Tom Hansell was much the same kind of man, except that he lacked the book education of his companion and leader. He had strong impulses, and was ready to go to an extreme length in whatever direction he started, but he always needed a guiding spirit, and that he found in Hugh O’Hara.
The latter, after burying his child, moved into the village, saying that he never wanted to look again upon the cabin that had brought so much sorrow to him. Most people believed he could not be led to go near it, and yet on this blustery night he and Tom Hansell were seated in the structure without any companions except the well known hound Nero, and were smoking their pipes and plotting mischief.
Hugh and Tom were in their working clothes—coarse trousers, shirts, and heavy shoes, without vest or coat. Their flabby caps lay on the floor behind them, and their tousled hair hung over their foreheads almost to their eyes. Tom had no side whiskers, but a heavy mustache and chin whiskers, while the face of Hugh was covered with a spiky black beard that stood out from his face as if each hair was charged with electricity.
Nero, the hound, raised his nose from between his paws and looked up at the visitor. Then, as if satisfied, he lowered his head and resumed his nap.
Bradley, as I have said, was angry with himself for walking into such a trap. It was not fear, but a deep dislike of the man who was the head and front of the trouble at the mills. He was the spokesman and leader of the strikers, and he was the real cause of the stoppage of the works. Harvey looked upon him as insolent and brutal, and he was sure that no circumstances could arise that would permit him to do a stroke of work in the Rollo Mills again.
“Good evening,” said Harvey stiffly, “I did not expect to find you here.”
Hansell nodded in reply to the salutation, but Hugh simply motioned with the hand that held the pipe toward a low stool standing near the middle of the apartment.
“Help yourself to a seat, Mr. Bradley; the presence of Tom and myself here is no odder than is your own.”
“I suppose not,” replied Harvey with a half-laugh, as he seated himself; “I started out for a walk today and went too far—that is, so far that I lost my way. I had about made up my mind that I would have to sleep in the woods, when I caught the light from your window and made for it.”
The glance that passed between Hugh and Tom—sly as it was—did not elude the eye of Harvey Bradley. He saw that his explanation was not believed, but he did not care; there was no love between him and them, and, had it not looked as if he held them in fear, he would have turned and walked away after stepping across the threshold. As it was, he meant to withdraw as soon as he could do it without seeming to be afraid.
“Is this the first time you have taken a walk up this way?” asked Hugh.
“The fact that I lost my way ought to answer that question; how far is it, please, to Bardstown?”
“An even mile by the path you came.”
“But I didn’t come by any path, except for a short distance in front of this place.”
“Then how did you get here?”
“Is there no way of traveling through the woods except by the road that leads to your door?”
The conversation was between Harvey and Hugh alone. Tom was abashed in the presence of two such persons, and nothing could have led him to open his mouth unless appealed to by one or the other. Neither made any allusion to the strike. After the superintendent’s rebuff, Hugh scorned to do so, while Harvey would have stultified himself had he invited any discussion. The repugnance between the two men was too strong for them calmly to debate any question. Besides Hugh and Tom were suspicious; they did not believe that the presence of the superintendent was accidental; there was a sinister meaning in it which boded ill for Hugh and his friends, and the former, therefore, was in a vicious mood.
With the conditions named, a wrangle may be set down as one of the certainties. But Harvey Bradley had defied the fury of half a hundred men, and he meant to teach this marplot his proper place. There was a threatening gleam in his eye, but he puffed a few seconds at his pipe, and then, glaring through the rank smoke that curled upward from his face said:
“There are a good many ways by which Hugh O’Hara’s cabin can be found, but those who come on honest errands stick to the path.”
“Which explains why the path is so little worn,” was the reply of
Harvey.
“Aye, and your feet have done mighty little to help the wearing of the same.”
“If those who live in the cabin were honest themselves, they would not tremble every time the latch-string is pulled, nor would they be scared if they saw a visitor stop to snuff the air in this neighborhood.”
This was an ill-timed remark, and Harvey regretted the words the moment they passed his lips. He saw Hugh and Tom glance at each other; but the words, having been spoken, could not be recalled, nor did the superintendent make any attempt to modify them. Before the others could answer, he added:
“I have heard it said that Hugh O’Hara held this place in such strong disfavor that nothing could lead him to spend a night here, yet he smokes his pipe and plots mischief as if the cabin is the one place in the world with which he is content.”
These words were not soothing in their effect, nor did the speaker mean that they should be. Hugh was insolent, and the superintendent resented it.
The only proof of the rising anger in the breast of O’Hara was the vigorous puffing of his pipe. Tom, as I have said, was too awed to say anything at all.
“I am of age and free born,” growled Hugh, looking into the glowing embers and speaking as if to himself; “where I go and what I do concerns no one but myself.”
“Not so long as you go to the proper place and do only what is right,” said Harvey, who, sitting back a few feet from the fire, looked calmly at the fellow whose rough profile was outlined against the fiery background behind him.
