The Copper Princess: A Story of Lake Superior Mines by Kirk Munroe
CHAPTER XIII
LOG-WRECKERS AND SMUGGLERS
There were no laggards in the camp on the following morning, for, withthe stars still shining, Peveril routed out his men from theirfragrant couches. Leaving Joe Pintaud to prepare breakfast, he and thetwo Bohemians began to form their raft by rolling to the water's edge,setting afloat, and securing such logs as lay nearest at hand.
While the wreckers were thus engaged, the fishermen appeared fromtheir huts and made ready for another day on the lake. They were anill-favored set, and Peveril was not pleased to note that they seemedto make sneering remarks concerning the task on which he was engaged.Beneath their jeers his own men grew so surly and restless that he wasrelieved when Joe called them to breakfast.
After that all hands set forth in the skiff to work at the logsstranded along the coast to the southward. As they pulled out of thecove Peveril noticed that a small schooner, which he had believedbelonged to the fishermen, was still at anchor, and that the crewlounging about her deck were of a different class from those who hadalready gone out. He was about to call Joe's attention to this, whenthat individual hailed the schooner, and began to carry on a livelyconversation with her men.
When they had passed beyond hearing, Peveril questioned the Canadianconcerning the strange craft, and was told that she was not afishing-boat, but a trader.
"What does she trade in?"
"Plenty t'ing. Cognac, seelk, dope, everyt'ing. Plenty trade, plentymun. Much better as mining. Mais, parbleu! I am a fool, me."
"Why?"
"Zat I, too, vill not trade and make ze mun."
"Why don't you, if you prefer that business?"
"Ah! It is because I am what you call too mooch a cow--a hard cow. Ilike not ze jail, me."
"You mean a coward?"
"Oui, oui. Cowhard. I am one cowhard for ze jail."
"Oh!" cried Peveril, suddenly enlightened. "Your friends of theschooner are smugglers."
"Oui, zat it. Smoogler, an' bimeby, some time, maybe, soldat catch it.Take all ze mun, put it in jail. Bim! No good!"
"That is the first time I ever heard of any smugglers on this coast,"remarked Peveril, reflectively. "I wonder if they can have taken ourlogs?"
"Log, no," replied Joe, contemptuously. "Canada, he gat plentylog--too plenty. Tradair tak' ze drapeau, ze viskey, ze tick-tick, butnot ze log."
Here the conversation was ended by the arrival at the scene of labor,and the work of dislodging stranded logs was begun. All day long theytoiled at the difficult task, straining, lifting, stumbling, rolling,and slipping on the wet rocks, receiving many a bump and bruise,pausing only for a bite of lunch and a whiff of pipe-smoke at noon,and finally returning to Laughing Fish at dusk, slowly towing into thecove a small raft of the recovered wreckage.
For several days longer, sometimes in clear weather, but often incheerless rain and fog, was the task of collecting such logs as hadstranded on the south side of the cove continued. At length the lastone was gathered from that direction, and our wreckers were ready toexplore the coast lying to the northward.
Not since the day of his coming had Peveril found leisure to revisitthe place where he had seen the mysterious figure of the cliffs. Hehad thought often of her, and had so longed to return to that part ofthe coast that only a strict sense of duty had prevented him. Now thathe was free to unravel the mystery if he could, he was as excited as aboy off for a holiday.
He purposed gathering the few logs already seen on that side of thecove, and then to continue his exploration indefinitely in search ofothers; but, to his amazement, as they skirted the rugged coast, not alog was to be found. In vain did the young leader stand up in hisboat, the better to scan every inch of the shore. In vain did he landon the rocks and scramble over their broken surface. There were nologs, and yet he knew they had been there five days earlier. Nor hadthere been any storm during that time to dislodge them.
"Joe, your smuggling friends must have taken them."
"Non. He gat plenty log in Canada, him."
"What, then, has become of them?"
"Dunno. Maybe dev catch him."
"It is a human devil of some kind, then, and he must have carried themstill farther up the coast, for we should have seen them if they hadbeen carried the other way."
"Oui, m'sieu."
"Give way, men! I'm going to find those logs if they are anywhere onKeweenaw Point."
