Emory growled wordlessly through his gag, but set his stockinged feet on the log. The party negotiated the first piece of prone timber and gained the second. Back along the way they had come echoed the noise of the searchers, comfortingly muffled.
Those searchers might soon be following again, and Randy, in rearguard position, would be the logical point of attack; but Randy, to his own considerable surprise, found himself suddenly cool and confident. He still felt the grip of fear, the sense of mortal danger, but he knew, and knew with a great satisfaction to himself, that not once had he lost his head and cowered helplessly before the crisis.
Could the most desperate situation be hopeless, reflected Randy, if one faced it with cool courage? Not anywhere in Moore County! And there was another surprise for him, that he felt himself so quickly a native of Moore County, a runner of almost invisible forest trails, a darer and deceiver of murderous perils.
What would his former friends up North think of him now? Randy Hunter, a town boy, whose chief excitement had been football and baseball games, motion pictures, ice cream sodas, and carefully supervised hikes and camping trips? Randy Hunter, now living this hair-raising adventure that might have come straight out of the life of old Daniel Boone? But Boone, too, had lived in North Carolina, back in colonial days. In those same days, Randy’s own ancestors had lived here, the first American Hunters, in fact as well as in name.
Randy picked his way, listening and watching. Maybe some sort of instinct worked in him, young Randy Hunter of Laurels and Beaver Lake. As a boy, his father had roamed these woods. So had Major Martin Gary Hunter, in his far-off youth before he marched away to two wars. So had the ancestor who had served the Confederacy and who had worn the sword hanging above the fireplace at Laurels. Before that Hunter had come others, in moccasins and fringed buckskin.
To Randy came a comforting thought, that might not have been only fancy. He felt the presence of his own kinsmen stealing along at his side, a whole throng of them, foresters and fighters all, guiding him and siding with him against his enemies. It lent confidence to him as he guarded Emory Bickram, observed the thickets to left and right and held himself ready to face danger from any quarter.
They finished the journey along the logs, and found the continuing stretch of trail beyond. Jebs paused there, a little undecided, and motioned from ahead for Randy to take the lead again. Randy passed him the revolver and Jebs took charge of Emory while Randy spied out their way.
It was easier than before, and they were moving at a fair pace toward the familiar trees beyond which must be the shore of Beaver Lake, when from behind came the baleful noise of pursuit.
Jebs snapped his fingers, as loudly as an exploding firecracker, and as Randy stopped, Jebs shoved Emory close between them, then pointed as before into the cover beside the trail. They would hide again, he meant, and hope that the foe would pass them by. Carefully Randy twitched the branches aside, and Jebs urged Emory through, as he would urge a rebellious steer or mule through a gate into a field the animal did not want to enter. Randy followed, and as carefully pulled the branches back together again. Jebs chose a spot between two sizable trees, forced Emory to stand there, and crouched beside him, the revolver in his hand. Randy dropped at full length among some ferny growth. Thus in silence the three of them waited.
Their pursuers were coming closer along the trail just quitted. Apparently they moved deliberately, and with some attempt to be stealthy in their approach. Once more Randy heard that deadly signal whistle — wheeeeeet. It seemed to him that he had been retreating before the menace of that whistle for many hours. He felt tired, but undaunted. Glancing sidewise at Jebs, he saw that his friend was tense and motionless, close to the two trees where Emory stood. Jebs’ face was drawn and pale but determined. In Jebs’s hand the gun was ready. Noll and Ferd Bickram would have no simple, easy task to subdue Jebs Markum, nor yet to subdue Randy Hunter, heir to a long line of free rangers of Moore County’s woods and watersides. Let them come if they dared.
They were coming. Randy had not realized how close to the trail Jebs had halted him and Emory. Those searchers must be directly opposite now, just beyond the thin screen of foliage, within easy toss of a soda cracker, passing by —
But they weren’t passing by. The motion had ceased. There was a whisper of consultation somewhere. With a sinking heart, Randy realized that the eyes of the searchers had been on the tracks left by his feet, and the feet of Jebs and those big stocking-clad feet of Emory Bickram. And those three lines of tracks left the trail at this very point.
Suddenly Emory made a noise. In some fashion of writhing struggle he had freed his face from the confining handkerchief, and now he spat out the bandanna.
