Читать книгу Whispering Leaves - Alex Philip - Страница 4

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BRUCE ARLEN got to his feet as the train jarred to a stop and carried his duffle bag, guns and fishing rods to the door, where a brakeman, shouting a contemptuous “Horse Lake! Horse Lake!” from the corner of his mouth, seemed to penetrate his errand and ridicule him for it.

He was disposed, as he lowered himself from the awkward height of the step to the worn planking of the tiny station and surveyed the desolate country, to ridicule himself for this venture.

A few whites and several Indians standing about eyed him with a sort of distrustful curiosity, and one of them, in answer to Arlen’s query, jerked his head towards a dilapidated car at the end of the platform.

There was a brief delay while a mail sack and several parcels were transferred, then the decrepit old car rattled away from the railway station, scuttled up a steep hill like a fly up a wall and swung sharply to a level stretch on the left. Bruce Arlen, sitting in the front seat with the driver, turned and looked below.

A rim of low, rolling hills, covered with poplar and stunted conifers, encircled the small valley. In the distance through the half-light of early morn, loomed peaks of grandeur, their lower stretches shrouded in mist. The sun thrust its curved red disc over the shoulder of a mountain, transmuted the rocky summits in the west to a golden splendour, made glowing jewels of each tiny dewdrop, climbed higher and, with a kingly gesture over all, swung up to yellow radiance.

The driver, a slack-mouthed, garrulous individual, clad in overalls, soiled buckskin shirt and the usual wavy-brimmed hat of the country, kept up a running fire of talk.

“You ain’t a travelling salesman, are you?” he questioned, casting his eye over this passenger’s sportsmans attire.

Arlen replied in the negative.

“Goin’ to visit Hendricks?”

“No. I’m going into Cayuse Lake.”

“Fishing?” the driver persisted.

“No. Just looking around.”

Again the driver shifted his eyes from the road to his passenger. “Ain’t been a game warden or a policeman in here for a long time,” he stated slowly, studying Arlen’s face.

Receiving no response to this, the driver continued.

“Sorry I can’t take you any further than Hendricks. The road goes about eight miles further but I ain’t got time. S’pose you’ll be hirin’ horses to pack you in?”

“No, I’m going to hike. I need the exercise.”

“Some hike. Take you a day and a half. Goin’ to camp out at the lake?”

“I’ve brought my camping outfit but I will probably stay at Lightning Creek Ranch with the Lees.”

The driver shook his head. “I’ve never been there, but from what I hear you won’t find it much of a place to stay at. They’re up against it hard and the place is gone to blazes.

“Old Lee came in here about sixty years ago and put a lot of money into a mine at Cayuse Creek. He put up some swell buildings and cleared a lot of land thinking that the Cariboo Road would swing his way, but when the mine went flooey the road didn’t come in.

“The old feller thinks that they didn’t sink the shafts in the right place in the early days and claims that he’s located the original bed of Lightning Creek, and all alone he’s driven a tunnel into the side of the mountain. He’s—”

The driver threw on his brakes and squawked his horn as several steers, with bovine stupidity, left the safety of the roadside and crossed in front of the car.

“They say,” the man prattled on, “that the old man’s got labour troubles in his think factory and that his grand-daughter waits on him hand and foot. I never seen her only once. She can’t be more’n twenty-four, five, but she looks like she was older on account of workin’ so hard. I feel sorry for the kid.” He leaned toward Arlen with a confidential air. “Don’t say nothin’ about it but they say that she fell for a slick-looking guy that come up to the races six, seven years ago and he took her down to Vancouver to marry her but they never did see a minister. She come right back after a few days and never said a word to anyone.

“They say that she used to be full of life before that happened; used to come down to the stampedes at Pinchbeck and to the dances at Cayuse Creek. But some of the folks sort of snubbed her and now she comes once in a while to the store at Cayuse Creek but she ain’t never been out to Pinchbeck.”

The battered contraption rattled along level stretches, laboured up barren hills, slid down into fertile valleys where meadows enclosed by old-fashioned snake-fences sloped gently to slow-moving streams. They passed deserted ranches, the roofs of the buildings sagging and the windows boarded.

Bruce interrupted the driver’s tattle.

“Why aren’t these farms being worked?”

“Been deserted for years, but Hendricks has bought them all up. Just cuts the hay off ’em now, but the way he’s going at it he’ll soon have them all producin’. He’s spendin’ barrels of money.”

