THE RUSSIAN PAYS
When Peter came back to consciousness, he found himself lying in the
shelter of the underbrush alone. And while he attempted to gather his
scattered wits together a figure came creeping through the bushes toward
him. It was Brierly, the clerk, carrying a hatful of water which he had
procured from the neighboring rivulet. Brierly had a lump on his
forehead about the size of a silver dollar, and his disheveled
appearance gave evidence of an active part in the melee.
"What's happened?" asked Peter slowly, starting up as memory came back
to him.
But Brierly didn't answer at once.
"Here, drink this. I don't think you're badly hurt----"
"No. Just dazed a bit," muttered Peter, and let Brierly minister to him
for a moment.
"You see, there were too many for us," Brierly explained. "We made a
pretty good fight of it at that, but they buried us by sheer weight of
numbers. Yours isn't the only bruised head, though. Yakimov got his
early in the game--and Jacobi. And gee! but that was a 'beaut' you
handed Flynn--right in the solar plexus with your heel. The
_savate_--wasn't it? I saw a Frenchy pull that in a dive in Bordeaux. I
reckon Flynn won't be doin' much agitatin' for a while--except in his
stommick."
"How did I get here?" asked Peter.
"I hauled you into the bush as soon as I got a chance--in the
confusion--and gradually, got you back in here. But I think they're
lookin' for us, so we'd better get a move on soon as you're fit enough."
"Where's Jesse?"
"Beat it, I reckon. Haven't seen him."
"I see." And then, "Brierly, I'm obliged to you. I'll try to make it up
to you for this."
"You needn't bother. I'm for you. You can't let a lot of roughnecks put
it over on you like this."
"No--I can't--I can't," muttered Peter.
"I wish we had a bunch of the boys I was with over in France down here.
There's a few up in May's Landing who'd clean this lot up in no time."
"I wish we had them." Peter straightened with some difficulty and rose
to a sitting posture as the thought came to him. "I've got to get to the
'phone, Brierly."
"No. I wouldn't advise that--not here. Those roughnecks are between us
and the office--in the office too, I reckon, by this time. It wouldn't
be safe. Who were you goin' to 'phone to?"
"May's Landing--the Sheriff. I'm going to see this thing through."
"Righto! And I'm with you to a fare-ye-well. But it's got to be managed
different. They'll beat you to death if you show up now. It was Yakimov
that shot at you. He's after you. You were armed. It's a wonder you
didn't shoot him down." And then, with some hesitation, "Say, Mr.
Nichols. You ain't really the Grand Duke Peter, are you?"
Peter smiled. "What's left of him--I am. This man Yakimov is an agent of
Trotzky."
Brierly whistled softly between his teeth. "I reckon _they_ want to get
you, don't they?"
Peter nodded. "But they won't--not yet."
They held a brief council of war and in a moment on hands and knees
were making their way through the underbrush in the general direction of
Black Rock. Behind them they heard rough laughter and an occasional
outburst of song which proclaimed that new supplies of whisky had been
unearthed and that the anarchy which Yakimov so much desired now
prevailed. After a while, Peter managed to get to his feet and moved on
at a greater speed. He had only been stunned by Shad's blow--a part of
the force of which he had caught on his arm. The arm was still numb and
his head thumped, but as he went on in the cool air his brain cleared
and he found it possible to plan with some definiteness. Brierly knew
the sheriff at May's Landing. There was nothing his friends would rather
do than to be sworn in as deputies for a job like this. He had thought
it a wonder that Peter hadn't called the Sheriff in before.
"I thought I could manage the situation alone, Brierly," said Peter
quietly, "but it's got the best of me."
The way was long to Black Rock--at least eight miles by the way they
took--and it was almost six o'clock when, they reached McGuire's. They
knew that with the "flivver" in the possession of the outlaws it was
quite possible that some of the ringleaders of the disturbance might
have preceded them, and so they kept under cover until near the house,
when they quickly emerged from the bushes and made their way to the
kitchen door, entering without knocking.
An unpleasant surprise awaited them here, for in the kitchen, securely
gagged and bound to a chair, they found McGuire's valet, Stryker.
It took only a moment to release the man and to get the gag out of his
mouth, when he began sputtering and pointing toward the door into the
house.
"Hawk--Hawk Kennedy!" the amazed Peter made out.
