“O’Hara and Hansell know all about it; I will search the neighborhood of the path all the way to their cabin and then compel them to tell what they know; if they refuse—”
He shut his lips tight and walked faster than ever. He strove to fight back the tempestuous emotions that set his blood boiling. He was moved by a resolve that would stop at nothing; he would not believe that there was no hope; he knew he could force the miscreants to give up their secret, and had a hair of his little sister’s head been harmed the punishment should be swift and terrible.
“When Dollie is found,” he muttered, determined to believe she must be restored to him, “I will send her and Aunt Maria away, and then have it out with these fellows; I’ll make them rue the day they began the fight.”
These were dreadful thoughts, but there was excuse for them, his grief made him half frantic.
The path over which he believed Dollie had either strayed or been led or carried, entered the woods about a hundred yards from the village and gradually sloped and wound upward for a mile, when it passed the door of Hugh O’Hara’s cabin and lost itself in the solitude beyond.
The sky had cleared still more during the interval since he came down the mountain side, and he could not only see the course clearly, but could distinguish objects several rods away, when the shadow of the overhanging trees did not shut out the light. But the season was so far along that few leaves were left on the limbs and it was easy, therefore, for him to keep the right course.
He had not gone far when he stopped and shouted the name of Dollie. The sound reached a long way, and he repeated the call several times, but only the dismal wind among the limbs gave answer.
Striding forward, he stood a few minutes later on the margin of the creek that was spanned by the fallen tree.
“She would not have dared to walk over,” was his thought: “she must have been on this side, if she wandered off alone.”
A moment later he added:
“No; for the very reason that it is dangerous, Dollie would run across; it would be no trouble for her to do so, and there is just enough peril to tempt her. Could she have fallen in?”
He looked at the dark water as it swept forward and shivered.
“Rivers and lakes and seas and streams are always thirsting for human life, and this may have seized her.”
Tramping through the undergrowth that lined the bank he fought his way onward until he stood beside the rocks where the waters made a foaming cascade, as they dashed downward toward the mills far away.
“If she did fall in, she must be somewhere near this spot—”
His heart seemed to stop beating. Surely that dark object, half submerged and lying against the edge of the bank, where the water made an eddy, must be her body. He ran thither and stooped down.
“Thank God,” was his exclamation, after touching it with his hands, and finding it a piece of dark wood that had been carried there from the regions above.
Back he came to where the fallen tree spanned the creek, and hurried across. No snow was falling, but the earth was white with the thin coating that had filtered down hours before.
“Had it come earlier in the day,” he thought, “it would help us to trace her, but now it will hide her footprints.”
Hardly a score of steps from the creek his foot struck something soft, and he stooped down. Straightening up, he held a small hood in his hand, such as children wear in cold weather. Faint as was the light, he recognized it as Dollie’s; he had seen her wear it many times.
“What can it mean?” he asked himself; “I must have stepped over or on that on my way down, but did not notice it. Yes, Dollie is on this side the stream, but where?”
Aye, that was the question. Once more he raised his voice and shouted with might and main, but as before no answer came back.
Harvey was now master of himself. He had recovered from the shock that at first almost took away his senses and he was able to think and act with his usual coolness. But with this, the belief that Hugh and Tom had something to do with the disappearance of Dollie grew until at times he was without any doubt at all. Occasionally, however, he wavered in his belief.
Thus it was that two theories offered themselves. The first was that Dollie had set out to find him and had wandered up the mountain path to some point above the bridge and then had strayed from it and become lost. Worn out, she had laid down and was at that moment asleep.
The corollary of this theory was that she had perished with cold, or would thus perish before daylight. True, she was well clad when she went out that afternoon to play, but her hood was gone and she could not escape the biting wind that pierced the heavy clothing of Harvey himself. Then, too, there was the danger from the wild beasts, of which he had had too late an experience to forget.
Should it prove that Dollie went off in the manner named, then Harvey made a great error in setting out alone to search for her. He ought to have roused the village, and, with the hundreds scouring the mountains, helped by torches and dogs, discovery could not be delayed long.
The other and darker theory was that she had been seen by some of his enemies as she went into the woods and had been coaxed to some out-of-the-way place, where her abductors meant to hold and use her as a means of bringing the superintendent to terms. All must have known that no method could be so effective as that.
It was hard to believe that the evil-minded men would go any further. Yet it was easy for them to do so; they could make way with a little child like her and have it seem that her death was caused by falling over the rocks or by some other accident that might easily come to her.
“O’Hara and Hansell must have known all about it when I was in their cabin. They were afraid to assail me in the cabin, for I was prepared, and the fear of the law kept them from following me after I left their place.”
Harvey was thinking hard when he caught the well-known light, among the trees in the cabin.
“He, Tom and Jack, precious scamps all of them, are exulting over the sorrow they have caused, but they shall pay for it.”
