“Nary a thing,” replied the sheriff. “We could only follow ’em for a short space. But we got word to every station all around here. I think I will find them both, yet. They have not gone away from these parts. I’m purty sure about that.”
“The sheriff believes they have a home or a camp somewhere around here,” said Doc. “And with all the strange goings-on around this riverbank, over on Burney’s Field, and in the cliffs, this old place will soon become famous. I think someday it will be called Trouble Valley. Anyway Hawkins, you will please keep a closer watch on all the boys; I’ll drop in occasionally—”
“And if you do find out anything,” said the sheriff, “you know you boys been a lot of help to the judge and me.”
“Glad to help you, Sheriff,” I said. “Always glad to help. Goodbye. Trust to me, Doc. Goodbye.”
* * *
Two days after Doc’s visit, after our regular meeting, I stayed in to write the minutes, and after I had finished I picked up a book that Will Standish loaned me and sat by the window reading.
“I’m goin’ out, sir,” said Perry Stokes. “The clubhouse is all cleaned up, and I got a promise out of Bill Darby to let me play first base.”
“Go to it, Perry,” I said. “I hope you make good.”
“You’re not afraid of Stoner coming, are you, Hawkins? Or maybe Jude the Fifth—?”
“Go ahead,” I said. “They’ll not show up in broad daylight, anyhow, Perry.”
After he was gone, I read for about fifteen minutes, and then I was interrupted again by footsteps in the clubroom. For a second, I thought that perhaps I was going to receive a call from one of the enemy after all.
“Who’s there?” I called out.
“It’s only me,” said the Skinny Guy, as he stepped into the doorway and grinned down at me. “I’m tired. Think I’ll read a book, if you got a good one, Hawkins.”
“There’s the shelf,” I said, nodding at the row of books. “Pick out any one you want.”
I got up and took my seat at my desk, and Link sat by the window and began to read. He read for about five minutes then must have decided that the book he picked out was not the kind he wanted, for he went back to the shelf and picked out a new one. He did this about five or six times, picking out a book, going to the window and reading for a few minutes, then coming back to the shelf for a different one.
“What’s the matter, Link?” I asked. “Are all of my books too stale for you?”
“It ain’t that, Hawkins,” he says. “But you got so many with big words. I don’t like to look in the dictionary every ten words to find out what a word means. Oh, here’s a nice one, ‘First Reader.’”
“You might find the primer, if that one’s too hard for you,” I said. He grinned back at me, and then he turned to his reading. Evidently he must have been satisfied with the “First Reader,” for he sat still and read. I began to read again, and I was so interested that I even forgot Link was there. I paid no attention to anything, although the noise of the boys playing ball in the hollow came through the open window, and the trees all around the clubhouse were filled with many birds that kept singing and a fussing all the while. Then all of a sudden, it happened. I had not heard a footstep. I had not heard a sound. There was not a single thing that would have made me look up, but I felt my eyes drawn to the curtains in the doorway—and there stood the Gray Ghost, Stoner’s Boy. I can’t tell you what a shock that sudden, silent appearance gave to me. There he stood in his gray cape-coat, his broad-brim hat, and the kerchief covering the lower half of his face. And in his left arm he held a black cat, holding it under the forelegs, its body swinging against the gray cape-coat like a ragdoll.
“Ha! Seckatary Hawkins!” he called out sharply. “Do I find you alone at last?”
“No you don’t,” cried the Skinny Guy. I had even forgotten Link was there, until I heard his voice and saw him spring at the gray figure. “I’ve been chasing you a long time, Stoner, but I think I have you now!”
“Think again,” said Stoner’s Boy. He ducked. Link landed lightly on his feet behind the Gray Ghost. They both turned upon each other quickly. I leaped to Link’s assistance, but before I could raise my hand, Stoner had shoved forward with both hands and sprang to the door. There was Link screaming with the black cat upon his head and face, clawing him, while Stoner was already down the porch steps—I heard the sound of his feet hit the ground as he landed. I pulled the black cat from Link’s head and threw it through the curtains of the door. With a loud wail, it galloped out of the door.
“After him, Hawkins!” cried Link. “See where he goes.”