The road led downward for half an hour, then flattened out through a wide, rich valley, dotted with fields of green, interspersed with clumps of poplar and alder. Modern wire fences enclosed this rich pasturage; fat cattle fed on rich grass that was more fully matured than on the higher levels. A score of men busied themselves about the buildings and in the fields.

“One of the old farms that Hendricks has built up,” the driver informed his passenger. “He’s got all the best land.”

A group of workers near the road waved a greeting to the passing car. Arlen swung quickly in his seat. “Why, they are all Chinamen!” he exclaimed.

“Sure,” agreed the driver. “Hendricks don’t hire nothin’ but Chinks. I bet he ain’t got half a dozen white men on his pay roll. Why, his head man is a Chinaman by the name of Lin Hung. You’ll probably see him at Cayuse Creek ’cause he bought a piece of the Lee place and is farmin’ it. Why he should go away in there nobody knows, but you can bet Hendricks has got somethin’ up his sleeve. Probably intends to freeze Lee out like he has everybody else around here.”

The driver spat disgustedly over the side of the car. “Chinks everywhere. Pretty soon they’ll have us all wearin’ our shirts outside our pants and eatin’ rice with chop sticks. If I had my way I’d—Hello, what’s this?” He swung his car to the side of the road.

A big black horse, riderless, reins dragging, topped a rise ahead and came down the road at a terrific pace. Both men sprang to the ground.

“Hendricks’ racehorse, Invader,” the driver informed Arlen. “Wonder who got throwed.”

The horse slackened its pace as the men ran forward, fell into a trot, stumbled as a hoof caught the trailing lines and fell heavily on his side. The animal struggled to his feet, swung about in a half circle and came jerkily to a standstill. Blood dripped from a stone bruise on the horse’s shoulder. Snorting with fear, sides heaving, dainty ears flexed forward, the beautiful animal looked back fearfully over the road he had travelled. Bruce reached out a caressing hand, spoke quietly to the trembling horse, got hold of the reins and stroked the curved, satiny neck.

Arlen’s companion examined the wound on the horse’s shoulder with a critical eye.

“Don’t amount to much but Hendricks will be sore’n a boil when he sees it. I’d hate to be in the guy’s boots that let the horse get away from him. Hendricks has got a temper like a meat axe.”

He ran his hand over the horse’s rump. “Ain’t he a peach? Look at them lines! He’s built like a thoroughbred. That horse won the Cariboo Derby at Pinchbeck last year. Hendricks’ horses got beat the first few times he run, so he sent to Vancouver and got a racehorse in foal—and that’s the colt. A lot of the old-timers are sore. Say that bringin’ in horses from the outside that way ain’t fair.”

The speaker spat reflectively. “Speakin’ of Hendricks, young feller, if you’re plannin’ to stay round these parts long I’d advise you to steer clear of him. He’s a bad guy. Well, you hop on the horse and follow and I’ll go along and see who got spilled.”

Five minutes later Arlen came on the car parked by the roadside. The driver stood beside a slender half-breed who sat on a stump his face buried in his hands.

“A bear frightened the horse and this feller hit the dust and sprained his ankle,” the driver explained. “And, just as I told you, he’s scared stiff to go and face Hendricks.” He turned to the crippled youth. “Come on, son, hop in the car and this feller will ride your horse.”

The settlement of Cayuse Creek consisted of less than a score of buildings. Here, between a range of low foothills and the swiftly-flowing Cayuse Creek, the settlers had built their homes. Here also were a community hall, a school, a blacksmith’s shop, a garage, one store and such other buildings as ranchers need.

It was here that Hendricks made his headquarters. He had purchased the famous Cayuse Ranch which was the finest in the district. On this ranch was one of the genuine historic mansions of the Cariboo—a huge, square log building that at one time was one of the show places of the country, but now desecrated by being used as a storeroom and dwarfed into insignificance by Hendricks’ new buildings.

These modern structures offered a marked contrast to the log buildings of earlier days. The store, a frame building of two stories, with big plate glass windows, resplendent with fresh paint, was more suited to urban centres than to the backwoods. A cement driveway led through a well-kept lawn and hedge to a magnificent bungalow of Italian architecture. Separated from the dwelling by an orchard were corrals, silos, a huge hip-roofed barn whose ridge bore a gilt vane in the shape of a horse going full tilt against the blue.

