by Roy J. Snell
CHAPTER V SAFE AT HOME
That night, for the first time in many days, Florence found herself readyto creep beneath the hand woven blankets beside her pal. Ah, it was goodto feel the touch of comfort and the air of security to be found there.What did it matter that after all the struggle and danger she had foundher efforts crowned only by partial success? Time would reveal some otherway. New problems beckoned. Let them come. Life was full of problems, andsolving them is life itself.
The whipsawed house in which the girls lived had been built more thansixty years before. The heavy beams of its frame and the broad thickboards of its sheeting inside and out had been sawed by hand from massivepoplar logs.
The walls of the room in which the girls slept were as frankly free ofpaint or paper as when the boards were first laid in place. But time andsixty summers of Kentucky mountain sunshine had imparted to every massivebeam and every broad board such a coat of deep, mellow, old gold as anymillionaire might covet for his palace.
Heavy, hand-cut sandstone formed the fireplace. Before this fireplace, ona black bearskin, in dream-robes and dressing gowns, sat the two girlscurled up for a chat before retiring.
Then it was that Marion told of the mysterious stranger who had peered inat the window at dusk.
"That's strange," said Florence as a puzzled look knotted her brow. "Whocould he have meant when he said, 'Hit's her'? Could he have meant Mrs.McAlpin?"
"Maybe. She's been around doctoring people a great deal. He might haveseen her somewhere; might even have needed her services for his familyand been too timid to ask for it. You know how these mountain folks are.But--" Marion paused.
"But you don't believe it was Mrs. McAlpin," prompted Florence, leaningtoward the fire. "Neither do I. I believe it was little Hallie, and Idon't like it."
"Neither do I," said Marion with a sudden dab at the fire that sent thesparks flying. "I--I suppose we ought to want her identity to bediscovered, want her returned to her people, but she's come to mean somuch to us. She's a dashing little bit of sunshine. This place," her eyesswept the bare brown walls, "this place would seem dreary without her."
"Marion," said Florence, "will we be able to elect our trustee?"
"I don't know."
"Al Finley and Moze Berkhart taught the school last year. They taught amonth or two; then when it got cold they discouraged the children allthey could, and when finally no one came they rode up and looked in everyday, then rode home again, and drew their pay just the same."
"We wouldn't do that."
"No, we wouldn't. We'd manage somehow."
"Marion," said Florence after they had sat in silence for some time,their arms around each other, "this building belongs to Mrs. McAlpin,doesn't it?"
"Surely. She bought it."
"And everything inside belongs to her?"
"I suppose so."
"Old Jeff Middleton's gold--if it's here?"
"I suppose so."
"Then, if we found the gold we could use it to buy repairs for theschoolhouse, couldn't we?"
"Yes," laughed Marion, "and if the moon is really made of green cheese,and we could get a slice of it, we might ripen it and have it forto-morrow's dinner."
"But preacher Gibson thinks it's hidden somewhere about here. He saw it,over sixty years ago. When Jeff Middleton came home from the war he camefrom Georgia driving a white mule hitched to a kind of sled with a box onit, and on the sled, along with some other things, was a bag of gold. Notreal coins, Preacher Gibson said, but just like them; 'sort of queer-likecoins,' that's just the way he said it. There wasn't anything to spendgold for back here in the mountains in those days. He built this house,so he must have hidden the gold here. He lived here until he was killed.The gold must still be here."
"Sounds all right," said Marion with a merry little laugh, "but I imaginethe schoolhouse windows will have to be patched with something other thanthat gold. And besides--" she rose, yawning, "we haven't even got thepositions yet."
"You don't think they'd refuse to hire us? Just think! Those boys whotried to teach last year couldn't even do fractions, and there wasn't ahistory nor a geography in the place!"
"You never can tell," said Marion.
In this she was more right than she knew.
A moment later Florence crept beneath the homewoven blankets. A littlewhile longer Marion sat dreamily gazing at the darkening coals. Then,drawing her dressing gown tightly about her, she stepped to the door andslipped out. Like most mountain homes, the door of every room in thecabin opened onto the porch.
Stepping to the edge of the porch, she stood there, bathed in moonlight.The night was glorious. Big Black Mountain, laying away in the distance,seemed the dark tower of some clan of the giants. Below, and nearer, shecaught the reflection of the moon in a placid pool on Laurel Branch,while close at hand the rhododendrons wove a fancy border of shadowsalong the trail that led away to the bottom lands.
As the girl stood drinking in the splendor of it all, she gave a suddenstart, then shrank back into the shadows. Had she caught the sound ofshuffled footsteps, of a pebble rolling down the steep trail? She thoughtso. With a shudder she stepped through the door, closed it quickly, andlet the heavy bar fall silently into place. Then, without a word, shecrept beneath the covers. As an involuntary shudder seized her she felther companion's strong arms about her. So, soothed and reassured, sherested there for a moment. She and Florence had been pals for many longmonths. Strange and thrilling were the mysteries they had solved, theadventures they had experienced. What would the morrow bring? Moremystery, greater adventures? At any rate, they would face them together,and with these thoughts her eyes closed in dreamless sleep.
