COLD NERVE
Again and again the man-hunter stabbed at the hay, moving about with
each new attack, lunging more viciously as his searching prods brought
no result. Douglas felt a little chilly as he visualized what might
have happened if Uncle Eb’s advice had not been disregarded at the
last minute. And the old man down below, hearing the loud rustle of
the dried grass and knowing nothing of the change in Steve’s place of
refuge, lost his grip on himself.
With a yell he came thundering up the stairs, his walrus mustache
bristling like tusks and his jaw jutting as if about to bite.
“_Git_ often that hay!” he bellowed. “_Git_ outen here! An’ git quick,
’fore I muckle onto ye. I’ll sling ye head-fust outen the winder!
_Git!_”
The man above had jumped about and swung the fork menacingly before
him. Infuriated still further by the sight of his own hay-tool turned
against him, the old warrior sprang up the sloping side of the mow,
panting inarticulate threats. But he collided with Douglas, who slid
down at him and clinched.
“Hold your horses, Uncle Eb!” he exhorted. “He’s not hurting the hay
or smoking in it--only jabbing the fork into it, for some reason or
other. Let him fool around. Whoa! Quiet down!”
But Eb’s blood was up, and he knew no reason why he should quiet down.
He fought to break free, and the younger man found his hands very
full. Tussling mightily, they reeled about at the foot of the slope,
in imminent danger of slipping over the edge of the open gap in the
floor and crashing down the steep stairs. The man Ward, who had bounded
part-way up to aid his companion if necessary, took one look and
hastily got from under. His mate Bill, still holding the fork poised
for defense, grinned nastily at the grappling pair.
Douglas got his chin on Eb’s shoulder and ventured a whisper from the
corner of his mouth.
“It’s all right. He’s not there.”
It took some seconds for his meaning to penetrate the old fellow’s
raging brain, but Douglas managed to hold him until he understood.
Then all at once he ceased struggling. Too, he quick-wittedly gave a
deceptive excuse for his outbreak.
“Fellers come into here--actin’ like they was the King o’ Rooshia an’
I was a dawg,” he panted. “Ain’t got no search warrant--think they can
sass me right into my own house--tromp onto my hay an’ spile it for the
hosses--they got to git out!”
“That’s right, too,” Douglas nodded. “I know how you feel. But the best
way is to let the smart-Alecks show themselves that they’re wrong--and
then, if they don’t apologize, report them to the right authorities. I
can tell you where to send the report.”
At that Bill glowered anew. He glowered still more when Douglas turned
to him with sarcastic permission to continue.
“You, up there, go on amusing yourself if you like. Mr. Wilham here
will take his amusement later--when you’re trying to explain to your
superiors why you took it on yourselves to molest a peaceable citizen.
Maybe he’ll get more fun out of it in the long run than you will. So go
ahead playing hay-maker--it’s a nice game for little boys. When you get
through, bring down a forkful for the horse. It’ll save me the trouble.”
Bill’s mouth became a thin line. He looked as if about to heave the
fork at his tormentor. But after one long glare he doggedly returned
to his search, speaking not a word. Had any fugitive been under that
hay now, however, he would undoubtedly have died under the vindictive
lunges of the fork.
Foot by foot he bayoneted the mow, from end to end and from side to
side. Douglas watched with a tantalizing grin, Uncle Eb in silent
perturbation--wondering where Steve was but not daring to ask by word
or look. From above came no sound. Steve was lying quiet as the dead.
In Hampton’s mind grew a big suspicion. These men were conducting
themselves as if acting on previous information: as if told by some
one that here they would find what they sought. It was preposterous
to suppose that they would go thus through the entire Traps, jabbing
every hay-loft, riding rough-shod over every man’s right to call his
home his castle. They had come in only that morning, gone up toward
the bowlders--and then come to the one place where the refugee was. It
might be blind chance, but--yes, Douglas was suspicious.
Finally the man Bill, with an oath, threw down the fork. His face was
redder than ever, streaked with sweat, itching from hay-dust. He mopped
a hand over his prickly cheeks, scratched his head violently, bent
a baleful glare on the two below. Then he came wallowing out of the
ragged mass he had stirred up.
“Say, bring along that horse-feed, will you? We’ve been waiting long
enough,” complained Douglas. As if in emphasis, an impatient whinny
sounded below.
