“Don’t you keer,” said the little mountain man, putting a hand on her arm. “Don’t you keer nary bit. This store’s mine, an’ all them goods. I’ll mortgage hit all to go your bond. You go right on teaching your school. We’ll take keer of old Black Blevens and all them of his sort.”
Quick tears blinded her, but she brushed them away. It was hard to be treated as a criminal in a strange land and by the very people you were trying to help.
Quickly, instead of tears, there was a gleam of battle in her eyes.
“We’ll beat it!” said Ransom, clinching his fists hard. “Here in the mountains law’s a club to beat your enemies with. Hit’s quare, but hit’s true. We’ll git a lawyer from the court house. We’ll beat old Black Blevens, just you wait and see!”
Three times more that morning Florence was reduced to tears by rough-clad, shuffling mountaineers who came to knock timidly at the schoolhouse door and to assure her that they had heard of her plight and were ready to go her bail and to help in any way. “If hit takes the roof off from over my ole woman an’ the last hog shoat I got runnin’ in the branch,” as one of them expressed it.
It is always good to know that one has friends, and when one is among comparative strangers it is gratifying indeed.
And yet, as the day came to an end and the sudden mountain darkness fell, it found Florence with a heavy heart. To be tried by a Justice of the Peace for a crime, this was a cross indeed.
“Tried by a Justice,” she thought to herself. “Who is the Justice? Pellage Skidmore! One of Black Blevens’ henchmen! It’s a plot. They’ll fine me and let me go; perhaps give me ten days in the county jail. Ten days in that place!” Her heart stopped beating. She had seen that jail—a dark and dirty place full of vermin.
“Oh, I couldn’t!” she breathed.
Then of a sudden a new thought came to her. The least fine that could be imposed was twenty-five dollars; one of the men had told her that.
“In the Constitution of the United States,” she whispered to herself, “it says that in trials over matters amounting to twenty-five dollars, or over, the defendant may call for a jury. I’ll call for one. If I must have a trial, I’ll have a real one!”
At that she stamped the ground with her foot and felt immensely relieved. There is a great comfort to be had sometimes when one has something to say about his own hanging.
CHAPTER VIII
THE SILENT WATCHER
Troubles never come singly. Florence’s second shock came close on the heels of the first. Having decided to make the best of a bad situation and to allow her friends and fellow clansmen to arrange the legal battle over her trial for carrying a concealed weapon, she went to her work next day with a brave heart.
With all her strong resolves, the look on the faces of her smaller charges came near melting her to tears. All knew of the impending trial. A few greeted her with a glassy stare. These were children of her enemies. For the most part they looked at her with such a sad and sorrowful longing as one might expect to find on the face of a mother whose son has been ordered shot.
“Surely,” Marion said to her, “being tried by a jury in the mountains must be a solemn affair.”
“It is,” said Florence, swallowing hard, “and Ransom Turner told me last night this was the first time in the history of the mountains that a woman has been tried for carrying concealed weapons.”
“It will be a great occasion!” Marion could see the humor of the situation. “When is it to come off?”
“Ransom says that the judge has set the trial a week from next Monday.”
“That’s school election day. All Laurel Branch will be there!”
“Let them come!” said Florence, a gleam of fire in her eye. “I haven’t done anything to be ashamed of! They want a fight. We’ll give them one—a battle royal! They’ve already lost one point; they must give me a jury. We’ll make them lose some more. I shouldn’t wonder if the tide would turn and the power that is higher than I would turn this bit of meanness and trickery to our advantage.”
The forenoon of that day passed much as had the earlier hours of other days—study and lessons, recess, then again the droning of voices blended with the lazy buzzing of flies and the distant songs of birds.
In spite of the quiet smoothness of the passing hours, there was in the air that ominous tenseness which one feels but cannot explain.
This was heightened fourfold by a strange occurrence. Just as Florence was about to ring the bell after the noon hour, Marion drew her to a gaping window that looked out on the upper landscape and pointed with a trembling finger to a solitary figure perched atop a giant sandstone rock that lay in the center of a deserted clearing a few hundred yards above the schoolhouse.
The figure was that of a mountaineer. At that distance it would have been difficult to have told whether he was young or old. Something about the way he sat slouching over the rifle that lay across his lap reminded Florence of Black Blevens. An involuntary shudder shook her.
“On Lookout Rock!” she breathed.
The story of that rock they knew too well. In earlier days, when a deadly feud was raging up and down the creek, this rock had been the lookout for Black Blevens’ clan. There, on top of the rock, with rifle at his side, a clansman would watch the movements of his enemy. Smoke curling from a distant chimney, a woman hoeing corn in the field, the distant boom of a rifle, all were signs that he read and passed on by signals to his distant clansmen.
“There hasn’t been a watcher on that rock for years, they say,” said Florence. Her teeth were fairly chattering.
“See! He’s looking this way. Seems that he must be expecting something to happen.”
“Wha—what could it be?”
Florence stood trembling, all unnerved for one instant. Then, having shaken herself as one will to awaken from an unpleasant dream, she became her brave self again.
