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Page 31 text:
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AURORA ’12 27 TWICE TREASURE TROVE. Q P P T HE sun had already begun to pour its western rays upon the town of Hobart in northern Indiana. Distant woods were surrounded by the mysterious haze of Indian summer. Webs, floating low, attached themselves to a new motor car slowly making its way down the principal street of the town. The only occupant of the machine paid no heed to the silken, clinging, filmy filaments, for his thoughts were ever wandering to a picture — a mental picture of the delicate tracery of the face of a beautiful girl. A native of the village, he spoke to all he met, but his thoughts were always abstracted in that same vague dream-object. The lingering dreaminess in his eyes grows to an eagerness that knows no bounds. He sends the car spinning toward the fashionable suburb. He stops on the boulevard and enters a house, soon to return to the machine, accompanied by the girl of his dreams. For a long time neither spoke, each watching the changing scenes, yet subtly con- scious of each other. It was he that broke the silence. “Now I can answer your question. The car is mine. You should feel greatly honored for you are having the initial as well as the farewell ride.” “The farewell ride?” “Yes, for I’ve come to say good-bye, if — ” “Why, where are you going?” she interrupted. “I am going to Europe — ” “Oh, I thought you wouldn’t take up your studies over there for at least two years.” “Different arrangements have been made, and — well, since we’re near the old spring let’s go down there and I’ll tell you all about it.” After a short walk they arrived at the old spring. It has been a landmark since the earliest settler can remember; a landmark to the Indians for countless decades before. The water, in years gone by, had flowed between the roots of a gigantic wild cherry tree, arching the shore, yes, the very waters of Duck Creek. Civilization has dwindled Duck Creek to a mere brook, to be spanned in summer by a step, but in the early spring, as in days of yore, it speeds along, a swollen Missouri, rushing its waters to Deep River, thence to the Calumet and Lake Michigan. The water now flows from the roots of a wild cherry tree, an outgrowth of the old tree, which bends across the spring and over the bank above. A root, washed clear or earth, runs into the bank, forming a natural seat. As they seated themselves on this he began the following story: “In the early 20 ' s the southern shore of Lake Michigan was uninviting, indeed, with its long stretch of sandy beach, behind which rose the lofty sand dunes, with here and there a scraggly sand cherry tree, and this infrequent growth covered with wild grape vines. Except for a few gulls that were ever hovering near the edge of the lake and skimming over the water, all was desolation. “Along the shore walked a lone man with a shaggy, unkempt beard and a hunted, half-frightened expression on his face. With his trousers rolled above his knees he waded through the water, towing a dugout behind him. In the canoe was a chest, but it was so carefully covered that its true form could not easily be distinguished, though if could be seen that it was heavy, because of the depth at which the canoe rode. “A cool northern wind was blowing with some little force and dashed the water upon the beach in a dangerous fashion. The man on shore labored hard to keep the canoe from running aground at one moment and from being towed out into the lake by the undercurrent at the next, while another onrushing wave might almost capsize it. He longed to ride, for a month of hiding and confinement had left him weak after work, but the waves would not permit that luxury. a Q b IP P Q =0 Cr
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Page 32 text:
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C r S ) cl 28 AURORA ’12 Q p Q P “With the coming of night and the quieting of the waves he worked with a new enthusiasm. Upon reaching a point where the dunes came near the water in their shiftings, he uttered an eager shout of delight. The echo, reverberating from the dunes, so startled him that he released his hold on the thong that held his dugout. The heavily laden canoe, floating free, was thrown against him with a force that almost knocked him over. With low mutterings at being afraid of his own voice he snatched up the thong and hastened on to the object of his delight — to an inlet into the lake, the mouth of the sluggish Calumet. “Into this he pulled his canoe, which, after a long search, he concealed in a suitable hiding place. The next few days he spent in reconnoitering. Early one morning he broke camp and, riding, propelled the dugout upstream. Between marshy lowlands, banked with vast forests, he continued his journey for ten or twelve miles, entered Deep River, followed its course and entered Duck Creek. He followed this to the second bend where he espied a blaze that he had made several days before. Here he again hid his canoe and constructed a permanent camp. But what was his business in this desolate spot? Why his suspicious and restless attitude? “At daybreak he began the removal of the cargo from the canoe. Rolling back the tarpaulin, a chest bound in straps of iron, met the gaze — straps crosswise, straps length- wise and larger straps for hinges. Three mammoth padlocks, each with a different combination, secured it. “He lifted the cover. We are disappointed at first, for we see nothing but a num- ber of well-filled chamois skin bags, where we expected a golden hoard to greet us. “But stooping he picks one up and pulling it open, mutters ‘Gold, gold.’ “The crackling of a twig catches his practiced ear. With a quick, yet noiseless movement, he turns, lets down the cover of the chest and reaches for his gun. ’Twas only a squirrel. Muttering, reproaching himself for his fright, he returned to the gold. “His cabin stood upon the northern bank of what is now known as Duck Creek, just as it bends to the southward. “In the cabin he places ten bags of gold, and with the rest in the canoe, proceeds southward a quarter of a mile. In a hole at the foot of two white oaks, barely three feet apart, he deposits the chest and the remaining gold. “If we had walked the streets of Hobart, Indiana, in the late thirties, we should have recognized among the inhabitants, a man, prematurely gray. The startled expres- sion has almost gone from his face, but in its stead is a lonely, haggard and remorseful look. A man of means, he is highly respected by many in the community, but of late a story has been circulating — of course it contains no truth — a story that Mr. Manly — - for such was his name — did not obtain his income in a manner wholly commendable. “Upon going a little farther we meet — but is he not a newcomer? — Mr. Dunn. He looks the thorough business man. Shall we hear what he says? He talks of big deals in real estate with the Indians and about home-steading the land in this region. Some remark is made to him concerning his Indian relics and thereafter he gives us his undivided attention. We are allowed to take our leave only after a promise to dine with him and inspect his trophies. “At the appointed hour we arrive at his home. It is pointed out to us as the grandest ' in town. And it is a mansion, indeed. We are ushered into the music room — our host, though well known as a lover of archaeological treasures, is also a lover of Euterpe. Arrayed upon the walls of this room in fantastic designs and exact tribal relations are relics of many Indian tribes, besides trophies of the chase, with here and there, a painting from the brush of a famous artist friend. “While Mr. Dunn is relating the many stories concerning the obtaining of these ■treasures a little blue-eyed, fair- haired boy slips quietly to his knee. His serious eyes, steadily fixed upon the speaker, show that he is intense ly interested. “To our great disappointment, during the early part of the evening our host is called to the bedside of a dying friend. At a later meeting with him we learn that this friend was Mr. Manly. It seems that Mr. Manly had been worrying over some weighty matter r r J p u a
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