So the light skiff shot ahead, with the two Bohemians rowing, and theothers in bow and stern, watching the coast sharply as they slippedpast its rocky front. They were already beyond any point at whichPeveril had previously discovered logs, and were rapidly approachingthe place of his mystery. He could see the jutting ledge, and waseagerly scanning the cliffs above it, when suddenly Joe held up hishand with a warning "Hist!"
Without a word Peveril gave the signal to stop rowing, which wasinstantly obeyed. In the silence that followed they heard a sound ofsinging. It was a plaintive melody, sung in a girlish voice,untrained, but full and sweet. To his amazement Peveril recognized itas one of the very latest songs of a popular composer, whose music hehad supposed almost unknown in America. The voice also seemed to beclose at hand.
At first the men gazed about them with an idle curiosity, but, notseeing anyone, they began to grow uneasy, and to cast frightenedglances on every side.
"By gar!" exclaimed Joe Pintaud, and on the instant the singingceased.
The sudden silence was almost as disquieting as the voice of aninvisible singer, and again Joe uttered his favorite exclamation.
"Where did that voice come from?"
"Dunno, Mist Pearl. One tam I t'ink from rock, one tam from water.Fust he come from ze hair, zen he gat under ze bateau. Bimeby he comeevery somewhere. One tam I t'ink angele, me; one tam dev. Mostly It'ink dev."
"It seemed to me to come from the cliff," said Peveril.
"Oui; so I t'ink."
"Though I could also have sworn that it rose from the water."
"Oui, m'sieu. You say dev, I say dev."
By this time Peveril had again got his craft under way, and they wereskirting a wooded islet that lay off the coast just beyond the blackledge. This island appeared to be nearly cut in two by a narrow bay;but as those in the boat seemed to see every part of this, and wereconvinced that it contained no logs, they did not enter it.
The young leader was not giving much thought to either logs or hisimmediate surroundings just then, for his ears were still filled withthe music that had come to him as mysteriously as had the vision of afew days earlier.
So lost was he in reflection that he started abruptly when the rowingagain ceased, and one of the men whispered, hoarsely:
"Mist Pearl, look!"
He was pointing back from where they had come; and, turning, Peverilsaw, apparently gliding from the very shore of the island they hadjust passed, a small schooner. She must have sailed from the bay intowhich they had gazed, and yet they believed they had scrutinized everyinch of its surface.
"By gar!" cried Joe Pintaud. "Some more dev, hein?"
"It looks to me like the boat of your friends the smugglers,"suggested Peveril, studying the vessel closely.
"Oui, certainment! It ees ze sheep of ze tradair."
"Then we will go and see where she came from, for so snug ahiding-place is worth discovering."
So the skiff was put about and rowed back to the little bay bisectingthe island. Then it was found that there were two small islands, andthat the supposed bay was really an inlet from the lake, which made asharp angle at a point invisible from outside. This channel led to anarrow sound, from which another inlet cut directly into therock-bound coast. It was quite short, and quickly widened into anexquisite basin, completely land-locked and very nearly circular.
Peveril had followed this devious course with all the eagerness of anexplorer; but his men had cast many nervous glances over theirshoulders, and even Joe Pintaud had expressed a muttered hope thatthey were not being led into some trap.
"Ze log!" cried Joe.
"Our logs!" echoed Peveril.
The others probably used words meaning the same thing. At any rate,they talked excitedly, and pointed to the opposite side of the basin,where was moored a raft of logs.
Two men with a yoke of oxen were in the act of hauling one of thesefrom the water, and a deeply marked trail, leading up the bank to apoint of disappearance, showed where a number of its predecessors hadgone.
"Give way!" cried Peveril, and the skiff sped across the basin.
As it ranged alongside the moored raft, the young leader recognizedthe deep-cut mark of the White Pine Mine on one floating stick afteranother.
"Hold on!" he shouted. "Where are you going with that log?"
"None of your business!" answered one of the two men, who was old andwhite-headed. "What are you doing here, anyway?"
"I've come after these logs."
"Well, you can't have them, and you want to get out of here quickerthan you came in!" With this the man spoke a few words to hisassistant, who immediately ran up the trail and disappeared, whilePeveril, with a hot flush mounting to his forehead, ordered his crewto pull for the shore.