The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls

by Mildred A. Wirt

  “Hey there, you! Call off your dogs! Do you want them to murder an innocent child?”

  One instant there came a flood of light from a large door, the next the light was blocked by the form of the largest man Florence had ever seen, and there came such a giant’s roar as quite drowned the baying of the dogs and set the rocks fairly shaking with echoes.

  The echoes died away and the dogs were silent. The giant did not speak again, but stood there peering into the darkness. The girl caught the snap-snap of a bat’s jaws as he flew over. She heard the steady tick of her watch. Then of a sudden there came a movement close behind her. Wheeling about, she tried to peer into the darkness but saw nothing. There came no other sound.

  So a moment passed on into eternity, and yet another. Then the giant’s voice boomed again:

  “Whoever y’ be, come! Them hounds won’t harm you nary bit. There’s chill and right smart of mountain fever in the night air.”

  Rising unsteadily, a great fear tugging at her heart, Florence lifted the child in her arms and stumbled along toward the doorway.

  As she came nearer, the man turned to speak a word to someone inside and at once the light from within brought out his profile in clear relief. A massive, full-bearded face it was, with a powerful jaw, a large hawk-like nose, and a full forehead. All this was crowned by a tangled mass of iron gray hair.

  Two other facts the girl noted with a shudder. The giant’s right sleeve hung limp at his side; in his powerful left arm he held a rifle of gigantic proportions which might suit equally well for either firearm or club.

  “It’s the one-armed giant that Ransom Turner told about!” she whispered to herself, more frightened than ever.

  Yet, mindful of the good of the child who lay limp in her arms, she trudged sturdily on until the light from the doorway fell full upon her.

  Instantly, at sight of them, a change came over the man’s face. The ruddy touch to his cheek turned to ashen. He tottered as if for a fall but, gripping the doorpost, he held his ground and continued his glassy stare until at last words escaped his lips:

  “Hit’s Hallie!”

  Then, and not till then, did Florence know that she had brought the child to her home.

  But the giant? The moment his force of will had loosed his tongue, like some lion who stunned by a shot comes back to life, he became a terrifying creature of tremendous action.

  “Hit’s her!” he roared. “They killed her!”

  “She’s not dead,” said Florence in as calm a tone as she could command. “Let me by.”

  Mechanically the giant moved to one side.

  As Florence stepped into the room she took in the interior at a glance. It was the largest room she had seen in the mountains and its walls were of logs. The cracks were well chinked. The floor was clean and the wooden table, on which rested three large candles, was scrubbed to a snowy whiteness. Two beds in a corner were well in order. A burned down fire glowed dully in a broad fireplace.

  In the corner by the fireplace stood two women; one tall and young, with the sturdy erectness of her kind; the other bent with age. They had risen from their chairs and were pointing at the child in her arms.

  “They’ve killed her!” the giant roared again. The working of his face in rage or sorrow was a terrible thing to see. “You have killed her. Hit’s enough. Give her to me.” He gripped Florence’s arm in a way that brought white lines of pain to her face.

  At that instant an astonishing thing happened. A body hurdling through the doorway struck the giant amidship and sent him bowling over like a ten-pin. As he fell he crashed into the table and overturned it. The three candles cut circles through the air, then sputtered out, leaving the place in darkness.

  At once Florence’s head was in a whirl. What should she do? Try to escape? Perhaps. But where was the door? She had lost her sense of direction. As she took a step forward her foot caught in some garment and, loosing her hold on the child, she fell heavily.

  Stunned by the fall, she lay motionless. As her wandering senses returned she became conscious of the beings about her. She caught the heavy breathing of the old man. No sound came from the corner by the fire. Like all those of their race, the mountain women were neither whining nor sobbing over this sudden commotion in their home, but stood stolidly waiting the next surprising turn of fortune’s wheel.

  Darkness continued. Two red coals on the hearth glowed like eyes, but gave forth no light.

  Suddenly, as Florence listened, she heard the sharp drawn breath of one in pain.