Hendricks was a mercenary man—money and the power to dominate were his gods. Forceful, energetic, ruthless, and unscrupulous when necessary to gain his ends, he had in a few years become a powerful factor in the country. As each year passed, by foreclosing mortgages, by buying outright, he had assumed more and more the status of a lord or baron. His great holdings began several miles east of Cayuse Creek and he owned sections here and there radiating around the settlement.

But his success was not without cost. It had gained him the enmity of many. They resented his harsh, high-handed methods; a resentment not unmixed with envy. No one knew whence he came or by what method he had amassed his fortune. He was a man shrouded in mystery. This newcomer with his forceful personality struck a restlessness into their souls. He jolted them out of the even tenor of their ways. This dislike was not openly manifested as few possessed the temerity to voice their feelings. His power in political circles, great wealth, enormous physical strength and his flaming temper made him a man to be feared.

Hendricks, dressed in riding breeches, a blue flannel shirt open at the throat, bareheaded, his reddish hair standing up aggressively, sat on the verandah of his store in a chair back-tilted against the wall. Lin Hung, a tall Chinaman, all of six feet, dressed in a blouse-like coat of dungaree, wearing heelless slippers over white socks, sat sprawled on the steps. A half dozen cayuses tethered to a rail stood listlessly with drooping heads. Their owners, both whites and Indians, sat about in indolent attitudes in the warm sunshine.

There was a stirring among the loiterers as the hum of an automobile came from the distance. A moment later the Cayuse Lake stage topped a rise, clattered down the hill and came to a noisy standstill in front of the store.

Hendricks came to his feet as he saw the driver assisting the half-breed to alight and help him to a chair. Whites and Indians gathered in a solicitous knot about the injured boy. Hendricks elbowed his way roughly through the crowd, seized the youth’s arm and dragged him to his feet.

“What happened? Where’s Invader?” he questioned sharply.

The young breed shook with fear. “I—I got thrown,” he quavered.

At the sound of hoof beats Hendricks pushed the boy roughly aside and ran quickly down the steps.

Arlen brought the horse to a standstill and sat looking about him. Hendricks strode to the animal’s head, looked the horse over critically, then raised his eyes to the rider. There was no recognition in his glance. He seized the reins.

“Get down,” he commanded peremptorily.

Nettled by this display of arrogance, Arlen’s eyes hardened.

“What’s the hurry, stranger?” he asked coolly.

He returned the big man’s stare unflinchingly. The sound of voices ceased; all eyes turned toward the two men. Hendricks emitted an inarticulate grunt of anger, moved forward as though to drag Arlen from the saddle, then stopped suddenly as he saw blood dripping from the horse’s shoulder. Arlen was forgotten.

The expression of Hendricks’ face was an ugly thing to see. He strode towards the cringing half-breed. His voice boomed out harshly, a dirty epithet at the end of it. The big man could have killed the smaller man with a blow that had his full strength behind it, but this one seemed all the meaner and more cowardly for the careless contempt that was in it, a sweeping swing of Hendricks’ huge, open hand that struck the youth full in the face and flung him stumbling helplessly to the ground. He lay there half stunned, his hand nursing his nose from which blood poured, his eyes, small and dark, watching Hendricks with the very look of a sullen, kicked dog.

Arlen felt the blood creeping up behind his ears. The brutality of the act stirred him to a white rage. He flung himself from the saddle, and ran up the steps.

“A man who will do a thing like that is a bully and a coward!”

Hendricks stared at Arlen in astonishment. Slowly his lips drew apart in an evil grin to show white, even teeth. He was a man who could clothe fury and an intent to punish with a smile. He moved slowly toward Arlen.

“Will the gentleman please step away from the window,” he asked ironically. “Plate glass is expensive.”

Lin Hung’s heelless slippers made a faint scuffing sound as he slipped quietly to Hendricks’ side. The Chinaman purred in a sibilant foreign tongue.

Hendricks flicked a whip-like glance at Arlen. Again the Chinaman spoke and the big man studied Arlen from his high boots to the crown of his wide hat. The tense expectation on the part of the watchers relaxed as Hendricks’ demeanour underwent a swift change.

He laughed shortly. “Well, I suppose it does seem rough to a stranger in the country, but as a matter of fact it’s the only way to handle these damned breeds. I’m sorry if I upset you.”

For an interval Arlen held a frowning, tight-lipped silence. From the moment he met Hendricks in the office in Vancouver he had taken an instinctive dislike to this man. He felt morally certain that he could take a fall out of him in spite of his brute strength. He had expected the crash of battle and Hendricks’ sudden change of manner bewildered him.

