STRANGE SENTRIES
“Thanks, jolly little friends,” she whispered to the rabbits. “Sorry to
disturb you, but it really has to be done.”
Clutching at her heart in a vain effort to still its wild beating, she
slid slowly out of the window. A gripping of the beams, a swinging down,
a second of clinging, a sudden drop, a prayer of thanksgiving that her
alighting place was grass cushioned and noiseless, and the next instant
she was lost from sight in the brush whither the three rabbits had fled.
For a full moment she crouched there motionless, scarcely breathing,
listening intently.
There came no sound. Her guard was dozing in his chair.
Her mind was in a whirl. Now that she was free, where should she go?
Where could she go? Home, if she could find the way, or to Everett
Faucet’s cabin. Everett lived at the back of the mountain.
Yes, she might go to either place if only she knew the way. Truth was,
she didn’t know the way. She had been carried about on horseback by her
mysterious captors, covering strange trails, and at night. She was lost.
Only one thing she knew—she was still on the back of Pine Mountain. The
way home led up this side of the mountain and down the other.
A great wave of fear and despair swept over her. The whole affair, she
told herself, was a useless adventure.
“I’ll go back home to our cabin; give it up,” she declared.
She began the upward climb. Beating her way through the brush, she
struggled forward. It was heart-breaking work, making her way through
brush and timber. Here a dense thicket tore at her, and there a solid
wall of rock blocked her progress.
“Ought to find a trail. Have to,” she panted.
With this in mind, she began to circle the slope. She felt the need of
haste. Night was wearing away. The early morning would soon reveal her, a
lone girl in a strange and apparently hostile country.
Panic seized her. She fairly flew through the brush until, with a sudden
compact that set her reeling, she came upon a rail fence.
Beyond the fence was a narrow trail. To her immense relief she found that
this trail wound away up the mountain.
That mountain trail was the longest she had ever taken. It wound on and
on, up and up until there seemed no end.
The cool damp of night hung over everything. The moon, swinging low in
the heavens, cast long, deep shadows far down the trail. Now a startled
rabbit, springing into the brush, sent the girl’s heart to her mouth. Now
the long-drawn bay of a hound at some distant cabin sent a chill running
up her spine. Frightened, alone, quite without means of protection, she
hurried on.
Then suddenly, as she rounded a corner, she caught the sound of voices.
“Men,” she said to herself with a shudder.
The next instant she was silently pushing herself back into the depths of
a clump of mountain ivy that grew beside the trail.
The men were coming down the trail. Now their voices sounded more
clearly; now she caught the shuffle of their rough shoes, and now heard
the heavy breathing of one as if carrying a load.
As they came abreast of her, she saw them dimly through the leaves. Then
for a second her heart seemed to stop beating.
“A dog,” she breathed. “A long-eared hound!”
As the hound, with nose to the ground, came upon the spot where she had
left the trail, he stopped short, gave a loud snort, then started
straight into the bush.
“Come on, you!” one of the men grumbled, seizing him by the collar. “It’s
only a rabbit.”
The dog struggled for a time, but a kick brought him back to his place
behind his master and they traveled on down the hill.
“Saved!” the girl breathed as she dropped weakly upon the ground.
“And yet,” she thought as strength and courage came back to her, “why
should I fear everyone here behind Pine Mountain?”
Why indeed? The experiences of the past hours had made fear a part of her
nature.
Once more upon the trail, she hurried on more rapidly than before. Dawn
was on its way. The jagged peaks of the mountain ahead showed faintly
gray against the dark sky.
“Have to hurry,” she told herself. “Have to—”
Her thoughts broke short off and once more she sprang from the trail.
Other men were coming. The night seemed filled with them.
This time, finding herself in a narrow grass grown trail that led away at
an angle from the hard beaten main trail, she hurriedly tiptoed along it.
“Not another narrow escape like the last one,” she thought.
She had followed this apparently deserted trail for a hundred yards when
suddenly she came upon a cabin.
Her first thought was to turn and flee. A second look told her that the
place was abandoned. Two panes of glass in the single window were broken
and before the door, displaying their last fiery red blossoms, two
hollyhocks did sentry duty.
The door stood ajar. For a moment she hesitated before the red sentries.