  Who could this be? The person who had leaped through the door? Perhaps, but who was he?

  All these wandering thoughts were put to flight by the sudden wail of a child.

  “Hit’s Hallie,” said a woman’s voice from the corner. “She hain’t dead. Not near. Betsy Anne, make a light.”

  Florence heard a shuffle in that corner, sensed a groping in the dark, then saw a trembling tube of paper thrust against one of the live coals. At once the coal began to brighten.

  “Someone blowing it,” she thought.

  Five seconds later the tube burst into bright flame, throwing fantastic shadows over the room. A few seconds more and a candle was found. It illumined the cabin with a faint but steady light.

  Scarcely knowing whether to flee or stay, Florence glanced hurriedly around her. The giant, having risen to his knees, was bending over the child who was now silently sobbing. The two women were standing nearby and in the corner was the last person Florence had expected to see.

  “Bud Wax!” she exclaimed.

  Then catching the look of pain on his face, she said with a look of compassion.

  “You’re hurt!”

  “I—I guess it’s broken,” said the boy, touching the arm that hung limp at his side.

  “But why—”

  “I—I thought he’d hurt you, and I—I couldn’t—”

  “You did it for me! You—” Florence was beginning to understand, or at least to wonder. Bud had done this—Bud, of all persons. Kin of her bitterest enemy, the boy whose choicest possession she had destroyed! And how had he come to be here at that moment? Her head was in a whirl.

  “There’s right smart of a rock right outside the door,” the boy grinned. “I were a watchin’ from up there an’ when I seed him grab yore arm I just naturally jumped. I reckon hit were to far.”

  “But if your arm is broken, it must be set.”

  “Yes’m, I reckon.”

  At that moment there was a sound of shuffling feet at the door. Turning about, Florence found herself staring into the face of a man, a face she recognized instantly. The beady eyes, hooked nose, unshaven chin—there could be no mistaking him. It was he who had twice frightened Marion and at one time all but driven little Hallie into hysterics.

  “What more could happen in one crowded night?” she asked herself, deep in despair.

  Strangely enough, Bud Wax was the one person in the room who brought her comfort. Oddly enough, too, the person she feared most was the one she saw for the first time that very moment, the man at the door.

  Even as she stared at this man with a fascination born of fear, the man spoke:

  “What you all so shook up about?” he drawled.

  “Hit’s Hallie,” the grizzled old man said, running his hand across his brow. “She’s come back. They brung her back. Might nigh kilt her, I reckon, then brung her back.”

  Florence’s lips parted in denial, but no words came out. Her tongue seemed glued to the roof of her mouth. There she sat, staring dumbly, while a cheap nickel plated alarm clock on the mantelpiece rattled loudly away as if running a race with time, and faintly, from far away, there came the notes of some bird calling to his mate in the night.

  * * * *

  At this moment, back in the whipsawed cabin, Marion found herself at once highly elated and greatly depressed.

  “If only we can find the rest of them—a whole sack of them!” she whispered excitedly to herself one moment, and the
next found herself pacing the floor, murmuring: “Where can they have gone? Why don’t they come back?”

  There was no connection between the two emotions which she was experiencing. The first had to do with a letter which had just been brought to her from the little post office down the creek; the last with the mysterious disappearance of Florence and Hallie.

  The letter was from her friend, the curator at Field Museum. It read:

  “Dear Marion:

  You have made quite a find. How did you happen upon it? But then, I suppose one may find many rare articles back there in the Cumberlands so far from the main channels of commerce and life.

  The gold piece you sent me is not properly a coin, but a token minted by a private individual. There are enough such tokens in bronze, but the gold ones are rare. Just why any were made is hard to tell. We know they were made, however. Two kinds are known to exist; one made in Georgia, the other in North Carolina.

  You may not know it, but way back in 1830 gold was mined in Lumpkin County, Georgia, and Rutherfordton, North Carolina. Temple Reid, of Georgia, and a Mr. Bechtler of Rutherfordton, made their gold into tokens and the specimen you have found is a true sample of Georgia gold, very rare and quite valuable. Should you care to sell this one, and should you find others, I have no doubt they might be readily disposed of at something like sixty or seventy dollars for each piece.”

