The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls

by Mildred A. Wirt

  “Someone stowed his corn here. Husked the corn and left the husks.”

  “How—how comfortable,” she sighed as her weary body relaxed upon this springy bed.

  “I’ll rest here for a moment,” she thought, “rest here for a—for a—rest—”

  The next moment she was fast asleep.

  Hours later she awoke with a start. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. Then, catching the rustle of corn husks, she remembered where she was.

  “Must have fallen asleep,” she said, a feeling of consternation coming over her. “And now it is—” She gazed about her questioningly.

  “Now it is daylight,” she finished as she noted a bright bar of sunlight that fell across the floor. “Here I stay until dark.”

  Here she remained. Once she left the cabin for a moment to slake her thirst at a spring that bubbled out of the rocks just back of the house. Both in coming and going she reverently parted the hollyhocks before the door.

  “Probably some childish hands spilled the seed that started them growing there,” she told herself. “I wonder where that child may be now?”

  The attic was silent, too silent. In one dark corner a fly, caught in a spider’s web, slowly buzzed his life away.

  There was time now for thinking. And she did think, thought this whole adventure through from its very beginning.

  It is strange, the unusual opportunities for adventure and romance that come to one in out-of-the-way places. Florence, with her chum, Marion, had been invited by Mrs. McAlpin, Florence’s aunt, to spend the summer in the mountains. They had come, expecting fishing, swimming and mountain climbing. They had found time for these, too; but above all, their summer had been filled with service, service for those whose opportunities had been far fewer than their own.

  The one great service they had been able to render had been that of conducting a summer school for the barefooted, eager little children who swarmed the sides of Big Black Mountain. It had been a real pleasure to teach them. Strange to say, though there was a public school at the mouth of Laurel Branch, little was ever taught in it. The teacher, who knew nothing of grammar, geography or history, and little enough of “Readin’, ’Ritin’ and ’Rithmatic,” took the school for no purpose save that he might draw the public money. The school, which was supposed to last six months, he brought to an end as speedily as possible. If no children came he could go back to his farm work of putting away his corn crop or rolling logs to clear land for next year’s harvest, and he could do this and still draw his pay as a teacher.

  The schoolhouse, a great log shack with holes for doors and windows, was without either doors or windows to keep out the weather. Before the cold autumn rains the little group of children who came to drone out words after their disinterested teacher vanished like blackbirds before the first snow, leaving the teacher free for other things.

  Now all was to be changed—at least the girls hoped so. They had been teaching the summer school for six weeks when Ransom Turner, a sincere and ambitious man who had the good of the community at heart, had come to them proposing that they remain through autumn and early winter and teach the public school.

  Here was an opportunity to make a real contribution, to set a model for all time, to give these simple mountain folks an idea of what school should be.

  “Of course,” Ransom Turner had said, “we’ll have to elect you a trustee.”

  “A trustee!” they had exclaimed in unison, failing to understand his meaning.

  “Of course. You don’t think that worthless scamp that’s been drawin’ the pay and not teachin’ any could get the job unless he’d elected a trustee, do you? But leave that to us mountain folks. You jest say you’ll take the school an’ we’ll elect you a trustee.”

  “But the schoolhouse!” Florence had remonstrated. “It’s bad enough now—flies, and all that—but in cold weather it would be impossible.”

  Ransom’s face had clouded. “Can’t be helped none, I reckon. They hain’t no funds fer hit. Doors and windows cost a heap, havin’ to be brought in as they do. Us mountain folks are most terrible poor, most terrible.”

  The two girls had considered the proposition seriously. They were not yet through the University. It seemed a little hard to give up the first half of their school year. They caught visions of great buildings, swarming students, laughing faces, books, libraries, all the good things that go to make University life a joyous affair. Yet here was an opportunity for an unusual service. Could they afford to refuse? They had talked it over. In the end Florence had said to Ransom:

  “If you can manage the trustee and we can get some money to fix up the schoolhouse, we will stay.”