“Men interpret right according to their own ideas, and they seldom agree, but most people will pronounce that person the worst sort of knave who robs poor men of what they earn and looks upon them as he looks upon the beasts of the field—worth only the amount of money they bring to him.”
CHAPTER III.
MISSING.
The conversation was taking a dangerous shape. Harvey saw that it would not do for him to stay. Both these men were fierce enough to fly at his throat. That little cabin in the woods was liable to become the scene of a tragedy unless he bridled his tongue or went away.
Disdaining to say so much as “good-night,” he rose to his feet, opened the door, shut it behind him, and walked out in the blustery darkness.
“I would rather spend the night fighting tigers than to keep the company of such miscreants. But the new hands will be here in a few days, and the fellows will be taught a lesson which they will remember all their lives. I suppose I ought to pity their dupes, but they should have enough sense to see that these men are their worst enemies. It will be a bright day for the Rollo Mills and for Bardstown when they are well rid of them.”
The superintendent did not pause to think where he was going when he stepped into the open air. The cold wind struck his face and a few fine particles touched his cheek. The sky had partly cleared, so that he could see the fine coating of snow around him, but after all, very little had fallen.
“If I can keep the path,” he thought, “I will reach the village, but that is no easy matter—ah! there it is again.”
The peculiar odor that had mystified him before was in the air. He recalled that Hugh and Tom had made an allusion to it that he did not understand.
“It may come from their chimney and be caused by something burning; but
I looked closely at the wood on the hearth and saw nothing else.”
A natural impulse led him, after walking a few rods, to look behind him. He had heard nothing, but knowing the surly mood of the couple, he thought it probable they might follow him.
The door of the cabin, was drawn wide open and the form of a man stood out
to view, as if stamped with ink on the flaming background made by the fire beyond. His lengthened shadow was thrown down the path almost to the feet of Harvey. The fellow no doubt was peering into the gloom and listening.
“I wonder whether they mean to dog me,” said Harvey; “it will be an easy matter to do so, for they know every part of the wood, while I am a stranger. They are none too good to put me out of the way; it is such men who have no fear of the law, but they shall not take me unawares.”
While still looking toward the cabin, all became dark again. The door was closed, but he could not be sure whether the man stood outside or within.
“If he means to do me harm he will soon be at my heels.”
But the straining eyes could not catch the outlines of any one, and the only sound was the moaning wind among the bare branches.
“He has gone back into the house, but may come out again.”
And so, while picking his way through the dim forests, you may be sure that Harvey Bradley looked behind him many times. It makes one shiver with dread to suspect that a foe is softly following him. Harvey had buttoned his pea jacket to his chin and he now turned up the collar, so that it touched his ears. His hands were shoved deep into the side pockets and the right one rested upon his revolver that he had withdrawn from its usual place at his hip. He was on the alert for whatever might come.
He was pleased with one fact: the path to which so many references were made, was so clearly marked that he found it easy to avoid going wrong.
“If I had had sense enough to take the right course when I first struck it, I would have been home by this time.”
After turning around several times without seeing or hearing anything suspicious, he came to believe that however glad O’Hara and Hansell might be to do him harm, they lacked the courage, unless almost sure against detection.
“Hugh will stir up others to go forward, but he will take good care to protect himself.”
The dull roar that he once fancied he heard when tramping aimlessly during the day, was now so distinct that he knew he must be near a stream. The path crossed it at no great distance.
Sure enough, he had only turned a bend and gone down a little slope when he reached the margin of a deep creek, fully twenty feet wide. It flowed smooth and dark at his feet, but the turmoil to the left showed that it tumbled over the rocks, not far away.
Harvey was anything but pleased, when he saw the bridge by which the stream had to be passed. It was merely the trunk of a tree, that lay with the base on the side where he stood, while the top rested on the other bank. Whoever had felled the tree had trimmed the trunk of its branches from base to top—the result being more ornamental than useful, for the protuberances would have served to help the footing of a passenger. The trunk in the middle was no more than six inches in diameter, and being a little worn by the shoes that had trod its length, the footing was anything but secure. With the sprinkling of snow it was more treacherous than ever.
“Must I cross that?” Harvey said aloud, with a feeling akin to dismay.
“You can do so or swim, whichever you choose.”
These words were spoken by a man standing on the other side, and who was about to step on the support, when he paused on seeing another on the point of doing the same from the opposite bank. In the dim light, Harvey saw him only indistinctly, but judged that he himself was recognized by the other.
“I suppose it’s safe enough for those accustomed to it,” said Harvey in reply, “but I prefer some other means; do you intend to use it?”
“That I do; I want no better; if you are afraid, get out of the way, for I am late.”
Harvey moved to the right, and watched the other, who stepped upon the support and walked over with as much certainty as if treading a pavement on the street.
Harvey looked closely, and as the fellow came toward him, he recognized him as one of his former employes. He was Jack Hansell—a brother of Tom, and like him a close associate of Hugh O’Hara, the leader.
