DAYS OF SUSPENSE
Pen lay on her bed wide-eyed and dry-eyed until near dawn. It did not
lessen her misery any that a good part of it was anger at having her
will balked. She accused Don by turn of callousness, of ingratitude,
of folly; she tried to tell herself that he was not worth saving, but
without abating any of her torments of anxiety as to his fate. It was
worse than anxiety; she had a horrible, dull certainty that he would be
taken as soon as it became light. Like a wilful child intent only upon
having his own way, he had run blindly out into their trap.
After the briefest period of unconsciousness she was awakened by a stir
outside the house. Looking out of the window she saw that the sun was
but just up, the great square shadow of the house reached almost to the
edge of the bank. Nevertheless early as it was, the house grounds were
full of people, and more were arriving through the gates. These were
Islanders, fisher-folk, or men from the farms in earth-colored
garments. Under the bank she could hear the put-put of arriving
motor-boats. Among the people the gross figure of Delehanty was
conspicuous, moving about, picking out men here and there.
Well, if he was still looking for men Don was not yet caught,
nevertheless, Pen's heart sickened at the sight. It was clear enough
what was happening. During the last few days popular interest in the
chase had fallen off, but the news of the finding of the canoe had
revived it. The blood lust was aroused again. When she got down to
the kitchen Pen learned from the excited negroes that Riever had
increased the reward to ten thousand dollars. That was what had
brought the crowd.
Like a woman who had died and whose body was condemned to drag on, Pen
started things going in the kitchen and set the table for breakfast.
When her father came into the dining-room even he who noticed so
little, was struck by the contrast of her present look with the
laughing mænad who had thrust him into his room the night before.
"What's the matter?" he asked sharply.
Pen shrugged. She had to make some excuse. "Last night was too much
for me," she muttered.
"I thought so!" he said severely. "I told you you were acting wildly
... Riever had nothing to do with that affair," he added irrelevantly.
"What difference does it make?"
Pendleton had already been out of doors, and he could talk about
nothing but the latest developments of the case. In his new interest,
his resentment against Delehanty had cooled. Pen could not gather from
his talk what they were saying about her. No doubt they spared his
feelings--or mocked him without his being aware of it. With the
curious blindness that was characteristic of him, he had not yet
connected the finding of the canoe with his daughter.
"How strange that Counsell should have come back here after having
paddled away!" he said. "And yet, how natural! It was the last thing
anyone would suppose that he would do!"
Pen let him run on, half attending.
Worse was in store for her. Her father said:
"Of course Riever has been entirely discreet in making his new
announcement. He had it written out and sent it over to the Island
last night to be posted up outside the store. His offer reads: 'Ten
thousand dollars for the apprehension of Donald Counsell.' But
everybody understands that it means dead or alive. Many of the men are
armed."
Pen thought she had experienced the extremity of torment. But this was
saving for her. She half rose from her chair with a face of horror,
and dropped back again.
"But this is murder!" she gasped.
"Eh?" said little Pendleton blinking.
"Cold-blooded murder! ... Cynical murder! ... To set an armed mob after
a defenseless man ... with the promise of reward!"
"But he's desperate. If he's cornered he'll fight..."
"He is unarmed!" said Pen.
Her father's jaw dropped. "How do you know?"
She saw that she had betrayed herself, but she was beyond caring.
Pushing her chair back she went to the mantel and resting her arms upon
it dropped her head on them. "Oh God! what sort of a world is it where
such things are possible!" she cried.
"Pen, what am I to think from this?" he stammered aghast.
She could not be still in her agony. She paced up and down stretching
up her arms for the ease to her breast which was not to be had.
"Whatever you like!" she said.
"You have been seeing him? You know where he is?"
"I don't know now."
"My God!"
Pen hurried from the room, leaving him in a state of collapse.
She still went about her daily tasks like a piece of mechanism. She
had to keep in some sort of motion. She experienced strange lapses,
discovered herself offering whole corn in her hand to the newly-hatched
chicks; came to to find herself in places without any notion of what
she had come for. Her father kept out of her way.
