CHAPTER XXI
AN ADVENTURE IN THE FOG
Tom Chepstow set out for the dugout. Churchman as he was his blood wasstirred to fighting heat, his lean, hard muscles were tingling with anervous desire for action. Nor did he attempt to check his feelings, orcompose them into a condition compatible with his holy calling.Possibly, when the time had passed for action, and the mantle of peaceand good-will toward all men had once more fallen upon him, he wouldbitterly regret his outbreak, but, for the moment, he was a man, human,passionate, unreasoning, thrilling with the joy of life, and thedelight of a moral truancy from all his accepted principles. Noschoolboy could have broken the bonds of discipline with a greater joy,and his own subconscious knowledge of wrong-doing was no mar to hispleasure.
The fog was thick, but it did not cause him great inconvenience. Hetook to the woods for his course, and, keeping close to the edge whichencircled the camp clearing, he had little difficulty in striking thepath to the dugout. This achieved he had but to follow it carefully.The one possibility that caused him any anxiety was lest he shouldovershoot the hut in the fog.
But he need have had no fear of this. Dense as the fog was, the lightsof the dugout were plainly visible when he came to it. Betty, withcareful forethought, had set the oil lamps in the two windows. Shequite understood the difficulties of that forest land, and she had nodesire for the men-folk to spend the night roaming the wilderness.
The parson found her calmly alert. She did not fly at him with a rushof questions. She was far more composed than he, yet there was asparkling brilliancy in her brown eyes which told of feelings stronglycontrolled; her eyelids were well parted, and there was a shade ofquickening in the dilation of her nostrils as she breathed. She lookedup into his face as he turned after closing the door, and his tongueanswered the mute challenge.
"There's to be a great game to-night," he said, rubbing the palms ofhis hands together. The tone, the action, both served to point thestate of his mind.
Knowing him as she did Betty needed no words to tell her that the"game" was to be no sort of play.
"It's a 'strike,'" he went on. "A strike, and a bad one. They intend tomake a prisoner of Mason, and, maybe, of us. We've got to outwit them.Now, help me get some things together, and I'll tell you while we getready. We've got to quit to-night."
He picked up a gunny sack while he was speaking and gave it to Betty tohold open. Then he immediately began to deplete the lumberman's larderof any eatables that could be easily carried.
Ever since the men had left her this strike had been in Betty's mind,so his announcement in no way startled her.
"What of Dave?" she asked composedly. "Has he any--idea of it?"
"That's just it. We've got to let him know. He's quite in the dark.Communications cut. Mason must get away at once to let him know. Heintends to 'jump' their buckboard and team--I mean these strikers'buckboard." He laughed. He felt ready to laugh at most things. It wasnot that he did not care. His desire was inspired by the thought thathe was to play a part in the "game."
"The one that came in to-night?" Betty asked, taking up a fresh sack toreceive some pots and blankets.
"Yes."
"And we are to bolt with him?" she went on in a peculiar manner.
Her uncle paused in the act of putting firearms and ammunition into thesack. Her tone checked his enthusiasm. Then he laughed.
"We're not 'bolting' Betty, we're escaping so that Dave may get thenews. His fortune depends on our success. Remember our communicationsare cut."
But his arguments fell upon deaf ears. Betty smiled and shook her brownhead.
"We're bolting, uncle. Listen. There's no need for us to go. In fact,we can't go. Think for a moment. Things depend on the speed with whichDave learns of the trouble. We should make two more in the buckboard ofwhich the horses are already tired. Mason, by himself, will travellight. Besides, a girl is a deterrent when it comes to--fighting. No,wait." She held up a warning finger as he was about to interrupt. "Thenthere are the sick here. We cannot leave them. They--are our duty.Besides, Dave's interests would be ill served if we left the fever tocontinue its ravages unchecked."
In her last remark Betty displayed her woman's practical instinct.Perhaps she was not fully aware of her real motive. Perhaps sheconscientiously believed that it was their duty that claimed her.Nevertheless her thought was for the man she loved, and it guided herevery word and action; it inspired her. The threat of imprisonment uphere did not frighten her, did not even enter into her considerationsat all. Dave--her every nerve vibrated with desire to help him, to savehim.
Chepstow suddenly reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder. Hisenthusiasm had passed, and, for the moment, the churchman in him wasuppermost again.
