“Patience! Patience! Wake up! They’ve kidnapped little Hallie!”
“Wha—where? Why?” the mountain girl stammered, still half asleep.
Sinking down upon the bed and burying her face in her hands, Marion tried to think. Little Hallie had been kidnapped. Why? For ransom? Nothing seemed more absurd. Who would pay? The child had been poorly dressed when she was brought to their cabin.
“And yet,” Marion thought, “what do we really know of her?”
She caught herself short up. This was no time for speculation. What was to be done? There were no men in the cabin. She was alone with the sixteen year old mountain girl. The nearest cabin was a half mile down the creek.
“Patience,” she said suddenly, “there are no men here to follow them. They have kidnapped little Hallie. They can’t mean her any good. Shall we go?”
For answer the mountain girl sprang out of the room and went racing down the stairs.
A lamp was lighted. Rough, serviceable garments of khaki were scrambled into, shoes were hurriedly laced. They were ready to go when Marion thought of food. They might be away for hours, perhaps days.
Snatching down a bag she raced to the kitchen, there to fill the bag with corn pone, cold sweet potatoes, crackers, cookies and cheese.
When she returned, to her astonishment she found Patience calmly ramming home a charge in the long-barreled squirrel rifle which had hung over the fireplace.
“Will—will it shoot?” she faltered.
“Awful straight.”
“Can you shoot it?”
The mountain girl gave her a look of scorn. “In the mountains everyone shoots.”
“Good! I’m glad!” There was warmth in the girl’s tone. There was comfort in knowing that though there was no man in their party, there was a rifle carried by a girl who knew well how to handle it.
A moment more and they were feeling the damp night air upon their cheeks. It was a narrow trail they were following. Now and then as they hurried forward the dew drenched branch of dogwood or rhododendron slapped them full in the face. Here and there some wild creature, frightened from the trail, went bounding away into the bush.
It was spooky enough, this climbing higher and higher up the side of Little Black Mountain in the dead of night. Spooky and dangerous, too. What if those men, catching the sound of their footsteps behind them, should draw aside from the trail and waylay them? Marion dared not dwell on this. One thing was uppermost in her mind—the saving of Little Hallie. How was this to be done? She could not tell. The answer would be there when the time came. At all hazards the men must be followed.
So, drenched by dripping dew, torn at by out-reaching brambles, catching the faint tinge of waters in the gulch far below, they ascended higher and higher until at last they had reached the crest.
“See!” whispered Patience as they rested here. “There are Hallie’s footprints!”
It was true. Having dismounted, that they might rest their tired muscles, the men had lifted the child to the ground.
Marion found comfort in this. “They can’t be entirely bad,” she told herself. “They think of the child’s comfort.”
A moment’s rest, and they were away along the trail that followed the ridge for some distance.
They marched along in silence until they came to the spot where the trail left the ridge to plunge down the steep slope on the other side.
“Listen!” Patience whispered, suddenly gripping her companion’s arm.
As they listened, breathless, from somewhere far below there came the deep, drawn-out bay of a hound.
“See!” exclaimed the mountain girl, pointing to the ground. Where the trail left the ridge, a fresh track had joined that of the kidnappers. It was the trail of a man and two huge dogs.
“Hounds!” whispered Patience. “They have hounds. Against these we have no chance. They will smell us a long way off. They will come after us. I can shoot but one. The other—” she paused to shudder.
“And yet we must go on! Think of little Hallie!”
“Yes,” said the brave mountain girl, “we must go on!” Turning, she led the way down the mountain.
CHAPTER XV
BY THE AID OF A COON
Climbing up the mountain side without making a sound had not been easy. Going down it was doubly difficult. Now a rock, slipping from a ledge at the side of the trail, went crashing down through the sloping forest. Now a pebble, rolling beneath Marion’s foot, sent her with a thud to the ground. And now the dead branch of a tree, clung to for a second’s rest, gave way with a screaming snap that must have been heard a mile away.
A half mile down the trail they came upon a cabin. A mere shack built of logs with a low chimney, with one door and no windows, it could hardly be called a human habitation.
Yet there were people sleeping here, Marion did not doubt.
“Sha—shall we?” she whispered as she stood near the door.
“’T’wouldn’t do nary bit o’ good. No ’count folks,” whispered Patience.
They were about to pass on when the rattle of a chain caused Marion to start and shudder.
“Coon, pet coon,” whispered the mountain girl, pointing to a dark corner where a coon, chained to a low shrub, was standing on his haunches and eyeing them curiously.
“That coon,” whispered Patience slowly, “might be some good to us.”
Marion did not see how it possibly could, but she did not answer.
As they passed on down the trail Patience paused often to study the hoof marks in the soft earth. Once, at the juncture of a small stream with the larger creek, she paused for some time, only to shake her head and murmur:
“No, they have gone on down.”
At the next turn she paused again. This time she did not go on, but, pointing up a grass grown trail to the left, said.
“They’re gone up to yonder clearin’. Camp there, I reckon. Wish we had that coon.”
“Why? What would we—”
But Patience was already too far up the new trail to catch Marion’s whispered question.