It took a long time to organize the searchers. Delehanty was not
taking any chance of failure. He was in no particular hurry since he
had already sent a large party by boat to the head of the creek to cut
off any escape up the Neck. Finally about ten o'clock the rest were
ready. They set off in three parties, the first making its way along
the river shore to comb the woods on the Absolom's Island side; the
second setting off towards the lighthouse to surround the pond in the
woods; the third and largest party heading straight back by the Neck
road. Their instructions were to deploy along the edge of the woods,
and wait until they got in touch with the parties on either flank. Two
lads who brought motor-cycles over from the Island were delegated to
act as messengers between Delehanty and the searchers.
When they had gone an ominous Sabbath quiet descended on Broome's
Point, which was harder to bear than the confusion. Delehanty went off
to the cottage. There was no one to be seen but a few of the
yellow-faced squatters' women from up the Neck who peered from under
their sun-bonnets with shy, half-human eyes, and a group of old men
standing by the porch discussing bygone murders with zest.
Later, Pen came upon her father in the back kitchen, or dairy,
evidently seeking to waylay her. He seemed not greatly affected by the
scene in the dining-room, only for a hang-dog air, and a difficulty in
meeting her glance. As a matter of fact Pen's tragic eyes intimidated
him. For himself, he had been absorbed in trifles for so long that he
could not feel anything very deeply.
He said: "I suppose you've forgotten that we were to lunch on the yacht
to-day."
Pen stared at him. _Still_ he had not understood!
"I suppose you don't want to go," he said quickly.
"No," said Pen.
"What will Mr. Riever think," he said plaintively.
"I don't care."
The gathering storm on her brows warned him not to go any further. But
he still hung around like a child.
To get rid of him Pen said: "Why don't you go?"
He brightened. "Well, I wasn't sure if it was proper..."
"Oh go ahead! Tell him I'm sick. Tell him anything you like."
"Well I will if you think it's all right. I want to talk business with
him anyway."
He donned the old frock coat and the comical, flat straw hat and set
off as blithely as a child with a penny in its hand. Pen's glance
after him was bitter. Nevertheless she was thankful to be rid of him.
There came a time when Pen could no longer keep up even the pretense of
doing her chores. Always with her mind's eyes she was following the
searchers. They had come to the edge of the woods. They were
spreading out. They were waiting until the parties on either side came
up. Now they had climbed the fence and were advancing slowly with
their guns held ready; ignorant, passionate men with their guns cocked!
She went to her room and paced up and down with her clenched hands
pressed to her breast. She could not stay there either. She came down
on the porch where she could hear better and paced endlessly up and
down, careless of who might be a witness to her agitation. All her
faculties were concentrated on hearing. She was listening for shots.
Time passed and there was no news. She sent Ellick, the more
intelligent of Aunt Maria's sons down to the beach to pick up what he
could. One or two negroes had come over in the boats. This was
regarded as a white man's business and they were not allowed to take
part in it. Nothing transpired until mid-afternoon when Ellick came
back to say that the motorcycle boys had brought in Counsell's camping
outfit which had been found in the woods. Of Counsell himself there
was no word.
A wild hope arose in Pen's breast. Suppose after all he had succeeded
in getting away up the Neck before the line was drawn across it!
Her hope soon sickened though. What good if he had escaped for the
moment? There was but the one road eighty miles long, by which he
could reach cities and crowds and safety. And by this time everybody
along that road was on the _qui vive_ to catch him, their mouths
watering at the ten thousand dollar reward. What chance had he of
succor? Where could he get food? Or on that sandy peninsula, water?
She tormented her brain with futile calculations. Could he or could he
not have made it? Delehanty had dispatched the party up the creek
immediately after searching the house. Pen had heard the boats set
off. By that time Don had had half an hour's start. A man walks
perhaps four miles an hour, the boats averaged seven. It was four
miles to the head of the creek, and but a step from the landing to the
Neck road. Still Don ought to have got there first. But he might have
turned aside to get something from his hidden store in the woods!
Pen's brain whirled dizzily.
At other times she pictured him crouching white-faced in the bush,
listening to the relentless slow approach of the searchers, and knowing
that the other side was watched too. Then the dash for freedom, the
shots ... That picture came back again and again. She could not shut
it out. How gladly she would have heard the news that he had been
brought in--unhurt.
At five o'clock she beheld her father turning in at the gate
accompanied by Riever. At the sight of the latter Pen saw red.
Hideous little creature lunching on his fine yacht while his dollars
sent men into the woods to murder! And now to come strutting ashore
for an afternoon stroll with his expensive cigar cocked between his
lips! How dared he present himself to her! Her impulse was to project
herself down off the porch and tell him! But a last strand of prudence
held. She went to her room instead.
