A DARTING SHADOW
That same evening, just at dusk, Marion came upon a fresh and startling
mystery. She had climbed the hill at the back of the ancient whipsawed
cabin which was occupied by Mrs. McAlpin and her friends.
Beside the bubbling brook that sang so softly, she had found she could
think calmly. There was reason enough for calm thinking, too. They had
entered into this business of buying the Powell coal tract, expecting
only mild adventure and possibly a large profit. Mysterious things were
happening to Florence. She was sure of that. By the aid of the Silent
Alarm she had received a message from her. The message had warned her to
retreat, to return to the whipsawed cabin and wait. She had obeyed.
It was indeed very singular.
“What can have happened?” Marion now asked herself for the hundredth
time. “Wherever she may be, she can hardly be out of reach of the Silent
Alarm. Darkness will find me again on the trail that leads to the crest
of Pine Mountain.
“She must succeed! Must! Must!” she told herself. “And I must let her
know. I surely must!”
That very afternoon she had received information of tremendous
importance.
In the whipsawed cabin was a small radio receiving set. The long twilight
of the mountains often slipped away with a score of mountain people
sitting on the hillside listening to the sweet strains of music that came
from this radio and floated through the open windows. At times, even in
the afternoon, they tuned in on Louisville that they might catch some
news of the outside world. On this particular afternoon, wearied from her
long hike of the previous night, Marion had been lolling half asleep on
the couch when of a sudden she sat upright, wide awake. Her ear had
caught the words, “M. and N. Railroad.”
Here might be important news. It was important, for the announcer, after
a brief pause in which he had perhaps referred to his notes, had gone on:
“At a meeting to-day of the Board of Directors of the M. and N. Railroad,
it was decided that a spur would be built along the south slope of Pine
Mountain. This work, which is to be rushed to completion within a year,
will tap vast tracks of valuable coal land.”
Marion had risen trembling from the couch. She had wanted to cry, to
laugh, to shout. Here was great news indeed. Coming right in from the
air, it had beyond doubt given them many hours of advantage over their
rival, the agent of the Inland Coal and Coke Company.
But she had not shouted, nor had she cried nor laughed. She had climbed
the hillside and had stretched out on the leafy slope by the murmuring
brook to think.
She had decided to wait for darkness. Then she would hurry away over the
four miles that led to the crest of the low mountain. Once there she
would kindle a beacon fire.
Down deep in her heart she prayed that Florence might catch the gleam of
that fire as she had the one of the night before, and that having caught
her joyous message, she might be free to act.
“If only it would hurry and get dark!” she whispered to herself. “If only
it would. Then I could slip up there and send the message.”
But what was this? Of a sudden this all important problem was driven from
her mind. From out the clump of mountain ivy that skirted the hill above
the whipsawed cabin there had darted a shadow.
Who could it be? No mysterious persons were known to be about, but she
could not be sure. Men hid out in these hills—rough, dangerous men who
were wanted by the law.
The cheery lamplight that suddenly burst forth through the small square
window of the whipsawed cabin below reassured her. There were friends in
that house, her friends Mrs. McAlpin and little Hallie.
Even as she settled back again to think of their great problems, she was
given another start. Outside the window, into the square of light that
poured forth from it, there had crept the face of a man. It was not a
charming face to behold, but rather an alarming one. Beneath bushy
eyebrows gleamed a pair of beady black eyes. The nose was hawk-like and
the cheeks and chin were covered by a stubby beard.
It was a face to make one shudder, and Marion did shudder. She drew back
as if to bury herself in the giant chestnut at her back. Even as she did
so she saw the man start, saw an unuttered exclamation spring to his
lips. What had he seen? What had he hoped to see? There was mystery
enough about that whipsawed cabin. Once there had been gold in it—much
gold. Preacher Gibson had hinted that it might still be there. It had
been brought there many years before, just after the Civil War. Jeff
Middleton, who with the help of a neighbor had built the cabin, had died
suddenly in a feud. The gold had vanished. No one, so far as was known,
had ever found it.
Who was this man at the window? Did he at last have a clue to the
whereabouts of the gold, and had he come to search for it, only to find
the cabin occupied?
Little Hallie, too, was quite as mysterious as the whipsawed cabin in
which she lived. She had been brought to the cabin door on a stormy
night—a beautiful eight year old child, unconscious from an ugly blow on
her head. While she was being cared for, the man who brought her had
vanished. He had not returned. That was three weeks ago. Efforts to
discover the identity of the child—other than the name “Hallie,” which
had come from her own lips—had been unavailing. Her memory appeared to
have gone with the blow on her head.