The latch-string had not yet been withdrawn. Harvey gave it a jerk, followed by a spiteful push that threw the door wide open. Disappointment awaited him. Neither Hugh nor Tom was there, but Jack, looking like a twin brother of Tom, was in the act of lighting the pipe that his relative had probably left for his use. He was alone, not even the hound being present.
Jack had partly risen to his feet to reach the pouch of tobacco on the short mantel above the fireplace. He paused and looked over his shoulder with a startled expression at the visitor who made such an emphatic entrance.
“Why—why, Mr. Bradley,” he stammered, “I didn’t know it was you; will you take a seat?”
“Where are Hugh and Tom?”
“They went out some time ago.”
“Where did they go?” demanded Harvey in an angry voice.
“Down to—the—that is, I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do know. I want no trifling; I will not stand it.”
The fellow, though flustered at first, quickly regained his self-possession. He had evidently checked himself just in time to keep back some important knowledge.
“Where have they gone?” repeated the superintendent, bursting with impatience.
But Jack Hansell was himself again—sullen and insolent as ever. He had an intense dislike of his employer—a dislike that had deepened within the past few days. He slowly sat down and smoked a full minute before making reply to Harvey, who felt like throttling him.
“I told you I didn’t know,” he finally said, looking into the embers and speaking as if to the glowing coals.
“But you do know.”
“So I do, but I know another thing as well, and that is that there ain’t any reason why I should tell you if I don’t choose to.”
It took a great effort of the will for Harvey to hold himself from doing violence to the man who said he was not bound to tell what he preferred to keep to himself: but the super
intendent saw that nothing could be gained by violence. The man who can keep cool during a dispute has ten-fold the advantage over one who does not restrain himself.
After all, Jack Hansell was of small account. It was O’Hara, his master, and mayhap his companion, whom Harvey Bradley must see. If Tom chose to tell the truth he could do so, but if he would not, no one could force him to say the words.
All this was clear to the young man, who, checking his anger, added in a lower tone:
“You are not bound to answer any question I ask you, even when you have no reason for your refusal, but you cannot decline to say when they are likely to be back.”
“Yes, I can, for I don’t know.”
“I wish to see O’Hara on a matter of the first importance.”
“But he may not want to see you, and I ain’t the man to make things unpleasant for a friend.”
“You certainly expect them back tonight, do you not?”
Jack smoked his pipe a few seconds before giving heed to this simple question. Then, turning slowly toward Harvey, who was still standing in the middle of the room, he said:
“You had better sit down, for you won’t find Hugh and Tom any sooner by keeping your feet. What do you want to see ’em for?”
“That I can explain only to them, though it is Hugh whom I particularly want to meet.”
The superintendent took the seat to which he was invited. It was the stool on which he sat when in the cabin before. It cost him a greater effort than can be explained to defer to this defiant fellow, who a few weeks or even days before would have cringed at his feet like a dog.
“That being the case,” added Jack, between the puffs at his pipe, “why you’ll have to wait till they come back. That may be inside of five minutes, and not for an hour; maybe,” added Jack in the game exasperating manner, “that nothing will be seen of ’em till daylight. You see that since they have been cheated out of their work they have plenty of time to loaf through the country.”
“Any man who is too lazy to work can find time to turn his hand to dishonest tricks,” said the superintendent, meaning that the words should not be misunderstood.
“Sometimes the tricks that you call dishonest pay better than working for a superintendent who wants all the wages himself,” was the impudent reply of Jack Hansell.
“That is the excuse of the man who is bad at heart and who prefers wrong to right. Our state prisons are full of that sort of people.”
“Yes—and there are a good many people that ought to be in prison that ain’t there.”
“I am sure no one is better qualified than you to speak on that matter.”
“Except yourself.”
It struck Harvey just then that he was doing an unworthy thing in holding such a conversation with any man. If he had anything of the kind to say, he ought to speak it openly. He now did so.
“There is not a particle of doubt, Jack Hansell, that you and your brother and Hugh O’Hara are engaged in business that ought to place you all behind the bars.”
“If you think it safe to talk that way before Tom and Hugh you will now have the chance.”
“I will be glad to tell them to their faces what I have told you.”
“All right; there they come.”
Footsteps and voices in such low tones were heard outside that it was clear the men brought important news with them. And such indeed proved to be the case.
CHAPTER IV.
THE SEARCH BY HUGH AND TOM.
Never did one person do another a greater injustice than did Harvey Bradley when he believed that either Hugh O’Hara or any one else had aught to do with the absence of his little sister Dollie. No men had a hand in the sad business, nor could any one have been led to harm a hair of her head. Had Harvey asked for help, no one in the village would have held back from doing all that could be done to restore the child to her friends.
The first news that came to Hugh O’Hara’s cabin of the loss of the child was brought by Jack Hansell, who went thither on a far different errand. After a long talk on business, he gave the tidings, adding:
“I met him at the creek, but thought I wouldn’t tell him, for it would do no good. I kept my eyes open for the gal, but seen nothing of her.”
Hugh jerked the pipe from his mouth.
“What’s that you are saying? The little girl lost?”
