Billy had no appetite for the nice supper that Aunt Saxon had ready when
he came dejectedly home that night. He had passed the parsonage and
seen through the dining-room window that the rich guy was sitting at the
supper table opposite Marilyn laughing and talking with her and his
soul was sick within him. That was his doing! Nobody else but himself to
blame!
Aunt Saxon had apple dumplings with plenty of “goo,” black with cinnamon
just the way he loved it, but he only minced at the first helping and
scarcely tasted the second. He chopped a great many kindling after
supper, and filled the woodbox, and thoughtfully wound the clock. Then
instead of going out with his usual “I gotta beat it!” he sat languidly
on the doorstep in the dusk, and when she anxiously questioned if he
were sick he said crossly:
“Aw, Gee! Can't ya let a fella _alone_! I'm all in, can't ya _see_ it?
I'm gonta _bed_!” and knowing he had said the most alarming thing in
the whole category he slammed upstairs to his own room and flung himself
across his bed.
Aunt Saxon filled with vague fears crept softly up after him, tapping at
his locked door:
“Willie, what is the matter? Just tell auntie where the pain is and I'll
get you some medicine that will fix you all up by morning. I'll get you
a hot water bag--!”
“DON'T WANT NO HOT WATER BAGS!” roared the sore hearted Billy. “Can't ya
lemme _alone_?”
Silence a moment while Aunt Saxon pondered tearfully and sighfully,
then:
“Willie, is it the tooth ache?”
“NoooOH!” roared Billy.
A pause, then:
“Billy, you've had a fall off that wheel and hurt yer head or cut yer
knee, I know, I've always thought you'd do that, that old wheel! You
oughtta have a new one. But I'll bring the arnica and bathe it. And
we'll paint it with iodine--where was it Willie? Yer knee?”
Billy's shoes came to the floor with a bang:
“Aw gee! Can't ya keep yer mouth shut an' let a fella have a little
sleep. It ain't _Nowhere_! It ain't _Nothin'_ an' I didn't have no fall
an' I don't want no new bicycle. D'ye hear? I don't want nothin' 'cept
just to be let alone. I wantta go ta sleep. Ain't I ben tellin' ya
fer the last half hour? It ain't _sinful_ fer a fella to wantta take a
little sleep is it when he's been up half the night before taking care
of a fella on the mountain?--But if I ain't allowed, why then I'll get
up an' go out somewheres. I know plenty of places where they'll lemme
sleep--”
“Oh _Wil-lee_!” sobbed Aunt Saxon. “That's all right dear! Just you
lie right down in your bed and take a good sleep. I didn't understand.
Auntie didn't understand. All right Willie. I'll keep it real still. Now
you lie down won't you? You will won't you? You'll really lie down and
sleep won't you Willie?”
“Didn't I say I would?” snapped Willie shamedly, and subsided on his bed
again while Aunt Saxon stole painfully, noiselessly over the creak in
the stair, closed the house for the night and crept tearfully to her
own bed, where she lay for hours silently wiping the steady trickle of
hopeless tears. Oh, Willie, Willie! And she had had such hopes!
But Billy lay staring wide eyed at the open square of his window that
showed the little village nestling among the trees dotted here and
there with friendly winking lights, the great looming mountains in the
distance, and Stark mountain, farthest and blackest of them all. He shut
his eyes and tried to blot it out, but it seemed to loom through his
very eyelids and mock him. He seemed to see Mark, his idol, carried
between those other three dark figures into the blackness of that
haunted house. He seemed to see him lying helpless, bound, on the musty
bed in the deserted room, Mark, his beloved Mark. Mark who had carried
him on his shoulder as a tiny child, who had ridden him on his back,
and taught him to swim and pitch ball and box, Mark who let him go where
even the big boys were not allowed to accompany him, and who never told
on him nor treated him mean nor went back on him in any way! Mark! _He_
had been the means of putting Mark in that helpless position, while
circumstances which he was now quite sure the devil had been specially
preparing, wove a tangled maze about the young man's feet from which
there seemed no way of extrication.