Another oath exploded from the badgered Bill. He slid clumsily down and
stood looking as if aching to punch the grinning mouth. But he did not
punch. Swallowing something, he pointed downward.
“Git down-stairs!” he rasped. “You, Hampton, you got in here foist, but
ya’ll stay where I can see ya from now on. G’wan! Move!”
The blue eyes narrowed at the dictatorial tone and the half-spoken
accusation. But then Douglas smiled again--an exasperating smile.
“_When_ I’ve fed the horse,” he singsonged. “_Then_, if I feel like it.
But there, Uncle Eb, maybe you’d better do the feeding, now that you’re
here. If I laid this gun down I might lose it. Some folks can’t be
trusted.”
Uncle Eb cackled harshly. Bill moved his right arm quickly, but stopped
it. Douglas still smiled, but his eyes were cold and his gun gripped in
a ready-looking fist. Ward, whose head had risen again on the stairs,
watched like a cat, one hand under his coat.
Deliberately Uncle Eb gathered a big armful of hay, crowded past Bill
with it, dropped it on the open chute to the horse’s bin and stuffed
it down with a small two-tined fork standing at hand. Then he returned
to the stairs and clumped down them, Ward giving way but holding his
position.
“After you, my dear Bill,” bowed Douglas. “Oh, don’t be afraid.
The _Whirl_ may jump on your neck one of these days, but not this
afternoon. G’wan!”
At the patrolman-like twang of the last word Ward grinned slightly. He
evidently had a sense of humor. Bill looked at him, at Douglas--then
trod to the stairs and down. Douglas followed.
Below, the pair conducted a rapid but extremely thorough search of
the ground floor. Meal-chests, barrels, stalls, the covert under the
stairs--every nook and corner where a man could possibly be hidden was
looked into. When they still found no sign of what they sought, they
paused and looked hard at each other.
“Any cellar under here?” demanded Ward.
“If ye call a hawg-pen a cellar, yas,” snapped Uncle Eb. “Go look
into it--waller round into it--ask the hawgs what they had for
breakfas’--wait awhile an’ mebbe I’ll feed ye some swill along with
’em.”
“Say, whatcha mean by that?” snarled Bill.
“I mean ye was brought up into a hawg-pen an’ that’s where ye belong!”
flared Eb. “That plain ’nough for ye?”
It was. Bill started for the old man. But Douglas stepped between them.
He said nothing; he only looked. Bill liked the look so ill that he
slowed, then stopped.
“An’ after ye’ve shook hands with yer brothers ye can come an’ go all
over the house, like ye was goin’ to when ye got s’picious an’ follered
Hampton down here,” jeered Eb. “I don’t let pigs into my house as a
gin’ral thing, but----”
“That’ll be about enough of that!” Ward broke in. “Keep a civil tongue
in your head.”
“--But this once, I’ll do it, seein’ ye’ve gone so fur now,” Uncle Eb
continued, ignoring him. “I can air out the house when ye’re gone.
Hurry up now. Look under the beds an’ into the oven an’ all--an’ then
git often my land an’ stay off!”
The two looked keenly at him for a full half-minute.
“Since you’re so willing, we won’t,” announced Ward. Bill nodded
sulkily, looking again around the barn. Ward rubbed his jowl and spat
on the floor.
“What d’you make of it, Bill?” he puzzled.
“Somebody lied!” was the morose answer.
“Yeah. Looks like it. Well, let’s travel.”
Douglas, shrewdly watching, loosed a snap shot.
“Don’t you fellows know any better than to believe Sanders?”
The slight start, the involuntary flicker of the eyelids, told him that
his shot had scored.
“Uh--whatcha mean? We ain’t seen Sanders,” blurted Bill.
“No? I notice that you know his name, though. How much did he shake
you down for? You’d better get it back, quick.”
The pair scowled at each other. Bill, with a growl, started for the
door. Ward halted him.
“Hold up, Bill. No hurry,” he said. “What about Sanders, Hampton?”
“Only this much: Folks around here think I’m a detective. Sanders
thought so too. He offered to get me any man I wanted--for half the
reward. If the man wasn’t here, he offered to sell me some fellow who
hadn’t done anything but who could be railroaded--for the right price.
He bragged that he could sell anybody, and that he’d done that kind of
business before. Does that line of talk sound familiar?”
The scowls grew deeper.
