CREEPING THINGS
Up on the brink of Dickie Barre, on a triangular outcrop of stone bare
of brush but topped by whispering pines, Douglas lounged in luxurious
content, basking in the mellow warmth of September sun.
Behind him his pack leaned against the base of a pine. Beside him lay
his gun. Before him stretched the long panorama of the Traps.
From the half-naked rock of Millbrook Mountain, where the rim of the
great bowl curved westward to merge into the Minnewaska steeps, to the
castle-like peak of Sky Top, beneath which the strange lake of Mohonk
nestled out of sight in a cup of sheer stone, rambled the top of the
Great Wall. Northward from Sky Top it dipped downward in a long sweep,
and there the east-swinging wall of Dickie Barre seemed to close in and
complete the unbroken ring of uplands surrounding the forested chasm.
But the man loafing up on the breezy point knew that such was not the
case.
Though he had not yet traveled in that direction, he had been studying
a couple of squares of Government topographic map, of which several
were in his ditty-bag; and he knew that the walls did not close. They
pinched together into a narrow ravine, then veered apart again, each
pursuing its own way into the north until it became only a series
of rounded knolls sinking into the other low hills beyond. And that
ravine, or perhaps the wider valley floor beyond, must be the Clove of
which Marion Oaks had spoken.
Through that ravine and on into the north, the map said, ran a
road--the inside road of the Traps; and along that road-line, at wide
intervals, were the little square symbols which, to the topographer,
signify “houses.” One of those dots must be the house where Jake Dalton
had lived before he was found “swelled up terrible”; where now even the
hard sons of the craggy hills dared not sleep because of the fearful
thing which could not be seen but could be felt. Before sundown, the
lone blond man intended, he would find that house and see whether it
was fit for habitation. If so, he meant to inhabit it, ha’nt or no
ha’nt.
Everything impelled him toward that house. To live continuously among
the bowlders where he had stayed last night was neither comfortable
nor sensible: the place was too far from water, from food, from
human associates; and when the drenching fall rains should come, as
they might at any time, he would be almost unprotected. For sinister
purposes, for the concealment of nameless activities and of wanted men,
the maze of cliff-blocks was ideal; but for the steady residence of a
man who dodged neither lawmakers nor lawbreakers it was the reverse.
And to a red-blooded, two-handed fellow like Douglas Hampton the story
of the uncanny house was enough. Had it been an even poorer place than
his rocky lair, he would have journeyed thither to seek the solution
of its mystery.
But the day was far from old, and there was time to loaf and look and
bask and think, unworried by necessity. Here was none of the rush and
drive of the city, the scurry to fill assignments, the fret and fume
of the hordes of business-slaves hurtling over-ground and underground
in ant-like activity. Here was nothing to do but relax, absorbing the
golden sunlight and the green beauty of nature and the clinking music
of unseen hammers far below and far away on the Mohonk slope, where
millstone-makers were rifting rock in their little quarries. What
though one had no habitation? What though his food was almost gone
and the pipe dangling from the corner of his mouth was empty? Time
enough to seek shelter when night approached; time enough to rustle
for food when the last crumb had vanished. Now was the hour to let his
city-starved soul feast on freedom.
So he leaned there on an elbow, blinking outward and downward at the
varying verdure of the hardwood forests, the red spots of sumach and
the orange tips of goldenrod brightening the little fields, the tiny
houses dotting the openings, the little ribbons of smoke drifting away
from their chimneys. His thoughts moved in a slow circle--from Marion
to Steve, from Steve to the haunted house, from the haunted house to
the legend of the long-dead outlaw gang, from the gang to its women
prisoners, and so back again to Marion. Where was she now? Down in one
of those houses, beaten and sworn at for running away? Much nearer,
still talking with her escaped-convict lover in the “hide-out” to
which she had taken him? Limping along somewhere in the masking brush,
forgetful of pain, thinking only of bringing food to the worn-out
fugitive? Only the labyrinth below could tell; and it was not in the
habit of telling tales about its children.
