The Cave by the Beech Fork Part 29

"What can I do?"

"Get some one else."

"And have him betray me?"

"I thought that we had already come to an agreement," said Simpson, with some warmth. "Let me repeat here what I said before. I don't intend to risk my life in selling your whisky without being well paid for it."

"Yes, and you want a price that is little less than robbery."

"Then call it robbery; call it what you will. But remember the price remains."

"One-fifth, my! my! It comes high. But I'll stick to my word, Simpson.

You are to get your one-fifth. Come," continued he, "let us get to work at the still; for, as you said, the mash may sour, but Jerry's money will keep."

"What is that?" asked Simpson, as he stumbled over something leaning against the side of the "hold out." "Well! well! If it isn't Jerry's old rifle. Leaning there just as natural as if the old trapper was at home."

"Strange he didn't take it with him," replied the Tinker, as he held up his firebrand to examine the old flint lock.

The sheriff was startled, for it was Mr. Howard's rifle, and his name was engraved in large letters on the muzzle. But the Tinker did not examine it carefully, and the two men soon left the "hold out" to begin work at the still.

When the cave began to brighten in the ruddy light from the fire which our two worthies had set vigorously going, Mr. Lane climbed down from his rocky bed and crept carefully toward the door. There he stood for some time where he could observe the men without running any risk of being seen. What a strange, weird sight! They looked like ghosts as they pa.s.sed to and from the glowing furnace, and their shadows leaped and danced along the walls. Simpson fed the fire and brought the mash, while the Tinker looked after the still and watched the pipes which conducted off the whisky. The sheriff grew so interested in the work that he almost forgot the object of his coming. Were he to seize the men now he could certainly swear that he had captured Tom the Tinker while the latter was making whisky; yet everything seemed so quiet and peaceable that he could with difficulty force himself to begin his disagreeable task. Still now was the time for action. He drew his revolvers and stepped quickly toward the two men.

Imagine the surprise of Simpson and the Tinker when they beheld the giant sheriff stalking forth from the room which they had examined but a few minutes before, his long arms turned menacingly toward them, and his stentorian voice calling on them to surrender. He seemed to them a huge spectre, not a living man. On he came with giant strides, until his revolvers were pointed into their very faces.

"Who are you?" demanded Tom the Tinker, with a show of courage.

"I reckon it don't matter much who I am," replied the sheriff, "but I know who you are. Louis Bowen, you are my prisoner."

CHAPTER XXV.

OFF TO THE CAVE.

On the evening of the third day after the departure of Mr. Lane from the Howard's, Owen was busy at the hand-mill cutting oats for the stock, when Uncle Pius came hobbling into the barn shaking his head in a most mysterious way.

"I know'd it, I know'd it," he muttered, in a low tone, while with solemn steps he paced up and down the barn floor.

"What did you know?" asked Owen, as he made the mill-wheel twirl and buzz, pretending not to be in the least interested in what the old negro had said.

"Can't tell you. Ma.s.sar said I musn't tell." And Uncle Pius continued his measured steps to and fro, with his head resting upon his breast and his hands clutching his heavy cane behind his back. Owen continued his work. He knew that the best way to get a secret from Uncle Pius was to appear entirely indifferent in regard to it. The old negro walked from one end of the barn to the other several times, then he came to a halt directly in front of Owen.

"I know'd it," he repeated. "I know'd it all 'long. I know'd dar wasn't no corn in dat crib."

The buzz of the mill-wheel was the only answer he received. Uncle Pius turned and started off; but he had not gone ten feet before he retraced his steps.

"I know'd dar wasn't no corn in dat crib. I know'd dar wasn't. I know'd dar wasn't. I'se said so all 'long!" And Uncle Pius brought his ma.s.sive cane down upon the barn floor.

Still the wheel twirled on; and still Owen was silent.

"Den dat ole Bowen! I know'd he's a rascal. I know'd it all 'long,"

continued the old negro, becoming more and more excited at every word he uttered.

It was with difficulty that Owen remained silent now. From a few words that his father had dropped at table, he had concluded that Mr. Lane's visit was in some way connected with Louis Bowen. Mr. Lane was sheriff now--had he come to arrest the old villain? But the corn-crib; why did Uncle Pius mention it? The boy's curiosity was soon satisfied; for Uncle Pius had come to tell his story.

The old negro went back to the night of the previous autumn when Bowen's corn-crib had burned. He reminded Owen of the fact that he, Uncle Pius, had stated, and rightly so, that there was no corn in the crib; for old Bowen had hauled it all away to a cave near the river, where, together with two robbers whom Mr. Lane had arrested, he had been making whisky for three years. The two robbers were now in jail, and the sheriff had gone down the river to find the cave and arrest Louis Bowen. But worst of all, as Mr. Lane had promised to return on the second day to get help if he had not succeeded by that time in making the arrest, and had not yet appeared, Mr. Howard was afraid that the sheriff had been killed by the villain.

Owen's heart beat faster and faster as he listened to Uncle Pius; faster and faster, too, in his excitement he made the wheel spin around.

