Читать книгу The Hidden Trail - Roy J. Snell - Страница 4

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Though Johnny Thompson had been taken entirely by surprise and was somewhat bewildered by the sudden attack of these night-riding mountaineers, he was not entirely overcome. His mind was working like a six-cylinder motor running in high.

His muscles, as ever, were ready for action. Hard as steel, trained for speed and strength, he felt sure that he would be able to outwit these grim, slow-going mountaineers. No person, without giving a plausible reason, had ever laid hands upon Johnny Thompson without regretting it. Born for action, he had kept fit by training and clean living. There were few boys of his age who were his physical and mental equal.

He was a little troubled about one question: What direction would the night riders take? A mile below the cabin the trail forked. One lead about the base of the mountain along the bed of Turkey Creek; the other followed a larger stream, Big Bear Fork.

“If only they turn up Turkey Creek,” he whispered to himself, “if only they do!”

He was a little troubled by thoughts of Pant. While he knew that Pant was abundantly able to take care of himself, would he think of the same plan that he, Johnny, had thought of? He had not forgotten the hidden trail, but had Pant forgotten?

He held his breath when, upon reaching the fork, three of the men reined in their horses and held a whispered conversation. It was with a deep feeling of relief that he saw their horses turn up Turkey Creek.

“The lower end of the Hidden Trail is now only a half mile away,” he told himself, feeling the muscles swell in his coat-sleeves, “then it’s time for action.”

Moments dragged slowly by. Only the steady thump of horses’ feet on the sandy trail broke the silence of the night. Here they rode beneath low-spreading branches that made the trail black as a cave, and here came out into a patch of moonlight where they might study one another’s faces. Those were trying moments to Johnny. What if these men had planned some action before they reached the mouth of the Hidden Trail? What if they had planned a hanging beneath the giant beach tree that stood by the creek, not forty rods from the mouth of their Hidden Trail? Johnny shivered at the thought.

In the meantime the moments dragged on. The distance grew less and less. There was no new revelation of the purpose of their captors. They had ridden to within ten yards of the entrance to the Hidden Trail. Johnny, with muscles taut and nerves a-tingle, was poised for swift action. Then, all of a sudden, a strange thing happened. Directly above their heads, seeming to come from nowhere, there burst a light so intense that no creature, man or beast, could face the glare of it.

As for Johnny, he did not attempt to look at it. Realizing that this was the time for action, though knowing nothing of the origin of the light, he seized the man who rode before him, wrenched him from the saddle and threw him crashing to the ground.

Before the man could move, Johnny was off the horse and up the steep bank which lead in the direction of the Hidden Trail. He had not covered half the distance when the strange light flickered out. The darkness at that moment was such as Johnny had never before experienced. The sudden glare of light, followed by instant darkness, left him blinded. Yet, travelling by instinct, he at last reached a thicket of rhododendrons. These were so densely matted together that he was a full minute crowding through them, but when he had at last accomplished this he found his feet sinking into the gravel bed of the stream that was the bottom of the Hidden Trail.

So rapidly had events moved that Johnny had taken no conscious note of them, but his mind had registered them all. As he crouched low, checking his panting, he recalled that there had been shouts and after that two shots. A bullet had cut the air over his head. Had he been seen? Would he be followed? There had been other shots. Had one of them found its mark? Had Pant been wounded? Recaptured? These, and many other questions, raced through his excited mind.

There had been loud talking. Now there was dead silence, such a silence as only a mountain knows at night; the trickle of water over stones; a night-hawk’s scream; these were all that broke the death-like stillness.

Not quite all. As the boy strained his ears to listen he caught the sound of rolling pebbles. Someone was stealing up the slope. Had he been seen? Should he remain where he was, or should he attempt to make his way further upstream?

The bed of the stream was wet and slippery. To follow it without causing a splash would be impossible. He decided to remain where he was. A moment passed; another and another. Then suddenly, seemingly at his very shoulder, a hoarse whisper broke out:

“Where d’y’ reckon them Furiners got to? It’s plum quare!”

“Gits me!” came a whispered answer. “All I got to say is thet thet thar little feller is the rastlinest young ’un I ever seed. Why, he jest naturally lifted up Squirrel Head and throwed him off’n his horse same’s if he ware a bag o’ meal.”

“Sarves Squirrel Head right. I done told him he needn’t meddle with them Furiners, but if’n he ware plum sot on hit he’d better hog-tie ’em. Hit’s the best way.”

Johnny’s heart was in his mouth. The mountaineers were on the other side of the brushes. Holding his breath, he waited.

