BEYOND THE FALLS
“Well, that certainly is disappointing.” Mr. Davis wiped the
perspiration from his brow. “I suppose you made absolutely sure?”
Osceola nodded. “A window was open in one of the bedrooms. I went in and
went through all four rooms and the cellar. What’s more, when they left,
they took their clothes and papers with them. Not a sign of either in
the house. I don’t think they’ve been up here since early yesterday
evening.”
Mr. Davis looked surprised. “How can you place the time?”
“In several ways. If they had taken a lot of stuff down the hill in
daylight, the chances are that you or your sister would have seen them.
We know that Kolinski and probably his man as well were in New Canaan at
two this morning, and that is thirty-five miles from here. Though
there’s plenty of dust in that house, I saw no particles of mud either
on the mat inside the door or on the floors.”
“So we’re just about where we were before we started on this wildgoose
chase,” proclaimed Bill wearily.
“Hardly that, Bill,” protested Davis. “We’ve got one more bet in this
neck of the woods.”
“What?” Bill and Osceola stared at him. Mr. Davis got to his feet.
“Come along. We’ve got to go down to the club house. I’ll tell you about
it as we go.”
They had passed Kolinski’s cabin, a one-storied house solidly built of
native stone, and struck off down the path toward the bridge before
Davis spoke again.
“I don’t want to raise false hopes,” he said, “and this hunch may come
to a dead end, too. But here it is for what it’s worth. I was trying to
remember if I had ever heard the couple’s name, but I’m sure I haven’t.
Half a mile up the valley road from my quarters you come to an abandoned
mill on the other side of the highway. The place has an old wheel and
stands beside a stream that rushes down a gorge in the hillside. You can
see from here that the hill opposite is much higher and steeper than
this one. The only path up there is the trail that starts at the mill
and runs along the side of the gorge. The stream is the outlet for a
small lake up there on the plateau and drops down the gorge in a series
of very beautiful falls. The lake and the woods are off the Heartfield’s
Club property. They belong to an estate with a good-sized house on it,
about half a mile beyond the falls. There’s a sort of path round the
lake, I believe, that joins a path leading up to the house from the
farther shore. I haven’t been up there for years, but I distinctly
remember the woods round the lake were swampy. However, when the last
owner bought it, he put a high wire deer fence around his land to
prevent trespassing. This club was in full swing then, so you can hardly
blame him. But no one has lived there for the last few years. I heard
over in Sherman that the whole place, house, land, lake and everything,
had been bought by a foreign couple who had moved in. Timkins, in New
Milford, brought their furniture over there from the railroad, and there
was an awful lot of it, he said. Most of the stuff was packed in big
cases and enormously heavy. You see,” he said, as they reached the
bridge, “I’m trying to give you every bit of information I can about
that place beyond the falls, and the reason is this: several times
during the last three weeks, I have seen both Kolinski and his man going
up and coming down that path by the mill. Either they had been enjoying
the beauty of the falls, which I doubt, or—they’d been visiting the
owners of that estate!”
“Humph!” grunted Bill. “I suppose there’s a road up on the top of the
hill?”
“Yes, a dirt road that passes the house and joins the highway some miles
farther on after it leaves this valley.”
They walked on in silence toward the club house, each of the three
busily formulating plans.
“I’ll tell you what,” Bill said suddenly as they reached his car.
“Osceola and I will go up to this place you’ve been talking about, and
we’ll go by the path near the mill. You wait here for the police, if you
don’t mind, Mr. Davis, and pilot them round by road. If these rascals
really have Deborah up there, they’re likely to have sentries posted
near the house, so advise Mr. Dixon and the police to leave their cars
some distance down the road. If you men don’t come across us by that
time, surround the house and rush it. Because,” he added, with a
grimace, “We’ll probably be needing your help rather badly.”
“But hadn’t you better wait for the police yourselves?” Davis looked
worried.
“And have those guys cart Deb off through the woods while the bunch of
us come up to the house from the road? No indeed,” Osceola answered
vigorously. “Bill can do as he likes, but I’m going up by the mill path.
They won’t be expecting visitors from this side.”
“I’m going with you, Osceola,” said Bill. “Thanks a lot for all you’ve
done and are doing for us, Mr. Davis. The gang from Hartford ought to be
here within the hour.”
Osceola stepped forward. “Sorry I spoke abruptly, Mr. Davis. I must
apologize—”
“Don’t mention it, my boy,” Mr. Davis cut in. “No hard feelings—I
understand your anxiety. Run along now and I’ll take care of the police
when they arrive.”
