HUNTED TO EARTH.
As soon as the excitement over the base-ball match had died away, Tom’s
moodiness returned. It was now near the end of August, and the little
party at the Pines began to show signs of breaking up. Kittie and her
sister, with Tom, were to meet their father and mother at Portland
on the twenty-fifth of the month, returning to Boston in season for
school. Randolph, too, was due in the Latin School ranks on September
fifth; Pet received a letter from her family, telling her to join them
at the mountains at about the same time.
As the remaining days of vacation rapidly dwindled, the fun, on the
contrary, increased. Bert Farnum had a long talk with Randolph, shortly
after the match, and made a clean breast of his treachery, telling
him how he had suffered from remorse at the unmanly part he had
played in the earlier part of the great game, and how repentant he
was for the whole affair. The result of this confession was that the
two boys became firm friends, and Bert, in company with Dick Manning
and a good-natured sister Polly, often joined the Bostonians in their
mountain tramps, hay-cart rides, and other good times.
Old Sebattis and his wife were reported as encamped near the county
road, fifteen miles away. Of course, nothing had been heard of the
watch, the secret of its whereabouts being locked in the breast of one
unhappy boy.
One hot, sultry afternoon, when the rest had gone off to the woods on
a picnic, Tom started alone for his favorite hiding-place in the cliff
near the alder run. He walked slowly down the path, looking neither to
right nor left, and seeing nothing of the beauty of flower and bird and
tree about him. He was saying over and over to himself, “I’ll do it! I
won’t stand it any longer! I’ll do it this very afternoon!”
He made his way across the field, down through the pasture, and along
the dry brook-channel to the drooping beech-tree. Glancing about him
carelessly, from mere habit, he swung himself up to the trunk and
clambered into the snug nook among the ferns.
Had he, for once, scrutinized his surroundings more earnestly, and
peered around the corner of the large fallen bowlder at the foot of
the cliff, he might have seen two dark eyes fastened upon him, from
among the undergrowth. Their gaze was so full of spite and low cunning
that it would have been well for Tom had he caught a glimpse of them
and sprung away at once. But without a thought of danger, his mind
concentrated on one object alone, he reached his high perch, and seated
himself on a rock to regain his breath.
Already his face had a better expression than it had worn for weeks.
His lips were set, as if with a firm and noble resolve; his eyes
flashed with the light that always shines full on the face that is
turned toward the Right. It was plain that Tom had made up his mind at
last, and was happier for it, whatever might be the consequences.
After resting a few moments, he carefully removed a few odd bits of
stone and moss from the mouth of a crevice in the rock, and drew out
Pet’s watch. He at once examined it thoroughly, holding it to his ear
as he had done on a previous occasion.
“Yes,” said he to himself, with great satisfaction, “it’s all right.
One good rub, to brighten it up, and in fifteen minutes it shall be in
uncle Will’s hands.”
He drew a piece of flannel from his pocket, and polished the case of
the pretty little timepiece, inside and out, until it shone so that
he could see his own face reflected in the gold. Then he placed it
carefully in an inner pocket, and rising to his feet with a sigh of
relief, stepped down toward the slanting trunk of the beech, on which
he was prepared to descend, as usual.
He had no sooner stooped for this purpose, however, when he started
back with an involuntary cry of alarm.
About six feet below him, staring upward with a face full of malignant
cunning, was Sebattis Megone, in the very act of seizing the swaying
limbs of the tree to mount the ledge. The moment he saw that he was
detected, he released his grasp on the boughs, and stood still, looking
up at Tom with an ugly grin.
“Ugh!” he grunted, Indian-fashion. “What boy do on rocks? What he want
in woods?”
Tom glanced about him hastily. If the man had evil intentions, there
was no way of escape. It seemed as if he could feel the little watch
beating against his own heart. He tried to answer with an appearance of
carelessness.
“I come here most every day and read,” he said. “It’s cool in the
woods.”
“What climb up high for?”
“There’s a good place here to sit down. I like to be alone, sometimes,
don’t you, Sebattis?”
The good-will of the tone was lost on the Indian, who evidently knew
more than he cared to tell.
“Where Gold-hair’s watch?” he asked suddenly and fiercely, to throw Tom
off his guard.
“It was lost that day she fell into the lake.”
“Yis. Me remember. See!” and Sebattis scowled darkly as he laid his
hand on a scar where the broken window, probably, had cut his forehead.
“I am sorry you were hurt,” began Tom, nervously.
“You know where watch is. Give me!”
“Why do you think I know about it?” Tom wanted to gain time. His only
hope was that some one might stray down into the woods within reach
of his voice. As to the cliff, he knew well enough, for he had often
examined it, and even tried the feat in fun once or twice, that it
could not be scaled. From the hollow where he stood, the face of the
rock slanted outward above him, rendering escape in that direction out
of the question.
“If you no give me, I come up and take watch--maybe hurt you!” snarled
the Indian in his guttural tones.
