An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

But then greater speed in paddling on the part of Swenk,

until by four he arrived at Shelter Beach. And then,

descrying as many as a half dozen people in the water in

the distance, at once turning and retreating in the direction

of the others in order to give the necessary signal. And

some two miles back firing one shot, which in its turn was

responded to by Mason as well as Sheriff Slack. Both

parties had heard and were now paddling swiftly east.

At once Clyde in the water—near Sondra—hearing this was

made to wonder. The ominous quality of that first shot!

Followed by those two additional signals—farther away, yet

seemingly in answer to the first! And then the ominous

silence thereafter! What was that? And with Harley Baggott

jesting: “Listen to the guys shooting game out of season,

will you. It’s against the law, isn’t it?”

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“Hey, you!” Grant Cranston shouted. “Those are my ducks

down there! Let ’em alone.”

“If they can’t shoot any better than you, Granty, they will let

’em alone.” This from Bertine.

Clyde, while attempting to smile, looked in the direction of

the sound and listened like a hunted animal.

What was it now that urged him to get out of the water and

dress and run? Hurry! Hurry! To your tent! To the woods,

quick! Until at last heeding this, and while most of the

others were not looking, hurrying to his tent, changing to the

one plain blue business suit and cap that he still possessed,

then slipping into the woods back of the camp—out of sight

and hearing of all present until he should be able to think

and determine, but keeping always safely inland out of the

direct view of the water, for fear—for fear—who could tell

exactly what those shots meant?

Yet Sondra! And her words of Saturday and yesterday and

to-day. Could he leave her in this way, without being sure?

Could he? Her kisses! Her dear assurances as to the

future! What would she think now—and those others—in

case he did not go back? The comment which was certain

to be made in the Sharon and other papers in regard to this

disappearance of his, and which was certain to identify him

with this same Clifford Golden or Carl Graham! was it not?

Then reflecting also—the possible groundlessness of these

fears, based on nothing more, maybe, than the chance

shots of passing hunters on the lake or in these woods. And

then pausing and debating with himself whether to go on or

not. Yet, oh, the comfort of these tall, pillared trees—the

softness and silence of these brown, carpeting needles on

the ground—the clumps and thickets of underbrush under

which one could lie and hide until night should fall again.

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And then on—and on. But turning, none-the-less, with the

intention of returning to the camp to see whether any one

had come there. (He might say he had taken a walk and

got lost in the woods.)

But about this time, behind a protecting group of trees at

least two miles west of the camp, a meeting and

conference between Mason, Slack and all the others. And

later, as a result of this and even as Clyde lingered and

returned somewhat nearer the camp, Mason, Swenk

paddling the canoe, arriving and inquiring of those who

were now on shore if a Mr. Clyde Griffiths was present and

might he see him. And Harley Baggott, being nearest,

replying: “Why, yes, sure. He’s around here somewhere.”

And Stuart Finchley calling: “Eh-o, Griffiths!” But no reply.

Yet Clyde, not near enough to hear any of this, even now

returning toward the camp, very slowly and cautiously. And

Mason concluding that possibly he was about somewhere

and unaware of anything, of course, deciding to wait a few

minutes anyhow—while advising Swenk to fall back into the

woods and if by any chance encountering Slack or any

other to advise him that one man be sent east along the

bank and another west, while he—Swenk—proceeded in a

boat eastward as before to the inn at the extreme end, in

order that from there word might be given to all as to the

presence of the suspect in this region.

In the meanwhile Clyde by now only three-quarters of a

mile east, and still whispered to by something which said:

Run, run, do not linger! yet lingering, and thinking Sondra,

this wonderful life! Should he go so? And saying to himself

that he might be making a greater mistake by going than by

staying. For supposing those shots were nothing—hunters,

mere game shots meaning nothing in his case—and yet

costing him all? And yet turning at last and saying to himself

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that perhaps it might be” best not to return at present,

anyhow at least not until very late—after dark—to see if

those strange shots had meant anything.

But then again pausing silently and dubiously, the while

vesper sparrows and woodfinches sang. And peering. And

peeking nervously.

And then all at once, not more than fifty feet distant, out of

the long, tall aisles of the trees before him, a whiskered,

woodsman-like type of man approaching swiftly, yet silently

—a tall, bony, sharp-eyed man in a brown felt hat and a

brownish-gray baggy and faded suit that hung loosely over

his spare body. And as suddenly calling as he came—

which caused Clyde’s blood to run cold with fear and rivet

him to the spot.

“Hold on a moment, mister! Don’t move. Your name don’t

happen to be Clyde Griffiths, does it?” And Clyde, noting

the sharp inquisitorial look in the eye of this stranger, as

well as the fact that he had already drawn a revolver and

was lifting it up, now pausing, the definiteness and authority

of the man chilling him to the marrow. Was he really being

captured? Had the officers of the law truly come for him?

God! No hope of flight now! Why had he not gone on? Oh,

why not? And at once he was weak and shaking, yet, not

wishing to incriminate himself about to reply, “No!” Yet

because of a more sensible thought, replying, “Why, yes,

that’s my name.”

“You’re with this camping party just west of here, aren’t

you?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“All right, Mr. Griffiths. Excuse the revolver. I’m told to get

you, whatever happens, that’s all. My name is Kraut.

Nicholas Kraut. I’m a deputy sheriff of Cataraqui County.

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And I have a warrant here for your arrest. I suppose you

know what for, and that you’re prepared to come with me

peaceably.” And at this Mr. Kraut gripped the heavy,

dangerous-looking weapon more firmly even, and gazed at

Clyde in a firm, conclusive way.

“Why—why—no—I don’t,” replied Clyde, weakly and

heavily, his face white and thin. “But if you have a warrant

for my arrest, I’ll go with you, certainly. But what—what—I

don’t understand”—his voice began to tremble slightly as he

said this—“is—is why you want to arrest me?”

“You don’t, eh? You weren’t up at either Big Bittern or

Grass Lake by any chance on last Wednesday or Thursday,

eh?”

“Why, no, sir, I wasn’t,” replied Clyde, falsely.

“And you don’t happen to know anything about the

drowning of a girl up there that you were supposed to be

with—Roberta Alden, of Biltz, New York, I believe.”

“Why, my God, no!” replied Clyde, nervously and

staccatically, the true name of Roberta and her address

being used by this total stranger, and so soon, staggering

him. Then they knew! They had obtained a clue. His true

name and hers! God! “Am I supposed to have committed a

murder?” he added, his voice faint—a mere whisper.

“Then you don’t know that she was drowned last Thursday?

And you weren’t with her at that time?” Mr. Kraut fixed a

hard, inquisitive, unbelieving eye on him.

“Why, no, of course, I wasn’t,” replied Clyde, recalling now

but one thing—that he must deny all—until he should think

or know what else to do or say.

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“And you didn’t meet three men walking south last

Thursday night from Big Bittern to Three Mile Bay at about

eleven o’clock?”

“Why, no, sir. Of course I didn’t. I wasn’t up there, I told

you.”

“Very well, Mr. Griffiths, I haven’t anything more to say. All

I’m supposed to do is to arrest you, Clyde Griffiths, for the

murder of Roberta Alden. You’re my prisoner.” He drew forth

—more by way of a demonstration of force and authority

than anything else—a pair of steel handcuffs, which caused

Clyde to shrink and tremble as though he had been beaten.

“You needn’t put those on me, mister,” he pleaded. “I wish

you wouldn’t. I never had anything like that on before. I’ll go

with you without them.” He looked longingly and sadly

about at the trees, into the sheltering depths of which so