There she struggled with her feelings. Five o'clock! Faint though it
might be, there was a real chance that Don had escaped. She must
therefore go on fighting for him. And in order to fight for him
effectually she must maintain some sort of relations with his loathsome
enemy.
There was a knock on her door, and her father said timidly: "Mr. Riever
is down stairs, my dear."
Pen answered composedly: "Very well. I'll be down directly."
Pendleton was delighted. "Thank you, daughter," he purred.
It induced a fresh access of anger in Pen. He had nothing to thank her
for!
Pendleton pattered happily down-stairs. Pen washed and dressed, never
ceasing to admonish herself, and in the end achieved a fair measure of
self-command, though her nerves were in bad shape.
Riever was waiting with a certain air of bravado. Only an involuntary
roll to his eyes betrayed the dark passions that ate him. She greeted
him calmly. He looked secretly relieved.
"I scarcely expected to see you," he said smoothly. "I just came to
enquire how you are."
"I'm all right," said Pen.
"And to express my indignation at what happened last night. Delehanty
certainly goes beyond all bounds! When I get back to New York I shall
talk to the Commissioner about it!"
"Oh, the man must do his work," said Pen. "Surely, he doesn't expect
me to be taken in by this palaver!" she thought.
"He's supposed to exercise some discretion ... You're really all right
again?"
"Quite all right."
"I'm so glad!"
It came to her that he didn't expect her to be taken in. He was
satisfied if she would only appear to be taken in. For different
reasons he was just as anxious to maintain relations as she was. He
just wanted everything unpleasant covered up. That was the spoiled
child of it. Pen thought: "I believe he'd actually marry me without
inquiring into my feelings." Well, it made it easier for her.
Pendleton made some transparent excuse to leave the room. Riever's
shifty eyes gave a roll of terror, thinking that perhaps Pen might now
insist on dragging the truth into the light.
Pen however only said: "I'm surprised to see you on foot this
afternoon."
His face turned smug again. "I like walking," he said. "It's my
ridiculous people that insist on having me carried every step."
"Do you walk much in New York?" asked Pen.
He was flattered by her interest. "Yes, very much," he said.
"But I forget, you don't live in the city, do you?"
"Sometimes."
"Have you a home there, too?"
"Well, not exactly a home, but a very pleasant little lodging."
"Ah, an apartment."
"No, I detest apartments. One always feels as if the hall servants
were spying on your comings and goings."
"You stay at your club then?"
"No, clubs are all very well in their way, but I'm not a clubby person.
I like to spread about among my own things. In a club too, the
servants are always under your feet. In New York I like to get away
from servants altogether. I am not so dependent on them as you seem to
think."
Pen's heart began to beat a little thickly. "And have you such a
place?" she asked with interest. Apparently they were back just where
they had been before the violent scene of the previous night.
"Yes."
"Do tell me about it."
"It's a quaint little house in an unfashionable neighborhood. It
stands in the name of my valet. The beauty of it is none of my
neighbors know me and I can go and come as I please. It's a _petit
maison_ in the French style, a little _entresol_ below, overhead three
tall windows lighting the _salon_, then a receding attic, and that's
all. I don't suppose there's another house like it in town."
"And the inside?" said Pen.
"A _salle a manger_ on the ground floor looking out on a little formal
garden at the back. On the main floor the _salon_ in front and a
bedroom in the rear. In the attic, servants rooms. Just a little
house for one.... Or two," he added with a sidelong glance.
"How interesting!" said Pen. "I'd like to see it."
"I hope you will some day."
"In what part of the town is it?" asked Pen casually.
"On Thirty-Ninth Street east of Lexington."
Pen lowered her eyes to hide the glint of satisfaction in them. "This
will help Blanche," she thought. "I'll write it to-night."
Presently he rose to go. "Tell me you will," he said.
"Will what?" murmured Pen.
"Come to see my little house some day?"
"Nothing is impossible," said Pen turning away her head. If he chose
to read coquetry in the action, that was his look-out.
He held her hand loverly-wise for a long moment, Pen steeling herself
not to shudder. Then he left the room.
Pen began to laugh but there was no sound of mirth in it. She began to
laugh and she could not stop again. The tears ran down her face and
her whole body was shaken with tearing sobs. She ran to her room. She
was horribly unstrung. It was long before she could get hold of
herself again.