  To this Marion had given hearty assent and Ransom Turner had gone away happy.

  Money for the new school! It had been their desire for just this that had put Florence in her present strange and mysterious predicament.

  It had been a very unusual proposition that Mr. John Dobson of the Deep Rock Mining Company had made to them, a proposition that held great possibilities.

  They had gone to him to ask him to help them with money for the school. He had told them that his company had no fund for contributions such as they asked. He had not, however, turned them away entirely without hope.

  “The company, of which I am President,” he had said, “is a comparatively small one. The stock is not owned by any one rich man, or by a group of rich men. It is owned by a number of men who own a little property and who hope to improve their position by wise investment. These men look to me to bring about the success they hope for. Unfortunately, at the present time we are short of coal lands. The railroad up this way has been built for several years. The coal land that lies along it has been bought up by rich companies, principally the Inland Coal and Coke Company, which is so large that it has come to be looked upon as virtually a monopoly in these parts.

  “There is but one field left to us.” His eyes glanced away to the crest of Pine Mountain. “At the back of that mountain there is coal, plenty of it. Land is cheap. At present there is no railroad, but there is a persistent rumor that the M. and N. proposes to build a spur up that creek. They will build it. But when?” He had risen to pace the floor of his small office. “When? That’s the question.”

  “The directors of the railroad,” he had gone on after a long pause, “are to hold a meeting next week. They may decide upon the spur at that time. If it is to be built within the next year, there is a tract of land back here that we want—want badly. It is owned by a man named Caleb Powers. The price is twenty-one thousand. Needless to say, our rich rival will want it. They may be able to secure advance information regarding the coming decision of the Directors of the M. and N. In that case we are defeated. If they do not, we have a chance. The first person to get to Caleb Powers after the spur has been decided upon, will get the land.”

  Here he had paused and looked Florence squarely in the eye.

  “That’s where you come in,” he had said steadily. “That is, if you wish to. I am to be away in another section of the mountains next week—can’t be here. You want money for your school?” He had stared hard at the girl.

  “Y-es, we do.”

  “Well then, here’s your chance. One of you go back behind Pine Mountain and there keep in close touch with Caleb Powers. The other must remain here until news of the decision regarding the proposed spur comes. I will arrange for a messenger at the rail’s end. As soon as the messenger arrives you must make all haste to reach Caleb Powers. I will give you the earnest money—five hundred dollars. If the spur is to be built and you succeed in purchasing the land, I will pay you a commission of ten percent.”

  “Think of it!” Florence had exclaimed. “Twenty-one hundred dollars! All that for the school!”

  Visions of a warm, cozy school room, brightened by many happy, glowing faces, passed before her mind’s eye.

  “Of course we’ll try it,” she had said with quiet resolution.

  “Of course,” Marion had
echoed.

  “And now it has come to this,” Florence said to herself as she stirred upon the rustling corn husks of her bed in the deserted cabin which formed her temporary hiding place.

  Once more her mind went back to the broken sequence of events. It had been agreed that she should cross over the mountains and stay with a friend of Mrs. McAlpin who lived at the back of Pine Mountain.

  “And I will keep you posted by means of the Silent Alarm!” Marion had exclaimed.

  Until now the Silent Alarm had been little more than a plaything. Now it was to be of some real use. Florence’s older brother, who had been in the great war, had told her how, by the use of signal lamps, flashlights and the Continental code he and his comrades had been able to signal to one another even across a point of the enemy’s trenches. He had explained the matter to her in detail, had also taught her the code. Often at night, from some distant hillside, with a flashlight and the barrel of a dismantled shotgun, Florence had signaled to Marion at the cabin. And Marion, with some similar simple apparatus, had signaled back.

  The simple-minded, superstitious mountain folks, having seen these strange stars blinking away against the mountain, had whispered weird tales of witch light and of seeing old women riding a cloud at night. All this had greatly amused the girls and they kept their secret well.

