“He had one o’ de coffin-nails in his hand and he lit up after I given him de match.”
“Did he say anything?” questioned our hero.
The carpenter’s helper scratched his head for a moment. “Sure he did! He ast me if it was putty good walkin’ to Bixter. I told him ‘putty fair,’ and den he went on and I came here.”
“Then he must have gone on to Bixter!” cried Roger. “How far is that from here?”
“About two miles and a half,” answered Dave. He turned to the carpenter’s helper. “Much obliged to you.”
“Dat’s all right. Say! but dat guy certainly looks like you,” the carpenter’s helper added, with a grin.
“Come, we’ll follow him,” said Dave to his chum, and led the way on the run to where the horse was tied.
Soon they were in the cutter once more. Dave urged the black along at his best speed, and over the bridge they flew, and then along the road leading to the village of Bixter.
CHAPTER VII
FACE TO FACE
“If you catch Porton, Dave, what will you do–turn him over to the authorities?”
“Yes, Roger.”
“Is Bixter much of a place?”
“Oh, no. There are but two stores and two churches and not over thirty or forty houses.”
“Then you may have some trouble in finding an officer. Probably the village doesn’t boast of anything more than a constable and a Justice of the Peace.”
“I am not worrying about that yet, Roger,” returned our hero, grimly. “We have got to catch Porton first.”
“Oh, I know that. But if he started for Bixter on foot we ought to be able to locate him. A stranger can’t go through such a small place without somebody’s noticing it.”
On and on trotted the horse, past many well-kept farms, and then through a small patch of timber land. Beyond the woods they crossed a frozen creek, and then made a turn to the northward. A short distance beyond they came in sight of the first houses that went to make up the village of Bixter.
“Well, we’ve not seen anything of him yet,” remarked the senator’s son, as they slowed up and looked ahead and to both sides of the village street.
“No, and I don’t understand it,” returned Dave. “From what that carpenter’s helper said, I thought we should overtake him before we got to Bixter. Either he must have left this road, or else he must be some walker.”
“I don’t see where he could have gone if he left the road, Dave. All we passed were lanes leading to the farms, and a path through that wood. It isn’t likely he would take to the woods in this cold weather–not unless he was going hunting, and that chap back in Clayton didn’t say anything about his carrying a gun.”
With the horse in a walk, they passed down the village street and back again. As they did this they kept their eyes wide open, peering into the various yards and lanes that presented themselves.
“I’m afraid it’s no use unless he is in one of these houses or in one of the stores,” was Roger’s comment.
“I’ll ask at the stores,” returned Dave.
The inquiries he and his chum made were productive of no results so far as locating Ward Porton was concerned. No one had seen or heard of the former moving picture actor.
“All the strangers we’ve seen to-day was a cigar drummer,” said one of the shopkeepers. “And he was a fat man and about forty years old.” The other storekeeper had had no strangers in his place.
Hardly knowing what to do next, Dave and Roger returned to the cutter.
“Maybe he went farther than this,” suggested Roger. “We might go on a mile or two and take a look.”
Now that they had come so far, Dave thought this a good idea, and so they passed on for a distance of nearly two miles beyond Bixter. Here the sleighing became poor, there being but few farmhouses in that vicinity.
“It’s no use,” said Dave, finally. “We’ll go back to Bixter, take another look around, and then return to Clayton and home.”
When they arrived once more at the village Dave suggested that he and his chum separate.
“There are a number of these lanes that lead to some back roads,” said Dave. “Perhaps if we tramp around on foot and ask some of the country folks living around here we may get on the track of the fellow we are after.”
The senator’s son was willing, and he was soon walking down a lane leading to the right while Dave went off to the left. Presently Dave came to a barn where a farmer was mending some broken harness.
“Hello! Back again, are you?” cried the farmer, as he looked at Dave curiously. “What brought you? Why didn’t you stop when I called to you before?”
“I guess you’re just the man I want to see,” cried Dave, quickly. And then, as the farmer looked at him in increasing wonder, he added: “Did a young man who looks very much like me go past here to-day?”
“Look like you?” queried the farmer. “Why, it was you, wasn’t it?”
“No. It must have been a fellow who resembles me very closely. I am trying to catch him.”
“Well, I swan!” murmured the farmer, looking at Dave critically. “That other feller looked as much like you as could be. Wot is he–your twin brother?”
“I am thankful to say he is no relative of mine. He is a swindler, and that is why I would like to catch him. He has been getting goods in my name. If he went past here perhaps you can tell me where he has gone?”
“He walked past here less than fifteen minutes ago. He went down that lane, which is a short cut to the road to Barnett.”
“Barnett!” cried our hero. “That’s the railroad station up this way, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Then he must be heading for a railroad train!” exclaimed Dave, quickly. “How far is it from here?”
“Barnett is three miles by the road, but it’s less than a mile and a quarter by that short cut through Gerry’s Woods.”
“Then I’ll go after him by that short cut,” answered Dave. He thought for a moment. To hunt up Roger and get him to go along might take too long. He looked at the farmer. “Would you like to go with me? I’ll make it worth your while,” he continued.
“Sorry, but I can’t do it,” was the reply. “I’ve got to meet the man who buys my milk down town in about fifteen minutes. He’s a very particular customer, and if I should fail him he might get mad. So I can’t go.”
“All right, I’ll go after him alone,” answered our hero; and then continued: “If you are going down town, and you chance to see a friend of mine with my black horse and cutter, will you kindly tell him where I have gone?”
“Sure, I will;” and with this promise from the farmer Dave started on a swift walk along the short cut to Barnett which the other had pointed out.
Fortunately for the youth, to keep his feet warm while riding he had donned a heavy pair of rubbers, so that walking through the rather deep snow of the path leading through the back farms and through Gerry’s Woods was not as uncomfortable as it might otherwise have been. To be sure, he occasionally found himself floundering in snow that was over his shoetops, but when this happened he simply smiled grimly and made the best of it. When at Oak Hall he had often taken part in track athletics, cross-country running, and occasionally in a game of hare and hounds, and consequently his wind was good and he made rapid progress without becoming too much exhausted.
He was in the depth of the woods when, at a turn in the path,