Heart of the Blue Ridge Part 13

Uncle d.i.c.k put out his hand, and the two palms met in a warm clasp, witness of friends.h.i.+p's pact. Forthwith, they gave themselves to minute examination of the trail for any sign of the missing girl.

For a time, their patient search went unrewarded. But, about a half-mile beyond Luffman's Branch, they came on an area still affected by one of the small showers so frequent in the mountains. Here, the veteran's alert eyes distinguished a footprint outlined in the damp dust.

"Yer gal was barefut, I reckon," he said. He pointed to the imprint just before where he was standing.

"Yep," Uncle d.i.c.k answered. There was a little mist over his eyes, as he glanced down. "Yep; hit's her'n."

The veteran went forward confidently now.

"She was a-steppin' plumb brisk," he declared; "feelin' pretty peart, I 'low; feet kind o' springy-like."

Uncle d.i.c.k s.h.i.+vered at the words. He had a ghastly vision of Plutina moving at this moment with painfully dragging steps somewhere afar in the fastnesses of the mountains. But he said nothing of the worst fears to his companion. He only followed on, watching closely lest something escape the other's survey. Almost, he found himself hoping they might come on the girl's dead body. Death is not the worst of evils.

After a mile, or a little less, the area of the shower was pa.s.sed.

Uncle d.i.c.k could hardly distinguish any sign of the footprints in the heavy dust of the trail, but he accepted without question the veteran's a.s.sertion that they were easily perceptible to the trained sight. Suddenly, Seth Jones halted, and peered intently, stooping low.

Uncle d.i.c.k, too, bent to look, but the faint markings in the dirt were without significance to him. The veteran moved to the roadside and searched on hands and knees over the yard of gra.s.s between the trail and a thicket. When he stood erect again, he regarded his companion inquiringly.

"They seem to be the tracks o' some mighty-big, hefty cuss, what come out o' these-hyar bushes, an' tuk along arter her. Kin ye make a guess who hit mout be, Mister Siddon?"

Uncle d.i.c.k's face grew black with a rage that was the more frightful because it had no object on which to vent itself.

"Hit's him!" he mumbled thickly, choking over the effort for self-control. Abruptly, he abandoned the attempt. His big voice boomed forth in a torrent of blasphemous imprecations. When, finally, he rumbled into silence, and stood panting for breath, the veteran, who had appeared to listen with great interest and perhaps some pleasure, spoke soothingly:

"You-all was sh.o.r.e some eloquent, an' I 'low the ornery critter deserves every mite on hit. An', anyhow, I reckon ye done saved yerse'f a stroke. Ye was a-lookin' like ye'd bust, but ye let off the steam a-cussin' 'im out. Now, let's see." He went back to the trail, and advanced very slowly, for the markings were faint even to his skilled eyes. Uncle d.i.c.k, trembling a little from the violence of his outburst, followed faithfully, but he could no longer detect traces of the pa.s.sing of either man or girl.

Thus, in slow progress, they came at last to the fork of the trail.

This is at the extreme easterly slope of Bull Head Mountain, which rises from the north side of the valley as if in sullen rivalry of Stone Mountain below. In the division of the trail here, one branch ascends toward Glade Creek, across the mountain, while the other keeps on straight to Cherry Lane. Within the fork of the trails lies a fallen giant of the coves, a huge yellow poplar, almost hidden along its length by the embowering thickets. Toward this, in an advance tediously slow, the veteran made his way. When, finally, he was come up to the great bole, he stood quietly for minutes, gazing everywhere round about. Uncle d.i.c.k, emulating his companion, peered earnestly, and soon he, too, perceived the evidences that something out of the ordinary had occurred just here. Over a considerable s.p.a.ce next the trunk there were signs of a struggle. Broken branches showed on some of the bushes; leaves from the poplar shoots were lying on the gra.s.s; the turf was freshly torn here and there. The veteran bent over, and picked up an object from the ground, which he held out. Uncle d.i.c.k gave one glance, and uttered a cry of despair. He recognized it as a b.u.t.ton from the dress Plutina had been wearing the day before.

The further search of the veteran achieved little. He was able only to make sure that the footprints led off through the forest toward the south. But, now, the impressions were no longer of one following the other. Instead, it was revealed that the two walked side by side.

Uncle d.i.c.k groaned as his companion told him of this. Plutina had been attacked; she had fought; she had been overcome--and she was still alive!