The boys hurried off down the rutty road toward Route 136. Half a mile
along the highway they came to a bridge across a bubbling stream. Above
the road on their left the ruins of the mill pointed broken rafters
toward a cloudless sky. On the water side, bearded by the spray from the
falls, was the ancient wheel that indicated the industry of bygone days,
when the farmers brought their grain to be ground.
“There’s the trail!” Osceola pointed to an overgrown path that led up
the mountainside just beyond the mill, and with Bill at his heels, he
darted up and under the overhanging arch of trees.
The beauty of the deep gorge, the milky water churning down the steep
background of jet black rocks and green ferns, the series of waterfalls,
blown in the breeze like filmy veils,—all were lost upon Bill and
Osceola. With the thought of pretty Deborah a prisoner in the hands of
ruffians, they concentrated upon two things only: to reach the house
beyond the falls as quickly as possible, and to do so without attracting
attention of watchers who might be on the lookout.
Osceola stopped shortly before they reached the top, and motioning
caution, darted into the woods away from the stream. Then he paralleled
the path upwards again for a hundred yards or so with Bill directly
behind him. All at once, he dropped to the ground, Bill followed suit,
and the two crawled over to a fallen log and peered over it.
Slightly ahead, and perhaps fifty yards to their left, was the lake Mr.
Davis had described, sending its overflow down the gulley in a silver
sheet of sparkling water. Between them and the waterfall, the path was
bisected by a high gate in a fence of heavy wire mesh, whose top was at
least ten feet above the ground. This ran in both directions, blocking
intrusion along the mountain top. They could see that it ran even along
the dam at the mouth of the lake, while on their side of the path it
disappeared in the thick growth of bushes and trees.
But their whole interest was centered upon the man who lay flat on the
ground behind the gate. They could see him plainly. He was watching the
path, hidden from it by a tree trunk, and at his side lay a
long-barrelled rifle.
“Deborah,” said Osceola in his normal tones, for the noise of the falls
was almost deafening, “is over in that house behind the lake. I’d stake
my life on it. Shall I pot this guy?”
Bill shook his head. “Better not—they might hear the shot at the house,
you know. The buzzard deserves death, if he’s a kidnapper, and I suppose
he is—but we’ll let the police settle with him.”
“Yeah, if they get him. Well, let’s be going. I wish I’d brought a
tomahawk with me!”
Having uttered this altruistic thought, Osceola slithered off through
the undergrowth very much in the same manner that a snake travels
through long grass, and Bill, perforce, went after him. Presently the
young Indian Chief stood up. The gate in the fence and its sentry were
no longer in sight. Both lads climbed the high wire and dropped inside
to the ground. Osceola took the lead again, and set off through the
trees at a smart trot. When it came to woods-craft, Bill knew this young
Seminole to be without a peer. He never argued with Osceola in the
woods, but was content to do as his friend directed, for he knew that no
white man could approximate the American Indian’s native cunning in the
forest.
As they progressed the ground became hummocky, and soon developed into a
swamp, but this did not cut the speed of the lads in the slightest. They
leapt from tuft to tuft of the coarse grass clumps with the agility of
mountain goats, and crossed the evil smelling place without wetting a
foot.
Although he could not see it, Bill knew that the lake lay somewhere to
their left. When Osceola struck off obliquely in that direction, he
guessed that they had passed beyond it. And he soon saw that he was
right. A few yards farther on the trees ended in a belt of thick and
overgrown shrubbery. Just beyond, an unkempt lawn surrounded a hideously
ugly house of the cupola-and-mansard-roof variety, painted bright
yellow.
“Gosh!” muttered Bill to his guide, “if I lived in that dump, I’d perish
of colic!”
Osceola gave him a savage look. “If you don’t keep quiet, we’ll both die
with several ounces of lead in our hides! Shut up, now, and turn your
mind to what I taught you down in Florida about crossing open spaces on
your belly. I’ll go first.”
He dropped prone and wriggled through the grass to a large bush without
a sound and at an amazing rate of speed. Bill then did likewise, and was
soon at his friend’s side. Their next move was to a belt of
rhododendrons which grew close to the yellow house, and in great
profusion. Near them was an open window. Bill went to one side, Osceola
to the other. They stood up and looked in.
Before them was evidently the living room of the house. At the far end,
four men and a woman were seated about a small table, breaking their
fast. On a couch across from the window, lay Deborah. She was neither
bound nor gagged; she seemed to be asleep.
Bill’s eyes sought Osceola’s. The Chief nodded.
With the ease of the trained athlete, first Bill, then the Seminole,
lifted himself swiftly to the window sill and sprang into the room.