“Oh, pshaw!” she whispered at last. “You dear old-fashioned guardians of
a once happy home, I can pass you without cracking a stem or bruising a
blossom.”
Putting out her hands, she parted the tall flowers with gentlest care,
then stepped between them. For this simple ceremony, inspired by her love
of beauty, she was destined in not so many hours to feel supremely
grateful.
Inside she found a lonesome scene. The moon, shining through the single
window, struck across a rude table. A dark cavern at the end spoke of a
fireplace which once had offered ruddy comfort.
A ladder leading to the loft stood against the wall. Without thinking
much about it, she climbed that ladder. Somewhat to her surprise, she
found the attic half filled with clean, dry, rustling corn husks.
“Someone stowed his corn here. Husked the corn and left the husks.”
“How—how comfortable,” she sighed as her weary body relaxed upon this
springy bed.
“I’ll rest here for a moment,” she thought, “rest here for a—for a—rest—”
The next moment she was fast asleep.
Hours later she awoke with a start. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. Then,
catching the rustle of corn husks, she remembered where she was.
“Must have fallen asleep,” she said, a feeling of consternation coming
over her. “And now it is—” She gazed about her questioningly.
“Now it is daylight,” she finished as she noted a bright bar of sunlight
that fell across the floor. “Here I stay until dark.”
Here she remained. Once she left the cabin for a moment to slake her
thirst at a spring that bubbled out of the rocks just back of the house.
Both in coming and going she reverently parted the hollyhocks before the
door.
“Probably some childish hands spilled the seed that started them growing
there,” she told herself. “I wonder where that child may be now?”
The attic was silent, too silent. In one dark corner a fly, caught in a
spider’s web, slowly buzzed his life away.
There was time now for thinking. And she did think, thought this whole
adventure through from its very beginning.
It is strange, the unusual opportunities for adventure and romance that
come to one in out-of-the-way places. Florence, with her chum, Marion,
had been invited by Mrs. McAlpin, Florence’s aunt, to spend the summer in
the mountains. They had come, expecting fishing, swimming and mountain
climbing. They had found time for these, too; but above all, their summer
had been filled with service, service for those whose opportunities had
been far fewer than their own.
The one great service they had been able to render had been that of
conducting a summer school for the barefooted, eager little children who
swarmed the sides of Big Black Mountain. It had been a real pleasure to
teach them. Strange to say, though there was a public school at the mouth
of Laurel Branch, little was ever taught in it. The teacher, who knew
nothing of grammar, geography or history, and little enough of “Readin’,
’Ritin’ and ’Rithmatic,” took the school for no purpose save that he
might draw the public money. The school, which was supposed to last six
months, he brought to an end as speedily as possible. If no children came
he could go back to his farm work of putting away his corn crop or
rolling logs to clear land for next year’s harvest, and he could do this
and still draw his pay as a teacher.
The schoolhouse, a great log shack with holes for doors and windows, was
without either doors or windows to keep out the weather. Before the cold
autumn rains the little group of children who came to drone out words
after their disinterested teacher vanished like blackbirds before the
first snow, leaving the teacher free for other things.
Now all was to be changed—at least the girls hoped so. They had been
teaching the summer school for six weeks when Ransom Turner, a sincere
and ambitious man who had the good of the community at heart, had come to
them proposing that they remain through autumn and early winter and teach
the public school.
Here was an opportunity to make a real contribution, to set a model for
all time, to give these simple mountain folks an idea of what school
should be.
“Of course,” Ransom Turner had said, “we’ll have to elect you a trustee.”
“A trustee!” they had exclaimed in unison, failing to understand his
meaning.
“Of course. You don’t think that worthless scamp that’s been drawin’ the
pay and not teachin’ any could get the job unless he’d elected a trustee,
do you? But leave that to us mounting folks. You jest say you’ll take the
school an’ we’ll elect you a trustee.”
“But the schoolhouse!” Florence had remonstrated. “It’s bad enough
now—flies, and all that—but in cold weather it would be impossible.”
Ransom’s face had clouded. “Can’t be helped none, I reckon. They hain’t
no funds fer hit. Doors and windows cost a heap, havin’ to be brought in
as they do. Us mounting folks are most terrible poor, most terrible.”