"You're right, Betty," he said with decision. "We stay here."
The girl's eyes thanked him, but her words were full of practicalthought.
"Will Mason come here? Because, if so, we'll get these things outsideready."
"No. We've got to carry them down the trail and meet him there. Theremay be a rush. There may be a scuffle. We don't know. I half thinkyou'd better stay here while I go and meet him."
Betty shook her head.
"I'm going to help," she exclaimed, with a flash of battle in her eyes.
"Then come on." Her uncle shouldered the heavier of the two sacks, andwas about to tuck the other under his arm, but Betty took it from him,and lifted it to her shoulder in a twinkling.
"Halves," she cried, as she moved toward the door.
The man laughed light-heartedly and blew out the lights. Then, as hereached the girl's side, a distant report caused him to stop short.
"What's that?" he demanded.
"A pistol shot," cried Betty. "Come along!"
They ran out of the hut and down the trail, and, in a moment, wereswallowed up in the fog.
* * * * *
Bob Mason intended to give Chepstow a fair start. He knew, if he wereto be successful, his task would occupy far less time than the other's.And a vital point in his scheme lay in meeting his two friends at theappointed spot.
He was fully alive to the rank audacity of his plan. It was desperate,and the chances were heavily against him. But he was not a man toshrink from an undertaking on such a score. He had to warn Dave, andthis was the only means that suggested itself. If he were not a geniusof invention, he was at least full of courage and determination.
On his previous reconnoitre he had located the buckboard at thetying-posts in front of the store. Quite why it had been left there hecould not understand, unless the strike-leader intended leaving campthat night. However, the point of interest lay in the fact of thevehicle and horses being there ready for his use if he could onlysafely possess himself of them, so speculation as to the reason of itsbeing there was only of secondary interest.
When he made his first move Tom Chepstow had been gone some tenminutes. He groped his way carefully along the wall until the frontangle of the building was reached, and here he paused to ascertain theposition of things. The meeting was still in progress inside, and, asyet, there seemed to be no sign of its breaking up. The steady hum ofvoices that reached him told him this.
About twenty yards directly in front of him was the buckboard; while tothe right, perhaps half that distance away, was the open door of thestore, and adjacent to it a large glass window. Both were lit up, andthe glow from the oil lamps shone dully on the fog bank. He was halfinclined to reconnoitre these latter to ascertain if any one wereabout, but finally decided to go straight for his goal and chanceeverything. With this intention he moved straight out from the buildingand vanished in the fog.
He walked quickly. Fortune favored him until he was within a few yardsof the tying-post, when suddenly the clanging of an iron-handled bucketbeing set roughly upon the ground brought him to a dead standstill.Some one was tending the horses--probably watering them. Evidently theywere being got ready for a journey. Almost unconsciously his hand wentto the poc
ket in which he carried his revolver.
At that moment a roar of applause came from the store, and he knew themeeting was drawing to a close. Then came a prolonged cheering,followed by the raucous singing of "He's a jolly good fellow." It _was_the end.
He could delay no longer. Taking his bearings as well as the fog wouldpermit, he struck out for the tail end of the buckboard. He intendedreaching the "near-side" of the horses, where he felt that the reinswould be looped up upon the harness, and as the best means of avoidingthe man with the bucket.
In this he had little difficulty, and when he reached the vehicle hebent low, and, passing clear of the wheels, drew up toward the horses'heads. By this time the man with the bucket was moving away, and hebreathed more freely.
But his relief was short-lived. The men were already pouring out of thestore, and the fog-laden air was filled with the muffled tones of manyvoices. To add to his discomfiture he further became aware of footstepsapproaching. He could delay no longer. He dared not wait to let thempass. Then, they might be the owners of the buckboard. His movementsbecame charged with almost electrical activity.
He reached out and assured himself that the bits were in the horses'mouths. Then he groped for the reins; as he expected, they were loopedin the harness. Possessing himself of them, he reached for thecollar-chain securing the horses to the posts. He pressed the swivelopen, and, releasing it, lowered the chain noiselessly. And a momentlater two men loomed up out of the fog on the "off-side." They weretalking, and he listened.
"It's bad med'cine you leaving to-night," he heard the voice of thestrike-leader say in a grumbling tone.
"I can't help that," came the response. It was a voice he did notrecognize.