And after staring at the man in a moment of bewilderment, Peter drew
out his revolver and dashed through the house, keyed up at once to new
adventure, the eager Brierly at his heels. They went up the stairs and
to the door of McGuire's own room, where they stood for a moment aghast
at the disorder and havoc before them.
Papers and books were scattered everywhere upon the floor, chairs were
overturned, and the door of the safe was ajar. At first he saw no one,
but when Peter entered the room he heard a sound from the corner beyond
the table, a sound halfway between a gasp and a groan, and there he
found his employer, Jonathan K. McGuire, doubled up on the floor, bound
and trussed like his valet and quite as helpless. It was evident that
the long awaited terror had come to Black Rock.
But if he was dismayed and frightened it seemed that McGuire was
uninjured and when he was released he was lifted to his feet and a
chair, into which he sank speechless for a moment of rehabilitation.
There was no need to question him as to what had happened in this room,
for the evidences of Hawk's visit and its purpose were all too evident.
Without a word to McGuire, Peter found the telephone in the hall, called
for May's Landing, then turning the instrument over to Brierly, with
instructions as to what he was to do, returned to McGuire's room and
closed the door behind him.
"Well, sir," he said briefly. "I see he's come."
"My God, yes," gasped McGuire. "And you know what he came for--he got
it, Nichols. He got it."
"That proves that he _had_ lost the duplicate," said Peter quietly. "How
did it all happen?"
The old man drew a trembling hand across his brow.
"He took me off my guard--all of us. I don't know. It only happened half
an hour ago. Where's Stryker?"
"He was tied to a chair in the kitchen. We let him loose. He's outside
somewhere."
"And Mrs. Bergen and Sarah?"
"I don't know, sir."
Peter went to the door and called Stryker and that bewildered person
appeared at the foot of the steps with Mrs. Bergen and Sarah who had
been locked in the cellar. Peter called them up and they all began
screaming their tale at once. But at last Peter got at the facts. Hawk
Kennedy had come suddenly into the kitchen where the two women were and,
brandishing a revolver, commanding silence, threatening death if they
made a sound. He had surprised the valet in the lower hall and had
marched him back into the kitchen, where he had bound him to a chair
with a clothes-line and then gagged him.
McGuire waved the trio out of the room when their story was told, and
signaled to Peter to close the door again, when he took up his
interrupted tale.
"I was at the window, looking out, Nichols. I didn't expect him for a
couple of weeks anyway. I'd just about gotten my nerve back. But he got
the drop on me, Nichols. How he ever got into the room without my
hearin' him! I must have been in a trance. His shoes were off. The first
thing I know is a voice close at my ear and a gun in my ribs. I turned
quick--but my gun was in the table drawer. His face was close to mine
and I knew he meant business. If I'd 'a' moved he'd 'a' killed me. So I
put my hands up. There wasn't anything else to do. I thought I'd play
for time but he caught my glance toward the door and only laughed.
"'There ain't anybody comin', Mike,' he says. 'It's just you an' me.' I
asked him what he wanted and he grinned. 'You know,' he says. And with
his left hand he brought out a rope he had stuffed in his pocket. 'I'll
fix _you_ first. Then we'll talk,' he says. He was cool like he always
was. He caught a slip noose around my wrists before I knew it, twisted
the rope around me and threw me over on the floor. I tell you that man
is the devil himself."
"What then?"
"He made me give up the keys to the drawers in the safe--it was open
just like it is now. I wouldn't speak at first but he kicked me and then
put the gun at my head. I still hoped some one would come. I gave in at
last. He found it. My God!" The old man aroused himself with an effort
and rose to his feet. "But we've got to catch him--just you and I. He
can't have gone far. We've got the right to shoot him now--to shoot on
sight----"
"Yes--yes. I'm getting the Sheriff at May's Landing now----"
"The Sheriff!" The Irishman's small eyes stared and then became alive in
sudden comprehension. "Not the Sheriff, Nichols. I won't have him."
"You've got to--at once." And then rapidly Peter gave an account of what
had happened at the logging camp. But it seemed to have no effect upon
McGuire, who listened with glassy eyes. He was obsessed with the
other--the graver danger.
"We'll keep this thing quiet if you like--the real meaning of this
visit, and we've got to pick up his trail. But we can't let those men at
the camp have the run of the place. They'll be looting this house next."
And then, as McGuire seemed to agree, Peter went to the door and found
Brierly still on the 'phone. He was talking to the Sheriff and had told
the whole story. The Sheriff had already heard something about the Black
Rock camp trouble and would be ready to move in an hour.
