A CLOSE CALL
When Scott turned his head and saw that man standing just at the end of
the tunnel a great lump rose in his throat and his knees almost gave way
under him. He wanted to run but he could not move. The next instant he
recognized Hopwood and the reaction was so great that he sat down limply
in his tracks and stared helplessly.
“You might as well kill a fellow as scare him to death, Hopwood,” he
exclaimed when he had recovered his breath.
“And you might as well be dead as to be caught here,” Hopwood retorted.
“Did Foster see you? I just met him coming out and he was crazy drunk.”
“Not quite,” Scott replied with a nervous laugh, “but I thought so for a
minute when I saw you,” and he explained to Hopwood what a narrow escape
he had had, and how he was trying to find out whether there really was
any one else in the cabin.
“You should have asked me to bring you here,” Hopwood scolded. “Then you
would not have run such a risk.”
“I’ll let somebody bring me next time,” Scott answered with a grin. “I
have done about all the exploring I want to do around here alone.”
He had completely recovered now, and he got up to have a peek into the
cabin. So strong had been his impression that there was somebody in
there that he now peeped cautiously around the corner of the doorframe.
The little mouse scurried across a rafter and down the opposite wall.
There was no other sign of life.
In the center of the opposite wall of the cabin was a crude clay
fireplace and in it there was a large copper retort shaped like an
immense pear. From the top of it a long goose-neck extended far out into
the room. Three barrels were sitting along the wall at the end of the
cabin. In another barrel, on which there was a tin lid, there was a sack
of corn.
Scott looked the things over curiously. It was the first moonshine
outfit he had ever seen. When his curiosity was satisfied he turned
suddenly to Hopwood. “Will you swear that Foster Wait runs this thing?”
he asked.
Hopwood started at the question. “Why?” he asked in some confusion.
“What are you going to do?”
Scott thought that he had asked too much of Hopwood in asking him to
give evidence against his relative, much as he knew he hated him. But it
was too late to back out now.
“Because I am going to get the United States marshal and have him
arrested,” Scott answered doggedly.
“But that is just what I was going to do myself,” Hopwood answered with
disappointment. “You better let me do it. I know more about it than you
do,” he pleaded.
“No, Hopwood,” Scott replied firmly, “this is my problem and I must
settle it myself.”
“Why do you call it your problem when I have been working on it for
years before you ever heard of it?” Hopwood remonstrated with some
spirit.
Scott saw that line of argument would not work and changed his tactics.
“But, Hopwood, I need you here. There is no use in my staying here if
you go away. I can’t find anything about what is going on if you are not
here to tell me. I could not tell whether Foster was getting ready to
burn down the camps or murder us all. If you stay here while I am away
and will keep MacAndrews posted, he can take care of things all right.”
Hopwood scratched his head doubtfully for a minute and frowned his
disappointment.
“I am not the only one who depends on you, you know,” Scott urged. “All
the people on the other mountain over there depend on you for the news.”
That was the deciding argument. Hopwood had told Jarred that he was
going to put Foster out of the way and he wanted the glory of doing it,
but he had been doing things for other people all his life and he knew
that there was some truth in what Scott said.
“Very well,” he said quietly. “I suppose I’d better stay, but I do wish
that I could go. Some day I am going to do something I want to.”
It seemed so pathetic to any one who knew the history of Hopwood’s life
that Scott was almost tempted to let him go. But he was afraid that
Hopwood might fail in the mission through his limited knowledge of the
world.
“Then if you will take a message to Mac Andrews that I am going and for
him to put the crew to work in the morning as usual, I am going to start
right away,” Scott said resolutely. The sooner he accomplished his
purpose the safer he would be.
Hopwood agreed without a word of protest and led the way into the
tunnel. They were halfway through it when they were startled by a
crashing in the brush ahead. Hopwood crouched and listened an instant
and then motioned frantically for Scott to go back. Scott needed no
second warning. The scare Hopwood had given him had shaken his nerves a
little and he ran back through the tunnel like a rabbit. Hopwood was
close on his heels.
“What is it?” Scott asked anxiously.
“Foster coming back.” Hopwood replied briefly. “Come.” He ran lightly to
the wall of laurel beside the cabin and slowly pushed his way into it.
Scott followed as close as he could but found himself no match for
Hopwood at this game. Hopwood did not go far. He did not have to. A few
feet in that thicket and they were completely hidden, but they could see
out fairly well.
They were scarcely settled in their retreat when Foster lunged out of
the tunnel into the little clearing. He was apparently in a towering
rage and was mumbling savagely to himself. He looked keenly around the
clearing and strode over to the cabin. From the length of time he was
inside he must have made a very thorough examination. When he came out
he was examining the ground for tracks. Scott thanked his stars that he
was wearing tennis shoes.
