by Roy J. Snell
CHAPTER IV A STRANGE ESCAPE
Morning came at last. Florence stirred beneath the home woven covers ofher bed in the mountain cabin. Then she woke to the full realization ofher position.
"A prisoner in a cabin," she groaned. "And yet they do not treat mebadly. For my supper they set on the table the best they had. It meant areal sacrifice for them to give up this entire room to me, yet they didit. I can't understand it."
"But I must not let them defeat me!" She brought her feet down with aslap upon the clean scrubbed and sanded floor. "Somehow, by some means oranother, I must make my way to Caleb Powell's home to-day."
Her eyes lighted upon an object that hung above the fireplace--a longbarreled squirrel rifle with a shiny new cap resting beneath the hammer."Loaded," she thought. "Cap wouldn't be there if it wasn't. They left ithanging there because I am a girl and they were certain I couldn't shoot.Hump! I can shoot as straight as any of them."
For a moment a wild vision whirled before her--a vision of a girlbursting from a room, yelling like a wild Indian and brandishing the longrifle above her head.
"No," she smiled. "'Twouldn't do. It would be very dramatic, but it wouldprobably end in tragedy, and I have no desire to act a part in such atragedy."
She dressed quickly, then stepped into the other room of the cabin whereshe found crisp, brown biscuits, wild honey and fried eggs awaiting her.
She ate a hearty breakfast. "Who knows what strength I may need for thisday?" she thought to herself as she spread honey on her third biscuit.
After that, knowing from past experiences what her limitations would be,she did not attempt to go many steps from the cabin but contented herselfwith sitting outside the cabin door in the sun.
"Such a lovely scene," she sighed as she looked away and away to wherethe peaks of Pine Mountain blended with the bluer peaks of Big BlackMountain, and all at last were lost in the hazy mists of the morning.
"So peaceful," she thought, "you'd think there had never been a bit oftrouble since the world began. And yet, right down here in the mountainsthere is more trouble than anywhere else in the country. Some men saythat Nature, God's open book, will make men good and kind. It takes morethan that. It takes--it must take God inside their hearts to accomplishthat." So she mused, and half the morning slipped away.
From time to time her eyes left the mountain tops to follow the windingstream that, some fifty feet down a gentle slope, went rushing andtumbling over its rocky bed. Above and beyond this creek bed, at theother side of the gorge, ran a trail. Down that trail from time to timepeople passed. Now a woman, leading a lean pack horse laden with corn,shambled along on her way to mill. Now a pair of active, shouting boysurged on a team of young bullocks hitched to a sled, and now a beardedmountaineer, with rifle slung across his saddle horn, rode at a dog trotdown the dusty trail.
The girl watched all this with dreamy eyes. They meant nothing to her;were, in fact, but a part of the scenery.
Still she watched the trail, taking little interest in the people passingthere until suddenly she came to life with surprising interest. A personof evident importance was passing up the trail. He sat upon a bloodedsorrel horse, and across the pommel of his saddle was a rifle.
"Who is that?" Florence asked, interested in the way this man sat hishorse.
"That? Why, that are Caleb Powell." Her guard, who sat not far from her,had also spoken without thinking.
"Caleb Powell!" The girl sprang to her feet. In an instant her two handswere cupped into a trumpet and she had sent out a loud call.
"Whoo-hoo!"
Caught by rocky walls, the call came echoing back. The man on the bloodedhorse turned his gaze toward the cabin.
"Here, you can't do that away!" The guard put a rough hand on hershoulder.
"I can, and I will!" The girl's tone was low and fierce. "You take yourhands away from me, and keep them off!" She jerked away. "I came backhere to see him. He's a man, a real man, and he--he's got a rifle."
Cowering, the man fell back a step.
Again the girl's hands were cupped.
"Mr. Powell! Come over!" she called. "I have something important to tellyou."
The man reined in his horse, stared across the gorge in apparentsurprise, then directed his horse down a narrow path that led down oneside of the gorge and up the other.