Billy shut his eyes and tried to sleep but sleep would not come. He
began to doubt if he would ever sleep again. He lay listening to the
evening noises of the village. He heard Jim Rafferty's voice going by to
the night shift, and Tom McMertrie. They were laughing softly and once
he thought he heard the name “Old Hair-Cut.” The Tully baby across the
street had colic and cried like murder. Murder! _Murder!_ Now why did
he have to think of that word of all words? Murder? Well, it was crying
like it wanted to murder somebody. He wished he was a baby himself so he
could cry. He'd cry harder'n that. Little's dog was barking again. He'd
been barking all day long. It was probably at that strange guy at
the parsonage. Little's dog never did like strangers. That creak was
Barneses gate with the iron weight hitched on the chain to make it shut,
and somebody laughed away up the street! There went the clock, nine
o'clock! Gee! Was that all? He thought it must be about three in the
morning! And then he must have dozed off for a little, for when he woke
with a start it was very still and dark, as if the moon had gone away,
had been and gone again, and he heard a cautious little mouse gnawing at
the baseboard in his room, gnawing and stopping and gnawing again, then
whisking over the lath like fingers running a scale on the piano. He had
watched Miss Lynn do it once on the organ.
He opened his eyes and looked hard at the window. The dim outline of
Stark mountain off in the distance began to grow into form, and what was
that? A speck of light? It must be his eyes. He rubbed them sleepily and
looked again. Yes, a light. Alert at once with the alertness that comes
to all boys at the sound of a fire bell or some such alarm, he slid from
his bed noiselessly and stole to the window. It was gone! Aw, Gee! He
had been asleep and dreamed it. No, there it was again, or was it?
Blackness all before his eyes, with a luminous sky dimly about the
irregular mountain top fringed with trees. This was foolish. He felt
chilly and crept back to bed, but could not keep his eyes from the dark
spot against the sky. He tried to close the lids and go to sleep, but
they insisted on flying open and watching. And then came what he had
been watching for. Three winks, and stop, three winks, stop, and one
long flash. Then all was dark. And though he watched till the church
clock struck three he saw no more.
But the old torment came back. Mark and Cherry and Lynn. The guy at the
parsonage and the girl with the floured face and base ball bats in her
ears! Aw Gee! He must have a fever! It was hours since the clock had
struck three. It must be nearly four, and then it would soon be light
and he could get up. There seemed to be a light somewhere down the
street through the trees. Not the street lamp either. Somebody sick
likely. Hark! What was that? He wished he hadn't undressed. He sat up
in bed and listened. The purr of a car! Someone was stealing Mark's
car! Mark was away and everybody knew it. Nobody in Sabbath Valley would
steal, except, perhaps over at the plush mill. There were new people
there--Was that Mark's car? _Some car_!
With a motion like a cat he sprang into the necessary garment which
nestled limply on the floor by the bed, and was at the window in a
trice. A drop like a cat to the shed roof, down the rainwater spout to
the ground, a stealthy step to the back shed where old trusty leaned,
and he was away down the road a speck in the dark, and just in time to
see the dim black vision of a car speeding with muffled engine down the
road toward the church. It was too dark to say it was Mark's car. He had
no way but to follow.
Panting and puffing, pedalling with all his might, straining his eyes to
see through the dark the car that was flying along without lights, his
hair sticking endwise, his sleepy hungry face peering wanly through
the dark, he plodded after. Over the Highway! He slowed down and wasn't
quite sure till he heard the chug of the engine ahead, and a few seconds
later a red light bloomed out behind and he drew a new breath and
pedalled on again, his heart throbbing wildly, the collar of his pajamas
sticking up wildly like his hair, and one pajama leg showing whitely
below his trouser like a tattered banner. The pedals cut his bare feet,
and he shivered though he was drenched with perspiration, but he leaned
far over his handle bars and pedalled on.
Down past the Blue Duck Tavern, and on into the village of Economy the
car went, not rapidly now as though it were running away, but slower,
and steadier like a car on legitimate business and gravely with a
necessary object in view. Billy's heart began to quake. Not for nothing
had he learned to read by signs and actions at the feet of the master
Mark. An inner well-developed sense began to tell him the truth.
The car stopped in front of the Chief's house, and a horn sounded softly
once. Billy dismounted hastily and vanished into the shadows. A light
appeared in the upper window of the house and all was still. Presently
the light upstairs went out, the front door opened showing a dimmer
light farther in, and showing the outline of the Chief in flannel shirt
and trousers. He came down the walk and spoke with the man in the car,
and the car started again and turned in at the Chief's drive way, going
back to the garage.