It was well she regained her courage. Fifteen minutes later, while Marion was outside beneath a great beech tree, hearing a lesson, Florence sat watching over a study hour. On hearing a sound of commotion she looked up quickly to see her fifty children running for doors and windows. In the back of the room Bud Wax and Ballard Skidmore stood glaring at each other and reaching for their hip pockets.
One instant the teacher’s head whirled. The next that dread rumor sped through her brain: “Bud has been carrying his pistol gun to school.”
Then, like a powerful mechanical thing, she went into action. One instant she had leaped from the platform; the next found her half way down the aisle. Before the slow muscles of Bud’s arm had carried a hand to his pocket, he felt both wrists held in a vice-like grip and a voice that was strange, even to the speaker herself, said:
“Ballard Skidmore, leave the room. All the rest of you take your seats.”
Had Bud Wax possessed the will power to struggle, he would have found himself powerless in this girl’s grasp. Nature had endowed her with a magnificent physique. She had neither neglected it nor abused it. Gym, when there was gym, hiking, climbing, rowing, riding, had served to keep her fit for this moment.
As Bud sank weakly to his seat he felt something slide from his pocket.
“My pistol gun,” his paralyzed mind registered weakly. The next moment he saw the teacher gripping the butt of that magnificent thing of black rubber and blue steel and marching toward the front of the room.
“James Jordon,” she said as she tried to still the wild beating of her heart, “go bring me two sandstones as large as your head.”
“Yes, ma’am.” James went out trembling.
Florence calmly tilted out the cylinder of the gun and allowed the cartridges to fall out. After that she stood with the weapon dangling in her hand.
When the rocks had been placed on her desk she laid the pistol on the flattest one, then lifted the other for a blow.
She did not look at Bud. She dared not. When a small child she had possessed a doll that was all her own. A ruthless hand had broken the d
oll’s head. No doll ever meant more to a girl than his first gun meant to a mountain boy.
Without looking, she felt the agony on the boy’s face as the stone descended. Without listening she heard him crumple in his seat as the rubber grip broke, springs flew and the barrel bent.
When there remained only an unrecognizable mass of broken and twisted steel, she walked slowly to the open window and dropped it out. Turning, she looked them all squarely in the eye (all but Bud, whose face was down on his desk) and said in her ordinary tune of voice:
“You may resume your lessons.”
In one corner a fly, caught in a spider’s web, droned complainingly. From a nearby bush there came the liquid notes of a wild canary, while faint and from far away there came the low of a cow. Save for the occasional swish of a turned page, no other sound disturbed the Sabbath-like stillness of the school room. And, as Florence’s glance strayed to the hillside and sentinel rock, she saw that the silent watcher was gone.
Had Florence been able to open the book of the future and to read there an account of the far reaching events that were to come out of the moments that had just passed, she would have been surprised and startled. As she could not, she could only wonder, and in her heart there was a feeling of dread.
The hours that followed were filled with a strange, subdued silence. The careless rustle of pages was gone. Gone, too, was the uneasy shuffle of feet on the plain board floor. Children recited in tones little above a whisper. It was as if the room were empty; no children there. And yet, there they were. Florence saw them with her eyes, but when she closed her eyes she was subject to an illusion, a feeling that they had vanished.
When the last long hours had dragged its way to a weary end, the children crept silently away. On the soft soil their bare feet made no sound, and from their lips there came never a whisper.
Bud Wax was the last to leave and looking neither to right nor left, with his head upon his breast he disappeared at once in the shadows of a paw-paw thicket.
Marion had gone ahead with some of the younger children to help them across the river.
Florence remained behind. As the last child disappeared from sight, she left the schoolhouse to strike off up the leafy bank and on up the hillside until, quite out of breath from climbing, she threw herself upon a soft bed of ferns to bury her face in her hands and burst out crying.
As she lay there pressing her throbbing temples, it seemed to her that all worth while things in the world had passed away. Being only a girl, she could not fathom the depth of emotion nor measure the flood tide of bitterness that flowed over her soul. She only knew that at last memory came to her rescue, the memory of an old, old story in the Bible of a man who, having won a marvelous victory over great odds, had gone far away into the wilderness to at last throw himself prostrate upon the ground and ask that he might die.
As the girl recalled the story she felt that she had much in common with this old prophet of Israel. The enemy of her school had tried to destroy it. She had defeated his end. How long she would remain victor she could not tell. She only knew that today she had won.
“And today,” she assured herself stoutly, “is enough. Let tomorrow care for itself.”
Then of a sudden she recalled a promise. She had told Jensie Crider, one of her most promising pupils, that she would come to her house and stay the night. She must be away at once.
An hour later found her on the shake roofed porch of a two room cabin far up on the side of Big Black Mountain. The light faded from the tallest, most distant peak as her tiny young hostess bade her shy welcome.
To one accustomed, as Florence was, to the homes of rich and fertile valleys, this mountain cabin seemed strangely meager. Two rooms, two beds, a table of pine boards, a fireplace hung with rows of red peppers and braids of onions, three splint bottomed chairs, a pile of home woven coverlids in the corner, a box cupboard nailed to the wall, a few dishes in the cupboard, that was all.