The collapse eased the strain on her nerves. She came down-stairs and
was able to resume her usual round of tasks. Time was passing, and
still no bad news had been received. Hope grew stronger. Finally word
was brought down the road that the search party had joined forces with
the line of guards drawn across the Neck, and Don Counsell had not been
taken. Pen was able to face the night unafraid.
She presently learned that Delehanty had formed his men into several
camps for the night. The automobile was kept busy running up the road
with supplies for them. At the same time he was preparing to have the
road well patrolled along its whole course through the woods. After
dark a fugitive could not travel any distance except by the road.
The night came on muggy and still and Pen was attacked by a fresh
anxiety. For clouds of mosquitoes arose. She pictured Don fainting
with hunger and thirst, and unable even to make a smudge for fear of
betraying himself, vainly attempting to protect himself from the
insects.
She had a wild hope that he might be driven back to her. When the
house had been searched they had found the open cellar door, and in the
morning Delehanty had sent a man to shut the doors and screw them down.
Before she went to bed Pen took lantern and screw driver and satisfying
herself that she was not watched at the moment, knelt behind the bushes
and opened the doors. She also left the way open for Don to return to
her room by the route that he knew of.
She went to bed praying that she might awaken to find him kneeling on
the floor beside her. She did sleep for awhile, for Nature must have
her due, but when she awoke she was still alone.
When she came down-stairs in the morning she heard a new sound that
froze her soul, the deep bay of hounds. Theodo' came into the kitchen,
his eyes rolling wildly in an ashy face, to say that a couple of
"man-huntin' dawgs" had been brought over from the Eastern shore to be
put on Counsell's tracks. These mythical creatures filled the negro
with an extremity of terror. Nothing would tempt him out of doors
again. Meanwhile Pen's collie, Doug, locked up in the barn, hearing
these trespassers on his preserve, and he unable to get at them, went
frantic with rage.
The bloodhounds were taken to the spot in the woods where Don's cache
had been discovered, and were given the scent from Don's clothes. They
picked up his tracks without difficulty and came back over the fields,
giving tongue straight to the cellar door. Delehanty finding it
unlocked again, searched the house once more. The dogs were led around
the house. Pen observing from within, saw that they picked up the
trail again outside the kitchen window. So Don had gone out that way.
However they were soon confused amidst the maze of tracks that tramped
down the house grounds in every direction. Again and again their
guardians led them over the ground with no better success.
Meanwhile, Delehanty having made a new disposition of his forces, the
search in the woods was resumed. He had more men at his disposal on
this day, and a second line of guards was drawn across the Neck higher
up. Additional detectives arrived from New York and Baltimore, and
these were dispatched by horse and motor to search every cabin within
miles. At the same time motor-boats were patrolling all the adjacent
shores, so that if the fugitive was forced out on the beach at any
point he would instantly be sighted.
Notwithstanding these measures the second day passed like the first
with neither sight nor sound of the fugitive. It was believed that he
was still in the neighborhood, because the bloodhounds, though they
were led far and wide through the woods and up the road, had discovered
no tracks leading away from Broome's Point.
When the morning of the third day broke Pen had reached the point of
desperation again. Not for a moment all night had she closed her eyes.
She was now convinced that Don was lying exhausted and starving in some
hidden spot in the woods. Probably no longer even able to give himself
up. For she was sure he would not willingly perish without a fight to
clear his name. When she first came out of the house the sight of a
pair of buzzards circling high against the blue, turned her faint and
sick.
To spend another day of inaction was unthinkable. Madness lay that
way. There was no longer any question of helping him to escape. If he
was anywhere near he must be found, whatever might come of it. In her
extremity Pen went to Delehanty to tell him she was going to take part
in the search.
The detective was considerably taken aback. He pushed out his lower
lip and glowered at Pen. "What's the idea?" he demanded.
"I want him found."
"It isn't so long ago since you wanted to lose him."
Pen shrugged.
"Have you any information?" he demanded.
"No. But I know these woods."
"We all know them now," said Delehanty dryly. He considered for a
moment. "Come back in half an hour and I'll talk to you," he said
brusquely.
Pen supposed that he wanted to consult with Riever. She was in no
humor to wait.
"You forget I don't have to have your permission to search my own
place," she said. "I offer to work with you. If you don't want me to
I'll go ahead alone." She turned to leave.
