AN ADVENTURE IN THE FOG
Tom Chepstow set out for the dugout. Churchman as he was his blood was
stirred to fighting heat, his lean, hard muscles were tingling with a
nervous desire for action. Nor did he attempt to check his feelings, or
compose them into a condition compatible with his holy calling.
Possibly, when the time had passed for action, and the mantle of peace
and good-will toward all men had once more fallen upon him, he would
bitterly regret his outbreak, but, for the moment, he was a man, human,
passionate, unreasoning, thrilling with the joy of life, and the
delight of a moral truancy from all his accepted principles. No
schoolboy could have broken the bonds of discipline with a greater joy,
and his own subconscious knowledge of wrong-doing was no mar to his
pleasure.
The fog was thick, but it did not cause him great inconvenience. He
took to the woods for his course, and, keeping close to the edge which
encircled the camp clearing, he had little difficulty in striking the
path to the dugout. This achieved he had but to follow it carefully.
The one possibility that caused him any anxiety was lest he should
overshoot the hut in the fog.
But he need have had no fear of this. Dense as the fog was, the lights
of the dugout were plainly visible when he came to it. Betty, with
careful forethought, had set the oil lamps in the two windows. She
quite understood the difficulties of that forest land, and she had no
desire for the men-folk to spend the night roaming the wilderness.
The parson found her calmly alert. She did not fly at him with a rush
of questions. She was far more composed than he, yet there was a
sparkling brilliancy in her brown eyes which told of feelings strongly
controlled; her eyelids were well parted, and there was a shade of
quickening in the dilation of her nostrils as she breathed. She looked
up into his face as he turned after closing the door, and his tongue
answered the mute challenge.
"There's to be a great game to-night," he said, rubbing the palms of
his hands together. The tone, the action, both served to point the
state of his mind.
Knowing him as she did Betty needed no words to tell her that the
"game" was to be no sort of play.
"It's a 'strike,'" he went on. "A strike, and a bad one. They intend to
make a prisoner of Mason, and, maybe, of us. We've got to outwit them.
Now, help me get some things together, and I'll tell you while we get
ready. We've got to quit to-night."
He picked up a gunny sack while he was speaking and gave it to Betty to
hold open. Then he immediately began to deplete the lumberman's larder
of any eatables that could be easily carried.
Ever since the men had left her this strike had been in Betty's mind,
so his announcement in no way startled her.
"What of Dave?" she asked composedly. "Has he any--idea of it?"
"That's just it. We've got to let him know. He's quite in the dark.
Communications cut. Mason must get away at once to let him know. He
intends to 'jump' their buckboard and team--I mean these strikers'
buckboard." He laughed. He felt ready to laugh at most things. It was
not that he did not care. His desire was inspired by the thought that
he was to play a part in the "game."
"The one that came in to-night?" Betty asked, taking up a fresh sack to
receive some pots and blankets.
"Yes."
"And we are to bolt with him?" she went on in a peculiar manner.
Her uncle paused in the act of putting firearms and ammunition into the
sack. Her tone checked his enthusiasm. Then he laughed.
"We're not 'bolting' Betty, we're escaping so that Dave may get the
news. His fortune depends on our success. Remember our communications
are cut."
But his arguments fell upon deaf ears. Betty smiled and shook her brown
head.
"We're bolting, uncle. Listen. There's no need for us to go. In fact,
we can't go. Think for a moment. Things depend on the speed with which
Dave learns of the trouble. We should make two more in the buckboard of
which the horses are already tired. Mason, by himself, will travel
light. Besides, a girl is a deterrent when it comes to--fighting. No,
wait." She held up a warning finger as he was about to interrupt. "Then
there are the sick here. We cannot leave them. They--are our duty.
Besides, Dave's interests would be ill served if we left the fever to
continue its ravages unchecked."
In her last remark Betty displayed her woman's practical instinct.
Perhaps she was not fully aware of her real motive. Perhaps she
conscientiously believed that it was their duty that claimed her.
Nevertheless her thought was for the man she loved, and it guided her
every word and action; it inspired her. The threat of imprisonment up
here did not frighten her, did not even enter into her considerations
at all. Dave--her every nerve vibrated with desire to help him, to save
him.
Chepstow suddenly reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder. His
enthusiasm had passed, and, for the moment, the churchman in him was
uppermost again.