"Here!” he spluttered. "It’s me, Emory! Right here, come on —”
Leaping up, Randy clutched Emory by the bound shoulders. With all his furious young strength he hurled the larger boy flat to the ground, and half set himself to hurl a knotted fist into that open bawling face, but he did not. He could not bring himself to strike a defenseless enemy, not even Emory Bickram.
There was a great floundering charge at them from the direction of the trail. Jebs sprang up and began to run, but one of Emory’s unshod feet darted out and tripped him. Down went Jebs, sprawling. His head struck a tree stem and he dropped the pistol.
Randy, too, had started to run, but he turned back to the aid of his friend. One of his hands caught up the gun, the other extended to help Jebs up.
“Let’s fight them right here, Jebs,” he cried, and turned to meet that charge. “Come on, you Bickrams! Bring on your shotguns, your field artillery, bring on your atom bombs if you have any! Just show me those ugly faces and —”
“Randy Hunter,” said the accusing voice of Major Martin Gray Hunter, “I thought I gave you specific orders to stay at Laurels until this business was all over with.”
Into view had stepped the major, straight, active and assured despite the walking stick and the artificial leg. He carried an old army automatic at the ready. Shoulder to shoulder with him came Mr. Meadows, the game warden. From behind them peered the wise, dusky face of Uncle Henry.
TRAIL’S END
Randy, who had trailed, fought, lurked and finally turned to bay with the shrewd wisdom and rugged courage of a wolf, suddenly felt faint, shaky-kneed, and dizzy. His hand sank down to his side, and his fingers let go of the pistol. He would have sat down on the ground, but a tree was near at hand. Leaning against it, he stared thankfully at his grim-faced grandfather.
Jebs was getting up from where he had fallen, a hand to his bruised head. “Shoo, Major,” he stammered, “so that was you trying to find us all the time. We were hiding. We were dead certain you were the Bickram boys after us.” “The Bickram boys?” repeated Mr. Meadows. “Ferd and Noll Bickram? They’ve been arrested.”
“Now, that’s a lie,” whined Emory Bickram, also struggling to rise. "You couldn’t catch Ferd and Noll in a thousand years. You’re trying to fool me.”
“No, they were caught, and catching them was easy,” said Major Hunter. “After Randy came home last night and told what had happened up to that point, we could identify them as the troublemakers. And so those deputy sheriffs went to their house. Nobody was there, but the deputies waited right there until dawn, and the two Bickrams walked right into their hands.”
“Now, I’ll bet that’s just what they did!” cried Jebs.
“That’s what they were bound to do. They had everything planned just so, except what to do if they were known and some kind of a trap was set for them.”
“I still don’t believe it,” insisted Emory, but he looked and sounded as if he were ready to cry.
“When last I saw Ferd and Noll Bickram,” said Mr. Meadows, “they were confessing the whole thing, and Deputy Sheriff O’Brien was taking it all down in his notebook. But they wouldn’t tell where Jebs was being held prisoner by the third one. Apparently they thought that he could be used as a hostage, some sort of a dea
l could be made about turning him back to us. I take it that this is the third Bickram,” and he looked at Emory.
Someone else came into view from the direction of the trail. It was Mr. Markum. His first eager glance was for his son. “Jebs!” he called. “Are you all right, boy?”
“Yes, sir, I couldn’t be in better shape,” Jebs made haste to assure him. “I had a night’s lodging and a free breakfast with the Bickrams. And when Randy tracked me to their number two headquarters, Emory here was so friendly and neighborly he didn’t seem rightly able to refuse to come along with us and pay us a return visit.”
“You lay off me,” Emory said to Jebs. “You stop that. You wouldn’t dare talk like that to me if I was turned loose.” “You can forget that possibility, Emory Bickram,” said Mr. Meadows. “Nobody’s going to turn you loose.”
“And if anybody did,” added Randy, “Jebs could take him. I’ve seen it done. Better quiet down yourself, Emory. It’s easy to shoot off your mouth about what you’d do if you were free. You know you won’t get a chance to make good on your bluff.”
“Let’s all go to Laurels and wait for the others to come along,” said Major Hunter. “Randy, I want you to walk with me. I’m heartily sorry that you disobeyed my orders about staying at home.”
Randy felt embarrassed and wretched. He would almost have rather faced the whole Bickram family, shotgun and all.