"Hold on a minute!" said the detective, "you satisfy me that you're on
the square with me, and I'll work with you fast enough."
Pen was able to tell him the truth--without telling him the whole
truth. "It's very simple," she said. "I don't want him to starve on
the place, that's all."
"Humph! You've lost touch with him, eh?" said Delehanty.
Pen was silent. It was of little moment to her what they _thought_ so
they did not know anything.
"What's your plan?" asked Delehanty.
"For one thing," said Pen, "the fields have never been searched. I see
you send your men up the road every morning. There are hollows in the
fields where a man could lie concealed. Some of the fields are growing
up with young pine that would afford cover."
Delehanty looked at her with unwilling respect. "Anything else?" he
asked.
"If he's in the woods when he heard the searchers approach how easy it
would be to climb a tree until they had passed."
"Are you going to search every tree in the woods?" he asked
sarcastically.
"No," said Pen.
"Will you take a couple of my men along with you?"
"No."
Delehanty scowled darkly.
"I shall call him as I go," said Pen. "If he saw or heard others with
me he wouldn't be so likely to answer."
"Suppose you find him and he refuses to give himself up?"
"After three days without food he'd hardly be in a position to resist."
"Would you undertake to bring him in?"
"You can lend me a revolver if you want. I have none."
"Not on your life!" sneered Delehanty.
Pen shrugged. She had only mentioned the revolver as a bit of stage
business anyway.
"Go and find him if you want," said Delehanty, "but excuse me from
taking any chances of having my gun slipped to him."
Pen went back to the house and made up a packet of sandwiches. As she
was setting out the second time she ran into Riever coming in by the
drive. He had evidently been with Delehanty, and under his forced air
of politeness an extraordinary conflict of feelings was suggested;
hope, distrust and a gnawing curiosity. He would not speak of what was
in his mind, of course. "Where are you setting out for so busily?" he
asked with a false air of blitheness.
Pen was blunt enough. "I believe this man is starving somewhere on the
place, and I'm going to find him if I can."
Riever put on a look of gladness and delight. The guiding rule of his
kind is that by assuming a thing to be so you make it so. He therefore
assumed that Pen had come over to his side, that the millions had won
out, that he and she were now one in sympathy. It need hardly be
mentioned though, that his eye still rolled with a hideous doubt.
"Oh, that's fine of you!" he said ... "But it's dangerous!"
"He wouldn't hurt me," said Pen.
Riever ground his teeth secretly. "How can you be sure?" he said with
a great air of solicitude.
"Because I helped him in the beginning. I fed him."
"But you've thought better of it now?" murmured Riever.
"I'm going to find him if I can."
"I believe you're out after the reward!" Riever said, with a ghastly
sort of facetiousness.
Pen caught at the suggestion. If she were obliged to bring Don in, the
money might make all the difference to them. "Well, why not?" she
said. "I could use the money as well as anybody."
There was a quality of eagerness in her voice that could hardly have
been feigned. For the moment it lulled his doubts. "There's nobody
I'd rather pay it to," he said grinning.
"You mean that?" said Pen. "If I give him up to you, will you pay me
the reward?"
"If you give him up to me I'll double it!" he said meaningly.
"All right!" said Pen. "If I'm successful to-day, I'll hold you to
that." She made to walk on.
Riever's face was full of triumph, but there was still a fear too,
another sort of fear. "Wait a minute," he said. "Suppose you can't
handle him?"
"I have no fear of that," said Pen.
He slipped his hand in his side pocket. "Here," he said, "take this."
He produced an automatic pistol. "Do you know how to use it?"
She shook her head. He explained the mechanism.
"Thanks," she said putting it inside her dress, and walked on.
He strutted after her as far as the gates, and stood there watching.
She turned into the path behind the cottage, and followed it into the
woods. Her idea in making the little temple her starting-point was
that Don in need of succor, might haunt the paths they had followed
together.
The sun was looking straight into the little glade through the side
that opened above the pond, filling the place with a rich yellow light.
Between the shadows of the pillars a broad beam lay athwart the
inscription of the gravestone, picking out the curly flourishes of the
letters that had been sculped with such loving care. Pen was
indifferent now to her shadowy brother who lay under the stone. She
had not remembered him in many days. Her thoughts were filled by a man
of flesh and blood.
"Don! Don!" she spoke softly, not expecting any answer there, and not
getting any.
