Red Dynamite

by Roy J. Snell

  CHAPTER XI A RIDE IN THE NIGHT

  An hour later Johnny Thompson found the Kentucky boy sitting in a chairbeside the range in the cook room of the Blue Moon. He was all crumpledup like a rag doll and still shaking like a leaf in the wind. Once, whenJohnny was in Central American jungles, he saw a monkey caught in a wiretrap. He too had been all crumpled up and trembling. Ballard was likethat. A great wave of remorse swept over him. "Shouldn't have brought himup here," he told himself savagely. "Belongs down there in the mountains,he does, down there where men are free as squirrels or woodchucks."

  And yet, as he paused for sober thought, he could not be sure. Whatshould be done?

  "Boy, why did you do it?" he asked in a voice that vibrated withkindness.

  "Can't nobody call me no name like that," the Kentucky boy grumbledwithout looking up. "Just can't nobody at all."

  "So that sneering guard called him a vile name!" Johnny thought tohimself. "There's a penalty for that too, but Kentucky didn't know. Toobad! No good to tell him now."

  What should be done? He was seized with a sudden inspiration.

  "Ballard," he spoke in as steady a tone as he could command, "I'm drivingback to the mouth of Pounding Mill Creek for the week end. Want to goalong?"

  Ballard did not look up. He replied in a word of one syllable: "Yes." Yetit is probable that few spoken words have ever expressed so much.

  "All right. We'll start in an hour. With luck, we'll be there in sevenhours."

  For a boy, Johnny had a very long head. There were many things he mighthave done. He might have remonstrated with Ballard, told him that in themountains you could kill a man for calling you the wrong kind of name,but not in Hillcrest. He might have sympathized with him, might havesaid, "We'll get even with that Naperville mob." The thing he did couldnot have been more right, had he been advised by a score of older heads.

  When at last they started, there were three in the car instead of two. Hehad run across Jensie. She had insisted on going along. The car seat waswide. Johnny was not slow in accepting her challenge. So, with an hour ofsunlight and many hours of glorious moonlight before them, they took thelong, broad, winding trail that leads south.

  Mile after mile sped by and not a word was said by anyone. They arestrangely quiet people, these mountain folks--yet there are times whenthey appear to speak without saying any words. Their very silence speaksfor them. Johnny had felt this many times. He was feeling it now. Jensieseemed to be saying, "Don't be too hard on him, Johnny. Don't let theboys be too hard on him. It's our mountain ways." And Ballard? He seemedto be saying, "I won't go back. I'll never go back. I won't go back,"repeating it over and over. Strangely enough, because of this repetition,Johnny felt sure that in the end he would go back and he was glad.

  They came at last to the crest of Big Black Mountain. There, withoutquite knowing why, Johnny cut off the gas and allowed his car to gorolling along to a gliding stop.

  A second look told him why he had not gone on. He had been stopped by thesheer beauty of the scene that lay before them. Big Black Mountain is nota peak, it is a tree-grown ridge stretching away for miles and miles. Toright and left of it are other ridges, Little Black Mountain, StoneMountain, Pine Ridge, and all the rest. These ridges, covered as theywere with the golden coat of autumn and shone down upon by a matchlessmoon, made a picture of breath-taking beauty. Jensie too felt the gloryof it all, Johnny knew, for he felt her heart leap.

  "It--it's grand!" she murmured. "And to think! This is MY country."

  "Yes," Johnny's voice was low with emotion, "it's your country."

  As he said this he was not thinking of Jensie, but of Ballard, who satmotionless in the car, saying nothing at all. This was HIS country. Whatwas he thinking now? Johnny would have given a dollar to know.

  "His country," Johnny whispered to himself. Along those ridges chestnutsand beechnuts were falling. Squirrels were frisking about on the ground.With a gun and a good hound-dog--Ballard owned one of the best dogs inthe mountains--you could have a perfect, gloriously golden day, huntingthose squirrels and keeping an ear open for the distant gobble-gobble ofsome wild turkeys who might, just might, be hiding in those hills.

  "What a life!" Johnny barely escaped saying the words aloud. "What agrand and glorious life!" Deep down in some hollow a fat old coon was atthis moment stealing corn. Rabbits were frisking in the moonlight; Johnnysaw one go dashing across the road. Down there, far below, was a two-roomlog cabin, Ballard's home. In the narrow, coal-burning grate, a low firewould be gleaming. Above the mantel hung Ballard's rifle. Beside the fireslept his favorite hound-dog.

  "And I'm going to ask him to give it up," Johnny told himself. "Going totell him he should go back to college, to books, to serving coffee andhot dogs, and back to football. How can I?

  "And yet--" Johnny touched the starter. The car went purring down theslope. And yet--yes, he would ask him. What if it was good sport towander the hills in search of game? What if the mountains did call? Whatwould it get you in the end? With an untrained temper, the rifle thatsends a squirrel tumbling over and over from the top of a tree might atlast be turned upon some human being. And after that, long years in jail.

  "That," Johnny told himself soberly, "is what football's for, to teach afellow to take it. Not to take vile names. The referee will take care ofthat, but to take a tumble, to be thrown, thrown hard again and again, tobe bumped and bruised and still be able to smile. That's football, agrand and glorious sport!" Yes, he'd ask Ballard to go back. He MUST goback!

  "I--I'll get off here," Ballard broke in upon Johnny's solemn meditationsand high resolves. "There's a short cut through the hills. I'll be homein a quarter of an hour." As Johnny stopped the car, Ballard hopped out.

  "Thanks, Johnny! Thanks a powerful lot."

  "Good-bye, Ballard," Johnny called.

  "Good-bye, Ballard," Jensie echoed. "We'll be seeing you."

  "We'll be seeing you," the hills echoed back. Ballard was gone, swallowedup by darkness and his beloved mountains.

  Jensie did not speak again until they were before her own gate. Then shesaid quietly: "I'm going hunting with Ballard in the morning, Johnny."

  "Does he know it?" Johnny asked in some surprise.

  "No, but he will. It won't be the first time we've gone hunting together,nor, I hope, the last.

  "Thanks, Johnny." She was out of the car now. Her hand was on the gate."Thanks awfully for bringing us down." Next moment she too had vanishedinto the darkness.

  For a moment Johnny sat in his car thinking. Yes, these were strangelysilent people. Jensie had not asked him to go with them on that huntingtrip. She had given no reason for not doing so. There was a reason. Sheexpected him to know the reason. He did--and was glad.

  As he drove on to Cousin Bill's place, he was able to dismiss Ballardfrom his mind. He thought of the old mill and its mystery, of Donald Dayand his grandfather, who was still in the hospital. He thought of theyoung aviator down in the valley who said he had found a wonderful newfuel for his airplane motor. Ballard had told him that this aviator hadbecome Donald Day's best customer. "He's bought an old horse and wagon,"Ballard had said. "Every day he comes up and carts away three or four ofthose queer jugs."

  "Wonder what's in those jugs," Johnny had replied. "Really, don't youknow?"

  "Cross my heart," Ballard had answered.

  "Well, I'm going to find out," Johnny had said with determination. Butwould he? Well, here he was at Cousin Bill's. Now for a few winks ofsleep.