“What d’y’ reckon that thare quare light was?” came the whisper again.

“Star busted er somethin’. Plum quare, I’d call it. Devil fer sartin, I’d say. Hit’s a lot healthier livin’ up in my cabin than down on this crick, and thet’s where I aims to light out fer soon’s Squirrel Head’s through nosin’ round to no purpose.”

There was the sound of rattling gravel which told of the departure of the two searchers. After that silence reigned once more.

The whispered conversation had given Johnny food for thought. Who was this man they called Squirrel Head? Whoever he might be, he was doubtless the leader of the party. Johnny smiled grimly as he realized that it was the leader he had pitched from his horse. The fact that they spoke of Squirrel Head’s attempt to carry them away as meddling, seemed to indicate that the affair had to do with Pant’s land claims rather than with the mysterious boy of the mountain.

“You can’t be sure,” he told himself, “but it looks that way. Perhaps this Squirrel Head imagined the claims of the Blanket Survey had been dropped since no one had been here to look after it, and he has been planning to take the land. Then again, perhaps he hasn’t. More than likely he hasn’t. He may be a moonshiner and don’t like outsiders snooping about. Or he might be planning to start a feud.” Johnny thought this last guess a wild one, but stranger things had happened. As for moonshiners, they had escorted many a stranger to the border of this very county and had told him to keep traveling.

“It’s certainly a strange experience,” Johnny concluded. “Looks as if we had lost our happy home. We’ll have to manage to complete the survey some other way, but how we are going to do it without food or a place to sleep, and with these keen eyed mountaineers on our trail, is more than I can tell.

“Boo! How cold it is in here!” he shivered. “Wish Pant were here. Wish—”

His thought broke off short. His ear had caught the sound of a movement downstream. Crowding far back into the bushes he waited. Then the sound came again; a faint splash. Someone was coming; was all but upon him. Was it an enemy, or was it Pant?

There are certain habits that at times lead to great consequences. The way a certain spy folded his napkin once brought him to court-martial and death. A robber’s habit of twisting a lock of hair over his right forefinger led to his capture. Had Johnny taken the person toiling up the bed of the stream for a stranger; had he leaped upon his back, serious consequences might have followed. But he did not leap.

Pant had a curious habit of pursing his lips and letting forth a half-audible whistle when something unexpected happened to him. His foot slipped on a smooth rock; the little whistle escaped, and Johnny knew at once that this was Pant.

It was a joyous reunion. Pant had escaped injury. He reported that all the mountaineers had ridden away. So now they were free to make their way up the Hidden Trail, or any other place they chose to go.

“Question is,” Johnny said, “what next?”

“Yes,” Pant agreed, “that’s our problem.”

“We can’t quit.”

“No, we can’t.”

“Well, what shall we do?”

“Huh,” Pant yawned, “I’m sleepy. I move we get away from this chilly creek and find a dry spot for a bed. Maybe the sunshine will suggest something.”

Beneath the spreading boughs of a great pine the boys spent a night of restless sleep. Morning came at last, but the early sunlight told them no more than they had known, save that they were very hungry and had nothing to eat.

“Rather tough situation,” said Johnny, “can’t tell who to trust. There are people in the mountains who would help us; I’m sure of that, but who are they?”

“Can’t tell,” said Pant. “If you go round guessing you’ll like as not stick your face right into this Squirrel Head’s cabin, and there you’d stay. They’ll hog-tie us if they get us again.”

“What’s worrying me more than my breakfast,” said Johnny, “is the thing that happened yesterday. Where is that boy? If he isn’t dead, and if we can find him, he might help us. He seems to get along one way or another.”

“That’s right,” agreed Pant, “isn’t such a bad idea. Suppose you drop down there to the spot where we thought he might have landed, and I’ll go scouting up over the mountain a bit.”

It was a strange bit of good fortune that finally brought the boys their breakfast. After an hour’s search among the rocks and scrub pines at the foot of the cliff, Johnny was making his way back up the mountain side. He was discouraged. The search had yielded nothing but a torn piece of pink silk cloth about the size of a man’s handkerchief. He couldn’t see what it had to do with things, but he had stuffed it into his pocket.

Now, as he struggled upward, he became suddenly conscious of a bumping sound just above him. The next instant, to his great surprise, he saw a big red apple come bounding toward him. He jumped forward to catch it. It was followed by another and another, and still others. He found himself springing nimbly from side to side, catching them as they came. When he had muffed two and bagged fourteen, the shower ceased.

“Well!” he exclaimed, “that’s what you might call a miracle. Apples off beech and chestnut trees. Thanks, kind Providence, thanks very much!”