"Well, we've got to secure this man Mason to-night. You can't trustthese fellows a heap. Give 'em time, and some one will blow the game.Then he'll be off like a rabbit."
"Well, it's up to you to get him," the strange voice retorted sharply."I'm paying you heavily. You've undertaken the job. Besides, there'sthat cursed parson and his niece up here. I daren't take a chance oftheir seeing me. I oughtn't to have come up here at all. If Liebersteinhadn't been such a grasping pig of a Jew there would have been no needfor my coming. You've just got to put everything through on your own,Walford. I'm off."
Mason waited for no more. The buckboard belonged to the stranger, andhe was about to use it. He laughed inwardly, and his spirits rose.Everything was ready. He dropped back to the full extent of the reinsas stealthily and as swiftly as possible. This cleared him of thebuckboard and hid him from the view of the men. Then with a rein ineach hand he slapped them as sharply as he could on the quarters of thecold and restless horses. They jumped at the neck-yoke, and with a"yank" he swung them clear of the tying-posts. He shouted at them andslapped the reins again, and the only too willing beasts plunged into agallop.
He heard an exclamation from one of the men as the buckboard shot pastthem, and the other made a futile grab for the off-side rein. Forhimself he seized the rail of the carryall with one hand and gave awild leap. He dropped into the vehicle safely but with some force, andhis legs were left hanging over the back.
But he had not cleared the danger yet. He was in the act of drawing inhis legs when they were seized in an arm embrace, and the whole weightof a man hung upon him in an effort to drag him off the vehicle. Therewas no time to consider. He felt himself sliding over the rail, whichonly checked his progress for an instant. But that instant gave him awinning chance. He drew his revolver, and leveling it, aimedpoint-blank at where he thought the man's shoulder must be. There was aloud report, and the grip on his legs relaxed. The man dropped to theground, and he was left to scramble to his feet and climb over into thedriving-seat.
A blind, wild drive was that race from the store. He drove like a furyin the fog, trusting to the instinct of the horses and the luck of thereckless to guide him into the comparative safety of the eastward trail.
As the horses flew over the ground the cries of the strikers filled theair. They seemed to come from every direction, even ahead. The noise,the rattle of the speeding wheels, fired his excitement. The fog--thedense gray pall that hung over the whole camp--was his salvation, andhe shouted back defiance.
It was a useless and dangerous thing to do, and he realized his follyat once. A great cry instantly went up from the strikers. He wasrecognized, and his name was shouted in execration. He only laughed.There was joy in the feel of the reins, in the pulling of themettlesome horses. They were running strong and well within themselves.
It was only a matter of seconds from the time of his start to themoment when he felt the vehicle bump heavily over a series of ruts. Hepromptly threw his weight on the near-side rein, and the horses swunground. It was the trail he was looking for. And as the horses settleddown to it he breathed more freely. It was only after this point hadbeen gained and passed that he realized the extent of his previousrisk. He knew that the entrance to the trail on its far side was linedby log shanties, and he had been driving straight for them.
In the midst of his freshly-acquired ease of mind came a sudden andunpleasant recollection. He remembered the path through the woods tothe dugout; it was shorter than the trail he was on by nearly a mile.While he had over a mile and a half to go, those in pursuit, if theytook to the path, had barely half.
He listened. But he knew beforehand that his fears were only too wellfounded. Yes, he could hear them. The voices of the pursuers soundedaway to the left. They were abreast of him. They had taken to thewoods. He snatched the whip from its socket and laid it heavily acrossthe horses' backs, and the animals stretched out into a race. Thebuckboard jumped, it rattled and shrieked. The pace was terrific. Buthe was ready to take every chance now, so long as he could gainsufficient time to take up those he knew to be waiting for him ahead.
In another few minutes he would know the worst--or the best. Again andagain he urged his horses. But already they were straining at the topof their speed. They galloped as though the spirit of the race hadentered their willing souls. They could do no more than they weredoing; it was only cruelty to flog them. If their present speed wasinsufficient then he could not hope to outstrip the strikers. If heonly could hear their voices dropping behind.
