“Plague take the chair!” the colonel burst forth angrily. “If you allow any more nonsense to be printed as you did in the Tattler’s column, by heaven I’ll sue you!”
“Colonel Hamilton,” the small man persisted, “your nephew has stirred up something in this county, and it’s turning into front page news. It’s going to be printed, and it’s better to have the facts. When a man like Battle is convinced that a terrible mistake has been made about Wiley Pendergrass—”
“Wiley was a rascal, and that Battle is a fool,” the colonel snapped. “Now, if you’re through with your questions—”
“I beg your pardon, sir, but if you’ll look up Nat Battle’s army record, you’ll find he’s anything but a fool. Furthermore, it might pay us to look twice at this matter. Whether or not there’s anything unusual about your nephew’s chair, the fact remains that some people do have unusual abilities—and your nephew may be such a person.”
The colonel made a growling noise deep in his throat, but the newspaperman went on, “Just suppose your nephew actually has knowledge that another person was really guilty of that crime at Battle’s. If the boy has mentioned any names, it could be a very dangerous thing to know.”
No one spoke for a while. Then the colonel ground out, “You can believe what you wish, but I’ve heard enough nonsense for one day. If my nephew’s lost, I’ll move heaven and earth to find him. But I’ve a feeling he’s hiding, and that he’ll come dragging home in the morning when he gets hungry enough. If that’s the case, he’s going to be given something he’ll never forget as long as he lives.”
10
Manhunt
TIMOR’S TROUBLED CONSCIENCE had been urging him to step forth from his hiding place and attempt to explain what had happened. Surely, he’d thought, if he told everything he had learned, the colonel would be willing to help. But his uncle’s last statement was like a door being slammed in his face.
In sudden despair he realized that the only possibility of changing the colonel’s mind would be the discovery of the box, and proof of who had taken it. At the moment such a happy circumstance seemed as far away as the moon.
Timor sank down on the ground, his hands clenched tightly. He had never felt so terribly alone. If only Odessa would come, and he could manage to attract her attention …
He debated slipping over to the road and watching for her, and decided it would be better to remain here. Nathaniel might come back, and he badly needed Nathaniel’s advice.
Beyond him he heard the newspaperman say he would return in the morning; presently there was the sound of his car pulling away, followed by footsteps across the porch as the colonel and the warden entered the house.
The night was cold after the rain and Timor was beginning to feel the damp ground through his clothing. The chill had not bothered him while he was moving, but now a spasm of shivering gripped his tired body. He got up, teeth clenched, trying to think of a better spot to wait. Suddenly he remembered there was an opening under the cabin on the opposite side below his room. He crept around to it, unlatched the little door, and squirmed inside between a pile of lumber scraps and bundles of old newspapers.
Even with the door closed it seemed almost colder here than it had outside, but the ground was dry. Timor tried to make himself comfortable by wrapping the too-large jacket about him, but this was not enough for one who had been raised in the tropics. As his misery increased he thought longingly of the blanket he had been forced to leave at Wiley’s place. Then he recalled reading that homeless men often wrapped newspapers about them to keep warm in the winter.
He sat up suddenly and turned his light on the bundles of papers beside him. There were enough here to keep a dozen men warm. With shaking hands he tore open the bundles, and as quietly as possible began spreading papers on the ground and over his body. When he was covered with a thick layer of newspapers, he stretched out and drew Wiley’s jacket over his ears.
Slowly his shaking stopped. Presently he became comfortably warm. He began to realize that he was becoming entirely too comfortable, for it was all he could do to stay awake and listen for Odessa’s return. For a while he managed to fight off sleep. Finally, when he felt it creeping over him, he tried to sit up, but the effort was beyond him. Weariness from his long hours of exertion pressed upon him like a great weight.
