The Gray Ghost

by Robert F. Schulkers

  I shook my head.

  “I only heard about it,” I said. “I went to see him, and he gave me the old brass horn and told me to remember him. Then we got word that he had passed out.”

  Jude said nothing. He sat there, pushing the butt of his rifle into the dirt, raking up the new grass. For a long time neither of us spoke. Then—

  “He was a fine fella,” said Jude. “Never a better fella than Harkinson—brave and smart and good to me. We stuck to him to the last, Androfski and me—”

  “I know,” I said. “You get credit for it, Jude.”

  “The Long Boy never knowed him as we did,” said Jude.

  “Long Tom?” I asked.

  “Yeah, him,” answered Jude. “Never gave him credit, but I did. Lord, I wish Harkinson was alive yet. Maybe—”

  “Don’t,” I said. “Don’t wish that, Jude. How do you know? What do you know? Why should you wish he was back here havin’ all the same kind o’ trouble you’re havin’ and—”

  “He was good to me, Hawkins,” said Jude. “He was hard to those he had it in for, but he was good to me, and me only a kid from the country. I got mixed up with Long Tom before I knew what he was. I didn’t want to be bad, that’a way. No sir. I got a good father down in Larimore County what thinks I’m a boy to make a father proud—”

  “Stand up!” came a gruff command from the path. “And leave your gun where it is!”

  I looked up. Shadow Loomis, with his rifle that he had captured from Androfski the Silent, stood there, and behind him all the boys from our clubhouse. Jude slowly let his rifle slip out of his hands until it lay in the grass, and then he jumped to his feet.

  “Thanks, Hawkins,” said Shadow. “You’ve got Androfski’s pal. I’m sure the sheriff will be glad to find this out. It was purty slick, the way you kept him till we came.”

  Jude turned a look upon me—oh, boy! I don’t want to see a look like that again! No, it was a look that told me that he believed I had acted friendly to him and talked to him only to keep him there till my fellows could come and capture him.

  “Jude—” I began.

  “Keep away from me,” he hollered. “Don’t talk to me, you snide.” Then he turned to Shadow. “Alright,” he said. “You’ve got me where I can’t help myself. I guess the order is to march ahead.”

  “You’re on,” said Shadow. “Glad you see the sensible side of it, Jude.”

  What could I say, doggone it, or what could I do to make Jude believe that I had not known? No, I was helpless. Anything I said he would believe to be a lie. He believed I had come out to get him to talk, to sit there off his guard, until our boys could come up and get him before he could get away or get his rifle up.

  “All ready,” sang our captain. “Alright Shadow, march.”

  And so we marched.

  *  *  *

  Saturday night. Writing this at home, in bed. It turned out the way it should, I guess. Anyway, I’m glad it turned out as it did.

  It was four o’clock when we brought Jude, a prisoner, to our clubhouse. Of course, as was always the custom, our boys had to hold a court-martial and decide whether or not Jude was to be turned over to the sheriff to go where the other Red Runners had gone. I tried to square myself with Jude by getting up and talking for him, but what could I do, sick as I was and with all those others disagreeing with me? Nothing. Jude was to be turned over to the sheriff. That was the sentence pronounced by our captain, Dick Ferris, after Shadow Loomis had proven to all of us that Jude the Fifth was the right hand of Androfski the Silent. Jude would not answer a question. He did not say a word. Perry Stokes was sent for the sheriff. He came back and said the sheriff was in Watertown and could not come for the prisoner until seven o’clock in the evening. I said I would stay with the prisoner until the sheriff came. But Shadow would not listen to that. He said I sympathized with Jude. I might be tempted to let him escape. It would be necessary for Shadow himself to stay. Dick said that was right. I said I would stay too, until I saw the end of this thing.

  And so it was that only Perry Stokes, Shadow Loomis, his brother the Rolling Stone, and I remained in the clubhouse when the other boys went home for supper. Jude was a good boy; he did not make any attempt to escape. He sat in the chair of the Rolling Stone behind the old stove and gazed out of the window. He was helpless and hopeless. His rifle had been taken from him. All he could do was to sit there and wait until the sheriff came, and then all he would be able to expect after that was a trip to Judge Granbery’s house and then the reform school. Well not such a bad outlook, anyway. He was sure to get three square meals, and he could bank on getting a fresh start when he proved his good behavior and a change for the better.

