Diane of the Green Van

by Leona Dalrymple

  CHAPTER IX

  IN A STORM-HAUNTED WOOD

  "The storm is coming!" exclaimed Diane with shining eyes. "Button theflaps by the horses, Johnny. We're in for it to-night. Hear the wind!"

  Overhead the gale tore ragged gaps among the fire-shadowed trees,unshrouding a storm-black sky. Fearlessly--the old wild love of stormand wind singing powerfully in her heart--the girl rose from the fireand faced the tempest.

  Rex pressed fearfully beside her, whining. Off there somewhere in thewind and darkness a dog had barked. It came now again, high above thenoise of the wind, a furious, frightened barking.

  "Johnny!" exclaimed Diane suddenly. "There must be something wrongover there. Better go see. No, not that way. More to the east." AndJohnny, whose soul for thirty years had thirsted for adventure, brisklyseized an ancient pistol and charged off through the forest.

  But Aunt Agatha had talked long and tearfully to Johnny. Wherefore,reluctant to leave his charge alone in the rain and dark, he turnedback.

  "Go!" said Diane with a flash of impatience.

  Johnny went. Looking back over his shoulder he saw the girl outlinedvividly against the fire, skirts and hair flying stormily about her inthe wind. So might the primal woman stand ere the march ofcivilization had over-sexed her.

  The wind was growing fiercer now, driving the rain about in angrygusts. Thunder cannonaded noisily overhead.

  Veering suddenly in a new direction--for in the roar of the storm thebark of the dog seemed curiously to shift--Johnny collided violentlywith a dark figure running wildly through the forest. Both men fell.Finding his invisible assailant disposed viciously to contestdetention, Johnny fell in with his mood and buried his long, leanfingers cruelly in the other's throat.

  The fortunes of war turned speedily. Johnny's victim squirmeddesperately to his feet and bounded away through the forest.

  Now as they ran, stumbling and finding their way as best they might inthe glitter of lightning, there came from the region of the camp theunmistakable crack of a pistol. Two shots in rapid successionfollowed--an interval of five seconds or so--and then another. Thefinal trio was the shot signal of the old buffalo hunters which Dianehad taught to Johnny.

  "Where are you?" barked the signal.

  Drawing his ancient pistol as he ran, Johnny, in vain, essayed theanswer. The veteran missed fire. After all, reflected Johnnyuncomfortably, one signal was merely to locate him. If another came--

  The lightning, flaming in a vivid sheet, revealed a lonely road aheadand on the road by the farther hedge, a man desperately cranking along, dark car. The lamps of the car were unlighted.

  With a yell of startled anger, the man who bore the bleeding marks ofJohnny's fingers redoubled his speed and darted crazily for theroadway. Before he had reached it the man by the car had leapedswiftly to the wheel and rolled away.

  From the forest came again the signal: "Where are you?"

  Johnny groaned. Frantically he tried the rebel again. It readily spatits answer this time, an instantaneous duplicate of shots.

  "I'm here. What do you want?"

  In the lightning glare the man ahead made off wildly across the fields.

  Running, Johnny cocked his ears for the familiar assurance of one shot.

  "All right," it would mean; "I only wanted to know where you are," butit did not come.

  Instead--two shots again in rapid succession--an interval--and thenanother.

  "I am in serious trouble," barked the signal in the forest. "Come asfast as you can."

  With a groan Johnny abandoned the chase and retraced his steps. Thus aperverse Fate ever snipped the thread of an embryo adventure.

  A light flickered dully among the trees to the east. Johnny cupped hishands and yodeled. The light moved. A little later as he crashedhurriedly through the underbrush, Diane called to him. She was holdinga lantern high above something on the ground, her face quite colorless.

  "I'm glad you're here!" she said. "It's the aviator, Johnny. He'shurt--"

  The aviator stirred.

  "He's comin' 'round," said Johnny peering down into the white face inthe aureole of lantern-light. "The rain in his face likely. . . .Well, young fellow, what do you think of yourself, eh?"

  "Not much," said Philip blankly and stared about him.

  "Can you follow us to the camp fire yonder?" asked Dianecompassionately.

  Philip, though evidently very dizzy, thought likely he could, and hedid. That his shoulder was wet and very painful, he was well aware,though somehow he had forgotten why. Moreover, his head throbbedqueerly.

  There came a tent and a bed and a blur of incidents.

  Mr. Poynter dazedly resigned himself to a general atmosphere ofunreality.