“Your apology hasn’t changed my opinion in the least,” he said, his voice full of suppressed anger. He walked to the end of the platform where the stage-driver had deposited his baggage and began stowing sundry small articles in his pack-sack. Hendricks and the Chinaman followed.

“Come, come,” Hendricks said placatingly, “let’s forget it. You’re going to stay with us tonight, aren’t you?”

“No. I’m going into Cayuse Lake,” Arlen replied coldly without looking up.

The big white man and the Oriental exchanged startled glances.

“You’ll be needing horses,” Hendricks suggested.

“No. I prefer to walk.”

“Well,” Hendricks persisted, “it will soon be dark. Better stay over night and Lin Hung will take you in his car as far as the trail.”

“Yes. We have plenty nice loom. You stay I take you in car tomollow,” the Chinaman urged.

Arlen was frankly puzzled. It was palpably obvious that this precious pair of rascals were upset by his presence at Cayuse Lake. There was a nigger in the woodpile. The thing aroused Arlen’s curiosity. Why not stay and let them show their hand.

He looked up at the sky. The day was drawing to a close. The sun, through a gap in the hills, had fallen so low that its rays, darting through the spring leaves, came almost horizontally through the trees.

“Yes, it’s getting late,” Arlen agreed. “Suppose I may as well stay.”

“I show you loom,” Lin Hung volunteered as he seized the duffle bags. “What you name?”

“Arlen.”

The Chinaman placed his hand to his breast and bowed his head obsequiously. “Velly please, Mistler Arlen. Me Lin Hung, Mister Hendlicks boss man. Velly happy oblige.”

As Arlen had anticipated, Hendricks’ home was richly furnished. The Chinaman led him through a wide, panelled and beamed living-room up a broad staircase to the first floor.

The bedroom, on the front and corner of the building, with three large windows, was as modern as a first-class city hotel. A white iron bed with box mattress, a large dresser and chiffonier, and to the left a door stood open showing a bathroom in blue and white with tub and curtained shower.

“Dinner leady one quarter hou’,” the Oriental purred as he bowed himself out. “Velly happy oblige.”

“Like hell you are,” Arlen said under his breath. “You old villain, you’d cut a man’s throat for a quarter.”

Arlen washed and went downstairs. Immediately he was gone Lin Hung moved stealthily out of another room and deftly went through Arlen’s belongings. A scowl rippled over his yellow features when he found a locked duffle bag. Quietly he stole out of the room and down the back stairs.

Hendricks and Arlen sat down to dinner. A cat-footed Chinaman waited on them. The host talked with the genial amiability of a Florida real estate broker, his hard face expressionless save for a smile which Arlen knew to be forced.

“Going in for a little fishing, I suppose,” he boomed heartily. “Well, you’ll find that it’s the best fishing in the country.”

Arlen kept his eyes on the table during the greater part of the meal so that the hostility he felt toward his host would not be observed if it should creep into his eyes. It was difficult to accept the hospitality of a man he detested but he was determined to find out what lay back of the peculiar actions of Hendricks and his henchman. While engaged with these reflections he nodded and made occasional rejoinders to Hendricks’ advice as to fishing and hunting at Cayuse Lake.

“You’re welcome to stay at Lin Hung’s ranch while you’re at Cayuse Lake,” the host invited heartily.

“I’ll either camp out or stay with the Lees,” Arlen informed him.

Quick interest flashed in Hendricks’ eyes. “Do you know the Lees?”

Arlen shook his head.

Hendricks laughed. “Thought you might be the chap who ran away with Lee’s grand-daughter.”

“I’ve already heard all about that,” Arlen said coldly.

Hendricks smacked his thick lips. “She’s a pretty piece. She can pack her shoes in my trunk any time.”

“You’ll be a lot more comfortable at Lin Hung’s place,” Hendricks ran on. “The Lees are not equipped to accommodate anyone.”

“I’ll decide when I get there,” Arlen compromised.

“They belong to the ‘Cariboo blue-bloods’,” Hendricks explained with bitter sarcasm. “The proud but poor aristocrats of the old days. Just the same, it’s a damned shame that the girl has to live alone in there with that old man. I’ve done a lot to help them out but I don’t get any thanks for it.” There was a well-simulated note of regretful concern in his voice.