The two girls had considered the proposition seriously. They were not yet
through the University. It seemed a little hard to give up the first half
of their school year. They caught visions of great buildings, swarming
students, laughing faces, books, libraries, all the good things that go
to make University life a joyous affair. Yet here was an opportunity for
an unusual service. Could they afford to refuse? They had talked it over.
In the end Florence had said to Ransom:
“If you can manage the trustee and we can get some money to fix up the
schoolhouse, we will stay.”
To this Marion had given hearty assent and Ransom Turner had gone away
happy.
Money for the new school! It had been their desire for just this that had
put Florence in her present strange and mysterious predicament.
It had been a very unusual proposition that Mr. John Dobson of the Deep
Rock Mining Company had made to them, a proposition that held great
possibilities.
They had gone to him to ask him to help them with money for the school.
He had told them that his company had no fund for contributions such as
they asked. He had not, however, turned them away entirely without hope.
“The company, of which I am President,” he had said, “is a comparatively
small one. The stock is not owned by any one rich man, or by a group of
rich men. It is owned by a number of men who own a little property and
who hope to improve their position by wise investment. These men look to
me to bring about the success they hope for. Unfortunately, at the
present time we are short of coal lands. The railroad up this way has
been built for several years. The coal land that lies along it has been
bought up by rich companies, principally the Inland Coal and Coke
Company, which is so large that it has come to be looked upon as
virtually a monopoly in these parts.
“There is but one field left to us.” His eyes glanced away to the crest
of Pine Mountain. “At the back of that mountain there is coal, plenty of
it. Land is cheap. At present there is no railroad, but there is a
persistent rumor that the M. and N. proposes to build a spur up that
creek. They will build it. But when?” He had risen to pace the floor of
his small office. “When? That’s the question.”
“The directors of the railroad,” he had gone on after a long pause, “are
to hold a meeting next week. They may decide upon the spur at that time.
If it is to be built within the next year, there is a tract of land back
here that we want—want badly. It is owned by a man named Caleb Powers.
The price is twenty-one thousand. Needless to say, our rich rival will
want it. They may be able to secure advance information regarding the
coming decision of the Directors of the M. and N. In that case we are
defeated. If they do not, we have a chance. The first person to get to
Caleb Powers after the spur has been decided upon, will get the land.”
Here he had paused and looked Florence squarely in the eye.
“That’s where you come in,” he had said steadily. “That is, if you wish
to. I am to be away in another section of the mountains next week—can’t
be here. You want money for your school?” He had stared hard at the girl.
“Y-es, we do.”
“Well then, here’s your chance. One of you go back behind Pine Mountain
and there keep in close touch with Caleb Powers. The other must remain
here until news of the decision regarding the proposed spur comes. I will
arrange for a messenger at the rail’s end. As soon as the messenger
arrives you must make all haste to reach Caleb Powers. I will give you
the earnest money—five hundred dollars. If the spur is to be built and
you succeed in purchasing the land, I will pay you a commission of ten
percent.”
“Think of it!” Florence had exclaimed. “Twenty-one hundred dollars! All
that for the school!”
Visions of a warm, cozy school room, brightened by many happy, glowing
faces, passed before her mind’s eye.
“Of course we’ll try it,” she had said with quiet resolution.
“Of course,” Marion had echoed.
“And now it has come to this,” Florence said to herself as she stirred
upon the rustling corn husks of her bed in the deserted cabin which
formed her temporary hiding place.
Once more her mind went back to the broken sequence of events. It had
been agreed that she should cross over the mountains and stay with a
friend of Mrs. McAlpin who lived at the back of Pine Mountain.
“And I will keep you posted by means of the Silent Alarm!” Marion had
exclaimed.
Until now the Silent Alarm had been little more than a plaything. Now it
was to be of some real use. Florence’s older brother, who had been in the
great war, had told her how, by the use of signal lamps, flashlights and
the Continental code he and his comrades had been able to signal to one
another even across a point of the enemy’s trenches. He had explained the
matter to her in detail, had also taught her the code. Often at night,
from some distant hillside, with a flashlight and the barrel of a
dismantled shotgun, Florence had signalled to Marion at the cabin. And
Marion, with some similar simple apparatus, had signalled back.