I knew it would be no use. How many times haven’t I said it was no use to run after Stoner? But there is something about it that makes a fellow feel like running him down after all. You know at the start that you can’t do it, but yet you just have to try. And so we flew out of the clubroom and down the porch steps—ah!
I remember seeing the black tail of the cat disappear around the river path—and then my feet tangled up in something and down I went, heavy as I am, flat upon my stomach, and Link, in the same fix, fell a few feet beside me.
“He figured something like this might happen,” I said, as we sat up and rubbed our bruised knees. “That’s why he leaped over the steps, Link. If we had leaped, our feet would not have caught in his ropes.”
“Doggone him,” said Link, with a wry face. “Look how he fixed the ends of the ropes to those big rocks. Purty slick, Hawkins. But say, the cat went for the river path. Maybe Stoner’s boat—let’s go and see if we can’t—”
“Too late,” I said. “Listen to that.”
From the river came the long drawn-out sound of Stoner’s horn—the old brass horn that he used in the old days, the same horn that poor old Harkinson had given to me before he died—someday, I said to myself, someday I am going to get that horn back—
“He came by the river,” said Link. “But wait, you don’t hear the sound of his motorboat, do you?”
“No,” I said. “He has a new one now, Link, an electric launch, I think, and that doesn’t make any noise to give him away. But he is on his way, you can be sure of that. The sound of the horn was his way of giving us the ha-ha. Come on, I got some arnica in my writing room. We might as well rub some on our knees.”
Which we did.
CHAPTER 29
The Blue Flame
FOR a long time Briggen and his Pelham fellows had not shown up on our side of the river. I had no cause to write their names in this book for many weeks. And I was glad of it. Most always they brought trouble to our side. And I wouldn’t be writing about them now, except for the fact that I received a visit from Briggen and Ham Gardner and Dave Burns early one morning, before the meeting began. I had just come down to the clubhouse in the hollow and had opened up the windows and sat down. I was alone. Even Perry Stokes, who usually was the early bird, was late. I had not slept very well, and I guess I was somewhat cross. Anyway, when I turned at the sound of footsteps on the porch and saw Briggen and his two pals, I gave them a cold reception.
“Well, what do you want?” I asked.
“Briggen an’ me has a word to say, Hawkins,” answered Ham Gardner.
“Trouble, I guess,” said I. “You fellas across the river never think of us until we can help you out of a hole or something. Come on, talk up. What’s it about?”
I did not ask them to sit down. But Pelham fellows don’t need invitations to do things. They all pulled up chairs and sat in front of me.
“You remember the awful screech we heard at night on Burney’s Field?” began Briggen.
“How could I forget it?” I said. “What have you got to tell me about it?”
“It’s come again,” said Briggen. “Last night we heard it. We heard it a couple o’ times since, but not so loud as last night. It’s gittin’ too dern close to our shacks, Hawkins. Us boys are afeared of it, sure enough.”
“I should think you would be afraid of it,” I said. “
I warned you before to stay away from Burney’s Field at night. What were you doing there last night?”
“Well,” said Briggen. “It come this’a way. Dave Burns there come in and says there was spooks on Burney’s Field. We was all a’stickin’ close to our campfire on the riverbank. None o’ us had a thought about goin’ to the field. Then, when Dave there comes and says there’s somethin’ strange showin’ on the field, we all goes to take a look.”
“What did you see?” I asked. Briggen curled his lip in a funny smile.
“Ain’t it the truth,” he said, “that the funniest things happen over on that field, Hawkins? Did you ever see anything like—”
“Cut out the talk,” I said. “Tell me what you saw.”
“We jest cain’t make up our mind’s what it was,” spoke up Dave Burns. “The first time I saw it, I says it was lightnin’.”
“An’ I says it wasn’t,” broke in Briggen. “’Tain’t like lightnin’ to go pippin’ and a tippin’ up an’ down like that. You was wrong, Dave. Did you ever see—”
“If you won’t tell me right away what you saw,” I interrupted, “you will have to clear out of here. The boys will be down to hold the regular meeting in a few minutes.”