Perhaps, if he slept just a little …
Vaguely, above the rushing of the creek, Timor became aware of the sound of motors and the murmur of men’s voices. He burrowed deeper into his paper bed, trying to shut out the sounds, but the effort was painful. He opened his eyes, wondering why he felt as he did. Memory returned in a rush.
His eyes widened with shock as he realized the night had passed. It was bright daylight beyond his hiding place. Abruptly he sat up, trying to peer through a space between the boards; the effort made him gasp with pain and he sank back into the layers of paper.
He felt all right when he lay still, but the least movement brought a protest from strained muscles that had carried the chair too long over rough country. “Hari busuk!” he muttered. “I’m just one big ache.”
What was he going to do now?
Once before he had felt like this. It was after his first long tramp with Wiley; he’d never been in mountains like these, and he’d done entirely too much scrambling up and down for one who wasn’t used to it. Wiley had said afterward that the best medicine for sore muscles was to get out and start using them again.
He would have to do that, but not immediately. Maybe if he lay still for a while, some of the ache would go away.
What was happening outside? His hiding place was near the rear of the cabin, and trees and shrubbery cut off all view of the yard in front. From the sounds, the yard seemed to be full of cars and people.
But surely, by this time, it would be known that he wasn’t really lost! Sammy Grosser knew it. Wouldn’t Sammy or his father tell the others that he’d been seen?
No, of course they wouldn’t. Those secretive Grossers wouldn’t breathe a word until they’d found the chair.
At the thought of the chair, Timor forced himself to sit up. The chair may have been safe for the night, but it wouldn’t remain safe during the day with so many people in the woods. He ought to be on his way to it right now, for surely Wiley would have news for him.
Timor crawled to the little door and eased it open. He could see no one within his range of vision. There was shrubbery ahead, and if he stayed within it he could crawl around to the wagon trail without being seen.
Ignoring his protesting muscles, he squirmed out of the opening, thrust the door shut, and crept to the edge of the shrubbery. Painfully he began snaking through clumps of rhododendron and laurel. The trail was still some distance ahead when he found his way blocked by a large truck that had pulled into an opening under the trees.
Timor raised his head worriedly and peered around. On his right he could see the yard for the first time. It was jammed with cars and men moving about. A man in a Forest Service uniform was standing in front of the cabin, giving orders to a large group with packs on their backs. Timor watched a moment, stricken, then tried to locate Nathaniel’s jeep. He could not see it, but in front of the truck he noticed the yellow sports car belonging to Si LeGrande.
Almost in panic he started to crawl away, when he heard voices by the truck. He paused, suddenly sick at heart as it came to him why the truck was here. It was a television truck, and they were getting ready to broadcast.
“Ready?” said a clear voice.
“Take it, Hal.”
There was a short pause, and the clear voice began:
“This is Hal Grundy, your on-the-spot newsman reporting to you from the Hamilton summer place on Blue Gap Road, high in the Carolina mountains. These remote highlands are now witnessing one of the strangest manhunts that has ever taken place on our troubled planet. At this moment scores of searchers are combing a great stretch of wilderness for a lost boy with a talking chair, who disappeared
from this spot more than twenty-five hours ago. Yes, I said a talking chair, for when young Tim Hamilton left home and entered the forest, he took with him his most cherished possession, a mysterious ladderback chair made of sassafras, which is widely rumored to have the power of speech. Men have been looking for Tim Hamilton since early last evening; they’ve searched all night and all morning, but so far they have found not a trace of either Tim or his chair.
“Few people have actually seen Tim Hamilton’s chair, but everyone knows about it. It is a thing they discuss only in whispers. To help you understand how it has affected this area, I will turn the microphone over to Si LeGrande, well-known authority on mountain lore and legend, who will tell you more about Tim and give you some of the background …”
Timor was too stunned to hear any more. The enormity of what he had brought about was almost past belief. Television—scores of men searching—Nathaniel out all night—more men leaving now—the yard full of curious people and reporters.… He could almost see his uncle raging. Never, as long as he lived, would the colonel forgive him for what was going on.