  “Now,” Marion had said to Florence when she started on her mission, “when you get to your destination back there, I’ll climb this side of the mountain to the crest and we’ll get in touch with one another by signal fires. After that, when the big news comes, I’ll climb the mountain again. If it comes in the daytime I will use a heliograph; if by night, some form of tube and a flashlight.”

  As you have already seen, by the aid of Marion’s beacon fire on the mountain’s crest, they had established communications. But under what unexpected conditions this was done! Florence had been the prisoner of strange men whose motives in holding her were unknown. This she had flashed back to Marion. She had added a warning not to try to come to her.

  Bearing this startling news, Marion had retraced her steps to Mrs. McAlpin’s cabin.

  “And here I am a fugitive,” Florence sighed as she sat up among the corn husks. “A fugitive from whom? And why? The message will come and I will not be able to deliver it. The coal tract will be lost to the Inland Coal and Coke Company and our hopes for a schoolhouse will be blighted.

  “But no!” she clinched her fist. “It must not be! There is yet a way!”

  The message did come, a message of great good news. It came on the wings of the wind, came to Mrs. McAlpin and Marion, late that very afternoon.

  In the meantime, on the mountain-side near the cabin in which Florence was hiding, strange things were happening. Florence was wondering about the identity of the rough mountain men who had made her prisoner. Were they feudists? Or moonshiners suspecting her of being a spy? Or real spies themselves, employed by the great mining corporation to trap her? Or were they just plain robbers?

  Such were the thoughts running through her mind when she caught the sound of a cheery note outside the cabin. It was the chee-chee-chee, to-wheet, to-wheet, to-wheet of a mountain wren. The song brightened her spirits and allayed her fears.

  “As long as he keeps up his joyous notes I need have no fear,” she told herself. “The appearance of someone near would frighten him into silence.

  “Dear little friend,” she whispered, “how wonderful you are! When human friends were here you came each year to make your nest in some niche in their cabin. Now they are gone. Who knows where? But you, faithful to their dream of happiness, return to sing your merry song among the ruins.”

  Even as she whispered this, her ear caught a far different note, a dread sound—the long-drawn note of a hound.

  As this grew louder and louder her heart beat rapidly with fear.

  “On my trail,” she thought with dread.

  As the sound began to grow fainter she felt sure that the hunters, if hunters they were, had passed on up over the main trail. Hardly had the hope been born when it was suddenly dashed aside. The solid thump-thump of footsteps sounded outside the cabin, then ended.

  For a moment there was silence, such a silence as she had not experienced in all her days. Flies had ceased to buzz. The little brown wren had flown away.

  Then a harsh voice crashed into that silence.

  “Reckon she are up thar, Lige?”

  “’T’ain’t no ways possible,” drawled the second man. “Look at them thar hollyhocks. Narry a leaf broke. Reckon airy one’d pass through that door without a tramplin’ ’em down?”

  “Reckon not.”

  “Better be stirrin’ then, I reckon.”

  “Reckon so.”

  Again came the solid drum of feet. This grew fainter and fainter until it died away in the distance.

  “Good old hollyhocks! Good little old sentries, how I could hug you for that!” A tear splashed down upon the girl’s hand, a tear for which none should be ashamed.

  Even as the footsteps of the men died away in the distance, Florence felt the shadow of the mountain creeping over the cabin.

  “Soon be dark,” she breathed, “and then—”

  She was some time in deciding just what should be done. Her first impulse was to take the up-trail as soon as darkness had fallen and to make her way back to her friends.

  “But that,” she told herself, “means the end of our hopes.”

  At once there passed before her closed eyes pictures of brave, laughing little children of the mountain; ragged, barefooted, pleading children, walking miles over the frosts of November to attend their school, the first real school they would have known.

  “No!” She set her teeth hard. “There is still a way. I will wait here for Marion’s signal. It will come. If she has news, good news, somehow I will find my way to Caleb Powers. Somehow the race must be won!”