“That’s it; she’s been missing since noon; they think she come up the path and got lost in the mountains.”
“Good gracious!” gasped Hugh, starting to his feet, “that is bad; do you know,” he added, turning to Tom and speaking with a slight tremor, “that that little girl Dollie is about the age my Jennie was when she died?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” replied Tom.
“And,” continued Hugh, swallowing a lump in his throat, “she looks so much like Jennie that I’ve often felt as if I would give all I have—which ain’t much—to hold the little one on my knee as I used to hold my baby. She is a sweet child and likes me; we’ve had many a talk together that no one beside us knows about. She’s so gentle, so innocent, so good that it seems to me I see my own darling before me when she looks up in my face. Come, boys,” he added, decisively, as he walked to the farther end of the room, picked up a lantern and lit the candle inside.
“Come where?” asked Tom, in amazement.
Hugh turned half angrily toward him.
“Do you think that I could rest while that child is lost in the mountains? Mr. Bradley hasn’t acted right toward us and I bear him no good will, but this isn’t he—it’s a little child—she looks and acts like my Jennie, that’s dead and gone.”
“But, Hugh, you forget—what about the place?”
“Let it go to the dogs for all I care! What does it amount to against the life of the little one? But we’ll let Jack stay; if any of the boys come, send them out to help in the hunt; it’ll do them more good than to break the law.”
“Suppose some that are strangers come?” said Jack with a grin.
Hugh O’Hara gave a hollow laugh.
“Send them out, too, to help in the search; we’ll be sure to find her when the whole country gets to work. If I was down in the village I would have every man, woman and child in the woods, and wouldn’t let them eat or drink or sleep till she’s found. Tom, there’s no one that knows the woods better than we and Nero. Let’s be off!”
The door was drawn inward, and Jack Hansell was left alone. He lit his pipe, smoked it out, refilled it and was in the act of refilling it, when Harvey Bradley came in—as has been made known in another place. While the man sat smoking and alone in the cabin, he fell to brooding over the troubles at the mills. Thus it came to pass that his feelings were so bitter at the time the superintendent entered that he kept back every hint that the absent men were engaged in the most “honest” business in the world—that is, they were looking for the missing child.
Meanwhile Hugh and Tom went at the task not only with zeal, but with a sagacity that gave promise of good results. As Hugh had said, they knew every foot of the mountains for miles, they were free from the flurry that at first ran away with the judgment of the superintendent, and they were used to prowling through the woods. Still further Nero had been trained to follow the faintest footprints.
“Now, Tom,” said the leader, when they had walked a short ways, “we can’t do anything till we get on the trail of the little one.”
“What do you think has become of her?”
“She’s somewhere in the woods asleep or dead, with the chances about even for either.”
“Jack says she was seen coming up the mountain path early this afternoon.”
“Well, she has kept to it till she has either slipped out of the path without knowing it or she has done it on purpose. She has strolled along until it became dark or she was tired. Then she has lain down on the leaves and gone to sleep. Nero, find the trail of the little girl.”
“But,” said Tom, “the night is so cold.”
&nb
sp; “So it is, but if the girl went out to play she was well clad, and, if she knew enough, she has crept under the lee of a rock or into the bushes, where the wind can’t reach her. If she did the same, she hasn’t frozen to death.”
“But there are wild animals in these parts.”
“I know that, and she would make a meal that any of them would be glad to get; we can only hope they didn’t find her.”
Just then Nero, who had been nosing the path in front, uttered a whine and turned aside. Hugh held up the lantern and saw that he had gone to the right. He was following a trail of some kind; whether it was that of the one whom they were seeking was to be learned. It would take a fine scent to trace the tiny footsteps under the carpet of snow, but such an exploit is not one-tenth as wonderful as that of the trained dogs in Georgia, which will stick to the track of a convict when it has been trampled upon by hundreds of others wearing similar dress and shoes, and will keep to it for miles by running parallel to the trail and at a distance of a hundred feet.
But in the latter case the canines have an advantage at the start; they are put upon the track or directed to hunt for it where it is known to exist; they are given a clew in some form.
The hound Nero was skilful in taking a scent, but his ability was not to be compared to that of the dogs to which I have referred, nor indeed was it necessary that it should be. But he had great intelligence, and acted as if he understood every word said to him by his master. He had saved Hugh and his friends many a time by giving warning from afar of the approach of strange parties. It may seem incredible that he should know what was wanted of him, but there is the best reason for saying he understood it all. Having no part of the little one’s clothing to help, he was without the clew which would appear to be indispensable. His master, however, was satisfied the dog had struck the right trail.
“Stick to it, Nero,” said Hugh, encouragingly, “not too fast, but be sure you’re right.”
Without pause, the two followed the dog, Hugh in front with lantern in hand. The woods were so cluttered with undergrowth that they could not go fast, seeing which Nero suited his pace to theirs. Now and then he ran ahead, as if impatient with the slow progress of the couple, and then he calmly awaited their approach.
The Edward S. Ellis Megapack Page 10