Whatever the tracks were that Foster was following so carefully they led
him out to the tunnel again. The two refugees breathed more freely when
he was gone, but their troubles were not over. Foster was not making the
noise he did when he came in and they could not tell where he was. Had
he gone away or was he still in the tunnel?
They had waited five minutes and no sound came from the tunnel. The
suspense was beginning to tell on them.
“I’ll sneak out and see,” Scott whispered.
“No,” Hopwood remonstrated. “Let me go. He would shoot you on sight. He
would not shoot me.”
“He tried to kill you a while ago, didn’t he?” Scott asked indignantly.
“He will not shoot me on sight because he is not going to see me, not if
I can help it,” he mumbled to himself.
He did not wait for Hopwood to answer, but slipped as quickly and
silently as he could out into the clearing. He listened intently but
could hear no sound. Slowly he crawled to the tunnel and peeped into it.
There was no one in sight. With one more attempt to pick up a sound he
crawled cautiously in.
It was far more nerve racking than it had been when he crawled in. Then
he did not have much fear of any one being there. Now he knew that some
one had been there and was not at all certain that he had left. His
progress was painfully slow. He listened after every step. He remembered
where he had been hiding a minute before and glanced nervously at the
wall of rhododendron on either side. He was almost tempted to run the
rest of the way and have it over with.
It was well that he did not act on that impulse. A few feet more brought
him in sight of the outer end of the tunnel, and there was Foster
sitting in the entrance with his long rifle across his lap and his eyes
glued on the mountain trail.
Noiselessly Scott backed out of sight and beat a cautious but rapid
retreat. He made his way back to Hopwood in the rhododendron and told
him what he had seen. “Looks as though he was posted there for the
night,” Scott growled.
“He probably is,” Hopwood replied quietly. “I reckon it’s up to us to
get out through the rhododendron.”
That possibility had entirely slipped Scott’s mind. It had never
occurred to him that you could go through that rhododendron. He had been
too fascinated by the tunnel and that mumbling man at the end of it with
a long rifle.
“Then let’s go,” he said.
Hopwood glanced about him to get his bearings and glided through the
dense brush like a snake, and as silently. Scott was put to it to keep
up with him, and try as he would he could not move as silently. It was
slow going at the best, for the course Hopwood had chosen led them down
into a draw and up on to the next ridge.
They had almost reached the edge of the rhododendron when they stumbled
on to a covey of ruffed grouse. The frightened birds went up with a
tremendous rush and crashed through the brush out into the open.
“It is a good thing we did not strike them down by the clearing,”
Hopwood whispered. “We would have had Foster on us in an instant. Here
we are safe because he can’t very well follow us fast enough through
there to do him any good.”
They came out of the brush on to the open ridge and it seemed almost
like coming out of a cave. Scott climbed up on a point of rock to get
his bearings.
Scarcely had he straightened up when his hat flew from his head and the
ping of a rifle sounded from the opposite ridge. Scott fell from the
rock in a heap.
Hopwood ran to him. “Did he get you?” he asked anxiously.
Scott felt his head and there was blood on his fingers. “Must have
grazed me,” he said, “but it does not amount to anything.”
Hopwood examined it and found a half-inch cut in his scalp. “That’s what
those partridges did for us,” Hopwood said. “I am sorry he saw us but it
can’t be helped now. Now, we’ll have to get out of here.”
Scott scrambled to his feet and recovered his punctured hat. He examined
it with a little shudder and started up the ridge.
“Not that way,” Hopwood exclaimed. “That’s the way he will come.”
So Hopwood led the way once more across a brush-filled draw on to the
next ridge. Up this they made their way very cautiously, taking good
care to keep out of sight. They were almost up to the main ridge when
Hopwood hid behind a ledge of rock and motioned Scott to do the same.
“We can see the other ridge from here,” he whispered, “and we better
wait till we see Foster go down. We might meet him up there on the
ridge.”
After what seemed like an age they caught a glimpse of Foster making his
way cautiously down the opposite ridge. He had seen Scott fall from the
ledge and was on his way down to make sure of him. When he was out of
sight they crawled out of their hiding place and struck for the main
ridge.
“I wonder what aroused his suspicion,” Hopwood said.
“I don’t know,” Scott said, “and it does not make any difference. He
can’t head us off now.”
Hopwood shook his head doubtfully. “Maybe not, but I wish he did not
know anything about it. He may guess what we are going to do, and if he
does it may drive him to something desperate.”
They were on the open trail now and stopped for a moment. “Well,” Scott
said, “don’t let’s worry about it. You take the message to Mac and keep
your eye on Foster the best you can. I’ll take the trail over the
mountain.”
They had hardly disappeared when Foster ran back on to the trail. He was
raging like a madman. He knew that something, he could not tell just
what, was in the wind, and it was driving him mad.
A squirrel chattered at him from a big oak tree, and he shot it with an
oath.