“I know,” Arlen said to himself, “that you’re a ring-tailed liar.” Aloud he said, “Then her father and mother are both dead.”

“Wiped out with the ’flu several years ago,” Hendricks affirmed.

For the remainder of the meal Hendricks artfully strove to lead Arlen into talking about himself. The young man’s reserved manner and noncommittal answers nettled his host. Glancing up quickly Arlen detected a fleeting scowl on Hendricks’ face; eyes narrowed, suspicious, questioning.

Immediately after dinner Arlen made apologies that he was tired and went to his room. It was a relief to get away from his host’s unwholesome presence. The first thing he noticed was that there was no key in the door.

“No privacy for the welcome guest,” he mused. He unlocked the duffle bag, fished about in its depths and drew out a six-shooter.

“Never used one of these and hope I never have to,” he said to himself, “but just to prove that I have respect for my dear hosts I’ll place it under my pillow.”

He removed his wearing apparel, piling it on a chair near the door, sat for a moment to finish his cigarette, turned out the light and stowed himself comfortably in bed.

It occurred to Arlen that a good many things of an unexpected nature had happened to him that day. This trip to the north had already become more of an adventure than he had anticipated—more than the mere taking over of a tract of timber. He had learned to hate a man. Yes, he hated him all right. Hated the look of him, his arrogant voice, his domineering way and his brutal eyes. Hendricks was certainly keen on finding Arlen’s mission in the country. He saw interesting possibilities in the future. Undoubtedly there was mystery—possibly tragedy.

His tired body gained ascendancy over his thoughts, and sleep claimed him. However, some part of his subconscious mind was working in the double capacity of watchdog and alarm clock.

He had no idea how long he had been sleeping but suddenly he was awake, every nerve tense.

There was the slightest whisper of footsteps outside the door. Straining his eyes in the dim light of the room he saw a figure loom dimly in the doorway. Arlen continued to breathe heavily. For a moment the form stood motionless then moved slowly into the room and knelt by the chair on which Arlen’s clothes were draped. The intruder suddenly stood upright, took a step toward the bed and paused as though listening. Arlen felt a tingle along his spine. He feigned sleep by breathing stertorously while his hand crept under the pillow and fastened on the butt of the automatic. As silently as a ghost the visitor withdrew and closed the door noiselessly behind him.

It was seven o’clock when Arlen took his seat in the roadster beside Lin Hung. The Chinaman tooled the car down the curved driveway and swung into the road.

For some time they rode in a wordless silence, Lin Hung occasionally flicking surreptitious glances at his passenger.

“You come Vancouver?” Lin Hung asked in a tone that was intended to be amiable, but his glance, sidelong and unfriendly, twisted up at Arlen furtive and distrustful like that of a hostile dog.

“Yes.”

“Maybe you stay long time Cayuse Lake?”

“I don’t know.”

“You like stay my place velly much oblige.”

“No, thank you,” Arlen replied curtly.

During the interval of silence that followed, Arlen covertly studied the Chinaman’s face. The wrinkled, yellow face, shrunken small eyes, thin cruel lips and furtive manner made Arlen think of a bandit rather than a Chinese farmer.

“Gosh, what a face!” Arlen mused. “I’d hate to meet you after dark, Lin, old boy.” He dropped his hand into the side pocket of his coat. The feel of the gun butt was comforting.

“Velly few man come this place. Sometime timber man, sometime cattle man, sometime plospector.” He swung toward Arlen. “Maybe sometime policeman.” He squinted against the sun as he spoke and the wrinkles of his face bared his yellow teeth so that again Arlen thought of a dog.

It was a relief to Arlen when Lin Hung stopped the car in front of a battered sign nailed to a tree, and pointed to the road to Cayuse Lake.

“Maybe I see you tomollow, nex’ day. I go my lanch.”

Arlen hoisted his pack to his back. “That will be lovely, Captain Kidd.”

The sarcasm was lost on the Chinaman. “Velly much oblige,” he said, and drove away.

The rutted road led gradually downward over low, rolling hills, through an apparently interminable vista of poplars: tree after tree with the silvered undersides of their leaves shimmering and rustling in the soft spring air.

“Truly, this is a land of whispering leaves,” he mused as he strode swiftly along. He could walk too, he thought pleasantly—not with the stiff-kneed, heel-hitting gait of city pavements, but with the shambling, adaptive stride of the outdoor man. There was a pleasure in every thrust of his legs, the lift and swing between, and the air was exhilarating, penetrating to tingling places in his lungs that seemed to have waited ages for the feel of it.