“Alright, Hawkins,” said Ham Gardner. “I’ll do the talkin’, then. When Dave come in an’ tol’ us, we all goes back out thar’ onto Burney’s Field. We didn’t go far. We jest stayed close to th’ edge. In a little while, we sees it—like a little blue light a’winkin’ and a’blinkin’—only that blue light in the dark, and no moonlight was shinin’ thar’. It looked infernal strange, Hawkins.”
“How many times did you see this blue light?” I asked.
“We couldn’t tell you thet,” said Ham. “It come and go as quick as a wink. First time, maybe it winked three times—then it was gone for a while. But here she come again, flarin’ up and dyin’ out, like witch fire in the dark.”
“It was a hot night,” I said. “Maybe it was the heat lightning some folks talk about.” At the same time, I knew I didn’t believe that myself. Yet I didn’t want to frighten the Pelhams.
“That ain’t all,” says Ham. “We ain’t no more ’an looked at it for a couple o’ minits when there come the awfullest screech you ever heard—why, you heard it yerself. It was the same yell. It ain’t nat’ral, Hawkins, it ain’t hooman.”
I sat thinking for a little while. Then I said:
“I will take a look for myself tonight. Meanwhile, you boys better play where it’s safe and stay close together after dark. By all means, keep away from Burney’s Field.”
After the Pelham fellows had gone back to their side of the river, our boys began to come in for the regular meeting. Somehow, they all looked sleepy-eyed. It’s funny how some mornings they all look down in the dumps, and other mornings they are all chipper and bright. But I guess it was the sultry weather we have been having lately and the awful hot days. In a few minutes, Robby Hood arrived in his homemade launch, bringing Shadow Loomis and the Rolling Stone, and then we held our meeting.
As soon as the meeting was over, I got the other boys out of the clubhouse by telling them to catch some fish and we would have a fish supper on the riverbank that evening. Then I slipped around quietly to Will Standish, Shadow Loomis, Harold Court, and the Skinny Guy and took them back into my little writing office, where I told them about the Pelhams’ visit that morning and what they had said they had seen on Burney’s Field the night before.
“It sounds like an adventure, Hawkins, old top,” said Will Standish. “Y’ know, I’ve been wishing for something exciting—”
“You needn’t wish,” spoke up Harold. “We are going to have plenty of it.”
“Harold’s been spying around,” said the Skinny Guy with a grin.
“So have you, y’ old sly lynx,” retorted Harold. “You know as much as I do. I’ll bet any one of you that we have to blame Simon Bleaker for the strange things going on over across the river at night.”
“No,” said Link. “You’re wrong, Harold, it’s Stoner’s Boy’s doings. Whatever we find out, we’ll be sure to find the Gray Ghost at the bottom of it.”
“It may be,” spoke up Shadow Loomis, quietly, “that you are both mistaken. There is a slight chance that all of these strange happenings are the work of Androfski the Silent.”
“What difference will it make?” I asked. “What’s the use arguing about that? What I want to do is to take a look at Burney’s Field tonight. Will Standish has not yet heard the noise over there at night. And as to the blue lights that the Pelham fellows speak of—”
“Electricity in the atmosphere,” broke in Shadow Loomis. “I’ve read something about that.”
“We shall see,” I said. “Now, listen. Tonight the boys will be here for a fish supper—that is, if they catch any fish. I’ll slip the word to Dick Ferris, and he will keep the rest of the boys here while we make the trip across the river. They will have boats ready—”
“Let them use the big launch,” spoke up the Skinny Guy. “That’ll travel quicker and hold all of us.”
“Very well, Link,” I said. “And if we need help—”
“We’ve got good legs,” said Harold Court. “We can run, if we see danger coming.”
“We may not have time to run,” said the Skinny Guy with a grin.
“But the main thing,” I said, “is not to get hurt and not to cause any trouble. Remember, the first thing of that sort that reaches the ears of old Judge Granbery will cost us our clubhouse and the privilege of meeting every day on this riverbank. Everybody understand?”
They said they did.
“Now then,” I concluded, “we will all have to go and help the other boys catch some fish. Come on, get your fishin’ tackle and hurry.”