As they rounded a clump of pawpaws Patience whispered: “They’re camped up yonder. I saw the light of their fire.”
“Good!” whispered Marion. “Perhaps we can turn the tables and steal her back.”
“But the hounds!” said Patience.
“Oh yes, the hounds,” Marion repeated wearily.
“That coon, now,” said Patience thoughtfully, “he might be a heap of help to us.”
“How?” said Marion.
Patience did not reply. When she at last spoke, it was to suggest that they make their way up the far side of the slope that they might be sure the ones they followed were camping there. Wearily they followed the creek and at last began the ascent.
Not a word was spoken as they trudged cautiously forward. Every care was taken not to cause the least sound. Hounds, they knew all too well, have sharp ears. So, darting from bush to bush and from tree to tree, they came at last to a spot directly over a cliff where, by parting branches, they might get a fair view of the deserted cabin and the clearing.
“Someone there,” whispered Marion. “See! There’s a wisp of smoke curling from the chimney.”
For a time they sat silently intent.
Suddenly Marion’s heart stopped beating! Had she caught the low cry of a child? Yes, there it was again.
“Hallie,” she whispered, springing to her feet. “I must go to her.”
“No! No!” Patience whispered tensely. “They are bad men. They would kill you.”
“But Hallie.” The girl’s heart was wrung by the thought of the innocent child’s suffering.
“Hallie’s all right for now. You have heard her cry in that way often before. It’s just a fretful, sleepy cry. She will soon fall asleep.”
It was true. Even as they waited and listened the crying ceased and over the hills and the forest there fell the hush of night.
Into this hush Patience burst with an exceedin
gly strange whispered remark:
“If only we had that coon. Marion, have you any money?”
“Five dollars.”
“Oh! Good! They’d sell it for that, I am sure. But we won’t ask them; just pin the money to the coon’s box.”
“But it’s all we have. We will need food. The kidnappers may go to the railroad. We will need money. Anyway, why the coon?”
Patience did not answer. Snatching the money, she was away in the night, leaving Marion alone in the dark and with the strange men scarcely more than a stone’s throw beneath her.
Who can tell what this city girl’s thoughts were as she sat there alone with the silence of night hovering over her? Whatever the thoughts might have been, they were at last broken in upon by the low rattle of a chain. Beside her stood Patience and in her arms, cuddled up like a kitten, was the pet coon.
“Now what in the world did you do that for?” demanded Marion as, having picked up Patience’s long squirrel rifle, she came trudging after her.
“Wait and see!” she panted.
Very weary and very skeptical, Marion waited. Having once more reached the crest of the cliff, Patience felt her way about until she had located a tall young hickory tree with branches some six feet from the ground.
Placing the coon on the ground and handing the chain to Marion, she whispered: “Give me a lift to the first limb. Then hand me the coon.”
Having complied with her request, Marion leaned wearily upon the rifle while she listened to the sound of her companion scaling the tree, branch by branch.
Presently she heard Patience coming down. When at last Patience caught the lowest branch and swung herself down Marion saw that her hands were empty.
“C’mon!” Patience whispered hoarsely as she dragged her companion through the brush.
In silence they skirted the mountain side until they were almost directly above the cabin.
“Hist! Listen!” Patience came to a sudden standstill.
“Wha—what is it?” the other girl breathed.
“It’s the sound a coon makes when he’s lonesome. But listen!”
A new and louder sound burst upon their ears. There was no need for asking what this was. Marion knew all too well. It was the booming baying of a hound. The next second he was joined by his companion.
“Are they coming this way?” asked Marion, while a cold chill shook her from head to foot.
“No.” There was a quiet assurance in Patience’s tone. “We’ve made no sound. It isn’t us they hear. It’s that coon. They’ll race over to that tree and bay up at it if the men’ll let ’em, and I think they will.”
“And then they’ll get on our scent and—and it will all be over!” Marion’s teeth were chattering in spite of her.
That this was a possibility she had not thought of was told by the long moment of silence before the mountain girl spoke.
“Well, they might,” she whispered, measuring her words, “but a hound’s a hound, and all hounds love to bay a coon tree. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
Waiting out there in the dark forest with every least sound, the flutter of a bird or the movement of some small living thing in the grass at their feet giving them a start, was not the easiest thing in the world. Indeed, Marion found it almost the hardest.
Now and again there came the call of the coon, then the booming of the hounds.
“Why don’t they let them go?” Patience murmured impatiently. “If they don’t; if—”
She paused in the midst of a sentence to listen. Then in a joyous whisper she exclaimed:
“There! There they go!”
It was true. As Marion strained her ears she caught the sound of the hounds tearing away through the brush.
But even as she listened her heart suddenly went wild. What if the hounds had somehow gotten scent of them and were coming their way? How terrible that would be! They were sure to be great, gaunt, vicious beasts.
In the darkness it was impossible to tell what direction they were taking. Aided by her heightened imagination, she fancied the sound of their rush through the bushes growing louder, seemed to catch more plainly their hoarse breathing.
Wildly she strained her eyes in the dark, searching for a tree that she might climb, but in vain. The trees were either too large, with branches twenty feet in air, or too slender to bear her weight. In her wild terror she was about to flee when again Patience whispered:
“There they go!”
