SCOTT ARRIVES AT THE VILLAGE
Scott and the marshal started down the mountain in the direction of the
firing. “Where is that still?” the marshal asked. “We might as well have
a look at it if it is up this way.”
“It won’t be much out of the way,” Scott said. “We are about there now.”
He was so anxious to get to the village that he would not have consented
to stop at all except that he thought he might find Hopwood at the
still, and he was crazy to know what was going on. He led the marshal
down the mountain at a run.
“Here’s the trail to it,” he exclaimed.
When they came to the tunnel the marshal slipped ahead with his revolver
in his hand. “Let me pack this gun in there ahead,” he whispered. “Not
likely to be any one there, but if there should be, he might be
peevish.”
They made their way cautiously through the rhododendron and paused at
the other end to watch and listen. There was no evidence of any one and
the marshal ran quickly across the clearing to the cabin. Scott was
close at his heels. There was no one there.
“This is a fine outfit,” the marshal exclaimed enthusiastically. “Big
enough to supply the county. No wonder I could not find it. They are a
foxy bunch. Put it on government land, too.”
One glance had shown Scott that Hopwood was not there and he was anxious
to be off. “Come on,” he exclaimed, “you can destroy this thing any
time. I’ve got to see what is happening down there. That may be my crew
fighting.”
“Just the same, I am going to fix this thing before I go,” the marshal
replied coolly. “Any one who is slick enough to put this thing in here
might be pretty clever in getting it out. I’ll take no chances.”
With a few blows of his hatchet he cut the copper retort to ribbons and
knocked the heads out of the barrels. “Now they can have it,” he cried
with a chuckle of satisfaction.
Scott was already halfway out of the tunnel. As soon as he emerged on
the open trail he saw Hopwood coming, exhausted but determined.
“What is going on, Hopwood?” he called anxiously.
“They’re at it,” Hopwood panted as he sank on a log.
“What started it?” Scott asked.
“The boy from the logging camp reported that you had gone over the
mountain,” Hopwood gasped. “And Foster shot Vic’s mother in cold blood.”
Scott was horror struck. “Why, that is what Sewall predicted,” he said,
“but I didn’t believe it possible.”
“It was murder,” Hopwood replied coldly.
“Jarred isn’t hurt, is he?” Scott persisted.
Hopwood’s answer was so low that Scott had to lean over him to hear it
at all. A look of keen disappointment passed over Scott’s face.
“How did that happen?” he asked.
Again Hopwood’s answer was so low that he could hardly hear it.
Scott straightened suddenly. His anger was choking him, and the hot
blood leaping through his veins almost blinded him.
Hopwood, still panting from his exertions, jumped from the log and
started straight down through the woods.
“Where are you going?” Scott called sharply.
“Down to fight on the side of the Morgans,” he answered without even
turning his head.
“So am I,” Scott exclaimed savagely, “and so is all my logging crew
unless this feud is dropped now and forever.”
“What’s going on?” the marshal asked.
But Scott did not seem to hear him. He strode down the mountain slope in
the direction Hopwood had taken. His eyes were searching the woods for
any signs of the Waits, and his ears were straining to catch any
significant sounds from the valley below, but his mind was far away in
the little cabin up on the opposite mountain.
When they came to a little clearing on a knoll which overlooked the
village they stopped to reconnoiter. At first they could see nothing out
of the ordinary. The village seemed as quiet and deserted as ever. Mr.
Roberts was still sitting calmly on the end of the station platform and
two women were peeping from an upstairs window of the hotel.
They were almost directly in the rear of the Waits’ position, and
gradually they began to distinguish them. First, one here, crouching
behind the corner of the store, then another one behind the lumber pile.
Twenty-two they counted and all armed.
One man seemed to be holding himself in reserve for an emergency. He
stood apart from the others, his arms folded across the end of the
barrel of his long rifle, and his chin resting on his arms. He did not
seem to be taking any active part. He must have been in plain sight of
both parties but none of them seemed to molest him.
Every now and then the vicious ping of a high-power rifle rang out from
the Morgan store and was answered by a scattering volley from the men in
hiding before them.
They saw Hopwood slip across the railroad back of the hotel and glide
around through the woods to the back of the Morgan store.
The marshal had been examining the scene minutely through his field
glasses. Suddenly he grasped Scott’s elbow.
“There’s my man,” he whispered.
Scott followed the direction of the pointing finger. Farthest away from
the store and securely hidden behind a long pile of cordwood was Foster
Wait.
“The farthest away and the best hidden of them all,” Scott sneered. “The
coward!”
Over in the other direction, opposite the hotel, on a knoll very similar
to their own, was the whole logging crew.
“I’m going over there to give a message to my foreman,” Scott said.
“Then I am going down to put an end to this row.”
“Better keep out of it,” the marshal advised. “Let the sheriff take care
of it. The peacemaker always gets the worst of it.”
But Scott shook his head and started toward his crew. Mac had seen him
coming and met him halfway.
“Some show,” Mac exclaimed cheerfully. “They have not bothered us yet
and I reckon maybe they know enough to let us alone.”
“I am going down there to try to stop it, Mac. If anything interferes
with me it will be these fellows on this side. If they do, clean them
up.”
“We’ll do that,” Mac exclaimed enthusiastically. “But why not let us
clean them up first? It would be safer?”
“No,” Scott replied firmly, “that would not do. I don’t think they will
bother me and I don’t want you to mix in the thing at all unless they
do.”
A fresh burst of shots rattled around the buildings on both sides of the
street. “They haven’t hit anybody yet,” Mac growled sarcastically, “but
they may hurt somebody if they keep on.”
When Scott got back to the knoll, the marshal was nowhere in sight. He
did not stop to look for him. He had made up his mind what he was going
to do and he was anxious to be about it. He picked his way diagonally
across the slope, back of the Waits’ position to where the station agent
was sitting on the platform.
He talked earnestly to Mr. Roberts for a moment and started up the road
toward the village.
“Better keep out of it,” Mr. Roberts called after him pleadingly.
But Scott neither turned back nor answered him.