  But why should I preach about such things? Why should I, an old “seckatary” who has seen so many things happen, really believe that I would see this happen to a boy like Jude? Jude, Jude the Fifth—he was no ordinary boy—do you think he would go through all this without making a try for it? Do you think he didn’t know that before the sheriff could get here—

  But wait. I’ve been ill. Even now as I write, I feel my hand getting weaker. I feel myself slipping into my pillows, lower and lower, and my mother’s step on the stairs, which means that as soon as she arrives in this room, out goes the light and my writing is done. So I hasten these last few lines. Shadow was walking up and down in the clubhouse while the Rolling Stone busied himself around the chair where sat Jude the Fifth, trying to get him interested in some funny sheets of a newspaper two weeks old. Perry Stokes, with Jude’s rifle on his shoulder, stood before the door. No one spoke a word during the whole time that we were alone—not since the other boys had left for their homes had a word been spoken.

  And then it happened!

  Like a bird pecking the window pane came the first announcement. Rappy-tap-tap-tap-rappy—rappy-tap-rappy-rappy-tap-tap-rappy—tap-tap-tap—what kind of a telegraph code was this? Shadow flew to the window before which the prisoner sat. Perry Stokes leaped away from the door. I stood up on my weak legs, and leaned upon the table—then the door burst open—

  “Alright, Jude,” came the voice.

  Ah, that voice! No. It wasn’t the sheriff! But a voice I had not heard for years. It drew my eyes toward it at once, and I gazed upon the frightening figure of the Gray Ghost—he had shoved open the door, and without a gun, was holding us off with only a pointed finger—

  “Stand back there, you,” he said to Shadow Loomis. “Let this boy go. Come on, Jude—get away. Drop that gun, you bonehead—”

  Perry Stokes obeyed—the rifle clattered on the floor—

  “Hawkins, if you please—”

  He bowed low to me. I could have knocked his hat off, I could have torn that gray handkerchief from his face, I was that close to him—but I didn’t—I don’t know why I didn’t—

  “All ready, Jude? Fine! Shoot out. Get away. They can’t trace you in the dark. Travel fast as you can.”

  Jude the Fifth shot out of the door. The dark had just begun to fall—

  “You’ll pardon me, Hawkins,” said the Gray Ghost, once more bowing before me. “But I can’t explain to you tonight. Better not try to follow. There are wires in the woods—the grass is dangerous to tread after dark—I’m sure we’ll meet again. Good-night.”

  And with that he was gone. The Gray Ghost was gone. The darkness outside was only a gray dark, but it completely hid that Gray Ghost, whose gray eyes had laughed at me above that gray handkerchief that cheated me forever of a sight of his face—was I ever to see him and know who he was?

  Shadow was brokenhearted. He could not talk. Perry Stokes was mortified he had had the gun, the only thing that might have prevented this escape. The Rolling Stone was picking up his funny sheets—I thought it best that I get home and in bed—perhaps we had better all go without talking about this thing at all—

  Which we did.

  CHAPTER 14

  Jude Springs a Surprise

  “SORRY I missed it,” sa
id the Skinny Guy to me, when I told him of our capture of Jude the Fifth and how Stoner’s Boy had come and got him away from us. “What is this Jude fella like?”

  The meeting was over, and I had gone into my little writing room to write the minutes. Link and Shadow had followed me in and were sitting across the desk from me.

  “He’s a right smart, good-looking kid,” I said. “Too nice to be in with boys like the Red Runner gang.”

  “Hawkins likes him,” said Shadow. “I kind o’ think Hawkins is glad Jude got away.”

  I looked up from my writing.

  “I am,” I said. “I’m dern glad he got away, Shadow. And I’ll tell you why. Jude talked to me there, out in the woods, before you fellas came and captured him. He’s not such a bad boy as you think. He got mixed up with Long Tom’s Red Runners, but he didn’t like it after he was in it. I know that, the way he talked. It was Harkinson that kept him in, he and Androfski and Harkinson—they stuck together, they did. And you ought to have heard him talk good about Harkinson—he stuck up for him like a little man. That’s all I need. When a fella sticks up for a pal like that, Shadow, he ain’t a bad fella, really.”