"You're right, Betty," he said with decision. "We stay here."
The girl's eyes thanked him, but her words were full of practical
thought.
"Will Mason come here? Because, if so, we'll get these things outside
ready."
"No. We've got to carry them down the trail and meet him there. There
may be a rush. There may be a scuffle. We don't know. I half think
you'd better stay here while I go and meet him."
Betty shook her head.
"I'm going to help," she exclaimed, with a flash of battle in her eyes.
"Then come on." Her uncle shouldered the heavier of the two sacks, and
was about to tuck the other under his arm, but Betty took it from him,
and lifted it to her shoulder in a twinkling.
"Halves," she cried, as she moved toward the door.
The man laughed light-heartedly and blew out the lights. Then, as he
reached the girl's side, a distant report caused him to stop short.
"What's that?" he demanded.
"A pistol shot," cried Betty. "Come along!"
They ran out of the hut and down the trail, and, in a moment, were
swallowed up in the fog.
* * * * *
Bob Mason intended to give Chepstow a fair start. He knew, if he were
to be successful, his task would occupy far less time than the other's.
And a vital point in his scheme lay in meeting his two friends at the
appointed spot.
He was fully alive to the rank audacity of his plan. It was desperate,
and the chances were heavily against him. But he was not a man to
shrink from an undertaking on such a score. He had to warn Dave, and
this was the only means that suggested itself. If he were not a genius
of invention, he was at least full of courage and determination.
On his previous reconnoitre he had located the buckboard at the
tying-posts in front of the store. Quite why it had been left there he
could not understand, unless the strike-leader intended leaving camp
that night. However, the point of interest lay in the fact of the
vehicle and horses being there ready for his use if he could only
safely possess himself of them, so speculation as to the reason of its
being there was only of secondary interest.
When he made his first move Tom Chepstow had been gone some ten
minutes. He groped his way carefully along the wall until the front
angle of the building was reached, and here he paused to ascertain the
position of things. The meeting was still in progress inside, and, as
yet, there seemed to be no sign of its breaking up. The steady hum of
voices that reached him told him this.
About twenty yards directly in front of him was the buckboard; while to
the right, perhaps half that distance away, was the open door of the
store, and adjacent to it a large glass window. Both were lit up, and
the glow from the oil lamps shone dully on the fog bank. He was half
inclined to reconnoitre these latter to ascertain if any one were
about, but finally decided to go straight for his goal and chance
everything. With this intention he moved straight out from the building
and vanished in the fog.
He walked quickly. Fortune favored him until he was within a few yards
of the tying-post, when suddenly the clanging of an iron-handled bucket
being set roughly upon the ground brought him to a dead standstill.
Some one was tending the horses--probably watering them. Evidently they
were being got ready for a journey. Almost unconsciously his hand went
to the pocket in which he carried his revolver.
At that moment a roar of applause came from the store, and he knew the
meeting was drawing to a close. Then came a prolonged cheering,
followed by the raucous singing of "He's a jolly good fellow." It _was_
the end.
He could delay no longer. Taking his bearings as well as the fog would
permit, he struck out for the tail end of the buckboard. He intended
reaching the "near-side" of the horses, where he felt that the reins
would be looped up upon the harness, and as the best means of avoiding
the man with the bucket.
In this he had little difficulty, and when he reached the vehicle he
bent low, and, passing clear of the wheels, drew up toward the horses'
heads. By this time the man with the bucket was moving away, and he
breathed more freely.
But his relief was short-lived. The men were already pouring out of the
store, and the fog-laden air was filled with the muffled tones of many
voices. To add to his discomfiture he further became aware of footsteps
approaching. He could delay no longer. He dared not wait to let them
pass. Then, they might be the owners of the buckboard. His movements
became charged with almost electrical activity.
He reached out and assured himself that the bits were in the horses'
mouths. Then he groped for the reins; as he expected, they were looped
in the harness. Possessing himself of them, he reached for the
collar-chain securing the horses to the posts. He pressed the swivel
open, and, releasing it, lowered the chain noiselessly. And a moment
later two men loomed up out of the fog on the "off-side." They were
talking, and he listened.
"It's bad med'cine you leaving to-night," he heard the voice of the
strike-leader say in a grumbling tone.
"I can't help that," came the response. It was a voice he did not
recognize.
