TOO LATE!
The morning of the last day of the month dawned bright and clear.
The day before, Harry, as he had promised Crawford he would do, had
come over to the Boy Scout camp and had a long talk with Mr. Durland.
Flannigan had not come back from his prospecting trip nor had they
heard from him in any way. The only conjecture was that he had been
delayed longer than he had expected, but had probably planned his
return so as to stop at the junction point to receive the express
package that always arrived for him on the last day of the month in
order to meet the payroll, and from there would drive over to the
logging camp.
It was absolutely necessary that somebody should reach there before
the arrival of the train in order to give him ample warning, and let
him make his arrangements accordingly. Jack was selected as best
fitted for that important duty and immediately after breakfast he
started off for the Junction.
He gave himself plenty of time. It would not do to take any risk
when theft was in the air and when possibly a life also depended
upon his getting there before the train. The distance from the Boy
Scout camp to the Junction was about five miles as the crow flies.
If he had been able to go by the road, he could easily have made it
in a little over an hour. The path, however, lay chiefly through
the woods and there were brooks to be crossed and occasional hills
to be climbed and for all this Jack had to make allowances. Thanks
to the efforts of the Boy Scout Pathfinders, the district had been
thoroughly surveyed and rough paths indicated, and as Jack himself
had been in the thick of this exploring, he had a perfectly clear
idea of the shortest and easiest way to get there.
The train was due at the Junction at ten thirty-five. Usually it
was behind time. It ran on a little spur jutting off from the main
road. It was a single narrow-gauge track, with only one train each
way every day. It carried both freight and passengers and stopped,
as its patrons sometimes grumbled, at “every dog kennel” on the way.
The chances were that it would be late, but then again on this one
occasion it might happen to be on time and Jack could take no risks.
He figured that, with all the roughness of the road, he could make
the distance easily in two hours. He gave himself an extra hour and a
half, however, to allow for any possible hindrance and left camp at
about seven o’clock.
It was a splendid morning. A slight haze tempered the heat of the
sun and made walking a delight. As Jack swung into his stride, the
charm of the morning took possession of him. The full tide of youth
and strength ran through his brain. The balsam of the woods filled
his nostrils. The woods were full of life. Birds sang in the trees
overhead. He caught glimpses of chipmunks and squirrels gliding
through the bushes and occasionally crossing the path. It was good to
be alive, and it seemed scarcely possible that on such a day robbers
and murderers were abroad and the possibility of a crime near at hand.
As this last thought came to him his step quickened. He didn’t
anticipate any danger in his mission, and yet his blood was stirred
by the possibilities that lurked in the day’s work. He had no idea
that he himself would be concerned in it or come face to face with
the robbers.
What he had to do after all was perfectly simple. He only had to
warn Flannigan and he knew enough of that individual to have perfect
confidence in him. He was sure that the big, burly Irishman could
easily hold his own if it came to a tussle. But there would be no
tussle. He was sure of that. All the foreman had to do was to take no
chances in going by the main road, but to take a less traveled path,
rough, to be sure, but over which a horse could be driven, and thus
reach the camp. It was a much longer road, but in this case at least
the old proverb was true that “the longest way around is the shortest
way home.”
He had no doubt that Flannigan would be at the station. No matter how
important his business might have been, he would never let pay-day go
by without turning up in camp. That was the one unwritten law of the
logging camps that was like the laws of the Medes and the Persians
and could not be broken. The rough characters that Flannigan had to
deal with in their hard-worked and narrow lives looked forward all
through the month to that one day of the pay envelope. To be sure,
the money didn’t last long when they got it. A big spree in the
county town usually followed and, after a day or two of gambling and
drunkenness, the men stumbled back to the camp and began to work
for another month, and dream of the next pay-day. They were quick
tempered at the best, would listen to no argument or explanation and
only the sight of the money would appease them. If Flannigan did not
turn up at the camp that day, there would be a riot, and nobody knew
this better than Flannigan himself. Therefore he was sure to be on
hand.
While Jack was thus pressing steadily forward, two men lay in a clump
of bushes alongside the road about half way between the Junction and
the logging camp. They had chosen another place than that on which
they had first determined. They felt a vague uneasiness regarding
the Boy Scouts. While the sudden appearance of Don had given rise to
some misgivings, they had not been sure that they had been overheard.
They had missed Dick on his trip to the logging camp to give warning
and though after that day they had kept a sharp lookout, they had
seen no proof of any communication from the Boy Scouts to the lumber
camp. As a matter of fact, on the strict injunction of Mr. Durland,
the Scouts had kept carefully away from that section since that day.
