BY THE AID OF A COON
Climbing up the mountain side without making a sound had not been easy.
Going down it was doubly difficult. Now a rock, slipping from a ledge at
the side of the trail, went crashing down through the sloping forest. Now
a pebble, rolling beneath Marion’s foot, sent her with a thud to the
ground. And now the dead branch of a tree, clung to for a second’s rest,
gave way with a screaming snap that must have been heard a mile away.
A half mile down the trail they came upon a cabin. A mere shack built of
logs with a low chimney, with one door and no windows, it could hardly be
called a human habitation.
Yet there were people sleeping here, Marion did not doubt.
“Sha—shall we?” she whispered as she stood near the door.
“’T’wouldn’t do narry bit o’ good. No ’count folks,” whispered Patience.
They were about to pass on when the rattle of a chain caused Marion to
start and shudder.
“Coon, pet coon,” whispered the mountain girl, pointing to a dark corner
where a coon, chained to a low shrub, was standing on his haunches and
eyeing them curiously.
“That coon,” whispered Patience slowly, “might be some good to us.”
Marion did not see how it possibly could, but she did not answer.
As they passed on down the trail Patience paused often to study the hoof
marks in the soft earth. Once, at the juncture of a small stream with the
larger creek, she paused for some time, only to shake her head and
murmur:
“No, they have gone on down.”
At the next turn she paused again. This time she did not go on, but,
pointing up a grass grown trail to the left, said.
“They’re gone up to yonder clearin’. Camp there, I reckon. Wish we had
that coon.”
“Why? What would we—”
But Patience was already too far up the new trail to catch Marion’s
whispered question.
As they rounded a clump of pawpaws Patience whispered: “They’re camped up
yonder. I saw the light of their fire.”
“Good!” whispered Marion. “Perhaps we can turn the tables and steal her
back.”
“But the hounds!” said Patience.
“Oh yes, the hounds,” Marion repeated wearily.
“That coon, now,” said Patience thoughtfully, “he might be a heap of help
to us.”
“How?” said Marion.
Patience did not reply. When she at last spoke, it was to suggest that
they make their way up the far side of the slope that they might be sure
the ones they followed were camping there. Wearily they followed the
creek and at last began the ascent.
Not a word was spoken as they trudged cautiously forward. Every care was
taken not to cause the least sound. Hounds, they knew all too well, have
sharp ears. So, darting from bush to bush and from tree to tree, they
came at last to a spot directly over a cliff where, by parting branches,
they might get a fair view of the deserted cabin and the clearing.
“Someone there,” whispered Marion. “See! There’s a wisp of smoke curling
from the chimney.”
For a time they sat silently intent.
Suddenly Marion’s heart stopped beating! Had she caught the low cry of a
child? Yes, there it was again.
“Hallie,” she whispered, springing to her feet. “I must go to her.”
“No! No!” Patience whispered tensely. “They are bad men. They would kill
you.”
“But Hallie.” The girl’s heart was wrung by the thought of the innocent
child’s suffering.
“Hallie’s all right for now. You have heard her cry in that way often
before. It’s just a fretful, sleepy cry. She will soon fall asleep.”
It was true. Even as they waited and listened the crying ceased and over
the hills and the forest there fell the hush of night.
Into this hush Patience burst with an exceedingly strange whispered
remark:
“If only we had that coon. Marion, have you any money?”
“Five dollars.”
“Oh! Good! They’d sell it for that, I am sure. But we won’t ask them;
just pin the money to the coon’s box.”
“But it’s all we have. We will need food. The kidnappers may go to the
railroad. We will need money. Anyway, why the coon?”
Patience did not answer. Snatching the money, she was away in the night,
leaving Marion alone in the dark and with the strange men scarcely more
than a stone’s throw beneath her.
Who can tell what this city girl’s thoughts were as she sat there alone
with the silence of night hovering over her? Whatever the thoughts might
have been, they were at last broken in upon by the low rattle of a chain.
Beside her stood Patience and in her arms, cuddled up like a kitten, was
the pet coon.
“Now what in the world did you do that for?” demanded Marion as, having
picked up Patience’s long squirrel rifle, she came trudging after her.
“Wait and see!” she panted.
Very weary and very skeptical, Marion waited. Having once more reached
the crest of the cliff, Patience felt her way about until she had located
a tall young hickory tree with branches some six feet from the ground.
Placing the coon on the ground and handing the chain to Marion, she
whispered: “Give me a lift to the first limb. Then hand me the coon.”
Having complied with her request, Marion leaned wearily upon the rifle
while she listened to the sound of her companion scaling the tree, branch
by branch.
Presently she heard Patience coming down. When at last Patience caught
the lowest branch and swung herself down Marion saw that her hands were
empty.
“C’mon!” Patience whispered hoarsely as she dragged her companion through
the brush.
In silence they skirted the mountain side until they were almost directly
above the cabin.
“Hist! Listen!” Patience came to a sudden standstill.
“Wha—what is it?” the other girl breathed.
“It’s the sound a coon makes when he’s lonesome. But listen!”
A new and louder sound burst upon their ears. There was no need for
asking what this was. Marion knew all too well. It was the booming baying
of a hound. The next second he was joined by his companion.