CHAPTER XVI

With the news of the event, a flame of wrath swept through the coves.

Everywhere, the men gathered in parties, to hunt, rifle in hand, for some trace of the outlaw. There was none to give him favor, save the outcasts numbered among his dependants. The usual sympathy for the illicit distiller ceased utterly, destroyed by hatred for the criminal's final offense. For the first time in the history of the mountains, there was no voice raised to protest--nor any rifle pointed in the laurel--against the Federal officers, who wandered at will in the wild places. In execration of Dan Hodges for his sin against the peace and dignity of the community, the people forgot for the nonce their ancient enmity against the Government. With one accord, the folk of the mountains joined in abhorrence of Hodges, sullenly anxious to bring about his punishment, to avenge his victim at least, if too late to save her.

Seth Jones turned from the joys of the belated honeymoon to give every aid in his power. His counsel and the comfort of his presence were boons to Uncle d.i.c.k. The veteran had learned from his bride concerning the disfavor in which Zeke was held, and the reason for it.

It seemed to him the part of wisdom, in this crisis, to feign ignorance, and he blandly suggested, on the return of the two from the fallen poplar, that they should ride to Joines' store in the evening, there, over the telephone, to dispatch a telegram to Zeke in New York.

It was the psychological moment for success. There was not even a flicker of resentment aroused. Uncle d.i.c.k remembered that the Quaker school-teacher spy had been saved by Zeke from Dan Hodges. In his new mood, that fact was enough to overcome all rancor against the lad.

Moreover, he realized the tragedy of Plutina's fate to her lover, and he was moved to compa.s.sion. He accepted the veteran's suggestion without a word of remonstrance.

It was Seth Jones, too, who broke down the old man's last prejudice by persuading him to summon Marshal Stone. Uncle d.i.c.k yielded with an odd mingling of emotions--shame and relief: shame over such trafficking with the "revenuers," whom he had consistently fought and despised through three generations; relief that he had gained the strong arm of the law to his side. He had been greatly heartened when Stone answered over the wire that he would set out with a posse at midnight for the Siddon cabin, so that, after a conference there, the active work of searching could be begun promptly at dawn.

Thus, it came about that, for the first time in history, Uncle d.i.c.k Siddon welcomed the sound of hoofbeats pounding up the trail through the darkness. Where, aforetime, he would have leaped to wind a blast of warning to the moons.h.i.+ners above against the coming of the "revenuers," the old man now hastened to the cabin door, and flung it wide, and went forth on the porch to give grateful greeting.

When a council had been held, three parties set forth. Seth Jones was the guide for one, which went to the northeast, through the Bull Head Mountain region, whither, in all likelihood, the outlaw would make his way, if he meant to escape out of the country. The marshal, with one companion, skirted Stone Mountain. Uncle d.i.c.k led two of the posse to the yellow poplar where the struggle had occurred, after which they would follow the general direction of the tracks. The marshal expected to make a circuit of the mountain rapidly enough to effect a junction with Uncle d.i.c.k's party by noon, at the Woodruff Gate. The veteran and his two men, who would have by far the roughest going, were not to report until sundown at the Siddon cabin.

From the poplar, Uncle d.i.c.k and the deputies were able, with great difficulty, to follow the tracks of the outlaw and his prisoner toward the south for a full mile. But at this point, an expanse of outcropping rock baffled them completely. Search as they would, there was no least sign of footsteps anywhere. After an hour of futile questing, they gave up in despair, and hurried to the rendezvous at the Woodruff Gate.

The marshal and his men had already reached the gate, and Stone had wherewith to give the distraught grandfather new hope.

"I came on their tracks a mile below where you lost them," he explained. "They still keep to the south. We followed as far as the sand bar below Sandy Creek Falls."

"Come on!" Uncle d.i.c.k cried, fiercely. "Let's arter 'im this-yer minute."

The marshal shook his head at the old man's enthusiasm.

"We're not much better off yet," he declared. "We found the place where he camped last night. 'Twasn't far. I reckon the girl made his going as slow as she could. She naturally would." Uncle d.i.c.k nodded somberly. "But the trouble is, the trail ends at the sand bar--ends absolutely."

"We'll find hit ag'in," Uncle d.i.c.k exclaimed, stoutly. "We jest got to find hit. Come on!"