The road led over a series of rolling hills and the going gradually became harder. The pack straps chafed his shoulders, perspiration streamed from his face and the muscles of his legs stiffened.

Small streams gurgled from ambuscades of willow and bracken or fell from ledge to ledge in hissing spray. The foliage became heavier as he reached the lower levels and from slight eminences through the thinner growth he glimpsed peaks of splendour beyond the valley that lay ahead.

The tracks of moose, bear and deer crossed and re-crossed the road. Grouse hurtled away through the trees. The lure of the wide-open spaces. Well, the farther you went the wider and opener they got. Here in the Cariboo was colour and life enough to suit the most exacting.

At times the going was easy; long stretches dry and level as a paved highway—interspersed by rotting culverts and pot-holes into which Arlen’s feet sank above the ankles in a slimy ooze.

Why, Arlen pondered, as he stumbled along the wagon-wheel tracks, hadn’t Hendricks, with his alleged political pull, put this road in condition for motor traffic. Not an expensive undertaking. There must be a reason.

By and by the lengthening shadows of the tall poplars warned him that the day was nearly gone. He verified this by his watch. He could not make Lightning Creek Ranch that night. He was pleasantly stirred by the thought that he would have to spend a night in the woods.

Three hours later he eased his tired body into his sleeping-bag and lay watching the coming of the alluring night. It was one of those soft spring evenings that are saturated with an almost unbearable sweetness, with far more than the usual number of fleecy clouds in the sky, with a robin singing his evening song from every tree. The breeze in his face seemed thick from the weight of vernal fragrance; it touched him like an immense and velvety caress. And he, born of the soil, felt rising up in him the immemorial response to the call of spring.

His thoughts drifted to Audrey. He looked at his watch. This hour would be the beginning of her activities. She had brought him down to the early morning train and he was grateful that she was for once without her shadow, Anton. Too early for that lounge lizard. He’d be taking his beauty sleep.

Audrey had looked so small and tired and palely beautiful. A little forlorn, too, in the morning light. It seemed that the darkness of her brown eyes cast like shadows of darkness underneath them, and that these shadows made her cheeks whiter. “You get a ranch, Bruce,” she had said as she kissed him good-bye, “and I’ll milk the cows.” There was laughter in her eyes but Arlen saw that her lips trembled. Arlen sighed. She was a darling. The thought of Audrey on a ranch brought a smile to his lips.

The young man’s plans were still nebulous. He had acted on the spur of the moment but was firmly decided that he had left city life definitely behind him. Ahead lay various possibilities. He might take a contract to supply ties to the railroad; might buy out the old Lee ranch or arrange to work it on a partnership basis; or even go to work on a ranch—anything as long as he could stay in the country.

He knew that the fruits of the labours of farming were equally as nebulous as his plans. Well, he would see what the place was like. Five hundred acres cleared—it sounded good. With these pleasant thoughts in his mind he lay in a delicious drowsiness.

The moon had set early. Overhead stretched the tight fabric of Cariboo sky, pin-pricked by uncounted stars, from which streamed soft, shadowless light until that which was darkness became a dim visibility peopled with forms shapeless and without line.

He had been lying still for perhaps half an hour when his thoughts were banished by a sharp sensation. Something had stirred behind him. He lifted his head and listened, his eyes straining to pierce the gloom. In the distance somewhere a coyote struck up his mixture of yelps, gulps, barks and howlings that were answered by one of his kind far up the hillside. There was the rushing sound of water where the mountains flung down their melting winter burden to the valleys below—nothing else.

He had about decided that his ears had deceived him when a breeze swept down the hillside. The poplars seemed to make a confused and crowded attempt to warn him. Their leaves, under the rustle of air, seemed to whisper to him sibilantly, sharply. Arlen sat up, his heart thumping. Shadowy figures were stooping over his duffle bag.

“Hey, there!” he shouted as he struggled to free himself from the enveloping folds of his sleeping-bag. But a crushing weight fell upon him from behind, sinewy arms wrapped around him and held him trussed and helpless. He managed to pull one arm free and struck blindly at his assailant. The smack of fist against flesh brought a grunt of pain. In the half-light Arlen saw an upraised arm; saw the blow coming and tried to duck. A crash—and a million stars went off in a rocket-like explosion and an inky darkness fell upon him.