"Tell him to move fast and to come to McGuire's first," said Peter. "And
you'll be here to show him the way."
Brierly nodded and finished the message, while Peter returned to
McGuire.
"What else did Kennedy say?" Peter asked him.
"He asked a lot of questions--about you and Beth Cameron--about the
money--about what I'd promised you. He's the very devil, I tell you. He
knows everything. He said he'd 'get' you and that he'd 'get' Beth
Cameron."
Peter caught McGuire fiercely by the shoulder. "What did you say? Are
you sure?"
With all of his other troubles Peter had forgotten Beth and now thought
guiltily of the possible danger to which she might have been subjected.
How could Hawk have found out about Beth Cameron?
"What I told you," muttered McGuire wearily, "he said he'd 'get'
her----"
Sick with anxiety, Peter flung away from his protesting employer and
made for the door, rushing past the astonished Brierly in the hall, down
the stairs and out at a run over the bridge and through the village to
the Bergen house. The door was open and he rushed in, calling Beth's
name. There was no response. Now desperate and fearing the worst, he ran
from room to room, downstairs and up. There were signs of her--a towel
on a chair, a broom leaning against a door upstairs, the neatly made
beds, the orderly kitchen, giving evidence of the morning cleaning, but
no supper cooking on the stove, the fire of which had burned to cinders.
She had not been here for a long while--since early morning possibly.
But where had she gone--where? Hawk Kennedy would hardly have dared to
come here--to the village--hardly have succeeded in enticing her away
from this house, surrounded by neighbors--still less have succeeded in
carrying her off without their knowledge. He rushed out into the road
and questioned. No one seemed to have seen her. The eagerness and
suppressed anxiety of Peter's manner quickly drew a crowd which felt the
contagion of his excitement. A man joined the group. Yes. He had seen
Beth in the morning early. She was hurrying down the path which led into
the pines. He had not seen her since.
Peter glanced at him just once more to be sure that he was speaking the
truth and then, without a thought as to the impression he had created in
the minds of the villagers, set off running through the path toward his
cabin.
Fool that he had been! To leave Beth unguarded--unwarned even--with Hawk
within a quarter of a mile of her. Why had he not seen the hand of fate
in Beth's presence here at Black Rock near McGuire, the man who had
wronged her father--the hand of fate, which with unerring definiteness
was guiding the principals in this sordid tragedy together from the ends
of the earth for a reckoning? And what was this reckoning to be? McGuire
had already fallen a victim to the man's devilish skill and audacity.
And Beth----? What match was she for a clever desperate rogue who balked
at nothing? How had he learned of Beth's existence and how, knowing of
it, had he managed to beguile her away from the village? Peter was
beginning to believe with McGuire that Hawk Kennedy was indeed in league
with the devil.
Peter was not now aware of any pain or even of bodily fatigue, for there
was no room in his mind for any thought of self. Scarcely conscious of
his new exertions, he ran across the log-jam below the pool and up the
path to the Cabin. What he expected to find there he did not know, but
it seemed clear that Beth had come this way in the morning and if not to
the Cabin, where else? Hawk had been here when she had come into the
woodland path. That was enough. As he reached the turn in the path, he
saw that the door of the Cabin was open and when he rushed in, prepared
for anything, he saw that the room was unoccupied. He stood aghast for a
moment, trying to adjust his mind to take in logically the evidence he
found there--the overturned chair, the blankets dragging on the floor
by the bed, the broken water pitcher, the opened bureau drawers, the
torn bits of linen--parts of his own handkerchiefs--upon the floor--all
visible signs' of a commotion, perhaps of a struggle, that had taken
place. And then under the table he espied a square of heliotrope paper.
He picked it up quickly and took it to the light of the window. It was
the envelope of the letter he had received from Anastasie Galitzin. And
what was this----? A scrawl in Beth's hand, "You left _this_ last night.
You'd better go back to Anastasie."
Bewildered for a moment, Peter stared at the forceful characters of the
handwriting, written hurriedly in a scrawl of lead pencil, and then the
probable sequence of events came to him with a rush. She had opened the
note of Anastasie Galitzin and read it. What had it said? He had
forgotten details. But there were phrases that might have been
misconstrued. And Beth----. He could see her now coming up the path, her
head high, seeking explanations--and meeting Hawk!
But where was the letter itself? He searched for it without success.