And this Snake Sanders, who had wriggled out of the way of officers and
let a boy suffer the penalty of some unknown crime--who and what was
he? The thinker, accustomed to studying faces and voices, felt that
Steve’s denial of guilt and denunciation of Snake were genuine. His
virulent hatred, his vicious threat against that man, were those of the
bitterly wronged. Yet Marion, herself swift-tempered and courageous,
had shown that she feared this Snake, who might be a-sneakin’ and
a-slidin’ along near at hand----
The blond man grew tense. Something _was_ sneaking along, though not
very near. Something was creeping stealthily toward him from the thick
growth behind; something which made no footfall, but which caused a
slight difference in the rustling of the breeze-kissed leaves.
He started to turn his head, then checked the movement. He felt that he
would see nothing: that the creature was traveling with Indian stealth,
keeping itself masked; that his look behind would only warn the
sinister thing that its approach was known. He was lying dangerously
close to the edge, and his nerves shouted to him to get back while
there was time. But he held himself where he was.
His eyes flicked downward at his gun. Then he carelessly raised
himself to a sitting position, took his pipe from his mouth and glanced
at it, put it back, and let his hand stray down to his shirt pocket. It
hovered there a moment, then sank loosely as if empty. But cupped in
his palm now was a little round mirror.
Casual though his movements had been, the soft rustle of progress
had ceased. Only the little flutterings caused by wandering
air-currents came to him. As he sat still, however, apparently
absorbed in contemplation of the scene below, it recommenced. Slowly,
imperceptibly, he turned his hand, slanting the mirror up and down by
degrees, watching it from the corner of his eye. It was a schoolboy
trick which he had used more than once in later years when desirous of
seeing something behind without turning his head. And now, listening
keenly and moving the telltale glass with practised hand, he soon
located the advancing thing behind the pine, some ten feet away, where
his pack lay.
It was creeping now on the ground, free from the brush beyond but still
unseen; keeping itself concealed behind pack and pine, making only a
slight slither as it came. The sound died. For a long minute all was
quiet. Then, slowly, above the edge of the pack rose a hat.
Shapeless, dingy felt it was, with a ragged hole below its crown. Under
its brim glimmered black eyes, beady and cold as those of a reptile.
Little by little the nose came up into view--a flat, wide nose with
something of the triangularity of a snake’s head. There it poised,
mouth and jaw hidden behind the bulk of the pack.
The opaque eyes fixed greedily on the new shotgun lying beside the
watcher’s leg. Then they returned to the back and shoulders of the
blond man, and the lids narrowed into wicked slits. The nose drew
downward, the eyes followed, the hat faded. Above the pack nothing
showed except the low branches of the pine.
Little sounds of movement came--of movement but not of advance. Douglas
moved the mirror to right and left of the lump of blankets. His fingers
grew rigid. Something had appeared beside the pack--a light but strong
box, from which a dirty black-haired hand was lifting a lid. As that
lid arose the box was tilted so that its top became an open side,
facing toward the man on the brink. And out from it crawled a big
copperhead.
Head raised, it glided forward a foot or two and stopped, its tail
still in the box, which lay motionless. Its venomous eyes focused on
the still figure of the man beyond, who remained as rigid as the rock
on which he sat. Its tongue ran out and vibrated in menace. Slowly it
slipped forward a little farther, then paused again. Douglas braced
himself to snatch up his gun, whirl, and fire the instant its approach
was resumed. But it was not resumed.
Instead, the repulsive creature lay quiet, absorbing the warmth of rock
and sun. Minutes passed, and it made no move. Then from beyond the
pack came a faint sibilant sound--an almost inaudible noise which was
not hiss nor breath nor whistle, but something of all three, and which
seemed to arouse the reptile. It turned, and crept sluggishly toward
the spot whence the sound had come.
Twice that indescribable sibilance was repeated, and the snake moved
on in its deliberate, fat-bodied way. Just then a sudden gust of wind
swooped playfully along the brink, startling the leaves into a flapping
chorus like the beating wings of trapped birds. The hideous thing on
the ground slid around the pack, paused, was gone.