Fortunately, Mrs. McAlpin had studied medicine in her younger days. Under
her efficient care Hallie had become the cheery joy of the whipsawed
house.
Did this mysterious man know something about little Hallie? Or was he
just some wanderer looking for food and shelter? This last seemed the
most probable.
Yet, as Marion came to this conclusion, she suddenly learned that this
man knew something about one member of the household, for even as she sat
there he passed close enough to touch her, mumbling as he passed:
“Hit’s her. Hit shorely are!”
The girl’s heart went into double-quick time as the man came near to her.
It slowed down very little as he vanished into the night. Questions were
pounding away at her brain. Who was this man? What did he want? To whom
had he referred? To Mrs. McAlpin? To Hallie?
“Must have been Hallie,” she told herself. “And now perhaps he will steal
upon us unawares and carry her away.”
Even as she thought this she felt that it was a foolish fear. Why should
he?
Then of a sudden, as a new thought struck her, she sprang to her feet. A
cry was on her lips, but it died unuttered.
It had suddenly occurred to her that if this man knew something about
this mysterious little girl he should be called back and questioned.
She did not call him back. She was afraid, very much afraid of that man.
“Anyway,” she reassured herself, “he probably didn’t mean Hallie at all.
Probably meant Mrs. McAlpin. She’s been here three summers, and has been
up every creek for miles around.”
With this as a concluding thought, and having caught the delicious odor
of spring chicken roasting on the hearth, she hurried down to supper.
As she entered the cabin, Mrs. McAlpin, who was a famous cook, lifted the
lid of the small cast-iron oven that had been buried beneath the hearth
coals for an hour. At once the room was filled with such delectable
fragrance as only can come from such an oven.
Since the cabin had been purchased by its present owner, it had not been
disfigured by a stove. An immense stone fireplace graced the corner of
each of the four rooms. The cooking was done on the hearth of the room
used as kitchen and dining room.
“Isn’t it wonderful!” Marion exclaimed as she hung her sweater on the
deer’s antlers which served as a coat rack. “Just to live like this! To
be primitive as our ancestors were! I shall never forget it, not as long
as I live!”
Supper was over. Darkness had fallen “from the wings of night” when
Marion slipped alone out of the whipsawed cabin.
As she entered the shadows that lay across the path that led away from
the cabin, she caught sound of a movement off to the right.
Her heart skipped a beat, but she did not pause. The message she had to
send could not be longer delayed. And yet, as she hurried on, she could
not help wondering who might have been behind the bushes. Was it the
prowler, he of the beady black eyes and hooked nose, who had peered in at
the cabin window? If it were, what did he want? What did he mean by that
strange exclamation: “Hit’s her?” Had he seen Hallie? Did he know her?
Would he attempt to carry her away? She hoped not. The little girl had
become a spot of sunshine in that brown old cabin.
Two hours later the proceedings of the previous night were being
re-enacted. Marion’s beacon fire appeared on the mountain’s crest.
Florence caught it at once and flashed back her answer. There followed a
half hour of signaling. At the end of this half hour Florence found
herself sitting breathless among the husks in the cabin loft.
“Oh!” she breathed. “What news! The railroad is to be built. I wonder if
the land is still for sale?”
“And I,” she exclaimed, squaring her shoulders, “I must be afraid no
longer. Somehow I must find my way down this slope to Caleb Powell’s
home. I must buy that land.”
She patted the crinkly bills, five hundred dollars, still pinned to the
inside of her blouse. Then, slipping quickly down the ladder, she stepped
into the cool, damp air of night.
Yet, even as she turned to go down the mountain, courage failed her.
Above her, not so far away but that she could reach it in an hour, hung
the mountain’s crest. Dim, dark, looming in the misty moonlight, it
seemed somehow to beckon. Beyond it, down the trail, lay home, her
mountain home, and loving friends.
She had experienced thus far only distrust, captivity without apparent
cause, the great fear of worse things to come.
“No,” she said, “I can’t go back.” Her feet moved slowly up the trail.
“And yet I must!” She faced the other way. “I can’t go back and say to
them, ‘I have no money for the school. I went on a mission and failed
because I was afraid.’ No, No! I can’t do that.”
Then, lest this last resolve should fail her, she fairly ran down the
trail.