"Well, we've got to secure this man Mason to-night. You can't trust
these fellows a heap. Give 'em time, and some one will blow the game.
Then he'll be off like a rabbit."
"Well, it's up to you to get him," the strange voice retorted sharply.
"I'm paying you heavily. You've undertaken the job. Besides, there's
that cursed parson and his niece up here. I daren't take a chance of
their seeing me. I oughtn't to have come up here at all. If Lieberstein
hadn't been such a grasping pig of a Jew there would have been no need
for my coming. You've just got to put everything through on your own,
Walford. I'm off."
Mason waited for no more. The buckboard belonged to the stranger, and
he was about to use it. He laughed inwardly, and his spirits rose.
Everything was ready. He dropped back to the full extent of the reins
as stealthily and as swiftly as possible. This cleared him of the
buckboard and hid him from the view of the men. Then with a rein in
each hand he slapped them as sharply as he could on the quarters of the
cold and restless horses. They jumped at the neck-yoke, and with a
"yank" he swung them clear of the tying-posts. He shouted at them and
slapped the reins again, and the only too willing beasts plunged into a
gallop.
He heard an exclamation from one of the men as the buckboard shot past
them, and the other made a futile grab for the off-side rein. For
himself he seized the rail of the carryall with one hand and gave a
wild leap. He dropped into the vehicle safely but with some force, and
his legs were left hanging over the back.
But he had not cleared the danger yet. He was in the act of drawing in
his legs when they were seized in an arm embrace, and the whole weight
of a man hung upon him in an effort to drag him off the vehicle. There
was no time to consider. He felt himself sliding over the rail, which
only checked his progress for an instant. But that instant gave him a
winning chance. He drew his revolver, and leveling it, aimed
point-blank at where he thought the man's shoulder must be. There was a
loud report, and the grip on his legs relaxed. The man dropped to the
ground, and he was left to scramble to his feet and climb over into the
driving-seat.
A blind, wild drive was that race from the store. He drove like a fury
in the fog, trusting to the instinct of the horses and the luck of the
reckless to guide him into the comparative safety of the eastward trail.
As the horses flew over the ground the cries of the strikers filled the
air. They seemed to come from every direction, even ahead. The noise,
the rattle of the speeding wheels, fired his excitement. The fog--the
dense gray pall that hung over the whole camp--was his salvation, and
he shouted back defiance.
It was a useless and dangerous thing to do, and he realized his folly
at once. A great cry instantly went up from the strikers. He was
recognized, and his name was shouted in execration. He only laughed.
There was joy in the feel of the reins, in the pulling of the
mettlesome horses. They were running strong and well within themselves.
It was only a matter of seconds from the time of his start to the
moment when he felt the vehicle bump heavily over a series of ruts. He
promptly threw his weight on the near-side rein, and the horses swung
round. It was the trail he was looking for. And as the horses settled
down to it he breathed more freely. It was only after this point had
been gained and passed that he realized the extent of his previous
risk. He knew that the entrance to the trail on its far side was lined
by log shanties, and he had been driving straight for them.
In the midst of his freshly-acquired ease of mind came a sudden and
unpleasant recollection. He remembered the path through the woods to
the dugout; it was shorter than the trail he was on by nearly a mile.
While he had over a mile and a half to go, those in pursuit, if they
took to the path, had barely half.
He listened. But he knew beforehand that his fears were only too well
founded. Yes, he could hear them. The voices of the pursuers sounded
away to the left. They were abreast of him. They had taken to the
woods. He snatched the whip from its socket and laid it heavily across
the horses' backs, and the animals stretched out into a race. The
buckboard jumped, it rattled and shrieked. The pace was terrific. But
he was ready to take every chance now, so long as he could gain
sufficient time to take up those he knew to be waiting for him ahead.
In another few minutes he would know the worst--or the best. Again and
again he urged his horses. But already they were straining at the top
of their speed. They galloped as though the spirit of the race had
entered their willing souls. They could do no more than they were
doing; it was only cruelty to flog them. If their present speed was
insufficient then he could not hope to outstrip the strikers. If he
only could hear their voices dropping behind.