Hawk! The answer to all of his questions was in the personality of the
man as Peter knew him. The bits of torn linen and Beth's own
handkerchief, which he found in the corner of the bed against the wall,
crumpled into a ball and still moist with her tears, were mute but
eloquent evidences of her suffering and torture in the presence of this
man who had not been too delicate in the means by which he had
accomplished her subjugation.
Peter raged up and down the floor of the Cabin like a caged animal. What
must he do--which way turn? That Hawk had gagged and bound her was
obvious. But what then? He rushed outside and examined the shrubbery
around the Cabin. There was nothing to indicate the direction in which
he had taken her--and the forest at his very elbow stretched for miles
in all directions, a hiding place that had served other guilty ones
before Hawk--the New Jersey pines that he had learned to love, now
wrapped in a conspiracy of silence. It would be dusk very soon. A search
of the pine barrens at night would be hopeless. Besides, Hawk had had
the whole of the morning and most of the afternoon in which to carry out
his purpose.... What was that purpose? Where had he taken Beth? Where
had he left her when he had returned to Black Rock House to rob McGuire?
Or had he...? Impossible! Even Hawk wouldn't have dared.... Peter
clenched his fists in agony and rage at the terrible thoughts that came
swarming into his brain, driving out all reason.
His Highness had suffered greatly the last few years of his life, the
physical pain of wounds received in battle, the mental pain of falling
hopes, of fallen pride, of disillusionment, but he could not remember
any pain that had seemed to matter like the anguish of the present
moment. The other sufferings were those of the Grand Duke Peter
Nicholaevitch, material sufferings born of his high estate. But this
present suffering was primitive. It wrenched at the very fibers of the
heart, for the love that he had found was a finer thing than had ever
happened in his life, a love which asked nothing and only craved the joy
of giving. And this woman--this mate that he had chosen out of all the
women that he had known in the world...!
Hawk Kennedy would have fared badly if Peter could have had him within
arm's reach at that moment. But after a time, as Peter went into the
Cabin, he grew calmer, and pacing the floor for a while, began to think
more lucidly. Less than an hour ago Hawk Kennedy had been at Black Rock
House giving Jonathan McGuire and Stryker their unpleasant half-hour. He
wouldn't have dared to return and accomplish what he had done after a
deed so terrible as that which had entered Peter's thoughts. He was
still a human being and Beth.... He couldn't have killed Beth out of
hand. The thought was monstrous--even of Hawk.
He had taken her somewhere--to one of his hiding-places in the woods,
and proposed keeping her, the legal heir of Ben Cameron, for ransom, as
a part of his plot to win his share of the McGuire fortune. He had
stolen the telltale agreement too and now held all the cards--all of
them.
Peter paused standing by the window seat, looking out at the leaves
falling in the rising wind, his mind already resolved on a plan. He was
about to turn toward the telephone, when he noted a commotion in the
bushes opposite his window. A flash of fire almost at the same moment, a
crash of broken glass, and the hair on his head twitched violently.
Instinctively Peter dropped to the floor.
Close shooting! His scalp stung uncomfortably--but aside from that he
knew that he was not hurt. A fraction of an inch lower----
Hawk----! His first impulse had been to rush to the door--but the events
of the day had taught him caution and so he crouched, drawing his
revolver. Too much depended upon his existence at the present moment to
take a chance in the open with a hidden enemy--especially if that enemy
were Hawk Kennedy. He listened intently. No sound. Then the breaking of
a twig and the sibilance of whispering voices--two of them--perhaps
more. And still Peter did not move. His quick thinking had done him a
service. It was clear that the men outside had decided that the shot had
taken effect.
And now, instead of creeping to the doorway, Peter settled back upon the
floor again, prostrate, but in such a position that his eyes and his
revolver commanded the entrance to the Cabin. He waited. It was a
nerve-racking business but the thought of all that depended upon his
safety steadied him into a preternatural calm like that which falls at
the presence of death. Death was imminent here for some one. It lurked
just outside. It lurked in the finger that Peter held against the
trigger. And Peter meant that the adventure should end at the doorway.
Presently he heard a gentle shuffling of feet outside and the whisper
again, this time quite distinctly, "You got him, I reckon."