She let herself down the bank to the spring around at the left which
welled between the roots of a superb white oak that the axe had spared.
For a tree which guards a spring is sacred even to a timber scout. Pen
had hopes of the spring because it was one of the only two places that
Don knew of where fresh water was to be obtained. She searched
carefully about it but was not rewarded by finding any tracks. She
made a wider circuit of the spot but could not see that the underbrush
had been disturbed.
She forced her way slowly through the tangle of thorny creepers and
thickly-springing sassafras around the pond to the old wood road. It
curved away secretly into the gloom; old, undisturbed, overgrown;
Nature had painted in this ancient blemish. Years ago the bed of the
road had been packed so hard that even yet nothing would take root
there except a mossy growth like fur underfoot. But at either side
bushes had taken advantage of the free light to spring up thickly. Now
for the most part they met overhead, though there were places where the
sun splashed through.
Pen walked slowly, pausing often to softly call Don's name. Nothing
answered her but bird sounds, and the soft chattering of leaves in the
high sunlight. No breath stirred down below. She made wide detours
through secondary roads, mere cuts through the woods that only a
practised eye could follow now.
It was noon when she came out at the edge of the fields. She sat down
under the fence to rest, and, from a sense of duty, to eat something.
Afterwards she struck clear across the rough, neglected, cleared land
to the woods on the other side, then back again, shaping a course that
took her through every hollow. Her experience with sheep had taught
her the exact lay of the peninsula, how each depression gradually
deepened into a gully, running off to some branch on one side or the
other. But nowhere did she find what she was looking for.
She spent several hours searching the banks of the little stream that
meandered through the woods to the east of the fields. That was where
she had sent him to make his camp that night. She found the site of
his camp, but no evidences that he had revisited it. There were plenty
of tracks in the mud of the stream, for the searchers had passed and
re-passed this way, but no voice answered her soft calls.
Finally she struck across the corner of the farthest field, making for
the path which went down through the woods to the arm of Back creek,
that path they had followed on another night, a night of happiness.
She thought of the old skiff drawn up on top of the bank, and had a
wild hope that he might have launched it and succeeded in making his
way down the arm and across the main creek to the mainland. True, the
skiff was leaky and rotten, but a desperate man might make it serve for
a short voyage. She ran the last part of the way.
The skiff was there, just as before! She dropped down upon it, weary
of body and despairing of heart, and burst into tears.
"Don! Don! Don!" she called for the last time.
A green heron mocked her with its discordant croak.
The sun was low, and there could be no further searching that day. Pen
made her heavy way back through the woods, and across the wide field.
As she walked a merciful apathy descended on her. She could suffer no
more. Imaginary pictures of Don starving in the woods no longer rose
before her mind's eye. She was conscious only of a ghastly vacuum
inside her. Within it a little thought stirred like a snake: "This
can't go on! If I don't hear in two or three days more..." She never
completed the thought, but her soul was aware of her intention.
As she was letting down the bars that admitted her to the road, a squad
of men straggled by, searchers homeward bound. Pen hung back to let
them pass. The business was in the nature of a lark to them; young men
relieved for the time being from the tedium of their usual lives, they
were talking loud, laughing, jostling each other in the road. They
stared at Pen as unabashed as animals, and Pen busied herself with the
bars. Nevertheless she was aware that one of them did not stare at
her. She looked at him, and was struck first, by his curiously
self-conscious air. She looked afresh, rubbed her eyes so to speak,
and her heart stood still.
It was Don.
True, his chin was covered with a four days' growth of reddish stubble,
his bare head was touselled and unbrushed, he walked with exactly the
same shambling slouch as the others. But it was Don. He had passed
her, but the line of his cheek was enough, and the muscular back under
the cotton shirt. She recognized the old garments she had herself
carried to him. Far from being the starving wreck she had pictured,
his cheek was full and ruddy, his whole body notwithstanding the
shamble he affected, full of spring. For an instant she thought they
had taken him. But that was manifestly ridiculous. He was skylarking
with the rest. His whole bearing was that of a leader amongst them.
Pen leaned against the fence post. A welter of emotions seemed to
shatter her; joy, incredulity, terror that her wits might be wandering,
anger at his careless air of well-being.
Bye and bye she put up the bars mechanically, and started to walk along
the road with a dazed air. She could not take in what had happened.
Dusk was falling. In a couple of hundred yards a figure stepped out
from the shadow of the bordering growth.