Billy left his wheel against a hedge and hiked noiselessly after,
slinking behind the garage door till the driver came out. _It was Mark!_
He went down the drive, met the Chief at the gate and they went
silently down the dark street, their rubber heels making no noise on
the pavement. Economy was asleep and no wiser, but Billy's heart was
breaking. He watched the two and followed afar till they turned down the
side street which he feared. He stole after and saw them enter the brick
building that harbored the County Jail. He waited with shaking limbs and
bleeding heart, waited, hoping, fearing, dreading, but not for long. The
Chief came out alone! It was as he had feared.
Then as if the very devil himself pursued him, Billy turned and fled,
retrieving his bicycle and whirled away noiselessly down the road,
caring not where he was going, ready to hang himself, wild with despair
and self-condemnation.
The dark lay over the valley like a velvet mantel black and soft with
white wreaths of mist like a lady's veil flung aside and blown to the
breeze, but Billy saw naught but red winking lights and a jail, grim and
red in the midnight, and his friend's white face passing in beneath the
arched door. The bang of that door as it shut was echoing in his soul.
He passed the Fenner cottage. There were lights and moving about, but he
paid no heed. He passed the Blue Duck Tavern, and saw the light in the
kitchen where the cook was beginning the day's work just as the rest of
the house had been given over to sleep. There was the smell of bacon on
the air. Some one was going away on the milk train likely. He thought
it out dully as he passed with the sick reeling motion of a rider whose
life has suddenly grown worthless to him. Over bottles and nails, and
bumping over humps old trusty carried him, down the hill to Sabbath
Valley, past the grave yard where the old stones peered eerily up from
the dark mounds like wakened curious sleepers, past the church in the
gray of the morning with a pinkness in the sky behind. Lynn lying in
a sleepless bed listening to every sound for Mark's car to return, and
recognizing Billy's back wheel squeak. On down the familiar street, glad
of the thick maples to hide him, hunching up the pajama leg that would
wave below in the rapidly increasing light, not looking toward the
Carters', plodding on, old trusty on the back porch; shinning up the
water spout, tiptoeing over the shed roof, a quick spring in his own
window and he was safe on his bed again staring at the red morning light
shining weirdly, cheerily on his wall and the rooster crowing lustily
below his window. Drat that rooster! What did it want to make that noise
for? Wasn't there a rooster in that Bible story? Oh, no, that was Peter
perhaps. He turned hastily from the subject and gave his attention to
his toilet. Aunt Saxon was squeaking past his door, stopping to listen:
“Willie?”
“Well.” In a low growl, not encouragingly.
“Oh, Willie, you up? You better?”
“Nothin' the matter with me.”
“Oh--”
“Breakfast ready?”
“Oh, yes, Willie! I'm so glad you're feeling better.” She squeaked on
down the stairs sniffing as if from recent tears! Doggone those tears!
Those everlasting tears! Why didn't a woman know--! Now, what did he
have to do next? Do! Yes, he must do something. He couldn't just sit
here, could he? What about Stark's mountain and the winking light? What
about that sissy-guy making up to Miss Lynn? If only Mark were here now
he would tell him everything. Yes, he would. Mark would understand. But
Mark was in that unspeakable place! Would Mark find a way to get out?
He felt convinced he could, but would he? From the set of his shoulders
Billy had a strong conviction that Mark would not. Mark seemed to be
going there for a purpose. Would the purpose be complete during the day
sometime and would Mark return? Billy must do something before night. He
wished it might be to smash the face of that guy Shafton. Assuredly he
must do something. But first he must eat his breakfast. He didn't want
to, but he had to. Aunt Saxon would raise a riot if he didn't. Well,
there was ham. He could smell it. Ham for breakfast. Aw gee! Saxy was
getting extravagant. Somehow pretty soon if he didn't hang himself he
must find a way to brighten up Saxy and pay her back for all those pink
tears.
And over on Stark's mountain as the morning dawned a heavy foot climbed
the haunted stairs and a blood shot eye framed itself at the little
half moon in the front window that looked out over Lone Valley toward
Economy, and down over Sabbath Valley toward Monopoly commanding a
strategic position in the whole wild lovely region.
