High in the tree over Billy's head a little chipmunk whisked with a nut
in his mouth. He selected a comfortable rocking branch, unfurled his
tail for a wind shield at his back, and sat up to his supper table as
it were with the nut in his two hands. Something unusual caught his
attention as he was about to attack the nutshell, and he cocked his
little striped head around, up, and down, and took in Billy. Then a
squirrel smile overspread his furry face and a twinkle seemed to come
in his eye. With a wink down toward Billy he went to work. Crack, crack,
crack! The shell was open. Crack! And a large section fell, whirling
spinning down, straight down. The squirrel paused in his nibbling and
cocked an eye again with that mischievous twinkle as if he enjoyed the
joke, watching the light bit of shell in its swift descent, plump on the
end of Billy's nose. It couldn't have hit straighter if Chippie had been
pitcher for the Sabbath Valley base ball team.
Billy opened his eyes with a start and a scowl, and there before him,
glaring like a wild beast, thick lips agap showing gnarled yellow teeth,
wicked eyes, red glittering and murderous, was Pat, ugly, formidable and
threatening!
“Come outta there you little varmint you!” roared Pat. “Come out and
I'll skin the nasty yella hide off'n ya. I gotcha good and hard now
right where I wantcha an' ye won't--”
Bang! Click!--BANG!
Billy had been lying among the thick undergrowth, flat on his back, his
left arm flung above his head, but his right arm was thrust out from
his body under a thick clump of laurel, and his right hand held the gun
ready for any emergency when he inadvertently went to sleep. The gun
was pointed down the Valley along the ground and his fingers wrapped
knowingly, loving around the weapon,--he had so long wanted to own one
of his own. That gun was not included in the blood money and was not to
be returned. It was a perquisite of war.
Billy was all there always, and even awakening suddenly from much needed
sleep he was on the job. One glance at Pat's devilish face and his
fingers automatically pulled the trigger. The report roared out along
the Valley like a volley from a regiment.
Billy hardly felt the rebound of the weapon before he realized that
Patrick was no more between his vision and the sun's last rays. Patrick
was legging it down the Valley with all the strength he had left, and
taking no time to look back. Billy had presence of mind to let off
another volley before he rose to investigate; but there was nothing left
of Pat but a ruffled path in the undergrowth and a waving branch or two
he had turned aside in his going. So that was that! Doggone it, why did
he have to go to sleep? If he had only been ready he could have managed
this affair so much better for his own ends. He wanted a heart to heart
talk with Pat while he had him good and frightened, and now it was
too late. He must get back to the other job. He shinned up a tree and
observed the broad shoulders of Pat wallowing up the bank over by the
railroad. He was going back to the station. It was as well. He might
see him again tomorrow perhaps, for Pat he must have as evidence. And
besides, Pat might read the note and conclude to come back and answer
it.
Billy parted the bushes to see if Pat had taken the money and note with
him, and lo, here was the rude mountain telephone box wide open with
the bunch of keys in the lock just as Pat must have left it when he
discovered the paper and money, or perhaps Pat had been going to report
to Sam what had happened, who knew? You see Billy knew nothing of his
little red and brown striped partner up in the tree who had dropped a
nut to warn him of danger, and did not realize that Chippie had also
startled Pat, and set him looking among the bushes for the sources of
the sound.
But Billy knew how to take advantage of a situation if he didn't know
what made it, and in a trice he was down on his knees with the crude
receiver in his hands. It was too late to ride down to the Blue Duck and
telephone, but here was a telephone come to him, and now was a chance to
try if it was a telephone at all, or only a private wire run secretly.
He waited breathless with the long hum of wires in his ears, and then
a quick click and “Number please.” Billy could hardly command his
voice but he murmured “Economy 13” in a low growl, his hard young hands
shaking with excitement. “Your letter please!” Billy looked wildly at
the rough box but could see no sign of number. “Why, it's the station,
doncha know? What's thamatterwithya?” His spirits were rising.
“J” stated the operator patiently. “Well, jay then,” said Billy,
“WhaddoIcare?” “Just-a-minute-please,” and suddenly the Chief's voice
boomed out reassuringly. Billy cast a furtive eye back of him in the
dusk and fell to his business with relief.
“Say, Chief, that you? This's Bill! Say, Chief, I wantcha he'p right
away pretty quick! Got a line on those guys! You bring three men an'
ge'down on the Lone Valley Road below Stark mountain an' keep yer eye
peeled t'ward the hanted house. Savvy? Yes, old hanted house, you know.
You wait there till I signal. Yes, flash! Listen, one wink if you go
to right, two come up straight, and three to the left. If it's only one
repeated several times, you spread all round. Yep. I'm goin' up there
right now. No, Chief, I wouldn't call ye f'I didn't think t'was pretty
sure. Yep! I think they'll come out soon's it gets real dark. Yep, I
think they ben there all day. I ain't sure, but I think. You won't fail
me, will you Chief. No, sure! I'll stick by. Be sure to bring three
men, there's two of 'em, I ain't rightly sure but three. I jus' stirred
another up. Whatssay? No, I'm 'lone! Aw, I'm awright! Sure. I'll be
careful. Whatssay? Where? Oh' I'm at a hole in the ground. Yes, down
below Pleasant Valley station. Some telephone! I'll show it to you
t'morra! S'long, Chief, I gotta go! It's gettin' dark, goobbye!”