  Shadow smiled.

  “You’re soft-hearted, Hawkins,” he said. “I wouldn’t let a thing like that change my feelings. No sir. Jude, or Androfski, or any of them hard guys—they look all the same to me. I’m sorry Jude got away. It would have been safer for you if he had been turned over to the sheriff. He would be in some place by this time where you wouldn’t have to be afraid of him.”

  “Afraid of him?” I asked. “Why should I be afraid of Jude? Tell me that, Shadow?”

  “Because you were the one who kept him there a’talking under the tree until we came and caught him.”

  “But I didn’t keep him there—I didn’t do that on purpose. I didn’t know you fellas were coming.”

  Shadow laughed.

  “I know,” he said. “You know, and all of us boys know, but Jude does not. He believes you were in on it. He thinks you got him a’talking so that he would stay there till us fellas came and grabbed him.”

  “Let him think what he wants,” I said. “I can’t help what he thinks. And I’m not going to worry about it, either.”

  “Well, you might as well keep your eyes open for him,” said Shadow. “You know what Jude is when he’s for you. If he’s for you, he’s for you strong. Look how he stood by Harkinson. And when he’s got it in for you—well, he might be the same that way.”

  Shadow turned and started for the door. Perry Stokes had come in just as we had started talking about Jude and had been listening to all that was said. He moved aside to let Shadow pass out, but just at the door Shadow turned.

  “And I want to tell you this, Hawkins,” he said. “Any fella that bums around with Androfski the Silent is a tough customer. If he’s going to get revenge on you, he will take it out on you in a good rough way.”

  Shadow walked outside. Perry Stokes moved up to my desk.

  “Bill Darby sent me, sir,” he began—

  “Cut out the ‘sir’ stuff,” I said. “I don’t want no sir-ing, Perry. I told you that before.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “It’s a habit, Hawkins, I can’t for the life of me break—but Darby is askin’ will you come down to the hollow and practice right field. The team is all ready, sir. They have the whole line-up—”

  “Tell Darby I can’t play,” I said. “I’m not well enough yet. Doc Waters told me to rest easy. Link, how about you taking my place today?”

  The Skinny Guy jumped off my desk and said:

  “If I can please that Darby, I’ll play. He’s hard to please, Hawkins. When he wants a certain fella—”

  “Tell him I told you to do it,” I said. “That ought to please him.”

  Link sped away to the hollow. I turned myself again to my book and started to write. Hearing a cough, I looked up and there stood Perry, still in the same place.

  “What’s a matter with you?” I asked. “Ain’t you playin’ on Bill Darby’s team?”

  “Not today, sir,” he said. “I thought I’d stay right here, bein’ as you was alone, Hawkins.”

  “Oh, go on,” I said. “I’ve been alone lots of times; I’m used to it, Perry. Go along and play.”

  “But that Jude boy, sir—he might be watchin’ for his chance to see you alone—”

  That made me mad.

  “What!” I yelled. “Do you think I am afraid of Jude or any other boy like him? You go on down to the hollow right away, and leave me alone.”

  “No sir,” he said. “If I was sure it would be only Jude, I wouldn’t worry about you takin’ care of yourself, Hawkins. But it’s that other one—the gray one. You see, they must be pals. And the gray one—”

  “Ah, I see! You think the gray one might come with him—you mean Stoner’s Boy, of course. Yes, I see now, Perry. That would be a bad team, wouldn’t it, for me to fight alone, wouldn’t it, sick as I am. Well, stick around here, if you want to, but please don’t stay in here, Perry. I’d like to write these minutes some time today. Dern if you fellas don’t come buttin’ in on me every five minutes—it’s a wonder I’ve written as much as I have.”

  I pretended to start off writing fast and watched Perry out of the corner of my eye. He slipped silently behind the door and got a rifle and then went outside, and I could see him sitting on the top step with the rifle on his knees while I continued to write. And believe me, it was a feeling of relief, too, to know that a boy like Perry was sitting there on watch. No Jude, no Stoner, no Androfski could get past Perry. I was safe from all harm.