“Who?” Marion whispered back.
“The men. They are all alike—hounds and mountain men. They can’t stand the call of a coon. Oh, thank God! Our chance is coming. See!”
As she looked toward the cabin Marion did see. Not alone did she see the men, but saw their faces plainly. By the glaring light of a burning pine knot held aloft by one of the men, faces of three tall, gaunt, stubby-whiskered men were silhouetted against the shadows of night.
“Know them?” Marion whispered as they disappeared behind a clump of trees.
“Narry a one.”
“I guess that’s all of them,” Patience whispered a moment later. “Away, now, for little Hallie. We’ll have to take a chance. C’mon, and remember—not a sound. Not a snap of a twig, not a breath!”
The next moment found them silently sliding down the mountain. Now pausing, holding their breath to listen, they caught the roar of the hounds, the crash of the men making their way through the brush. Now they came to a dense thicket of briars that tore at their clothes. Luckily they were clad in suits of stout khaki. Now they plunged down a deep ravine that threatened to be their undoing. At last they were up the other side and nearing the cabin.
“Have to work fast!” panted Patience. “Find—find her! Pick her up. Don’t wake her! Don’t let her cry! Then go down the mountain—fast—fast as we can!”
Then they caught sight of the dark bulk of the cabin ahead of them. A faint light shone in the open doorway.
“A—a light—” faltered Marion, drawing her companion back. “Maybe a man has been left behind.”
“Just the fire on the hearth, I guess. Anyway, we have to risk it. C’mon.”
Again they crept forward. Now they were a hundred yards away, now fifty, now twenty-five, and now, with hearts beating wildly, they were skirting the cabin.
Dropping to the ground, Patience crept to the doorway. One glance within and she was up on hands and knees, creeping rapidly forward.
One moment of tense silence and she appeared at the door. In her arms was a large bundle.
“Got—got her,” she breathed. “Now go! Go fast! C’mon.”
Once more they crept forward through the dark. A moment passed, another, and yet another. A hundred yards below the cabin they were making rapid progress in spite of fallen logs, brush and the dark, when Patience suddenly stopped and gripped Marion’s arm.
“Listen!” she breathed.
“Wha—what is it?”
“The hounds! They’re baying!”
“They’ve been baying for a long time.”
“It—it’s different now. They’ve got our scent. They’re on our trail. C’mon! We’ve got to go fast!”
“Where to?”
“I don’t know, but come on!”
* * * *
What was happening during all this time at the head of Laurel Branch beyond the natural gateway? Had old Job and his followers discovered that little Hallie had been stolen? And were they hot on the trail of the kidnappers? Would they arrive in time to save the little captive and her brave deliverers?
They had indeed discovered their loss and were mourning it bitterly. As old Job sat in the chimney corner reading his well worn Bible, from time to time a tear fell upon the faded pages. But the search had not begun; might not begin for several days. Such are the slow and silent ways of mountain folks. Besides, no clew had been left for them to follow. The kidnappers had entered the valley on foot. Fortune had favored them. It was during the excitement over the narrowly averted raid by Ran
som Turner’s men that they had slipped into the cabin and had carried away the sleeping child.
On the rocky creek-bottom road the shoes of the kidnappers made no imprint. It was only after walking two miles that they mounted horses, concealed all this time in a paw-paw thicket, and rode away. No aid could be expected from old Job’s men.
CHAPTER XVI
A PERILOUS GLIDE
As she dashed after her companion, Marion felt a dizzy wave of faintness sweep over her. With her knees all but refusing to support her, she seemed in danger of plunging head foremost down the mountain side. By a supreme effort she regained control of herself and, still gripping the long squirrel rifle, followed on as best she could.
After stumbling through brush and over logs, with the baying of hounds growing louder in their ears, they came to the bed of a small ravine. There was water here and it offered better going. Besides, it might throw the hounds off the trail. So, sometimes to their ankles and sometimes to their knees in water, they plunged forward.
“Keep the rifle dry,” Patience panted back. “We may need it.”
“Would—would you shoot?” Marion asked.
“I’d shoot anything to save Hallie.”
The child, now half awake, was crying softly to herself.
Suddenly Patience came to a standstill.
“Listen!” she whispered.
Marion did listen, and what she heard caused her to shrink back in fear. Above the baying of the hounds and the shouts of men who had doubtless discovered that Hallie was gone, came the sound of water as it rushed over the cliff to dash upon the rocks far below. So near did it seem that Marion shrank back in fear lest she be washed over the precipice.
“Blocked!” she whispered.
“Here,” said Patience, “you take Hallie. Give me the rifle. Now come on. It may not be too late.” She went scrambling up the bank of the ravine. Twice she slipped and seemed about to fall back, but each time grasped the friendly branch of some shrub for support. Many times she held out a helping hand to the other less experienced climber.
At last with a deep breath, Patience leaped upon the crest of the ridge.
“Listen!” she whispered. “The hounds! They’ve lost the scent. The water did that. There’s a chance yet. C’mon!”
The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls Page 117