“Some of it,” Ward admitted. “Not the railroad part of it, but--some of
it. Well, say, Hampton, I’m sure obliged to you for that. Sell anybody,
eh? That means the fellow he’s dealing with, too. Uh-huh. Bill, let’s
you and me take a walk.”
Bill, with another growl, started forward again. But Douglas was not
yet through.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked pointedly, moving his head
toward Uncle Eb.
“That’s right,” Ward acknowledged. “I’m sorry, Mr.--uh--Williams--
Wilson----”
“Wilham!” barked Eb. “I ain’t got nothin’ ag’in you. It’s this here
hawg.” His frosty eyes glinted at the offensive Bill.
“How about it, Bill?” queried Ward, his tongue in his cheek.
Bill turned sourly, heavy jaw set. But he attempted amends.
“Sorry, old fella,” he mumbled. “We got a bad steer. We ain’t hoit ya,
have we? We gotta do our dooty. We--uh----”
“All right, let it go at that,” Douglas interposed. All four moved out
of the barn. As they emerged, Douglas began speaking a little louder,
so that Steve could hear. And, to keep the pair from glancing back
and perhaps seeing what was on the roof, he walked toward the house,
talking over one shoulder.
“If you want to find Sanders, you’d better go straight down the road
and hunt his house. He’ll probably be there at meal-time, if not
before. Where does he live, Uncle Eb?”
“Way over t’other side, not sech a long ways from the Gap,” Eb answered
readily. “He comes an’ goes by cross-cuts, but ye better stick to the
road. Ye turn into the Clove road down past the schoolhouse, keep on
till ye’ve crossed the crick twice--it sorter wanders round an’ ther’s
bridges acrost--an’ then ther’s a kind of a wood-road bearin’ off to
yer right. Go up that an’ ye’ll find Snake’s house. Ye’ll be ’bout the
onliest comp’ny thar. Nobody visits much with Snake.”
They were turning into the dooryard before the house now, Bill and Ward
morosely eyeing the road and trying to fix in mind the unfamiliar turns
as described by Uncle Eb. Douglas stole a glance beyond them. One side
of the barn roof was in plain sight now. And on that side, a quarter of
the way down, was Steve.
Hugging the shingles, he was craftily working eavesward from the ridge
to which he had clung. With bare toes and flattened hands holding him
from too sudden a slip down the pitch, he was sliding himself lower
and lower on his stomach. When he should reach the eaves, it would be
only a matter of a short drop to the ground and a quick jump around the
corner, and he would be out of sight. But if his pursuers should happen
to look that way now----
“Look here,” Douglas said quickly, stooping and tracing a line with his
gun-butt, “here’s the road. Now you go down this way, and then----”
Moving the weapon, keeping his eyes glued to his crude map, he talked
on, holding their attention. They followed every move. And behind them
the ragged figure on the barn roof descended until its feet hung out
over the eaves. There it hesitated an instant, balancing itself for the
final slip and drop.
Douglas dared not look. Playing for time, he appealed to Uncle Eb for
information regarding some fictitious road which might branch off
before the right one should be reached. Eb’s eyes were crinkled with
amusement, for he saw that the younger man was inventing most of his
road-map; but he kept his face straight, disputed a couple of turns,
and put down a gnarled finger to make a new section of the course.
Bill began to stir impatiently. His eyes wandered.
“Yeah, we’ll git there,” he broke in. “Come on, Ward.”
“When you get there, look out for snakes!” warned Douglas, striking
for his wandering attention. He got it. Bill faced him again.
“Snakes! Whatcha mean?”
“Sanders has a fondness for snakes--bad ones. He may have a few around
where you can step on them. Keep your eyes peeled.”
At that moment sounded a soft thump at the side of the barn. Ward
started to turn.
“Copperheads--rattlers--poisonous!” asserted Douglas loudly. “Watch out
for ’em!”
Ward’s eyes hung on his a couple of seconds longer, held by the
warning. Then he turned and looked toward the barn.
“What’s that bump?” he muttered.
“Horse moving around, or a hog down below. Don’t forget those snakes.”
Then Douglas looked. Only the old barn met his anxious gaze. Ward,
after a speculative glance around, nodded and started away.
“All right. See you later, maybe. So long.”
Followed by Bill, he stepped briskly to the road. Along the lumpy
wheel-ruts in the sand they trudged, their voices floating back
in growling tones that boded ill for somebody. Then the roadside
brush-growth blotted out their receding figures, and the only sound was
the cheerful chorus of the crickets in the grass.