  Jude did not come that day.

  *  *  *

  The next afternoon after our meeting, while the other boys were playing in the hollow, I took a trip down the river with Link in his longboat to the hidden houseboat where he lived in the backwater pool, or the “lily pond” as he called it, on Seven Willows Island. It is a beautiful place now, in the springtime, everything green, and those long vines hang like curtains all around the houseboat. If it ever was a hidden houseboat, it is now. We just stopped long enough for Link to change his clothes, for he wanted to stay at my house overnight, and he always dressed up when he went anywhere. We started right back up the river, and as we passed the old wreck of the Smokey City near Hobbs’s Ferry, Link suggested that we stop and take another look at the old steamboat.

  Just as we turned the longboat toward the shore, I saw a figure move up on the bank beyond the boat. It was a boy, lying under a tree, his hands under his head, gazing up into the branches of the tree.

  “Careful, Link,” I said. “You don’t know who it is.”

  We got close under the shadow of the wrecked boat as we landed, and took a good place where we could look at the boy and still not be seen by him. Five minutes we waited, while he lay there gazing skyward; then he sat up and brushed his hand across his close-cut hair.

  “By jove,” I said. “It’s Jude.”

  “Oh, so that’s Jude, is it!” exclaimed Link. “Well, Hawkins, I’ve met him before—that is, I saw him, but he didn’t see me. He is the fella who led me to the secret post office in the old sycamore tree. I spied him right around here somewhere and followed him. Yes sir, that’s the kid. What do you think of that?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” I said. “He’s waiting for somebody down here, I guess. Most likely Androfski.”

  “But I thought you said it was Stoner’s Boy who came to set him free when you had him prisoner,” said Link.

  “Yes, it was Stoner,” I said. “But all of us saw Androfski write a note and put it in the secret post office. Do you think he is in boots with both of ’em?”

  Link looked at me hard. He seemed to be studying about something.

  “Either that,” he said, “or Androfski and Stoner’s Boy are the same fella. Now what’s the answer, Hawkins? Figger it out.”

  I waved my hands.

  “Figure it yourself,” I said. “I’ve ha
d enough puzzle—look out, here he comes!”

  Jude was coming for the old wrecked steamboat.

  We huddled down under the hull as he came running, and we heard his feet thump on the slanting deck as he came over the rail. We could not see him; he was above us.

  “I’m going to get him, Hawkins,” said Link. And before I could hold him back, he was running away from me for the nearest reach of the rail, where he could get upon the wreck. I thought I might as well follow. I admit I was curious, too, to see what Jude was doing on this old steamboat wreck. I ran after Link, and was upon the rail behind him as he climbed. He waited till I came over.

  “See him?” I asked.

  “No,” answered Link in a whisper. “But I know where he is. There’s a cabin with the door broken off—come on, I saw him go in.”

  Together we tiptoed to the opening that formerly was a door of a cabin. At first I could see nothing, because of the gloom; the small window was boarded up, and no daylight entered except from the door. But then I saw him, sitting on a barrel beside a soap box that was filled with red and green apples. Jude was biting into one of the juicy fruits when he suddenly caught sight of the Skinny Guy peeping at him. With a cry of surprise, he slid down off the barrel and stood for a moment, square on both feet as if getting his balance. Then, drawing back his arm, he let fly with all his strength, and the apple came sailing out at us—oh, boy, if either of us had caught that flying thing on the head, it would have knocked us out for an hour; but we both dodged it and it went whizzing over our heads and smashed up against a steam pipe. I bet if he had tried to hit that pipe, he would have missed it a mile.

  But he wasn’t discouraged, Jude wasn’t. No. He reached down and got two more apples out of the soap box, and I really believe he meant to give us each one on the nose. But he had never known the Skinny Guy. Link, like a cat, with all his old-time speed, was upon Jude before he could throw, and he landed on him so hard that they both went crashing down, knocking over barrel and box, scattering the apples in all directions. Jude pounded Link’s head with both fists, but Link wound his skinny arms around the light-haired boy and turned to me.