Читать книгу The Hidden Trail - Roy J. Snell - Страница 6

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“I know where our friend the outlaw, or whoever he may be, gets corn for his pounding-mill,” said Johnny, “and I’m going to get some, too. A good cornpone would taste mighty fine. Guess we won’t have much trouble borrowing the pounding-mill.”

“Guess not,” grinned Pant.

Three days had passed since the night they had discovered the pounding-mill and the mysterious light shining through the trees. The search for that light had brought them nothing. Like a will-o-the-wisp, it had vanished before they had crept over half the distance to the point where they had expected to find it. Whether they had frightened the owner away, or he had merely extinguished the light in his regular course of action, they were unable to say. All that really mattered was that they found themselves apparently alone in the mountain forest, with nothing more exciting to do than to drag their steel tape through dew drenched patches of weeds and brushes, to snap on a light and set a transit here and there; in short, to run their lines as best they could in the dark.

It had been slow, heart-breaking work. To search out a tree blazed twenty years ago, to rediscover a moss-covered jagged rock with a “dished spot on its upper side” was task enough in the daytime. At night it was next to impossible. Yet such were the marks described in the deed as forming the metes and bounds of Pant’s rugged estate.

In spite of these handicaps they had made progress. In another week or ten days they would be through.

“And then?” Pant had said to Johnny as they calculated the time it would take to finish.

“And then,” answered Johnny slowly, “my old friend Panther Eye will be a southern gentleman who can stand and cast his eye over a vast estate and say: ‘All this is mine.’”

“And then?” Pant repeated.

“Oh! go bury your ‘and then’,” Johnny laughed.

“Where’d you find out about the corn?” Pant asked.

“Gene told me.”

Gene had proven to be a great find. True to her promise, she had not whispered a word regarding their presence on the mountain. Daily she brought them the food they asked for, and daily received her pay, to go joyfully away “sangin’.”

Once she told Johnny she thought she had as much as two pounds of ginseng roots. For this Johnny was glad. His enjoyment in helping others was greater than in doing things for himself.

Nights had been cold. Dry leaves made a poor blanket, so he had asked Gene if her grandmother had some home-woven “coverlids” to sell. Gene found that she had, and had brought them up. They were wonderful blankets. Made of pure sheep’s wool, carded, spun and woven in the mountains, they shed rain like oilcloth. Johnny had bought the two she brought. Then it was that Gene had told of seeing someone in a deserted patch of corn at the foot of the mountain.

“What did you do?” Johnny had asked.

“Run home fast as I could. Hit was gittin’ dark.”

“Who left the corn there?”

“Jim Fielding went and died down yonder in the cabin. Hit wore too lonesome fer Miz Fielding, so she lit out to Ousley County. Corn don’t b’long to nobody now.”

“In that case,” Johnny said to Pant, “we’re going to have some of it. I’m going after it right now.”

“In the daytime?”

“Sure. It’s not a hundred rods from the end of the Hidden Trail. I’ll make it without being seen.”

In this he was greatly mistaken.

The corn field lay directly below the entrance to the Hidden Trail. Johnny had just finished gathering an armful of ears, husks and all, when he caught some movement on the trail above. He ducked quickly, but was too late. The three men had undoubtedly seen him, and to his consternation he saw that one of them was Squirrel Head. His pulse quickened. Undoubtedly these men carried revolvers; the long, wicked-looking, blue-barreled kind. Would they shoot?

Seeing a clump of bushes to the right, he dropped his corn and made a dash for it. A shot rang out. A bullet whizzed dangerously near.

“The—the villains!” he hissed through set teeth as he reached safe cover. Safe for a moment only. He was not a hundred yards from the men and they would soon be upon him. Glancing up and down the brush lined fence he made sudden choice to go up. He could not hope to make the Hidden Trail. The men were between him and that goal. There was timber a few hundred yards above. If he could but make that!

Now, for the hundredth time, he was thankful for a well kept body and perfectly trained muscles. Like a shadow he sped up the hill. Always under cover, yet always in danger of being sighted through gaps in the brush, he ran low; creeping under obstructions, tearing through thorny bushes, dodging first to right then to the left, he at last reached the shelter of a group of pines. Here he paused to map out his future course. Men who wanted him badly enough to shoot at him would certainly give chase.

He decided to attempt to reach the top some distance from their usual hiding place. The timber up there, being heavier, would make his escape easier. When night came he could easily make his way back along the side of the hill to camp.

These plans came to naught. Johnny had not been this way before. To his consternation he saw as he approached the top of the ridge that there was a long, insurmountable barrier of rock a few hundred feet from the top. He had just reached the base of this obstacle when he caught sight of a skulking figure a short distance below.

“Still following,” he groaned. “Only thing to do is to go along this wall.”

Bending low, he scooted along parallel with the rocky ledge. A quarter of a mile found him quite tired and with no greater hope of reaching the ridge and cover than before.

Came new calamity. The clear blue sky broke through the trees before him and the next moment he found himself viewing a most wonderful panorama of lights and shadows; of blue mountain peaks that blended with the sky; of nearer forest-clad hills that looked like a great tumbling sea of green.