  CHAPTER III

  A DARTING SHADOW

  That same evening, just at dusk, Marion came upon a fresh and startling mystery. She had climbed the hill at the back of the ancient whipsawed cabin which was occupied by Mrs. McAlpin and her friends.

  Beside the bubbling brook that sang so softly, she had found she could think calmly. There was reason enough for calm thinking, too. They had entered into this business of buying the Powell coal tract, expecting only mild adventure and possibly a large profit. Mysterious things were happening to Florence. She was sure of that. By the aid of the Silent Alarm she had received a message from her. The message had warned her to retreat, to return to the whipsawed cabin and wait. She had obeyed.

  It was indeed very singular.

  “What can have happened?” Marion now asked herself for the hundredth time. “Wherever she may be, she can hardly be out of reach of the Silent Alarm. Darkness will find me again on the trail that leads to the crest of Pine Mountain.

  “She must succeed! Must! Must!” she told herself. “And I must let her know. I surely must!”

  That very afternoon she had received information of tremendous importance.

  In the whipsawed cabin was a small radio receiving set. The long twilight of the mountains often slipped away with a score of mountain people sitting on the hillside listening to the sweet strains of music that came from this radio and floated through the open windows. At times, even in the afternoon, they tuned in on Louisville that they might catch some news of the outside world. On this particular afternoon, wearied from her long hike of the previous night, Marion had been lolling half asleep on the couch when of a sudden she sat upright, wide awake. Her ear had caught the words, “M. and N. Railroad.”

  Here might be important news. It was important, for the announcer, after a brief pause in which he had perhaps referred to his notes, had gone on:

  “At a meeting today of the Board of Directors of the M. and N. Railroad, it was decided that a spur would be built along the south slope of Pine Mountain. This work, which is to be rushed to completion within a year, will t
ap vast tracks of valuable coal land.”

  Marion had risen trembling from the couch. She had wanted to cry, to laugh, to shout. Here was great news indeed. Coming right in from the air, it had beyond doubt given them many hours of advantage over their rival, the agent of the Inland Coal and Coke Company.

  But she had not shouted, nor had she cried nor laughed. She had climbed the hillside and had stretched out on the leafy slope by the murmuring brook to think.

  She had decided to wait for darkness. Then she would hurry away over the four miles that led to the crest of the low mountain. Once there she would kindle a beacon fire.

  Down deep in her heart she prayed that Florence might catch the gleam of that fire as she had the one of the night before, and that having caught her joyous message, she might be free to act.

  “If only it would hurry and get dark!” she whispered to herself. “If only it would. Then I could slip up there and send the message.”

  But what was this? Of a sudden this all important problem was driven from her mind. From out the clump of mountain ivy that skirted the hill above the whipsawed cabin there had darted a shadow.

  Who could it be? No mysterious persons were known to be about, but she could not be sure. Men hid out in these hills—rough, dangerous men who were wanted by the law.

  The cheery lamplight that suddenly burst forth through the small square window of the whipsawed cabin below reassured her. There were friends in that house, her friends Mrs. McAlpin and little Hallie.

  Even as she settled back again to think of their great problems, she was given another start. Outside the window, into the square of light that poured forth from it, there had crept the face of a man. It was not a charming face to behold, but rather an alarming one. Beneath bushy eyebrows gleamed a pair of beady black eyes. The nose was hawk-like and the cheeks and chin were covered by a stubby beard.

  It was a face to make one shudder, and Marion did shudder. She drew back as if to bury herself in the giant chestnut at her back. Even as she did so she saw the man start, saw an unuttered exclamation spring to his lips. What had he seen? What had he hoped to see? There was mystery enough about that whipsawed cabin. Once there had been gold in it—much gold. Preacher Gibson had hinted that it might still be there. It had been brought there many years before, just after the Civil War. Jeff Middleton, who with the help of a neighbor had built the cabin, had died suddenly in a feud. The gold had vanished. No one, so far as was known, had ever found it.