The minutes slipped by. The fog worried him. He was watching for thedugout, and he feared lest he should pass it unseen. Nor could heestimate the distance he had come. Hark! the shouts of the pursuerswere drawing nearer, and--they were still abreast of him! He must beclose on the dugout. He peered into the fog, and suddenly a dark shadowat the trail-side loomed up. There was no mistaking it. It was the hut;and it was in darkness. His friends must be on ahead. How far! that wasthe question. On that depended everything.
What was that? The hammering of heavy feet on the hard trail soundeddirectly behind him. He had gained nothing. Then he thought of thathalt that yet remained in front of him, and something like panic seizedhim. He slashed viciously at his horses.
He felt like a man obsessed with the thought of trailing bloodhounds.He must keep on, on. There must be no pause, no rest, or the raveningpack would fall on him and rend him. Yet he knew that halt must come.He was gaining rapidly enough now. Without that halt they could nevercome up with him. But--his ears were straining for Chepstow's summons.Every second it was withheld was something gained. He possessed afrantic hope that some guiding spirit might have induced the churchmanto take up a position very much further on than he had suggested.
"Hallo!"
The call had come. Chepstow was at the edge of the trail. Mason's hopesdropped to zero. He abandoned himself to the inevitable, flung hisweight on the reins, and brought his horses to a stand with a jolt.
"Where's Miss Betty?" he demanded. But his ears caught the sound of themen behind him, and he hurried on without waiting for a reply. "Quick,parson! The bags! fling 'em in, and jump for it! They're close behind!"
"Betty's gone back," cried Chepstow, flinging the sacks into thecarryall. "I'm going back too. You go on alone. We've
got the sick tosee to. Tell Dave we're all right. So long! Drive on! Good luck! Eh?"
A horrified cry from Mason had caused the final ejaculation.
He was pointing at the off-side horse standing out at right angles tothe pole.
"For God's sake, fix that trace," he cried. "Quick, man! It's unhooked!Gee! What infern----"
Chepstow sprang to secure the loosened trace. He, too, could hear thepursuers close behind. He fumbled the iron links in his anxiety, and ittook some moments to adjust.
"Right," he cried at last, after what seemed an interminable time.Mason whipped up his horses, and they sprang to their traces. But asthey did so there was a sudden rush from behind, and a figure leapt onto the carryall. The buckboard rocked and the driver, in the act ofshouting at his horses, felt himself seized by the throat from behind.
Fortunately the churchman saw it all. His blood rushed to his brain. Asthe buckboard was sweeping past him he caught the iron rail and leapt.In an instant he was on his feet and had closed with Mason's assailant.He, too, went for the throat, with all the ferocity of a bulldog. Themantle of the church was cast to the winds. He was panting with thelust for fight, and he crushed his fingers deep into the man'swindpipe. They dropped together on the sacks.
Mason, released, dared not turn. He plied his whip furiously. He hadthe legs of his pursuers and he meant to add to his distance. He heardthe struggle going on behind him. He heard the gasp of a choking man.And, listening, he reveled in it as men of his stamp will revel in suchthings.
"Choke him, parson! Choke the swine!" he hurled viciously over hisshoulder.
He got no answer. The struggle went on in silence, and presently Masonbegan to fear for the result. He slackened his horses down and glancedback. Tom Chepstow's working features looked up into his.
"I've got him," he said: then of a sudden he looked anxiously down atthe man he was kneeling on. "He's--he's unconscious. I hope---- You'dbetter pull up."
"I wish you'd choke the life out of him," cried Mason furiously.
"I did my best, I'm afraid," the parson replied ruefully. "You'd betterpull up."
But the lumberman kept on.
"Half a minute. Get these matches, and have a look at him. I'll slowdown."
The churchman seized the matches, and, in his anxiety at what he haddone, struck several before he got one burning long enough to see theunconscious man's face. Finally he succeeded, and an ejaculation ofsurprise broke from him.
"Heavens! It's Jim Truscott!" he cried.
He pressed his hand over the man's heart.
"Thank God! he's alive," he added.
Mason drew up sharply. A sudden change had come over his whole manner.He sprang to the ground.
"Here, help me secure him," he said almost fiercely. "I'll take himdown to Dave."
They lashed their prisoner by his hands and feet. Then Mason seized thechurchman excitedly by the arm.
"Get back, parson!" he cried. "Get back to the dugout quick as hell'lllet you! There's Miss Betty!"
"God! I'd forgotten! And there's those--strikers!"