Billy gave hurried glances about and rustled under the branches like a
snake over to where old trusty lay. In ten minutes more he was worming
his way up the side of Stark mountain, while Pat was fortifying himself
well within the little station, behind tables and desks for the night,
and scanning the Valley from the dusty window panes.
Billy parked his wheel in its usual place and continued up the hill to
the opening at the back, then stood long listening. Once he thought he
heard something drop inside the kitchen door, but no sound followed it
and he concluded it had been a rat. Half way between himself and the
back door something gleamed faintly in the starlight. He didn't remember
to have seen anything there before. He stole cautiously over, moving so
slowly that he could not even hear himself. He paused beside the gleam
and examined. It was an empty flask still redolent. Ummm! Booze! Billy
wasn't surprised. Of course they would try to get something to while
away their seclusion until they dared venture forth with their booty.
He continued his cautious passage toward the house and then began to
encircle it, keeping close to the wall and feeling his way along, for
the moon would be late and small that night and he must work entirely
by starlight. It was his intention after going around the house to enter
and reconnoitre in his stocking feet. As he neared the front of the
house he dropped both hands to his sweater pockets, the revolver in his
right hand with its two precious cartridges, the flash light which he
had taken care to renew in Economy in his left hand, fingers ready to
use either instantly. He turned the corner and stole on toward the front
door, still noiseless as a mouse would go, his rubber sneakers touching
like velvet in the grass.
He was only two feet from the front stoop when he become aware of
danger, something, a familiar scent, a breathlessness, and then a sudden
stir. A dark thing ahead and the feeling of something coming behind.
Billy as if a football signal had been given, grew calm and alert.
Instantly both arms flashed up, and down the mountain shot two long
yellow winks of light, and simultaneously two sharp reports of a gun,
followed almost instantly by another shot, more sinister in sound, and
Billy's right arm dropped limply by his side, while a sick wave of pain
passed over him.
But he could not stop for that. He remembered the day when Mark had been
coaching the football team and had told them that they must not stop
for _anything_ when they were in action. If they thought their legs
were broken, or they were mortally wounded and dying, they must not even
think of it. Football was the one thing, and they were to forget they
were dead and go ahead with every whiff of punch there was in them,
blind or lame, or dead even, because when they were playing, football
was the only thing that counted. And if they were sick or wounded or
bleeding let the wound or the sickness take care of itself. _They_ were
_playing football!_ So Billy felt now.
He hurled himself viciously at the dark shadow ahead, which he mentally
registered as Link because he seemed long to tackle, and then kicked
behind at the thing that came after, and struggled manfully with a
throttling hand on his throat till a wad of vile cloth was forced into
his mouth--and just as he had a half Nelson on Shorty, too! If he could
have got Shorty down and stood on him he might have beaten off Link
until Chief got there. Where was Chief? Where was the gun? Where was he?
His head was swimming. Was it his head he had hit against the wall, or
did he bang Shorty's? How it resounded! There were winding stairs in his
head and he seemed to be climbing them, up, up, up, till he dropped in
a heap on the floor, a hard floor all dust, and the dust came into his
nostrils. He was choking with that rag! Why couldn't he pull it out?
What was cutting his wrists when he tried to raise his hand? And what
was that queer pain in his shoulder?
There were shouts outside. How did he get inside? Was that more
shooting? Perhaps he had found his gun after all. Perhaps he was
shooting the men before the Chief got there, and that was bad, because
he didn't feel competent to judge about a thing as serious as shooting
with that dirty rag in his mouth. He must get rid of it somehow. Doggone
it! He had somehow got his hands all tangled up in cords, and he must
get them out no matter if they did cut. He had to give the Chief a
signal.
He struggled again with all his might, and something somewhere gave
way. He wasn't sure what, but he seemed to be sinking down, perhaps down
stairs or down the mountain, somehow so it was down where the Chief--!
where Mark! The light in his brain went out and he lay as one dead in
the great dusty front bedroom where a man who had sinned, hanged himself
once because he couldn't bear his conscience any longer.
And outside in the front door yard five men struggled in the dark, with
curses, and shots, and twice one almost escaped, for Link was desperate,
having a record behind him that would be enough for ten men to run away
from.
But after the two were bound and secured in the car down at the foot of
the mountain, the Chief lingered, and looking up said in a low tone to
one of his men: “I wonder where that boy is!”
“Oh, he's all right,” said his assistant easily, “he's off on another
piece of business by this time, Chief. He likes to seem mysterious. It's
just his way. Say, Chief, we gotta get back if we wantta meet that train
down at Unity t'night.”
That was true too, and most important, so the Chief with a worried
glance toward the dark mountain turned his car and hurried his captives
away. Now that they were where he could get a glance at them in the dim
light of the car, he felt pretty sure they were a couple of “birds” he
had been looking for for quite a while. If that was so he must reward
Billy somehow. That boy was a little wonder. He would make a detective
some day. It wouldn't be a bad idea to take him on in a quiet sort of
way and train him. He might be a great help. He mustn't forget this
night's work. And what was that the kid had said about a secret
underground wire? He must look into it as soon as this murder trial was
off the docket. That murder trial worried him. He didn't like the turn
things were taking.