Still on the mere chance they had thought to “make assurance doubly
sure,” and had picked upon a new location where, squatting in the
bushes, they waited the coming of Flannigan.
The intervening days spent in wandering about the woods and brooding
over their plot had not improved their appearance. They were unshaven
and unkempt, and their clothes hung on them in tatters. But if their
appearance was bad, their tempers were still worse. Their rankling
bitterness and hatred of all society had turned them into wild beasts.
“Curse him!” growled Red, as O’Brien was called, “we’ll settle his
hash this time!”
“Yes,” returned Lavine. “By gar, I get even with zat man to-day if I
swing for it!”
“We’ve got to be pretty keerful,” said Red. “He’s a moighty handy man
with his fists, begorra!”
“His feests I fear not,” replied Lavine. “What are his feests against
zis knife?” and he ran his hand significantly across the razor edge
on an evil-looking hunting knife. “Do you zink he weel hev a pistol?”
“No fear uv that,” said Red. “He’s too cock-sure of himself.”
Just at the turning of the road they had felled a tree and with true
woodmen’s skill had arranged it so that some of the heavier branches
lay across the road. They thought that Flannigan, on reaching the
obstruction, would be forced to get down from the wagon in order to
remove it and clear a path. While he was bending over, they planned
to spring upon him from behind with their clubs. Taken by surprise,
they figured that he would be helpless in their hands. The knives
they held as a last resort. Their thought of vengeance went no
further than to give the prostrate man a terrible beating and perhaps
maim him for life. It would be safer than actually murdering him and
the pursuit was likely to be less keen than if they had killed their
man. Yet their knives were there and in a pinch neither one would
have flinched from using them should it come to that.
“He’ll soon be here now,” said Red, looking at the sun.
Lavine responded with a growl and an oath, and the two outlaws drew
their belts tighter and waited for the coming of their prey.
In the meanwhile Jack had caught sight of the Junction from the
brow of the last hill. His watch told him that he had an hour and a
half to spare and he knew that he could easily make the distance in
fifteen minutes, leaving plenty of time. He stepped out briskly and
came to the edge of a little brook. It was only about a foot deep and
there were stepping-stones leading from one bank to the other. As he
neared the farther bank, a round stone slipped from under him and he
plunged forward, striking his head against a tree stump on the edge
of the brook. The world swam around him and then his senses left him.
How long he lay there he never knew. When he opened his eyes he
looked around bewildered. His legs were wet to the waist where he had
lain in the brook. He carried his hand to his forehead that ached
horribly and when he withdrew it, found it covered with blood. Where
was he? What had happened?
As he staggered to his feet the thought of his mission came to him.
How late was it? He looked at the sun. It seemed much higher in the
heavens. Could it be possible that he was too late for the train? He
glanced at his watch. It was no longer going. The force with which
he had fallen had stopped it and the hands marked nine thirteen. He
remembered that a few minutes before his fall it had been nine eight.
How long had he lain there?
Suddenly a thrill ran through his veins. Over the hill came the
shrill whistle of a locomotive. It must be the train that Flannigan
was to meet. There wasn’t any other that morning. Could he possibly
be in time? He knew that it would take him at least fifteen minutes,
doing his best, to get there. The train would get to the station in
less than five,--might be there now. Even yet, he told himself, he
might be in time! Perhaps there would be a car to be shifted on a
siding. Even after the train had gone, Flannigan might stop for a
chat and gossip with the station agent. There might be some delay in
signing for the express package. A dozen things might happen to help
him. At least he might get near enough to wave his arms and attract
attention.
While these thoughts rushed through his mind, now clearing from
the effects of the fall, he had struggled to his feet and started
dizzily on his way. At first he staggered, but with every step he
felt himself getting stronger. Only a little part of the remaining
distance was up a slight ascent but after that it would be easy
sailing. All the way from that to the station would be down hill.
A groan passed from his lips as he reached the brow of the hill, half
a mile from the Junction. The train had reached the station, let
off a single passenger and, grunting and groaning, was just pulling
out. Alongside the platform was a buckboard drawn by an old white
horse. Holding the reins was a thick-set, sturdy figure, whom he
recognized as Flannigan. Jack shouted but they could not hear him at
that distance. He blew his Scout’s whistle but still there was no
sign. He ran on, waving his hands wildly. Their backs were to him
and no one saw him. A solitary passenger stepped into the buckboard,
Flannigan gathered up the reins, the old white horse started off and
disappeared around a turn of the road just as Jack rushed up to the
station.
He was too late!