Douglas drew a long breath and became aware that his shirt was clammy
with cold perspiration. A chill shivered down his back. Moving the
glass, he scanned all around and above that pack. Nothing showed. The
gust of wind fled along on its frolicsome way, and all grew quiet. No
sound came from behind the pine.
Still controlling his movements, he looked casually around, then arose
as if tired of sitting. As he stood up, however, his gun was in one
hand, and he loosely swung its twin muzzles to cover the pack. Feigning
a yawn, he stepped lazily toward the pine, dropping the mirror into a
trousers pocket as he moved. With a quiet click his safety-catch slid,
and two solid charges--of buckshot--were ready for instant use.
A good stride away from the blankets he turned aside and drifted around
the butt of the pine. Then he halted, sorely puzzled. The man who
should have been lurking there was not. The box, too, had vanished. Not
even the snake----
But yes, the snake was there. It was curled just below and behind the
pack, hidden from any eye except one searching for it; three feet of
silent death, ready to strike its fangs into the hands of the man
stooping to lift his back-burden before slinging it on his shoulders.
Even now, with that man’s eye on it, it was poising in venomous
alertness, its tongue vibrating again like a blur.
Douglas stepped onward a little, lifted his gun, and fired. The snake
rolled writhing away, blown apart. Instantly he wheeled, the other
barrel ready to meet any menace. But still nothing showed itself. The
growth beyond seemed empty.
Warily watching, he stepped to his pack, swung it up one-handed, and
stood a minute longer scanning his surroundings. Seeing nothing new,
he got into the straps and strode away. Only a few rods to his left,
he knew, ran a faint trail--the path by which he had come here after
finding a steep slope which had enabled him to climb Dickie Barre. The
trail would be empty, of course; the skulking assassin in the felt hat
would be so cunningly hidden in the encompassing tangle that no mere
stranger could find him. No use hunting him.
But as he emerged into that path he stopped, startled. There, only a
few feet away, stood the man.
So astounded by the other’s audacity was Douglas that he stood gaping.
The sinister hillman grinned guilelessly.
“Howdy, stranger!” he greeted. “Scairt ye, did I? Was that ye
a-shootin’ jest now?”
Douglas swallowed an impulse to leap at him. Still amazed, he glanced
rapidly over him. Below the ophidian eyes and flat nose which he had
seen before, he now noted a coarse mouth, tobacco-yellowed teeth,
scraggly black beard about a week old, long lean frame, and nondescript
garments. His curving hands were empty. His snake-box was not with him
now. Nor had he any gun.
The man moved slightly, shifting a foot. In the movement was something
reptilian--a sinuous smoothness that was serpentine. And in the short
sentences which he had just spoken was a repellent hiss.
“Howdy yourself!” growled Douglas. “What are you doing here?”
“Jest a-ramblin’ round, stranger. Might ast ye the same. What was ye
shootin’?”
“Snake.” Douglas gave him a hard look.
“Yeh? Huh! Awful waste o’ powder. Us fellers use sticks onto them
things. Thought mebbe ye got what ye’re into here for.”
A cunning wink followed his last utterance.
“Meaning?”
The yellow teeth bared themselves in a wide, silent laugh. But the
beady eyes held no mirth.
“Think I dunno ye? Huh! I ain’t no fool. Ye ain’t here jest to look at
rocks an’ things. Trouble is, ye dunno this kentry an’ how to work it.
None o’ ye do. Everybody into the place knowed days ago ye was here,
an’ ye’ll never git yer man ’less’n ye do business. I’m the feller to
do business with.”
Again the cunning wink.
“Meaning?” repeated Douglas.
“Huh! Ye know. We’ll work shares. I’ll toll yer man to ye for half the
reward. Who d’ye want? How much’s he wuth?”
The blond man bit back a sudden desire to grin.
“Who are you?” he countered.
“Me? Snake Sanders.”