"Pen!" it whispered.
Her first reaction was to a shaking anger. She was a little beside
herself. Stamping her foot in the road she cried in a soft, strained
voice: "You Don! Cutting up like a school-boy in the road! Is that
all you have on your mind!"
He fell back a step in surprise. Then he laughed softly like the boy
she accused him of being. "But Pen ... aren't you glad?"
"Yes, laugh! do!" she said bitterly. "It's nothing to you what I've
been through these last three days and nights!"
"I told you not to worry," he said sheepishly.
"Told me not to worry! What do you think I am?"
"There was no way in which I could let you hear from me. I thought
you'd understand everything was all right."
"You didn't care! You didn't care!"
He moved close to her. "Pen dear, don't quarrel with me! We have only
a moment. Even this is risky. There are more men coming along the
road."
She attempted to push him away. "Don't touch me! You're heartless and
unfeeling!"
Even as she said it she began to sob. She swayed on her feet, and Don
flung an arm about her. She clung to him piteously.
"Oh my darling! my darling! ... Thank God! I have you! ... Don't pay
any attention to what I say. I have suffered so. I was just at the
end of my string. If I had not found you soon I ... I ..."
"Hush, dearest!" he murmured, sobered and remorseful. "You mustn't say
such things. I can't bear it! ... It's true I never thought. I had
such confidence in your strength."
"I thought you were starving in the woods. I couldn't eat when I
thought you had nothing! I couldn't sleep, seeing you lying there."
"Hush! Hush!" he soothed her. "Everything is all right now. Pull
yourself together, dearest. There are stragglers all along the road."
Indeed they could now hear footfalls coming along behind them. They
started to walk too, Don straining Pen hard against his side.
Everybody was traveling the same way. Gradually Pen's breast quieted
down.
"What does it mean?" she asked.
"It means I'm one of the searchers for Don Counsell," he said with a
chuckle. "Only place they'd never think of looking for me."
She looked at him a little aghast.
"And I've made good in the job, too," he went on. "I'm considered
quite a valuable man. Delehanty has put me in charge of a squad."
"Delehanty!" she gasped. "Do you mean you have spoken to him?"
"Why not? He doesn't know Don Counsell by sight. None of his men do.
The only one who knows me is Riever, and I take damn good care to keep
out of his way. Luckily it's easy. He doesn't bother with the rough
necks. And you can always see him coming a long way off by his gang."
"How did it come about?" she asked.
"Most natural thing in the world. My way is different from yours. You
plan everything out, and I leave it to the inspiration of the moment.
When I tried to get out by the cellar that night I heard a man down
there. They had one out on the kitchen porch, too. So I took the
screen out of the window on the other side, and dropped to the ground
and hid in the shrubbery. I gradually made my way down to the beach.
There were some natives camping there, but I was afraid to join them
then, so I kept under cover until daylight. In the morning a raft of
newcomers arrived from all over, and it was a simple matter to mix
amongst them. They didn't all know each other."
"But you speak differently from these people," said Pen.
"Oh, I kept my mouth shut as much as possible. I gave out that I was
Frank Jones from New Jersey, see? That accounted for my Northern
speech. I said I was off a coasting schooner. Meanwhile I've been
practising their lingo, and I can already speak Mar'land at least well
enough to deceive Delehanty and the other Northerners. Doggone it
honey Ah reckon Ah kin _tawk_! 'Deed, can I! Gemmen, it's the
_trewth_!"
Pen laughed down his neck.
"Every day that passes makes my position more secure," he said. "I'm
becoming known. At least Frank Jones is. This crop of saw-tooth is a
wonderful disguise."
He softly rubbed his chin against her cheek. Pen liked it.
There came a hail from down the road ahead. "Hey, Jones!"
They moved apart. Don answered: "Coming!" To Pen he said breathlessly:
"How can we meet? ... Oh woman, if you knew how I was hungering for you
day and night!"
"No! No!" said Pen. "Everything's going so well. We mustn't take
risks ... But we ought to have some way of communicating."
"Name it quick!"
She considered swiftly. "... Do you know my fattening-coop under the
tree back of the kitchen?"
"I can find it."
"There's a little water-pan inside it. Look under that for a letter."
"All right," he laughed. "If I'm pinched for swiping chickens you'll
have to clear me!"
He ran down the road. Pen followed at a sober pace--still a little
dazed.