Standing there, leaning against the doorpost, the girl watched him withall the fascination that a condemned man must feel as he sees a manapproaching with a message commuting his sentence.
The man who, a few minutes later, came riding up the steep trail to thecabin, was quite as different from the average mountaineer as Florencehad, at a distance, judged him to be. His face was smooth shaven and hisgray suit, his tie, his leggings, his riding boots, all were in goodorder. When at last he spoke it was not in the vernacular of themountains, but of the wide world outside.
"You--you have some coal land?" she hesitated as he asked what he mightdo for her.
"Why, yes, little girl," he smiled as he spoke. "My brothers and I haveseveral acres up these slopes."
Florence stiffened at his "little girl." She realized that he had usedthe term in kindness, but he must not think of her as a little girl. Shewas for a moment a business woman with an important transaction to carrythrough.
"You want to sell it?" she said briskly.
"We have offered to sell."
"For twenty-one thousand?"
"About that." He was staring at her now. He stared harder when she said:"I am authorized to buy it at that price."
For a moment he did not speak; just kept his keen grey eyes upon her.
"I am waiting," he said at last in a droll drawl, "for the smile."
"The--the smile?"
"Of course, you are joking."
"I am not joking." She was tempted to be angry now. "Here--here's theproof. It's the--Mr. Dobson called it the earnest money." She dragged thefive hundred dollars in bank notes from her blouse.
For ten seconds after that her heart fluttered wildly. What if this wholeaffair were a game played by these men at her expense? What if this manwas not Caleb Powell at all? The thought of the consequences made herhead whirl.
But no, the guard of a half hour before was staring, popeyed, at thesheaf of bills.
"That looks like business," said Caleb Powell. "Your Mr. Dobson--I knowhim well. So he made you his agent? Well, well! That's singular. But mendo strange things. I suppose he sent a contract?"
"Yes, yes." She was eager now. "Here it is."
"Well," he said quietly.
Then turning to the former guard, he said; "You'll not be wantinganything further of the girl, Jim?"
"Reckon not," the man drawled.
"Then, Miss--er--"
"Ormsby," she volunteered.
"Then, Miss Ormsby, if you'll be so kind as to mount behind me, I'll takeyou down to the house. We'll fix up the papers. After that we'll have abite to eat and I'll send you over the mountain."
The hours that followed were long-to-be-remembered. The signing of thepapers, the talk on the cool veranda, a perfect dinner, then the long,long ride home over the mountains on a perfect horse with a guide andguard at her side, and all this crowned by the consciousness of awonderful success after days of perils and threatened failure; all theseseemed a dream indeed.
One thing Florence remembered distinctly. She had said to Caleb Powell:
"Mr. Powell, why did those men wish to hold me prisoner?"
"Miss Ormsby," he said, and there was no smile upon his lips, "some ofour people are what you might call 'plumb quare'."
That was all he had said, and for some time to come that was all she wasdestined to know about the reason for her mysterious captivity.
Only one thought troubled her as she neared the whipsawed cabin, andthat, she told herself, was only a bad dream.
That it was more than a dream she was soon to learn. Two days later Mr.Dobson, having dismo
unted at their cabin, smiled with pleasure when hewas told of the successful purchase of Caleb Powell's coal land. Then fora moment a frown darkened his face.
"I--I hate to tell you," he hesitated.
"You don't have to," said Florence quickly. "Please allow me to guess.You were about to tell us that it is necessary to spend a great deal oftime looking up records and getting papers signed before you have a cleartitle to this mountain land, and that we can't have our money until youhave your title."
"That puts it a little strongly," said Mr. Dobson, smiling a littlestrangely. "As fast as we can clear up the titles to certain tracts mycompany has authorized me to pay that portion of the commission. I shouldsay you ought to have your first installment within four months. It maybe six, however. Matters move slowly here in the mountains."
"Four months!" exclaimed Marion.
"Not sooner, I fear."
"Four--" Marion began, but Florence squeezed her arm as she whispered;"It's no use. We can't help it and neither can they? There must be someother way. Besides, we haven't yet elected our trustee."