"I didn’t exactly disobey your orders, sir,” he pleaded. ”1 promised to stay out of things because I agreed at the time that I couldn’t help. But then, after you were gone and I was alone, I remembered something. It was just a remark Jebs had made, about marking trails if we got separated, and I figured that he’d find a way to leave clues. Since I couldn’t tell you about it, and I felt it was really important, I went—”
"Randy’s right about that, Major,” Jebs seconded his friend loyally. "Please don’t think he was just disobeying. I did leave a trail marked, the way I’d said I would, and he followed it like an old bloodhound.”
"No, not like a bloodhound,” agreed Mr. Meadows. "We had some bloodhounds, and they couldn’t find anything.”
"That’s because the Bickrams peppersauced their shoes,” said Jebs.
He held out Emory’s boots, and the game warden took them and sniffed at their soles. He wrinkled his nostrils.
"They seem to have done that very thing,” he said. "Major, I’d say that this grandson of yours out-bloodhounded the whole pack.”
"Tell us the rest of it, Jebs,” said Mr. Markum.
Readily Jebs did so, painting the woodcraft wisdom and bravery of Randy in such brilliant colors that Randy found himself blushing in embarrassment and Emory glared with a new disgusted enmity. Mr. Markum listened with a smile, Mr. Meadows with concentrated interest, and Major Hunter with a detached attention, like a judge on the bench. When Jebs had finished, Mr. Markum spoke to Major Hunter.
"Let me add my plea for Randy’s forgiveness, sir,” he said. "I’ll agree that he may have been a little out of line, going away from home that second time, but it’s a fact that he did it to save my boy. For all the combing we did in these woods, I doubt if we could have tracked up on that hidden cave they talk about, and Emory Bickram could have held Jebs there indefinitely. One way and another, it worked out pretty well to these boys’ advantage and their credit. How about you, Meadows, don’t you agree?”
"I reckon I do,” said the game warden.
"And me too,” added Uncle Henry.
Major Hunter’s graven face relaxed in a smile. "Randy, the court martial seems to be turning in a majority vote for your acquittal. And, even if you were a guardhouse lawyer at first, you did a master job of reconnaissance and withdrawal later.” He drew a deep breath, and slapped Randy’s shoulder. "But I just hope that it won’t happen again.”
"I hope so too, sir,” said Randy.
There was a fish fry at Laurels.
Uncle Henry had built a fire in a trench in the yard, and on this he set two huge rectangular pans of hot fat, in which he skilfully fried generous pieces of fish, together with "hush-puppies” made of cornmeal, beaten eggs, soda, buttermilk and chopped onion, cooked like fritters. These were dished out on paper plates and eaten with relish by Major Hunter, Mr. Markum, Mr. Meadows, Scout Executive Chappell and Jebs and Randy. The subject of conversation was, of course, the recent brush with the Bickrams.
The three Bickrams, taken to jail at Carthage, had at first talked of engaging a lawyer and fighting the charges. But the testimony of Randy and Jebs, coupled with the partial confessions of Noll and Ferd to Deputy O’Brien, were too strongly against them. After some talk with the county solicitor, all three agreed to plead guilty and ask for the mercy of the court, and the menace to the inhabitants of Beaver Lake was removed.
"I’ve heard from the sheriff," said Mr. Markum. "He wants j Jebs and Randy to come to his office and hear his own con- [ gratulations. And he says that that temporary deputizing of them ought to be permanent. He wishes they’d follow on with it, and maybe be sheriffs themselves."
Mr. Meadows grinned. "I’ll give the sheriff an argument about that. I’d rather see them shape up into game wardens. I’ve made a report to the department of wild life."
"What I have to contribute is a sort of an end to the Beaver Patrol as a neighborhood setup," added the Scout executive. "Ever since this thing was in the local papers, my office has been getting letters and calls. There’s quite a bunch of boys not many miles from here, the age of Jebs and Randy. At least six of them want to get into Scouting, and make a real Senior Scouting unit, not a neighborhood patrol, but a bona fide troop. And naturally they figure on Jebs and Randy as the leaders.”
"That’ll be swell," said Randy. "Right, Jebs?"
"Right," replied Jebs. "When can we start organizing?" 1
"Why not tomorrow?" suggested the Major. "If Mr. Chappell wants to have his first meeting here, I’ll be more than glad to entertain."
"Then it’s set for tomorrow," said Randy. He looked up into the evening sky. "Look, there’s still quite a piece of the moon left. Enough for the beavers to see by."
"I get you," said Jebs. "You think we might slip quietly down and see what’s doing at the lake.”
"Wait till I finish this last chunk of fish and we’ll get going," Randy told him.
Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1953 Page 14