The simple-minded, superstitious mountain folks, having seen these
strange stars blinking away against the mountain, had whispered weird
tales of witch light and of seeing old women riding a cloud at night. All
this had greatly amused the girls and they kept their secret well.
“Now,” Marion had said to Florence when she started on her mission, “when
you get to your destination back there, I’ll climb this side of the
mountain to the crest and we’ll get in touch with one another by signal
fires. After that, when the big news comes, I’ll climb the mountain
again. If it comes in the daytime I will use a heliograph; if by night,
some form of tube and a flashlight.”
As you have already seen, by the aid of Marion’s beacon fire on the
mountain’s crest, they had established communications. But under what
unexpected conditions this was done! Florence had been the prisoner of
strange men whose motives in holding her were unknown. This she had
flashed back to Marion. She had added a warning not to try to come to
her.
Bearing this startling news, Marion had retraced her steps to Mrs.
McAlpin’s cabin.
“And here I am a fugitive,” Florence sighed as she sat up among the corn
husks. “A fugitive from whom? And why? The message will come and I will
not be able to deliver it. The coal tract will be lost to the Inland Coal
and Coke Company and our hopes for a schoolhouse will be blighted.
“But no!” she clinched her fist. “It must not be! There is yet a way!”
The message did come, a message of great good news. It came on the wings
of the wind, came to Mrs. McAlpin and Marion, late that very afternoon.
In the meantime, on the mountain-side near the cabin in which Florence
was hiding, strange things were happening. Florence was wondering about
the identity of the rough mountain men who had made her prisoner. Were
they feudists? Or moonshiners suspecting her of being a spy? Or real
spies themselves, employed by the great mining corporation to trap her?
Or were they just plain robbers?
Such were the thoughts running through her mind when she caught the sound
of a cheery note outside the cabin. It was the _chee-chee-chee, to-wheet,
to-wheet, to-wheet_ of a mountain wren. The song brightened her spirits
and allayed her fears.
“As long as he keeps up his joyous notes I need have no fear,” she told
herself. “The appearance of someone near would frighten him into silence.
“Dear little friend,” she whispered, “how wonderful you are! When human
friends were here you came each year to make your nest in some niche in
their cabin. Now they are gone. Who knows where? But you, faithful to
their dream of happiness, return to sing your merry song among the
ruins.”
Even as she whispered this, her ear caught a far different note, a dread
sound—the long-drawn note of a hound.
As this grew louder and louder her heart beat rapidly with fear.
“On my trail,” she thought with dread.
As the sound began to grow fainter she felt sure that the hunters, if
hunters they were, had passed on up over the main trail. Hardly had the
hope been born when it was suddenly dashed aside. The solid thump-thump
of footsteps sounded outside the cabin, then ended.
For a moment there was silence, such a silence as she had not experienced
in all her days. Flies had ceased to buzz. The little brown wren had
flown away.
Then a harsh voice crashed into that silence.
“Reckon she are up thar, Lige?”
“’T’ain’t no ways possible,” drawled the second man. “Look at them thar
hollyhocks. Narry a leaf broke. Reckon airy one’d pass through that door
without a tramplin’ ’em down?”
“Reckon not.”
“Better be stirrin’ then, I reckon.”
“Reckon so.”
Again came the solid drum of feet. This grew fainter and fainter until it
died away in the distance.
“Good old hollyhocks! Good little old sentries, how I could hug you for
that!” A tear splashed down upon the girl’s hand, a tear for which none
should be ashamed.
Even as the footsteps of the men died away in the distance, Florence felt
the shadow of the mountain creeping over the cabin.
“Soon be dark,” she breathed, “and then—”
She was some time in deciding just what should be done. Her first impulse
was to take the up-trail as soon as darkness had fallen and to make her
way back to her friends.
“But that,” she told herself, “means the end of our hopes.”
At once there passed before her closed eyes pictures of brave, laughing
little children of the mountain; ragged, barefooted, pleading children,
walking miles over the frosts of November to attend their school, the
first real school they would have known.
“No!” She set her teeth hard. “There is still a way. I will wait here for
Marion’s signal. It will come. If she has news, good news, somehow I will
find my way to Caleb Powers. Somehow the race must be won!”