Thought after thought rushed through his mind. Mr. Lane was now in Louis Bowen's power--perhaps wounded--perhaps dead. Was there no way to bring him help? Could not Owen tell his father that he knew of the cave and persuade him to start at once to rescue Mr. Lane?

But why not go alone? Better still, get Martin Cooper to accompany him.

They could reach the cave early in the night and bring a.s.sistance to a friend who needed their help. They could frustrate the design of a villain who had sought their lives.

Uncle Pius continued to rehea.r.s.e his story, changing and distorting facts at each successive repet.i.tion. Owen scarcely hearing what the old man said; his mind was too busily engaged in working out a plan of action. As soon as he had made his decision he released his grasp upon the handle of the mill, seized a large willow basket, quickly distributed the oats in the troughs for the horses, leaped from the barn door and ran toward the house. It was lucky for him that he met no one, for his face was flushed with excitement. He took his coat and the pistol which he had won at the shooting-match; pa.s.sing through the kitchen he thrust a few crusts of bread into his pocket, then dashed off again toward the barn. On his way he met Uncle Pius, who made an ineffectual effort to stop Owen and give him a more detailed account of old Bowen and the cave.

Five minutes later when the old negro saw the boy riding at a breakneck speed across the field toward Martin Cooper's, he shook his head ominously and muttered, "Dat chile am goin' to do somethin' awful. I jes' knows he is!" He had enkindled a fire, but could not quench the flame.

Martin was at supper, but on hearing Owen's familiar call, he went out to the stile-block in front of the yard-gate. The two boys exchanged a few words, and Martin caught his friend's enthusiasm at once. They were not boys who acted without the knowledge and consent of their parents; but on this occasion they were borne away by a sudden impulse and excitement. They consulted no one; they asked no one's permission. In less time than it takes to describe their movements, they had galloped off and disappeared in the gloom of the forest.

The cave! how often had the boys spoken of it, and thought of it, and dreamed of it during the past months! How the secret to which they had pledged themselves burned within their b.r.e.a.s.t.s! How they had longed to wander once more through its weird and mazy pa.s.sages, its dim-lit vaults!

The cave! To enter it in the full light of day, and with the a.s.surance that all was safe within--even this would have been an adventure for the boys--one that past recollections would have clothed with romance. But to penetrate it at night, to stand face to face before a villain whom ill-fortune had made desperate, to rescue Mr. Lane and make old Bowen a prisoner--all this caused the boys' blood to tingle in their veins. Yet it was not the excitement that comes of fear! True, they had quailed before the danger on that October night when Stayford had threatened them with death; but now that friends.h.i.+p called them, with beating hearts and firm resolve they pressed on without a falter.

The cave! Nearer and nearer the boys came to it. At first they spurred their horses and raced along the narrow path by the river bank, but when darkness had enveloped the forest their progress was slow. With difficulty the horses kept the winding road. Dark it was; yet light enough to see the dog-wood, as its long, white branches swayed to and fro in the evening breeze, and appeared like ghosts moving among the shadows of the thick Spring foliage. A hawk darted from a neighboring evergreen, screaming as it flew.

The cave! The boys were close to it now. They dismounted, and noiselessly threaded their way among the underbrush, and up the uneven hillside. There were the two giant rocks which stood as sentries near the entrance.

The cave! All was silent without; no sound was heard from within.

Slowly! slowly! noiselessly! The heavy stone door was reached.

When Louis Bowen felt the powerful grip of the sheriff, he made no effort to resist, but permitted himself to be bound hand and foot.

Simpson, too, yielded without a struggle, and before they had time to realize what had happened, the two men were helpless prisoners.

The sheriff seized a heavy axe and began to destroy the still. The copper caldron was cut and battered beyond the possibility of repairs; the long pipes, usually called a worm, were twisted and broken; the iron of the furnace was shattered into fragments.

Old Bowen groaned and cursed alternately as he saw the work of years melt away before his eyes. Then he began to execrate the authors of his misfortune. The two boys, whom he had wished to kill had, no doubt, divulged the secret of the cave--why had he spared them? Why had he spared a Howard? The Howards had stood between him and his fortune for years; their upright, honest lives were a constant reproach to him; they had sheltered his runaway slave; Zachary Howard had spurned him, threatened to chastise him; Owen had saved the war message. If he could but take revenge! If he but had them in his power for a single hour! But even revenge was denied him, and he could but curse his enemies and bemoan his fate.

While the miserable wretch indulged in these fierce, but useless thoughts, Owen and Martin, the objects of his hatred, appeared in the dim, ruddy light at the door. With a frenzied cry of rage that rang through the rocky arches of the cave, and startled the sheriff, plying his work of destruction, Bowen snapped the rope that bound his hands, and jumped to his feet; but before he could disentangle himself and rush at the boys, Mr. Lane had seized him and laid him helpless on the floor.

"What brought you here?" the sheriff asked the boys, as he knelt with one knee upon the breast of his prisoner.

"We came to help you, Mr. Lane, for we feared you were in trouble,"

replied Owen.