“You are out late, Jack,” remarked the superintendent, as the other left the log. To his surprise, Jack did not answer, but quickly disappeared up the path by which the superintendent had reached the spot.
“He is surly and ill-mannered, like all of them; no doubt he is on his way to the cabin to plot mischief with the others.”
Since nothing was to be gained by waiting, Harvey now stepped on the trunk and began gingerly making his way across. It was a hard task, and just beyond the middle, he lost his balance. He was so far along, however, that a vigorous jump landed him on the other bank.
A little beyond he caught the twinkling lights of the village, and he hastened his steps, now that, as it may be said, home was in sight. He felt as if he was famishing, and the thought of the luscious supper awaiting his return, gave him such speed that he was soon at his own door.
Though it was late, he saw his aunt was astir, for the lights were burning brightly. Before he could utter the greeting on his tongue, he was terrified by the scared face of his relative.
“Why, aunt, what is the matter? Are you ill?”
“Oh, Harvey!” she wailed; “haven’t you brought Dollie with you?”
“Dollie!” repeated the other; “I haven’t seen her since I left home.”
“Then you will never see her again,” and, overcome by her terrible grief, the good woman sank into the nearest chair, covered her face with her apron and wept.
Harvey Bradley stood petrified. Bright-eyed Dollie, whom he had left a few hours before, rosy, happy, overflowing with bounding spirits, was gone, and the sobbing Aunt Maria declared she would never be seen again.
Stepping into the room, Harvey laid his hand on his aunt’s shoulder and in a trembling voice said:
“Why, aunt, what does this mean? Are you in earnest? What has become of Dollie? Tell me, I beseech you.”
“She is lost; she is lost! Oh, why did we ever bring her to this dreadful country? I wish none of us had ever seen it.”
“But what about Dollie? Where is she? How long has she been gone?
Compose yourself and tell.”
It was not until he spoke sharply that the hysterical woman was able to make known that the child had been absent for hours, no one knew where. When she learned that noon that her big brother would not be back till night, Dollie had pouted because he had gone off without telling her. She was not sure she could ever forgive him. However, she ate her dinner, and soon after went out to play. Some hours later her aunt went to the door to call her, but she was not within sight or hearing. Maggie was sent to look for her, but soon came back with word that she could not be found.
The child had been seen a couple of hours before, running in the direction of the path that led into the mountains, as if she was fleeing from some one, Maggie had gone as far as she dared in quest of her, but her loudest shouts brought no reply and she returned.
The word brought by the servant, as may well be believed, filled the aunt with the wildest grief. Beyond all doubt, Dollie had formed a sudden resolve to hunt up her brother Harvey, who had gone away and left her at home. She had strayed so far into the mountains that she was lost. Fortunately, she was warmly dressed at the time, but exposed as she must be to the wintry winds and cold, she could not hold out until morning unless rescued very soon.
Harvey was stricken with an anguish such as he had never known before, but he knew that not a minute was to be lost. Dollie must be found at once or it would be too late. It added a poignancy to his woe to know that in coming down the mountain path, he must have passed close to her, who was in sore need of the help he was eager to give.
“Have you made no search for her?” he asked.
“I could not believe she would not come back until it began to grow dark. I thought she could not be far away; Maggie and I hunted through the village, inquiring of every one whom we saw; many of the people were kind, and two or three have gone to hunt for her; I started to do so, but did not go far, when I was sure she h
ad come back while I was away, and I hurried home only to find she was not here.”
“Are you sure any one is looking for her?”
“There are several.”
“Well,” said Harvey, impatient with the vacillation shown by his aunt,
“I shall not come back until she is found.”
His hand was on the knob of the door when his distressed relative sprang to her feet.
“Harvey;” she said in a wild, scared manner, “shall I tell you what I believe?”
“Of course.”
“Dollie did not lose herself: some of those awful men did it.”
“Do you mean the strikers?”
“Yes; they have taken her away to spite you.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed the young man, passing out the door and striding up the single street that ran through the village.
But though unwilling to confess it to himself, the same shocking suspicion had come to him at the moment he learned that Dollie was lost. Could it be that some of the men, grown desperate in their resentment, had taken this means of mortally injuring him? Was there any person in the wide world who would harm an innocent child for the sake of hurting a strong man? Alas, such things had been done, and why should they not be done again? The words that he overheard between Hugh O’Hara and Tom Hansell proved them capable of dark deeds. Could it be that some of the hints thrown out by them during that brief interview in the cabin bore any relation to the disappearance of Dollie.
At the moment Harvey turned away from his own house it was his intention to rouse the village and to ask all to join in the hunt for the child, but a feeling of bitter resentment led him to change his purpose. No; they would rejoice over his sorrow; they would give him no aid, and, if they had had a hand in her taking off, they would do what they could to baffle him in his search. Slight as was his hope, he would push on alone.
The Edward S. Ellis Megapack Page 9