The tragedy of it all was that he viewed this from a perpendicular wall of stone some two hundred feet high. Behind were his pursuers.

“Trapped!” he breathed. “Only thing to do is to surrender. Then what?” He shivered at the thought.

Even as his mind swung to this conclusion his eye caught some bulky object that, apparently traveling through space, was making its way slowly up the hill.

Then it was that he saw what he had not noticed before; a heavy steel cable extended from the ledge above to the valley below.

“A tram!” he exclaimed. “A tram for hauling logs over the mountains. That moving object is a load of logs.”

His mind worked like lightning. Was there a chance of escape? A quick glance about revealed a pine tree clinging to the cliff some twenty feet below him.

“I could reach that by clinging to the bushes and to that scrub pine above it. The tram car must pass directly beneath it. There is a chance. I’ll dare it.”

Grasping the bushes, he let himself down over the cliff. The dizzy depths below were filled with grim, gray rocks, and he knew that these awaited him, once he slipped. From bush to bush he swung. Now the branch in his right hand gave way, but his left hand saved him. And now—now he had reached the pine tree that hung over the tram cable. He caught his breath as he saw that the cable was more than twice his height below the tree.

“Going to be hard,” he breathed, “but I’ve got it to do. Don’t believe I could get back up there if I wanted to, and I don’t want to.”

Creeping out along the slanting trunk, he concealed himself in the dark green mass of pine needles.

“There’s a chance they didn’t see me go over,” he mused. “Sure would be tough to be shot out of this tree like a squirrel,” and he smiled at the grimness of his humor.

The tram car, moving slowly, was still some distance below him. To his excited fancy it seemed to be travelling at a snail’s pace. A moment passed; two; three; four. A glance through the branches showed him three men standing on the ridge, scanning the country about them.

“Didn’t see me go over,” was his mental comment, “may see me yet.” He crowded closer to the tree trunk.

The car was nearer. The supreme moment was rapidly approaching. Now the car was twenty yards away; now ten; now five; and now—now catching his breath, he slid off the tree-trunk, gripped a stout branch with both hands and then, as the car moved forward, he whispered a little prayer for safety and dropped!

The next instant he found himself on the top of a huge load of massive poplar logs. Between the second and third of these was an inviting hollow space large enough to hide him. With a prayer of thanksgiving he crawled into this shelter. For the time he was safe. He did not know whether he had been seen or not, nor did he care. No bullet from the enemy could reach him here.

“But what of the future?” he asked himself. “Where am I headed for now?”

This question he could not answer, having never before heard of this tram, and he knew but little of the country.

The tram car moved slowly upward toward the crest. When he felt it lurch slightly, then tilt in the opposite direction from that which it had been tilted before, he knew that it had crossed the ridge and was descending on the other side.

He was curious to know what kind of country was below him. “I’m a regular Gulliver,” he laughed, “venturing into an unknown land exactly as if I was being carried there by an eagle.”

Remembering that it was not possible for his three pursuers to mount the ridge, he realized that he was safe from them. Then he sat up to have a look.

The world over which he hung was one of wondrous beauty. Two hundred feet below him, passing slowly by like a panoramic picture, were massive piles of rocks. Farther down were dark green forests, and far beyond these were little farms, looking so small in the distance that they seemed but a patchwork quilt.

Suddenly, from far below him, there rose a shrill whistle. At the same instant his eye caught sight of a column of smoke moving slowly upward among the trees.

“Railroad,” he murmured. He knew at once the reason for this tram. It was carrying logs to the railroad. Once there, they would be loaded on flat-cars and hurried away to the mills.

“Say,” he straightened up with a start, “that timber must be coming from the very land we are surveying—Pant’s land.”

“Well,” he added a moment later, “mebby not exactly from his land. Maybe lower down; but anyway, it’s worth looking into. That’s one reason why we must hurry and get those lines run; only way we’ll ever know just what belongs to Pant. Guess we won’t get much done to-night, though,” he added ruefully, “take me hours to get back to camp.”

With nothing else to do, he began studying the tram. The affair was simply an endless cable with cars attached to it here and there. A considerable distance before him a loaded car was moving forward. Another followed him. Now and then an empty pair of slings passed to his right, moving back up the hill.

“Wish I was astride one of those,” he said, “I’d soon be back at camp.” Vain wish.

So his car crept downward. They had passed over the rocky portions of the mountains and were above the forest when the tram came to a sudden stop. Five minutes he waited for it to start. “Engine trouble, I suppose,” he murmured.

Another five minutes passed. The sun was hot; the air still. He had not slept that day. All night he had worked and he was desperately tired. As he gazed down at the slightly swaying masses of foliage beneath him it seemed a soft inviting bed into whose billowy depths he might drop and be at rest. Leaning back upon the logs he closed his eyes and the next instant was fast asleep.

Five minutes later the tram once more moved downward, but Johnny still slept. In his sleep he was journeying to an unknown land.