Whose voice was that? Not Hawk Kennedy's ... Peter lowered his head to
his arm and closed his eyes, watching the door-jamb through his
eyelashes, his revolver hidden but its muzzle in line. A bulky shadow on
the step, a foot and then a head cautiously protruded--that of Shad
Wells, followed immediately by another, swathed in a bandage which only
partially concealed the dark eyes and beard of Yakimov the Russian. It
took considerable exercise of will on Peter's part to remain quiescent
with the stare of those four eyes upon him, especially when he noted the
weapon in the fingers of the Russian. But he waited until the two men
got into the room.
"There he is. You got him, Yakimov," said Shad with a laugh.
"Perhaps----" Peter heard, "but I'll make sure of it----"
Yakimov's pistol rose slowly, halfway to the level of his eyes. But it
was never fired, for Peter's revolver flashed fire, twice--three times,
and Yakimov with a sudden wide stare at vacancy pitched forward and
crashed down. The surprise was complete, for a fourth shot went into the
right arm of Shad Wells, which ruined his shot and sent his weapon
clattering to the floor.
Peter had taken Shad's measure once before and the memory of the blow
from the axhandle earlier in the day did nothing to soften Peter's
intent. The quick command as he scrambled to his feet and the sight of
the imminent weapon caused Shad suddenly to forget everything but the
desire, whatever else happened, not to die as Yakimov had done. And so
he put his hands up--staggering back against the wall. Peter, with his
weapon still covering Shad, put his fingers over Yakimov's heart. The
man was dead. Then he rose soberly and faced Shad.
"I ought to kill you like the dog that you are," he said tensely, "but I
want to question you first. Stand over by the bed."
Shad obeyed and Peter, watching him closely, picked up his weapon and
Yakimov's and examined them carefully, putting one in his pocket and
laying the other beside him on the mantel. But all the fight was out of
Shad, who stood stupidly while Peter bound his wrists behind him. The
man was badly hurt, but it was no time for Peter to be playing the good
Samaritan.
"So much for keeping bad company," said Peter coolly. "You'll find more
of the same sort in the lock-up at May's Landing."
"You daresn't send me there," muttered Shad, with a feeble attempt at
bravado.
"Won't I? You'll see--for attempted murder. The Sheriff is on his way
here now. Have you anything to say?"
Shad was silent, eying the dead man.
"Oh, very well," said Peter. He closed and locked the door and, keeping
the man covered with his revolver, moved to the telephone and got
McGuire at Black Rock House, telling him in a few phrases what had
happened.
"Yes, Yakimov the Russian--I shot him.... Yes.... I killed him. It was
to save my own life.... Shad Wells.... A prisoner. Send Brierly with a
car down here at once. Hawk has been here too and has met Beth Cameron
... God knows. He has taken her away with him somewhere--abducted
her.... Yes ... Yes ... I've got to find her. Yes, _Beth_--can't you
understand?... She came here to bring me a letter ... I found it. Hawk
was here early this morning.... I know it. He bound her with some of my
handkerchiefs ... No, there's no doubt of it--none at all.... I can't
stand here talking. Send Brierly at once. Understand?"
And Peter hung up the receiver and turned toward Shad, who was leaning
forward toward him, his face pale, his mouth agape at what he had heard.
But Peter, unaware of the sudden transformation in his prisoner, only
glanced at him and bending over began a search of the pockets of the
dead man, when Shad's voice cut the silence----
"You--you say----," he stammered chokingly, "you say B-Beth has been
abducted, Mister--Beth Cameron?"
Peter straightened, his eyes searching the lumberman's face.
"Yes. To-day--this morning," he answered crisply. "What of it? Do you
know anything----?"
"Hawk Kennedy took her?" the man faltered. "Are you sure?"
Peter sprang up, his eyes blazing with eagerness.
"What do you know of Hawk Kennedy?" he cried. And then, as Shad seemed
suddenly to have been stricken dumb, Peter seized him by the shoulder
and shook him. "Speak! Do you know Hawk Kennedy?"
"Yes," said Shad in a bewildered way. "I do--but Beth----"
"He's taken her away--don't you understand?"
"W-Why?"
"God knows," said Peter wildly. "It's part of a plot--against
McGuire--to get money. Do you know where he is? Do you know where he's
gone with her? Speak, man! Or must I----?"
"I know him. I've seen him----," muttered Shad with a hang-dog air.
"To-day?"
"No."
Peter gasped in disappointment, but still questioned quickly.
"Where did you see him?"
"Down near the camp. He came back again yesterday. He'd been away----"
"Yes, yes, I know. What did he say?"