Down in the cellar where the rats had hitherto held sway a soft chip,
chip, chipping sound went steadily forward hour by hour, with spaces
between and chip, chip, shipping again, a new kind of rat burrowing into
the earth, over close to the edge of the long deserted scanty coal pile.
While up under the dusty beams in a dark corner various old parcels were
stowed away awaiting a later burial. From the peep hole where the eye
commanded the situation a small black speck went whirling along the road
to Monopoly which might be a boy on a bicycle, but no one came toward
Stark's mountain on that bright sunny morning to disturb the quiet
worker in the dark cellar.
Billy was on his way to Monopoly, his aunt appeased for the time being,
with the distinct purpose of buying the morning paper. Not that he was
given to literature, or perused the dairy news as a habit, but an idea
had struck him. There might be a way of finding out about Mark without
letting any one know how he was finding out. It might be in the paper.
Down at Monopoly no one would notice if he bought a County paper, and he
could stop in the woods and read it.
But when he reached the news stand he saw a pile of New York papers
lying right in front, and the great black headlines caught his eye:
“FATE OF LAURENCE SHAFTON STILL UNKNOWN.”
“Son of multimillionaire of New York City who was kidnapped on Saturday
night on his way from New York to a week-end house party at Beechwood,
N. J., not yet heard from. No clew to his whereabouts. Detectives out
with bloodhounds searching country. Mother in a state of collapse. It is
feared the bandits have fulfilled their threats and killed him. Father
frantically offering any reward for news of son!”
Billy read no further. He clapped down a nickel and stuffed the paper
indifferently into his pocket, almost forgetting in his disgust to
purchase the county news. “Aw Gee!” he said to himself. “More o' that
Judas stuff. I gotta get rid o' them thirty pieces!”
He stepped back and bought a County paper, stood idly looking over
its pages a moment with the letters swimming before his eyes, at last
discovering the column where the Economy “murder” was discussed, and
without reading it stuffed it in the pocket on the other side and rode
away into the sunlight. Murder! It was called murder! Then Dolph must be
dead! The plot thickened! Dead! Murder! Who killed him? Surely he wasn't
responsible for that at least! He was out on the road with Mark when it
happened. He hadn't done anything which in the remotest way had to do
with the killing, he thanked his lucky stars for that. And Mark. But who
did it? Cherry? She might be a reason for what Mark did last night.
At a turn in the road where a little grove began he got off his wheel
and seeking a sheltered spot dropped down under a tree to read his
papers. His quick eye searched through the County paper first for the
sensational account of the murder, and a gray look settled over his pug
countenance as he read. So might a mother have regarded her child in
deep trouble, or a lover his beloved. Billy's spirit was bowed to
the depths. When he had devoured every word he flung the paper aside
wrathfully, and sat up with a kind of hopeless gesture of his hard young
hands. “Aw Gee!” he said aloud, and suddenly he felt a great wet blob
rolling down his freckled cheek. He smashed it across into his hair with
a quick slash of his dirty hand as if it had been a mosquito annoying
him, and lest the other eye might be meditating a like trick he gave
that a vicious dab and hauled out the other paper, more as a matter
of form than because he had a deep interest in it. All through the
description of those wonderful Shafton jewels, and the mystery that
surrounded the disappearance of the popular young man, Billy could see
the word “murder” dancing like little black devils in and out among the
letters. The paragraph about Mrs. Shafton's collapse held him briefly:
“Aw, gee!” he could see pink tears everywhere. He supposed he ought to
do something about that. For all the world like Aunt Saxon! He seemed
to sense her youth through the printed words as he had once sensed Mrs.
Carter's. He saw her back in school, pretty and little. Rich women were
always pretty and little to his mind, pretty and little and helpless and
always crying. It was then that the thought was born that made him look
off to the hills and ponder with drawn brows and anxious mien. He
took it back to his home with him and sat moodily staring at the lilac
bushes, and gave Aunt Saxon another bad day wondering what had come to
Willie. She would actually have been glad to hear him say: “I gotta beat
it! I gotta date with tha fellas!”
That evening the rumor crept back to Sabbath Valley from who knows where
that Dolph was dead and Mark Carter had run away!