The marshal urged the other to rest in preparation for the hard climb--down the ridge, and then up the sharp slopes and ledges of the mountainside. But the old man would have none of it. So, straightway, the two moved off, leaving the others, less hardy, to repose, and in due time they came to the bar below Sandy Creek Falls.

High among the embattled cliffs of Stone Mountain's eastern end, Sandy Creek races in tumultuous course. The limpid stream cascades in vertical sheen of silver from ledge to ledge. It writhes with ceaseless noisy complainings through the twisting ways of bowlder-strewn gorges. Here and there, in some placid pool, it seems to pause, languid, resting from its revels of flight. Such a pool lay at the foot of the longest fall. A barrier of sand circled from the cliff as the brim for this bowl of the waters. To this point, Marshal Stone and Uncle d.i.c.k were now come. The tracks were plainly discernible in the sand, along the edge of the pool. There were the huge misshapen outlines of the outlaw's bare feet, deep-sunken from the heavy weight of the man. Beside them showed the slender prints made by the captive, lightly pressed. These tracks followed the curving bar, along the water's edge. They reached to the foot of the cliff, close to where was the outer edge of the cataract. There they ceased.

The marshal, already familiar with the mystery, and baffled by it, searched again perfunctorily. Uncle d.i.c.k hunted hither and yon with feverish activity, at first confidently, then doubtfully, finally in despair. He, in his turn, could find no further clue. He gave over his efforts eventually, and stood silent beside the marshal, staring bewilderedly. About the amphitheatre formed by the pool, pines grew in a half-circle, save where the narrow channel of the stream descended.

But between the barricade of the trees and the basin of water lay the smooth stretch of sand, slightly moist from out-flung spray of the falls. Upon that level surface, the tracks showed forth--undeniable, inexplicable. They marched without deviation straight to the base of the great cliff. There, within a little s.p.a.ce, they grew confused, as from much trampling. But they did not return; they did not go elsewhere. There was a clear distance of a rod over the sand to the rocky ground where the trees grew. On the other side lay the deeps of the pool. Before them reared the impa.s.sible wall of the precipice. And there the tracks ended.

Uncle d.i.c.k knew the place well, and on that account the mystery was the greater. He could find no possible explanation, however wildly improbable, of that disappearance. The broad sheet of the falls fell close to the cliff's face. The rock was unworn by the torrent, without recess or cavern. And that precipice, twice the pool's width, mounted sheer a hundred feet, the height of the cascade. The front was unbroken save by tiny rifts and narrow ledges, where dwarfed ground pines clung precariously. With a muttered curse, the old man turned from his vain contemplation of the cliff, and let his troubled eyes rest on the pool. Suddenly, he started. He remained motionless for a moment, then, with nervous haste threw off his s.h.i.+rt, and trousers.

Marshal Stone, chancing to look that way, was astonished to see his companion naked, poised at the water's edge. He had time to note with admiration the splendid figure, still supple and strongly muscled despite the four-score years. Then Uncle d.i.c.k leaped, and dived. It was long seconds before he reappeared, only to dive again. He paid no attention to the marshal's remonstrances. Only when he was convinced of the uselessness of further search in the pool's depths, did he give over the task, and cast himself down on the sand to rest, panting and trembling a little from fatigue.

"They hain't thar," he said, with grim conviction. Then he voiced the question that hammered in his brain: "Whar be they?"

But the marshal had no answer.

As they made their way drearily back toward the Woodruff Gate, the officer broke a long silence:

"Only a blood-hound can trail them!"

The gloom of Uncle d.i.c.k's expression did not lighten.

"They hain't nary one in the mountings," he answered, heavily.

"None nearer than Suffolk, Virginia," the marshal said. "Cyclone Brant has a couple of good ones. But it would cost a lot."

The old man flared.

"Fer G.o.d's sake, git thet-thar feller an' his dawgs. I hain't axin'

what hit 'll cost. Hit was my money got thet-thar d.a.m.ned cuss out o'

the jail-house. I hain't likely to begrudge anythin' hit 'll cost to git him kotched. An' Plutiny!--why, money don't matter none, if I can save Plutiny!"

"I'll send for Brant to-night," the marshal promised, with new cheerfulness. "Let's hope he's not off somewhere. They send for him all over the country. If the dogs start day after to-morrow, they'll still find the scent."

Uncle d.i.c.k groaned.