She had hurried on for fully fifteen minutes when again she paused,
paused this time to consider. What plan had she? What was she to do? She
did not know the way to the home of her friend, nor to the home of Caleb
Powell. Indeed, she did not so much as know where she was. How, then, was
she to find Caleb Powell?
“Only one way,” she told herself. “I must risk it. At some cabin I must
inquire my way.”
Fifteen minutes later she found herself near a cabin. A dim light shone
in the window. For a moment she hesitated beside the footpath that led to
its door.
“No,” she said at last, starting on, “I won’t try that one.”
She passed three others before her courage rose to the sticking point. At
last, realizing that the evening was well spent and that all would soon
be in bed, she forced herself to walk boldly toward a cabin. A great
bellowing hound rushed out at her and sent her heart to her mouth. The
welcome sound of a man’s voice silenced him.
“Who’s thar?” the voice rang out.
“It’s—it’s I, Florence Huyler.” The girl’s voice trembled in spite of her
effort to control it.
“Let’s see.” The man held a candle to her face. “Step inside, Miss.”
“It—I—I can’t stop,” she stammered, “I—I only wanted to ask where Caleb
Powell lives.”
“Hey, Bill,” the man turned to someone within the cabin. “Here’s that
girl we was lookin’ for this evenin’.”
“Naw ’t’ain’t. Don’t stand to reason.” The man’s feet came to the floor
with a crash. The girl’s heart sank. She recognized the voices of the
men. They were the men who had visited the deserted cabin. The hollyhock
sentinel had done their bit, but all to no purpose. She was once more
virtually a prisoner.
“Guess you come to the wrong cabin, Miss. We are plumb sorry, but hit are
our bond an’ duty to sort of ask you to come in and rest with we-all a
spell. Reckon you ain’t et none. Hey, Mandy! Set on a cold snack for this
here young lady.”
Florence walked slowly into the cabin and sank wearily into a chair. Her
head, which seemed suddenly to grow heavy, sank down upon her breast. She
had meant so well, and this was what fate had dealt her.
Suddenly, as she sat there filled with gloomy thoughts, came one gloomier
than the rest—a thought as melancholy as a late autumn storm.
“Why did we not think of that?” she almost groaned aloud.
She recalled it well enough now. Mrs. McAlpin had once told her of the
queer mixing of titles to land which existed all over the mountains. In
the early days, when land was all but worthless, a man might trade a
thousand acres of land for a yoke of oxen and no deed given or recorded.
“Why,” Mrs. McAlpin had said, “when I purchased the little tract on which
this cabin stands I was obliged to wait an entire year before my lawyer
was able to assure me of a deed that would hold.”
“A year!” Florence repeated to herself. “A year for a small tract! And
here we are hoping to purchase a tract containing thousands of acres
which was once composed of numerous small tracts. And we hope to get a
deed day after to-morrow, and our commission a day later.” She laughed in
spite of herself.
“If we succeed in making the purchase, which doesn’t seem at all likely,
Mr. Dobson may be two years getting a clear title to the land. Will he
pay our commission before that? No one would expect it. And if we don’t
get it before that time what good will it do our school?”
“No,” she told herself, facing the problem squarely, “there must be some
other way; though I’ll still go through with this if opportunity offers.”
In her mental search for “some other way” her thoughts returned to the
ancient whipsawed house on Laurel Branch. She had heard old preacher
Gibson’s story of Jeff Middleton’s return from the Civil War with a great
sack of strange gold pieces.
“Hit’s hid som’ers about that ar whipsawed cabin,” the tottering old
mountain preacher had declared, “though whar it might be I don’t rightly
know. Been a huntin’ of it right smart o’ times and ain’t never lit onto
narry one of them coins yet.”
“If only we could find that gold,” Florence told herself, “all would be
well. That is, if we win the election—if we elect our trustee.”
She smiled a little at this last thought; yet it was no joking matter,
this electing a trustee back here in the Cumberlands. Many a grave on the
sun kissed hillsides, where the dogwood blooms in springtime and ripe
chestnuts come rattling down in the autumn, marks the spot where some
lusty mountaineer lies buried. And it might be written on his tombstone,
“He tried to elect a trustee and failed because the other man’s pistol
gun found its mark.” Elections are hard fought in the Cumberlands. Many a
bitter feud fight has been started over a school election.
Surely, as she sat there once more a prisoner, held by these mysterious
mountaineers, there was enough to disturb her.