“Hold on,” said poor Tom, at his wit’s end; more anxious, now, for the
safety of the watch than for himself. “It will be easier for me to come
down than for you to climb way up here.”
“You come then--quick!”
The man was plainly growing angry, and laid his hand on his knife as he
spoke, by way of menace.
But Tom had no idea of coming down. Instead of that, he suddenly drew
back a step, and shouted at the top of his lungs,
“_Help! Help! Tim, uncle Percival! Help!_”
For a moment the Indian seemed taken aback at this unlooked-for move,
glancing fearfully over his shoulder as if he expected to hear Tim’s
sturdy footfalls. Then his rage got the better of him, and, grasping
the branches once more, he began to clamber upward.
Fortunately, being rather stout, he could not manage the ascent quite
so nimbly as Tom. The boy, pale as death, sprang back into the furthest
corner of the cavity, intending to fight to the last, in defence of
the watch, the loss of which had brought such sorrow to Pet, and such
disgrace and unhappiness to his own summer vacation at his uncle’s.
What would have been the result of such a struggle, I cannot tell. The
Indian was armed, and the boy would have been but a baby in his hands,
if the issue depended upon mere strength. But at this moment a strange
thing happened.
When Tom drew back into the hollow formed by the angle of the rocks,
he crowded in among the ferns and thick moss further than he had ever
been before. As he did so, he threw one despairing look about him for a
weapon. What seemed to be a loose stone caught his eye. It was covered
with many years’ growth of lichens, but it came up easily in his hand.
As he was stooping to raise it, what was his astonishment to find
beneath it a dark opening into what appeared a sort of inner cave, the
mouth of which had been concealed by rubbish.
With the instinct of a hunted animal, as he heard the boughs of the
beech-tree creak under the weight of his enemy, he tore aside the rocks
and moss which were easily dislodged and in a moment more he was in
the hole, pulling the largest stone within reach over the mouth of his
strange retreat as he disappeared within it.
His first sensation was one of relief. The Indian, he knew, would
hesitate about entering a trap like this, where his unseen foe might
spring upon him from any side. Already his footsteps were heard, on the
stones above, and his short, surprised grunt when he found his victim
had sunk into the ground like a mole. He was beginning to cautiously
remove the rubbish from the opening, when Tom thought it was time to
beat a further retreat.
At first, plunging suddenly into darkness out of the sunny afternoon,
he had been able to see nothing. Now the few rays of light that entered
enabled him to distinguish the nature of his surroundings. He found
that he was in a little rocky chamber, perhaps ten feet square and half
as many high, partly natural and partly cleared by the hand of man;
as he could tell by the regular arrangement of stones here and there.
At the further end was a blacker space than anywhere else. He moved
across the cave, and found that this was the entrance to an inner
tunnel or passage-way, apparently leading to still further recesses.
The Indian had now ceased work, and Tom felt more nervous than when he
could hear him scratching and digging at the mouth of the cave. There
seemed nothing for it but to keep on, in the black passage, where the
darkness, at least, would favor him. He had to get down on his hands
and knees, as this inner opening was less than three feet in diameter;
and in this way he crawled ahead, into the depths of the little cave.
Up to this moment he had never stopped to reason out the possible cause
for such a queer, underground chamber. Now it suddenly flashed upon
him that it must be the secret passage-way that his uncle had told
about; for although Tom had not been in the room when Mr. Percival had
described this ancient provision for escape in case of sudden attack,
he had heard his sisters speak of it afterward. Where it came out, he
did not know; but the thought that he must be moving toward the house
gave him new courage.
Making as little noise as possible, he crept along the passage-way,
hoping every minute that it would expand to a size sufficient to allow
of his walking erect. After a short halt for rest, he started on again,
having made such good progress that he believed he must be half-way to
the house. Two or three times he bumped his head, but he paid little
attention to bruises. So far he was safe, with the watch in his pocket,
from his ugly pursuer.
He had not gone a dozen feet, however, when he came to a second halt,
his heart beating fast. What was the matter with the boy? With a good
chance of escape before him, and half of the tunnel passed, he ought
to have been pressing forward. But here he was, crouching almost flat
to the earth, stock still, as if afraid to advance another inch. What
could be the matter? Tom could have told you very quickly, what he had
been suspecting for the last five minutes, and what was now true beyond
a question. _The passage-way was contracting!_ Instead of growing wider
and higher it was now so small that he could barely squeeze through
on his hands and knees. Presently he lay down at full length, and
wriggled along, the perspiration pouring from every inch of his body,
the earth falling in a fine shower about his hair and neck. What if
the tunnel should come to an end? Should he remain there wedged in
this terrible place, _buried alive_? Ah, this was not all that made Tom
tremble, and urge his way still more earnestly through the narrowing
tunnel. When he had paused, a moment before, he had heard, plainly as
through a speaking-tube, a slight disturbance, a sound of scratching,
the fall of a distant rock in the passage behind him. He could not hide
from himself the meaning of those sounds. The Indian had explored the
cave, had discovered his method of escape, and was now actually in the
tunnel, in close pursuit.