Somehow he managed to creep away from the truck and gain the edge of the wagon trail. He got to his feet and plunged onward a little blindly, his mind in a whirl, his aches momentarily forgotten. He felt curiously weak, and gradually it came to him that he was not only thirsty but very hungry. He had eaten little at breakfast yesterday, and only a small can of peas last night. This was another day—Wiley’s last day to help—and already it was half over. How could he have slept so long?
Occasional small springs seeped from the slope on his left and trickled down to the creek. He paused by one and drank deeply. It made him feel a trifle better, though now he was more aware of his pains and hunger. There was food at Wiley’s place, if he could manage to enter it unseen. But the chair was more important. He must go to it first and talk to Wiley.
He went on warily, keeping watch behind as well as in front. During the next half hour he saw no one. Apparently the searchers had decided that he could not be on this side of the ridge, and were spreading through the wilder country beyond. Only the Grossers and the man named Al Means knew better.
Thinking of the Grossers, Timor grew more cautious as he drew near Wiley’s place. He circled behind it, studying every bush and tree for a hidden watcher. Reassured at last, he went on past the barn and approached the spring.
There was no sign that anyone had been here since his visit last night. Creeping to the edge of the rhododendron thicket, he whispered hopefully, “Mr. Pendergrass?”
There was no answer, and he called again.
Why wasn’t Wiley waiting for him? Surely, by this time …
In sudden worry he looked into the thicket, trying to see the chair. He must have hidden it better than he’d realized. It had to be here somewhere.
But it wasn’t! The sassafras chair was gone.
Frantically, Timor plunged through the thicket and into other thickets nearby. There was no sign of the chair, not even a broken fragment. Whoever had taken it had not destroyed it here.
He sank down at last on the mossy ground. A dry sob broke from him. Suddenly, everything had come to an end.
What could he possibly do without the chair?
Who could have taken it? Not Sammy, for Sammy would have destroyed it on the spot. So would Fritz Grosser and the other man. Remembering Sammy’s fear of it, it seemed strange that anyone who wanted to get rid of it would actually carry it away.
Gnawing hunger finally drove him to his feet and on to the cabin.
He approached the cabin from the rear, forgetting that he had barred the back door until his hand touched the latch. But the door swung open to his touch.
He entered slowly, suddenly watchful again. The cabin had been restored to order since his bout with Sammy, for every piece of the broken hickory chair had been picked up and stacked neatly in the wood box. Even the blanket he had dropped had been folded carefully and replaced on the bed. It was hard to imagine Sammy or his father doing this.
Timor hurried to the back shelf and started to select a can. Instantly he noticed something he did not remember seeing before. One of the cans had a piece of white paper folded about it, covering the label. On it was scrawled the word Wetan.
He stared at it curiously, then comprehension came. Wetan had the same meaning as timor, the Malay word for east. The paper about the can must be a note addressed to him—only the writer of it had cleverly used the synonym instead of his real name. If other eyes saw it the word would be meaningless, for anyone glancing at the shelf would suppose that old Wiley himself had put it there, to label some concoction of his own.
All this flashed through Timor’s mind in an instant, and he knew that the writer of the note had placed it in the one spot where he would be bound to find it—in the middle of the shelf where food was kept.
Only Nathaniel would have come here and thought of this way of communicating.
Eagerly he snatched down the can and started to unwrap the paper. Then, without quite realizing why he did so, he quickly rewrapped the paper about the can and thrust it into his jacket pocket. The invisible string was tugging at him again, urging him across the room to the front door. He hesitated, looking about him and listening. His ears could detect nothing unusual or suspicious.
Then his eyes, roving about the dim room, fastened upon something small and white on the hearth.
It was a match with a chewed end.
The sight of it brought a small sharp icicle of fright stabbing through him. He gained the front door, jerked it open, and ran. As he sped away he was almost certain he heard a small sound in the room behind him, as if the rear door were being opened. But he did not take time to look back.