Swinging like a captive balloon high in air, the tram car moved slowly downward toward the spot whence came the smoke and screech of a train. Johnny slept on.

Arrived at its destination the tram stopped with a movement so slight that it did not waken the sleeper. Had Johnny but known it, he was in greater danger this very moment than he had been when the mountaineer shot at him down in the corn-field; greater even than when he stood alone, trapped by the towering ledge of rock.

A boy, not much older than Johnny, stepped forth from a cubby-hole of a shack. He was a clean looking youth with frank blue eyes. Without bestowing more than a casual glance upon the logs, the boy reached for a long iron bar with a hook at the end of it. He was standing on a raised platform. Beneath him was a huge pile of logs.

Ready for loading, these logs awaited their turn at a flat-car. In a moment, unless some kind Providence intervened, the logs on the tram, swaying slightly backward and forward, would go bumping down to join their comrades. The hook on the end of the rod in the boy’s hand fitted a ring in a short lever on the tram. Once pulled, this lever would release the cables that held the logs. Gravity would do the rest.

Gravity is a cruel master at times. Johnny was lying asleep between two of those massive logs. Fully six feet through, weighing thousands of pounds, the instant they were released they would go rolling, grinding, crashing down, to leave Johnny a senseless, broken form at the bottom of the pile. Johnny slept peacefully on, unmindful of the impending doom.

The iron bar was raised half way to the ring; the blue eyed boy was gazing away at the distant hills. The thing was about to happen when, of a sudden, there flashed across the boy’s vision a vivid yellow flame.

Dropping the lever for an instant he stared straight ahead. The flash of yellow was a wild canary that had gone streaking across the light. For one instant, fairy-like, the bird paused to tilt back and forth on the cable above the logs, then fluttered away.

Insignificant as was the flight of this tiny bird, it had doubtless saved Johnny’s life. For, as the boy with the bar glanced from the bird to the tram-load of logs, his face blanched. He had caught sight of a hand lying at rest on a log—Johnny’s hand.

The next instant he had climbed upon the swaying car and was prodding Johnny vigorously.

“Hey! Hey there! Wake up! You’ll be killed!”

Johnny sat up with a start, stared wildly about him for an instant, then broke forth in a hearty laugh.

“I must have gone to sleep,” Johnny said, when the laugh was over.

“I’ll say you did. Mighty dangerous bed you had. Know what’d happened if I’d pulled the lever on this tram? You’d been crushed like an empty eggshell!”

Johnny shivered.

“Come on. Get down. You’re holding up the show,” said the other boy, “I got to unload.”

“Watch this,” he said a moment later as, pulling the lever, he sent the logs thundering down.

The sight of this spectacle, and the realization of the full significance of what the averted tragedy meant, for the moment left Johnny paralyzed; the next he put out a hand which the other grasped.

“Thanks, buddy. Thanks awfully. You’ve saved my life.”

“You’re welcome. But how did you happen to be on our tram?”

“Got on at a little station by the name of ‘Leaning Pine’,” smiled Johnny. “I was trying to leave somebody behind.”

“Chasin’ you, were they? Might I ask you if there was a fellow known as Squirrel Head mixed up in it?”

“There was.”

“Thought so. He rules up there, so they say. What he can’t rule, he ruins.”

“He can’t rule me,” said Johnny, setting his teeth hard, “and if I can help it, he won’t ruin me, either.”

“What’s that?” he asked, as a long, low rattling sound came to his ear.

“Coal going down the chute.”

“Where from?”

“Mines.”

“Coal mines here?”

“The mountains are full of ’em. Finest in the world. Five veins to the top of the mountain; four to nine feet thick. All you got to do is mine it and chute it down; that is, if the veins are level. They tilt quite a bit ’round here. You see,” he smiled, noting Johnny’s intense interest, “these veins run clear through the mountains. At some period after nature had deposited the coal here there was a disturbance on the earth’s crust and the land was tilted. That means that the coal veins are all lower on the other side than here; means you’ve got to have power to pull it up that grade and powerful pumps going night and day to keep the water out. Drainage is naturally all the other way. Some day they’ll have a railroad on Turkey Creek across the mountain where you came from. Not so long off, either. Then all the coal will be mined from that side. This man Squirrel Head owns most of the land over there, so that will be a clean-up for him. They say, though, that there’s a strip of rough land at the head of the creek that he can’t show clear title to.”

“I should say there is!” The words were on Johnny’s lips, but he checked them. He had learned the folly of confiding in strangers. Instead, he asked:

“Where’s the trail that leads back over the mountain?”

“Down to your right. Follow up the creek. Take the left fork when you come to it. You can’t miss it. Well, here’s another load of logs. Gotta get busy. Good luck!”

Johnny climbed down the shaky stairs and sought out the beginning of the long trail that was to take him back to his own camp.

“That boy,” he said to himself, “has done me two great favors; saved my life, and given me some valuable information. I never saw him before; may never see him again. It sure is a strange old world.”

Darkness fell when he was only half way up the mountain, but he plodded on.