"Oh, he was very peart--swaggered around like he owned the place and
talked about a lot of money he was goin' to have. An' how he was----"
"Do you know where he took Beth Cameron?" broke in Peter again.
"No. I don't--My God--_him!_"
"Yes, _him_. You know what it means. He'd kill her if he dared."
"Would he? My God! Mister. You can't let----"
"No. No." And then, sharply, "Speak up, Wells, and I'll set you free. Do
you know where he could have taken her?"
"I'm not sure, but maybe----"
"Where----?"
"He stayed down at the Forks----"
"Yes. But he wouldn't have dared to take her there----"
"No. That's so. Maybe----"
"Where?"
"Some other place----"
"Of course. Was there any other place that he knew about?"
"Yes, there was. But when he first came he rode down on a horse from
Hammonton."
"Yes, yes. Go on. And later----"
"He used to come around the camp for food. It was when you first came on
the job. But he bought it and paid for it."
"I don't care about that. Where was he hiding?"
"Back in the woods. He used to sleep in the old tool house down by the
cedar swamp."
Peter was now on edge with excitement.
"Do you think he'd be likely to take Beth there?"
"How should I know? Maybe he took her to Hammonton or Egg Harbor."
"No. He wouldn't have had time. Where's this tool house?"
"About half a mile from the mills."
"Could you show me the way?"
"I reckon I could----," Shad Wells sank into a chair and bent his head.
"My God! Mister. If I'd only 'a' known! If you'd only let me help you--I
can't stand thinkin' of anythin' happenin' to Beth--you an' me--we ain't
got along, an' maybe you've got the upper hand of me, but----"
"We've got to forget that now," put in Peter quickly, and taking out his
hasp knife he cut the cords that bound Shad's wrists. "Just to show you
that I mean what I say." And then, soberly, "You know these woods. Help
me to find Beth Cameron and I'll make no charge against you. Is that a
bargain?"
"Yes, Mister."
Peter glanced at his face and at the blood dripping from his finger
ends. The man was suffering much pain but he hadn't whimpered.
"All right. Take off your coat and I'll tie your arm up first."
Silently Shad rose and obeyed while Peter got water and washed the
wound, a clean one right through the muscles of the forearm. But no
bones were broken and Peter bandaged it skillfully. Shad clenched his
jaws during the washing of the wound but he said nothing more. Peter
knew that the man still hated him but he knew also that Shad was now
powerless to do him any injury, and that there was a tie to bind them
now into this strange alliance. As Peter finished the bandaging and was
improvising a sling for the wounded arm, Shad crumpled side-long upon
the edge of the bed, his face ghastly, and would have fallen to the
floor if Peter hadn't held him upright, and half carried him to the
armchair. Then Peter unlocked a cupboard and brought forth whisky,
giving Shad half a tumblerful and in a moment the man began to revive.
So Peter poured another glass and slowly Shad pulled himself together.
"Perhaps you're not up to it----," Peter began.
But Shad wagged his head with some determination.
"Yes, I--I'm up to it all right. I've got to go, Mister. We'll find her
if she's in these woods----"
"Bully for you. Feeling better now?"
Shad nodded and then raised his head, staring with a frown out of the
window by the piano. Peter had been so absorbed in his task of setting
the man to rights that he had not noticed the dull glow that had risen
in the southern sky. And following Shad's glance he turned his head and
looked out of the window. At first he thought it might be the afterglow
of the sunset until a word from Shad aroused him to the real
significance of the light.
"Fire!" gasped the lumberman.
"Fire!" echoed Peter, aghast.
"They've set the woods afire, Mister," muttered Shad helplessly.
At the same moment the telephone from the house began jangling
furiously. It was McGuire, who had made the same discovery.
"Yes," replied Peter to the hysterical questions. "It's the lumber camp.
They've broken loose and set the woods afire. You've got to get all the
men you can together and rush them down there. Where's Brierly? On the
way? Oh, all right. Good. He'll take me down and I'll send him back....
Yes. I've got a clew to Hawk ... I don't know, but I'm going to try it.
I'm taking Shad Wells with me ... The old tool house by the cedar swamp.
Brierly will know. Send the men on in relays when they come--with
shovels and sacks.... What did you say?... What?... Oh, 'D----n the
woods.'... All right. I'll get the paper if I can ... Yes. It's my
affair as much as yours now.... Yes.... Good-by."
Peter hung up the receiver and turned to Shad, who had risen, his arm in
the sling, just as Brierly came running up the path to the door.