sized pack to carry, besides those green skins, which loaded him a bit. … And, anyway, it's my only chance."

So we set out upon our walk. November soon picked up Lyon's trail, leading from Big Tree Portage to a disused tote-road, which again led us due west between the aisles of the forest. From midday on through the whole of the afternoon we travelled. Squirrels chattered and hissed at us from the spruces, hardwood partridges drummed in the clearings, and once a red-deer buck bounded across our path with its white flag waving and dipping as it was swallowed up in the sun-speckled orange and red of the woods.

Lyon's trail was, fortunately, easy to follow, and it was only where, at long intervals, paths from the north or south broke into the main logging-road that November had reason to pause. But one by one we passed these by, until at last the tracks we were following shot away among the trees, and after a mile of deadfalls and moss debouched into a little clearing beside a backwater grown round with high yellow grass, and covered over the larger part of its surface with lily-pads.