The minutes slipped by. The fog worried him. He was watching for the
dugout, and he feared lest he should pass it unseen. Nor could he
estimate the distance he had come. Hark! the shouts of the pursuers
were drawing nearer, and--they were still abreast of him! He must be
close on the dugout. He peered into the fog, and suddenly a dark shadow
at the trail-side loomed up. There was no mistaking it. It was the hut;
and it was in darkness. His friends must be on ahead. How far! that was
the question. On that depended everything.
What was that? The hammering of heavy feet on the hard trail sounded
directly behind him. He had gained nothing. Then he thought of that
halt that yet remained in front of him, and something like panic seized
him. He slashed viciously at his horses.
He felt like a man obsessed with the thought of trailing bloodhounds.
He must keep on, on. There must be no pause, no rest, or the ravening
pack would fall on him and rend him. Yet he knew that halt must come.
He was gaining rapidly enough now. Without that halt they could never
come up with him. But--his ears were straining for Chepstow's summons.
Every second it was withheld was something gained. He possessed a
frantic hope that some guiding spirit might have induced the churchman
to take up a position very much further on than he had suggested.
"Hallo!"
The call had come. Chepstow was at the edge of the trail. Mason's hopes
dropped to zero. He abandoned himself to the inevitable, flung his
weight on the reins, and brought his horses to a stand with a jolt.
"Where's Miss Betty?" he demanded. But his ears caught the sound of the
men behind him, and he hurried on without waiting for a reply. "Quick,
parson! The bags! fling 'em in, and jump for it! They're close behind!"
"Betty's gone back," cried Chepstow, flinging the sacks into the
carryall. "I'm going back too. You go on alone. We've got the sick to
see to. Tell Dave we're all right. So long! Drive on! Good luck! Eh?"
A horrified cry from Mason had caused the final ejaculation.
He was pointing at the off-side horse standing out at right angles to
the pole.
"For God's sake, fix that trace," he cried. "Quick, man! It's unhooked!
Gee! What infern----"
Chepstow sprang to secure the loosened trace. He, too, could hear the
pursuers close behind. He fumbled the iron links in his anxiety, and it
took some moments to adjust.
"Right," he cried at last, after what seemed an interminable time.
Mason whipped up his horses, and they sprang to their traces. But as
they did so there was a sudden rush from behind, and a figure leapt on
to the carryall. The buckboard rocked and the driver, in the act of
shouting at his horses, felt himself seized by the throat from behind.
Fortunately the churchman saw it all. His blood rushed to his brain. As
the buckboard was sweeping past him he caught the iron rail and leapt.
In an instant he was on his feet and had closed with Mason's assailant.
He, too, went for the throat, with all the ferocity of a bulldog. The
mantle of the church was cast to the winds. He was panting with the
lust for fight, and he crushed his fingers deep into the man's
windpipe. They dropped together on the sacks.
Mason, released, dared not turn. He plied his whip furiously. He had
the legs of his pursuers and he meant to add to his distance. He heard
the struggle going on behind him. He heard the gasp of a choking man.
And, listening, he reveled in it as men of his stamp will revel in such
things.
"Choke him, parson! Choke the swine!" he hurled viciously over his
shoulder.
He got no answer. The struggle went on in silence, and presently Mason
began to fear for the result. He slackened his horses down and glanced
back. Tom Chepstow's working features looked up into his.
"I've got him," he said: then of a sudden he looked anxiously down at
the man he was kneeling on. "He's--he's unconscious. I hope---- You'd
better pull up."
"I wish you'd choke the life out of him," cried Mason furiously.
"I did my best, I'm afraid," the parson replied ruefully. "You'd better
pull up."
But the lumberman kept on.
"Half a minute. Get these matches, and have a look at him. I'll slow
down."
The churchman seized the matches, and, in his anxiety at what he had
done, struck several before he got one burning long enough to see the
unconscious man's face. Finally he succeeded, and an ejaculation of
surprise broke from him.
"Heavens! It's Jim Truscott!" he cried.
He pressed his hand over the man's heart.
"Thank God! he's alive," he added.
Mason drew up sharply. A sudden change had come over his whole manner.
He sprang to the ground.
"Here, help me secure him," he said almost fiercely. "I'll take him
down to Dave."
They lashed their prisoner by his hands and feet. Then Mason seized the
churchman excitedly by the arm.
"Get back, parson!" he cried. "Get back to the dugout quick as hell'll
let you! There's Miss Betty!"
"God! I'd forgotten! And there's those--strikers!"