  “Sixty or seventy dollars!” Marion exclaimed as she read the letter for a third time. “At that rate a mere handful of them would be worth quite a small fortune, and even the price of one is not to be sneered at. It would help toward repairing the schoolhouse.”

  “It wouldn’t go far,” smiled Mrs. McAlpin. “That schoolhouse needs a new roof, a new floor, doors, windows, blackboards and seats. Otherwise it is a very good schoolhouse. But then, what is the use of your dreaming about that? Ransom Turner says the election is lost, and he should know.”

  “Yes, he should.” A cloud spread over Marion’s face as she sat down. The cloud was replaced by a frown as she sprang to her feet to pace the floor and exclaim for the fourth time:

  “Where can they have gone? Why don’t they come back?”

  “Have no doubt,” said Mrs. McAlpin, “that they went together to a cabin for supper or to spend the night.”

  They—Florence and Hallie—had indeed gone to a cabin to spend the night; but such a cabin, and such a night!

  Marion knew that Mrs. McAlpin did not feel half the assurance she tried to express. Little Hallie had disappeared, leaving no trail behind. Florence had left the whipsawed cabin, saying she was going for a walk but would return for supper. She had not returned. Darkness had come, supper time had passed. Their supper stood untouched and cold on the table.

  “I still have hopes of finding the rest of that Georgia gold,” said Marion, talking more to herself than to Mrs. McAlpin. “Perhaps it isn’t all Georgia gold. There may be some Confederate gold mixed in with it. One never can tell. It certainly would be thrilling to discover some real Confederate gold. I’m not at all satisfied with our search of the attic.”

  “Was there anything up there beside this one bit of gold?” On Mrs. McAlpin’s face there was such an amused smile as one might expect to find there had a child told her he meant to go in search of the pot of gold at the foot of the rainbow.

  “Nothing but a heavy old pounding mill,” replied Marion.

  “Why should one wish to store a pounding mill in an attic? They are always used out of doors.”

  “I don’t know,” said the girl thoughtfully. “Might be sort of an heirloom.”

  “Rather ponderous I should say.”

  Marion caught her breath. Uncle Billie had said that old block of a pounding mill was uncommonly heavy. Here was food for thought. The first thing in the morning she would go up there. She would—

  At this moment her thoughts were cut short by a sudden burst of thunder that went rolling and reverberating down the mountain.

  “We’re in for a storm!” she exclaimed, dashing toward the door.

  They were in for a storm indeed; such a storm as had not been known on Laurel Branch in years. For an hour Marion sat by the doorway watching the play of lightning as it flashed from peak to peak on Big Black Mountain. The deafening peals of thunder, like the roar of gigantic cannons in some endless battle, came rumbling down from the hills to shake the very cabin floor. Through all this one thought was uppermost in Marion’s mind, one question repeated itself again and again:

  “Where is Florence and little Hallie?”

  CHAPTER XI

  THE GUARD OF THE STONE GATEWAY

  At the very moment when Marion was wondering and worrying about her pal, Florence was learning how truly one might trust the providence of God.

  Being cornered, with the grizzled giant before her accusing her of “might nigh killing” little Hallie, and with the beady-eyed individual, whom she feared most of all, blocking the door before her, and with Bud Wax, whom she had always thought of as a member of the enemy’s clan, groaning with pain in the corner, she had reached the point of utter distraction when of a sudden the man in the doorway spoke.

  He had just been told that little Hallie had returned home, “might nigh killed.”

  “T’ain’t so!” he exclaimed, looking first at the one-armed giant and then at Florence. “Hain’t nary a word of truth in what you just been saying, Job Creech. Them thar folks never hurt Hallie. They never teched one hair on her head. They was plumb kind an’ gentle with her. I been watchin’. I knowed whar she was. She was so pert and contented hit were a shame to tote her away.”

  Nothing could have more surprised Florence than this speech; nothing could have more quickly released her pent-up powers and set her brain working on the needs of the moment.