11
Pursuit
TIMOR dodged through the trees along the creek, heading upstream. When he paused briefly to glance behind him, the cabin was no longer in sight, nor could he see anyone coming. But the invisible string still tugged at him. Without quite thinking what he was doing, he turned left at the tiny branching stream he had followed so long yesterday, ran a few yards to leave footprints by the edge, then stepped into the water and waded carefully back to the creek.
It was a trick Wiley had told him about one day when they were discussing trails and trail signs, though he did not consciously remember it now until he had waded up the creek to the huge yellow rock that marked his favorite fishing spot.
Timor crept through the shallows to the back of the rock, and climbed up and crouched behind the ancient chestnut log that had fallen across the top. From this vantage point he could easily make out anyone approaching without being seen. The can made a comforting bulge in his jacket pocket. Perhaps he could open it later with his knife …
With a watchful eye on the trail, he fumbled in his pocket and unrolled the note.
The note read: Saya pegang krosi. Tunggu buat saya sebrang jembatan. Saya kembali lekas. Saya mengerti semua jadi sini. Ati ati orang sama korek api. N.
Nathaniel’s Malay wasn’t perfect but, freely interpreted, his meaning was clear: I have taken the chair. Wait for me across the bridge. I will return quickly. I understand all that happened here. Beware of the man with the match. Nathaniel.
Timor’s spirits momentarily leaped with the first line and dropped with the last. But his already high opinion of Nathaniel went up several more notches. He had no doubt that Nathaniel, on going back to Wiley’s place, had correctly read the signs he found there. As for the chair … He breathed a prayer of thanks. If Nathaniel hadn’t located it first, another skilled trail follower might have had his hands on it by this time.
Where was Nathaniel now? He must have carried the chair away in the jeep, probably to the shop. The note couldn’t have been written long ago, for if Nathaniel had returned and not found his passenger waiting, he would have gone on to the cabin to see if the note had been taken.
For an instant Timor wondered if it had been Nathaniel he had run away from. Then re
ason told him it wasn’t. Nathaniel would have called out to him.
Timor thrust the note back into his pocket and peered cautiously over the top of the log. He could see no one, nor could he make out even a suspicious shadow or a movement in the brush to indicate anyone was near. But someone was near. Of that he was sure. His skin prickled at the back of his neck, and he could feel a coldness that ran all the way down his spine.
He swallowed, and cautiously began lowering himself from the rock. Somehow he must manage to cross the creek unseen, and slip back through the brush on the other side and wait for Nathaniel.
The creek was not as high as it had been last night, though it still came rushing down with a swiftness that could easily send him tumbling if he missed his footing. He studied it for a few seconds, then waded up to a shallow area and began picking his way between the rocks to the other bank.
The icy water tugged at him and threatened to throw him as it swept up past his knees. He slipped on the last step and would have gone down but for an overhanging alder bush; he clutched it frantically, and drew himself to safety.
Thick alder scrub bordered this side of the creek, offering perfect protection as he crept down toward the bridge. Wiley had never bothered to enlarge the bridge so he could bring his truck over, but had always parked in an open spot between the creek and the road. As Timor neared the opening he watched hopefully for Nathaniel’s jeep. The parking spot was empty.
While he waited on the edge of a thicket, he pulled off his sneakers and socks, squeezed the water out, and drew them back on. He was lacing his sneakers when he heard a car coming down the steep incline from the road. It must be Nathaniel returning.
But it wasn’t. Timor had just time to flatten under the shrubs before a blue car swung into the parking place and stopped. With bitter disappointment he watched the driver get out and move slowly and watchfully down the path leading to the bridge. The man was a stranger, but there was an odd flatness to his face that made Timor think of Deputy Gatlin. Could this be Rance Gatlin’s brother Jake?
Mystery of the Sassafras Chair Page 9