“Are they coming this way?” asked Marion, while a cold chill shook her
from head to foot.
“No.” There was a quiet assurance in Patience’s tone. “We’ve made no
sound. It isn’t us they hear. It’s that coon. They’ll race over to that
tree and bay up at it if the men’ll let ’em, and I think they will.”
“And then they’ll get on our scent and—and it will all be over!” Marion’s
teeth were chattering in spite of her.
That this was a possibility she had not thought of was told by the long
moment of silence before the mountain girl spoke.
“Well, they might,” she whispered, measuring her words, “but a hound’s a
hound, and all hounds love to bay a coon tree. We’ll just have to wait
and see.”
Waiting out there in the dark forest with every least sound, the flutter
of a bird or the movement of some small living thing in the grass at
their feet giving them a start, was not the easiest thing in the world.
Indeed, Marion found it almost the hardest.
Now and again there came the call of the coon, then the booming of the
hounds.
“Why don’t they let them go?” Patience murmured impatiently. “If they
don’t; if—”
She paused in the midst of a sentence to listen. Then in a joyous whisper
she exclaimed:
“There! There they go!”
It was true. As Marion strained her ears she caught the sound of the
hounds tearing away through the brush.
But even as she listened her heart suddenly went wild. What if the hounds
had somehow gotten scent of them and were coming their way? How terrible
that would be! They were sure to be great, gaunt, vicious beasts.
In the darkness it was impossible to tell what direction they were
taking. Aided by her heightened imagination, she fancied the sound of
their rush through the bushes growing louder, seemed to catch more
plainly their hoarse breathing.
Wildly she strained her eyes in the dark, searching for a tree that she
might climb, but in vain. The trees were either too large, with branches
twenty feet in air, or too slender to bear her weight. In her wild terror
she was about to flee when again Patience whispered:
“There they go!”
“Who?” Marion whispered back.
“The men. They are all alike—hounds and mountain men. They can’t stand
the call of a coon. Oh, thank God! Our chance is coming. See!”
As she looked toward the cabin Marion did see. Not alone did she see the
men, but saw their faces plainly. By the glaring light of a burning pine
knot held aloft by one of the men, faces of three tall, gaunt,
stubby-whiskered men were silhouetted against the shadows of night.
“Know them?” Marion whispered as they disappeared behind a clump of
trees.
“Narry a one.”
“I guess that’s all of them,” Patience whispered a moment later. “Away,
now, for little Hallie. We’ll have to take a chance. C’mon, and
remember—not a sound. Not a snap of a twig, not a breath!”
The next moment found them silently sliding down the mountain. Now
pausing, holding their breath to listen, they caught the roar of the
hounds, the crash of the men making their way through the brush. Now they
came to a dense thicket of briars that tore at their clothes. Luckily
they were clad in suits of stout khaki. Now they plunged down a deep
ravine that threatened to be their undoing. At last they were up the
other side and nearing the cabin.
“Have to work fast!” panted Patience. “Find—find her! Pick her up. Don’t
wake her! Don’t let her cry! Then go down the mountain—fast—fast as we
can!”
Then they caught sight of the dark bulk of the cabin ahead of them. A
faint light shone in the open doorway.
“A—a light—” faltered Marion, drawing her companion back. “Maybe a man
has been left behind.”
“Just the fire on the hearth, I guess. Anyway, we have to risk it.
C’mon.”
Again they crept forward. Now they were a hundred yards away, now fifty,
now twenty-five, and now, with hearts beating wildly, they were skirting
the cabin.
Dropping to the ground, Patience crept to the doorway. One glance within
and she was up on hands and knees, creeping rapidly forward.
One moment of tense silence and she appeared at the door. In her arms was
a large bundle.
“Got—got her,” she breathed. “Now go! Go fast! C’mon.”
Once more they crept forward through the dark. A moment passed, another,
and yet another. A hundred yards below the cabin they were making rapid
progress in spite of fallen logs, brush and the dark, when Patience
suddenly stopped and gripped Marion’s arm.
“Listen!” she breathed.
“Wha—what is it?”
“The hounds! They’re baying!”
“They’ve been baying for a long time.”
“It—it’s different now. They’ve got our scent. They’re on our trail.
C’mon! We’ve got to go fast!”
“Where to?”
“I don’t know, but come on!”
* * * * * * * *
What was happening during all this time at the head of Laurel Branch
beyond the natural gateway? Had old Job and his followers discovered that
little Hallie had been stolen? And were they hot on the trail of the
kidnappers? Would they arrive in time to save the little captive and her
brave deliverers?
They had indeed discovered their loss and were mourning it bitterly. As
old Job sat in the chimney corner reading his well worn Bible, from time
to time a tear fell upon the faded pages. But the search had not begun;
might not begin for several days. Such are the slow and silent ways of
mountain folks. Besides, no clew had been left for them to follow. The
kidnappers had entered the valley on foot. Fortune had favored them. It
was during the excitement over the narrowly averted raid by Ransom
Turner’s men that they had slipped into the cabin and had carried away
the sleeping child.
On the rocky creek-bottom road the shoes of the kidnappers made no
imprint. It was only after walking two miles that they mounted horses,
concealed all this time in a paw-paw thicket, and rode away. No aid could
be expected from old Job’s men.