  “Hain’t nobody been totin’ Hallie back,” grumbled the giant. “This here fureign lady brung her back.”

  Florence did not hear this speech. She was already bending over the silently sobbing child. After loosening her clothes, she chafed her cold hands and feet until a warm red glow returned to them; then, picking her up, she placed her on the bed and covered her in home woven blankets. In less than a minute Hallie fell into a peaceful sleep.

  “She’ll be all right when she wakens,” Florence smiled reassuringly at the younger woman, who she thought might be the little girl’s mother. “When she wakes up she may even recognize you all. I hope so.”

  The woman stared at her as if she had spoken to them in a foreign language.

  Disregarding this, she turned to the man at the door. “This boy has broken his arm,” she said, nodding at Bud. “It will have to be set. Have you anything that will do for splints?”

  “I reckon thar’s right smart of shakes outen the shed.”

  “Will you get me some?”

  The man disappeared.

  After a search she found in the corner an old, faded calico dress which was quite clean.

  “This will do for binding,” she said, looking at the women. “You don’t mind if I use it?”

  “’T’ain’t no account noways.”

  “All right. Thanks.”

  She was obliged to hurt Bud severely while getting the bone in place and binding it, but the boy uttered never a groan.

  By the time this task was completed, finding herself quite shaky and weak, Florence somehow made her way to a splint-bottomed chair by the fire. Fresh fuel had been put on. In spite of the deluge of water that now and again came dashing down the chimney, the fire burned brightly. The thunder storm was now in full progress. Florence was surprised at noting this.

  So preoccupied had she been with her errands of mercy that she had neither heard nor seen anything of it until this moment.

  Strange indeed were her thoughts as she sat there staring at the fire. At times it was the fire itself that held her attention. Led on by the challenge of wind and storm, it went roaring and laughing up the chimney, for all the world as if it meant to dispel the damp and cold from ev
ery cabin in the mountains. A moment later, slapped squarely in the face by a deluge of rain, it shrunk down within itself until the whole cabin was in darkness.

  “It—it’s given up,” Florence would whisper to herself with a half sob. “But no! There it is rising from its own blackened ruins to roar with cheer again.

  “It’s like life,” she told herself. And, indeed, how like her own life it was. Only a few days before she had been fired with hope and desire to be of service to these mountain people. Now, with hopes drowned and courage well nigh gone, she waited only to battle her way through the coming trial and the election that seemed certain defeat. A lump rose in her throat at the thought.

  But again, as the fire battling its way once more up the chimney flung free its challenge to the elements, she was driven to believe that courage, hope and desire to serve would again burn brightly in her heart.

  “Hope!” she whispered. “What hope can there be? The election is lost! The winter school a thing of the past. How can it be otherwise? And yet I do hope!”

  These thoughts passed. She had become suddenly conscious of her immediate surroundings. She was well within the natural stone gateway through which entrance had been forbidden heretofore. She was in the midst of a strange and mysterious people, in the very cabin of their leader. Of this last she felt sure.

  She recalled with a sudden shock the weird tales she had heard told of these people, of the peddler with his rich pack of linens and box of jewelry, and of the one-armed fiddler who had passed this way to be seen no more.

  “And now I am here,” she whispered, her limbs trembling with terror. “And on such a night!”

  Even as she spoke there came such a rolling crash of thunder as set the dishes in the little wall cupboard rattling and brought a huge cross-log on the fire down with a thud and sputter that sent sparks flying everywhere. She caught the rush of water outside, not alone the constant beating of the rain, but louder and more terrifying than that, the mighty rush and roar of a cataract. Swollen to twenty times its natural size, Laurel Creek had become a mighty Niagara.

  Turning about, she allowed her gaze to sweep the room. In one corner on a bed little Hallie slept peacefully. In the opposite corner the man with the hooked nose had thrown himself across the other bed. The two women had vanished, probably into the other room of the cabin. In the corner, with head pillowed on his uninjured arm, Bud Wax slept.