We caught a great many fish, and all the boys got permission from their homes to stay down and enjoy the fish supper on the riverbank. Perry Stokes and Roy Dobel took care of preparing the meals, and it was a fine affair. We held it off on purpose till nearly dark, so that we would get a chance to take our little excursion across the river while the boys were enjoying their supper.
But it was a long wait. We arrived at the edge of the woods looking out over Burney’s Field just as darkness had settled. There were six of us—I had to let Perry Stokes come along at the last minute with his rifle, as he refused to let me take such a dangerous trip without him to watch for enemies. The six of us stood there a long time in the shadow of the trees and gazed out over Burney’s Field until our legs were stiff and tired, and we just had to sit down and rest.
About an hour and a half we waited. And then came the first sign for which we watched. Away to our left, in the dark, there danced a blue flame—danced up and was gone.
“Did you see it?” asked Link.
“Yeah,” I answered. But the other boys had been talking together and had missed it.
“There it is again,” whispered Link.
Once more the little blue flame bobbed up, danced in the air, and was gone.
“What is it?” asked Will Standish. “It looks like a flame of a candle, but of course it isn’t. It’s blue. And candle flame looks yellow to me.”
“It’s not a candle,” said Shadow Loomis.
“There!” said Harold Court. “Ah! it’s gone again.”
You can’t imagine how strange this blue flame bobbing up in the dark made all of us feel. It was as pitch dark as I ever knew a night to be. And the little blue flame, leaping up in the dark ahead of us to the left, seemed like a bit of magic. I turned sharply to Shadow Loomis.
“This is not one of your magic tricks, is it, Shadow? You used to pull this stuff on the Pelhams—remember the face in the dark?”
“No,” he answered. “I give you my word, Hawkins. This has got me beat. Maybe your Stoner’s Boy is a better magician—”
“Listen a minute! Do you hear anything?”
A dull beating came across the dark field. First, like the beat of a drum, then rolling into
louder sounds as of far away thunder.
“My word!” exclaimed Will Standish. “What is coming off here?”
“Be ready to run,” whispered Harold.
“Don’t move,” I said. “Stay where you are, every one of you.”
Shadow pushed his ear close to my face.
“I made that kind of a sound one time upon this field,” he said. “Remember it Hawkins?”
“Yeah,” I said in a low voice. “I remember now, you were riding a horse.”
“Same sound,” whispered Shadow. “Somebody is riding a horse across the plain.”
On came the rolling sound, until we could distinctly hear the hoofbeats of a horse. Over to the left in the dark distance, the blue flame leaped and disappeared.
I have already remarked upon the pitch darkness; I want to repeat it now so that you will all understand why it was we could not see what happened out there on the plain. I will tell you exactly what we heard.
The blue flame still leaped fitfully in the dark. The hoofbeats of the horse came louder and louder, and as they neared, I could tell they were making directly for the place where the blue flame appeared. But they never reached the place. No. For, suddenly and without warning there came a terrible cry—the same screaming yell we had heard one night upon this same field—then the cry of a horse in agony and the frightened shout of a boy.
“Come on!” yelled Will Standish. “Somebody’s hurt.”
We forgot our own feelings then. We leaped forward. As we ran, I could hear the sound of something beating furiously across the wide field. I thought once that I saw a boy flying in the opposite direction.
“Here,” said Shadow Loomis, stopping and turning his flashlight down upon a huddled heap upon the field. “Here is where it fell.”
“What is it?” asked Will Standish, coming up. I hurried up, too.
“A dead pony,” said Shadow. “A roan pony—there was only one like it. Boys, this is Simon Bleaker’s pony. Look around, see if he is lying hurt somewhere.”
We all went about flashing our lights upon the ground. We did not find the boy, but I came upon footprints in the soft clay that told me Simon Bleaker had escaped injury when his pony had fallen and had sneaked away in the dark. There was a wound in the pony’s throat as though a sword had been run through it. He was stone dead. Poor old pony. I had grown to like him just from seeing him around here even if he did carry a boy who didn’t like me very much. But how had he come to his death?
The Gray Ghost Page 23