And yet it was scrupulously clean. The hearth had been brushed, the floor scrubbed and sanded, the coverlids on the beds were spotless and the few cheap stone dishes shone like imported china.
“It’s something that people from the outside don’t realize,” Florence told herself. “Many of these mountain folks, living here shut off from the world, with few tools and many difficulties, would put to shame many of those whose opportunities have been great. Surely their children should have a chance! And they shall!” She clenched her hands tight as this thought passed through her mind. She was thinking of the coming school election and of the things they would do if they won.
“If we win?” she whispered. “We will win! We will!”
One incident of the evening in that cabin remained long in her memory. They were at supper. Since there were but four plates and four chairs, the two younger children must wait while Jensie ate with her teacher and the father and mother.
The meal was simple enough—corn bread baked on the hearth, fried string beans, a glass of wild cherry jelly and a plain cake with very little sugar. The luxury of the meal was a plate of boiled eggs. On the rich, broad-sweeping prairies, or in cities, one thinks of eggs as staple food. In the mountains they are hoarded as a golden treasure, to be traded at the store for calico, shoes, and other necessities of life.
But this night, in honor of the guest, Jensie had served six shining white eggs. Florence saw the faces of the children glow with anticipation.
“Probably haven’t had eggs for months,” was her mental comment.
As she took her egg and cut it in two with her knife, it was like the breaking of bread in sacrament.
As the meal was eaten she watched the eager eyes of the two waiting children. Then, of a sudden, in the eyes of those little ones, a near tragedy occurred.
“Have another egg,” said the hostess to Florence, passing the plate as she did so.
Without thinking, she put out a hand to take one. Then, of a sudden, the youngest child threw herself flat on the floor while her little form shook with silent sobbing.
“No, I don’t think I care for another,” Florence said quickly, drawing back her hand just in time.
At once, with face wreathed in smiles, the little one was on her feet.
“They do this for me,” thought Florence, swallowing hard. “What must I not do for them?”
Nine o’clock found Florence safely tucked away in the bed which occupied a corner of the small living room. In the kitchen-living room slept her host and his good wife, while from above her there came an occasional rustle or thump that told plainer than words that the three children, having given up their bed to the teacher, had gone to sleep on the floor of the attic. Here was one more token of the unusual hospitality of these kindly mountain people.
The ceiling, at which the girl lay staring with sleepless eyes, was strange indeed. In some way Jeff Crider had obtained enough mill sawed boards to cover the rough hewn beams. Some way, too, he had obtained enough paint to cover the boards. Then, that he might produce a decorative effect, before the paint was dry he had held a smoking, globeless kerosene lamp close to the paint, and, moving about in ever widening circles, had painted there black roads that led round and round in endless ways to nowhere.
As the girl stared at this fantastic ceiling it seemed to her that these tracings should mean something, that they led to an important truth, a truth that she should know, and one of vast importance.
Then of a sudden it struck her all of a heap. This cabin had an attic. Mrs. McAlpin’s whipsawed cabin must have one, too. There was no entrance from below. She was sure of that, but the attic was there all the same.
“Confederate gold,” she whispered. “It must be hidden there.”
So intense were her convictions on this subject that she found herself unable to sleep.
At last, having wrapped a homespun blanket about her, she stepped into the crisp air of the night.
The moon was just rising over Big Black Mountain. It was lighting up the scenes of
another entrancing mystery, which Florence had stumbled upon a few days before.
“Who lives at the head of Laurel Branch?” she had asked Ransom Turner.
“I don’t rightly know.”
“Don’t know!” she exclaimed.
“I reckon there ain’t nobody that rightly knows except them that lives there.”
“But—but where did they come from?”
“Peers like there don’t nobody rightly know.”
“How very strange!” she had exclaimed. “When did they come?”
“Mebbe two years back. Came from somewhere away over back of Pine Mountain. Oddest people you most ever seed. One man half as big as a mountain, and no arm except one. Mighty onfriendly folks. Coupla men who went up thar huntin’ got scared off. Oddest folks you most ever seed.”
“Perhaps that’s where little Hallie came from.”
“Might be. But if I was you I’d never go near thar.”
Ransom had gone on to tell weird tales of these strange people, a dozen families in all who had leased land from a coal company and had gone up there beyond a natural stone gateway which appeared to shut them from the rest of the world. He had told how they had stayed there, never coming down to the settlements for barter and trade, and how they kept other mountain people away.
Other tales he had told, too; tales that had made her blood run cold. There was the story of a peddler with a pack who had gone up there at nightfall and had never been seen to return, and a one-armed fiddler who had never come back.
“But couldn’t they have gone out some other way?” she had asked.
“Narry a pass at the head of this branch, nary a one. Jest rocky ridges, so steep an’ high that if you was to drop your hat from the top it would blow back up to you. No, Miss,” he had added with a shake of his head, “don’t you never go up thar!”
And yet she had somehow felt that she must and would go through the natural gateway to the little known valley of mystery.
Now, as she stood looking at the moon that shone down upon it all, she felt the lure stronger than ever.
The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls Page 112
