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Updated: May 14, 2025
Certainly it was not an auspicious beginning for Scottie Macdougal. The first ten days of the following time were the hardest; it was during that period that Scottie and the rest were most apt to return and make a backstroke at Dozier and Andrew. For Andrew knew well enough that this was the argument the promise of a surprise attack with which Scottie had lured his men away from the shack.
And it suddenly occurred to him that what she had said in the note was true, and that Scottie Deane could easily have killed him. The next moment he wondered why he had not done that. Deane had taken a big chance in allowing him to live. They had only a few hours' start of him, and their trail could not be entirely obliterated by the storm.
The answer came unhesitatingly from Rankin: "It wasn't his place to lead while Allister was with us. And I'll tell you what he done after Allister died. When I seen Dozier comin', who was it that stepped out to meet him? Was it you, Scottie? No, it wasn't. It wasn't you, La Roche, neither, nor you, Clune, and it wasn't me. Made me sick inside, the thought of facin' Dozier. Why?
They broke into admiring laughter when Scottie told of his victorious tilt of jesting with the storekeeper's daughter; even Henry came out of his patient gloom long enough to smile at this, and the rest were like children. Larry was laughing so heartily that his eyes began to twinkle. He even invited Andrew in on the mirth.
He turned his face away for the last time, and there filled him the oppression of a leaden hand, a thing that was both dread and fear. Scottie Deane was dead dead and in his grave, and yet he walked with him now at his side. He could feel the presence, and that presence was like a warning, stirring strange thoughts within him. He turned back to the cabin and entered softly. Pelliter was asleep.
A little of this showed in his face; enough to make the circle flash significant glances at one another. "You got something behind you, Andy," said Scottie. "Come out with it. It ain't too bad for us to hear." "There's something behind me," said Andrew. "It's the one really decent part of my life. And I don't want to think about it. Allister, they say you never let the grass grow under you.
What do you think, Scottie?" "Oh, ask another! I'm sick of it. Say, skipper, what about that run out into the forest you talked of?" "Good enough. Would you care to go, padre? There's a wood-cuttin' crowd out there, and I want to see 'em about firewood. There's a car possible to-day, and we could all pack in." "Count me out," said Jenks. "I'll have to toddle over and report. Sorry, all the same."
Usually all this spells victory. Jack McMasters was the first trainer that I met. "Scottie," as every one affectionately called him, never asked a man to work for him any harder than he would work himself. In a former chapter you have read how Jack and I put in some hard work together. I recall a trip to Boston, where Princeton was to play Harvard.
But Bill, who had by this time got back to his seat at the door, pretended ignorance of any achievement calling for remark. He "hadn't done nothin' more out ov the way than usual." "Oh, don't talk nonsense!" cried Gwen, impatiently. "Tell me how you got Scottie to lay you two hundred and fifty dollars." "Oh, that!" said Bill, in great surprise; "that ain't nuthin' much. Scottie riz slick enough."
The man's red eyes rested on his, and every fiber in his body seemed for a moment to have lost the power of action. He gasped and stared, and Pelliter started as if stung at the words which came first from his lips. "Deane Scottie Deane!" An amazed cry broke from Pelliter. He looked at MacVeigh, his chief. He made an involuntary movement forward, but Billy was ahead of him.
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