The Silent Alarm

  CHAPTER VII MYSTERIOUS FOOTSTEPS

  Scarcely a moment had elapsed after Hallie's last scream when she sprangsobbing into Marion's arms. Without a question regarding the cause of herfright, the older girl gathered her up and went racing down the mountain.It was a headlong flight. Now they were in danger of a plunge down thesteep slope, and now, having stepped upon a round pebble, Marion rolledtwice her length to land against a stout sapling that saved them fromdashing over a cliff. Yet, somehow, at last they found themselves safe inMarion's room, seated by the fire, with the door securely bolted behindthem. Then, and only then, did Hallie cease her sobbing to sit staringround-eyed at the fire.

  "What frightened you?" Marion asked.

  "A man," the little girl shuddered.

  "Did he try to catch you?" Marion was eager now. She was sure she coulddescribe that man.

  "No. He only stood and stared at me."

  "Then why were you afraid?"

  "He was a very ugly man, and--and it seemed like I had seen him beforein--in--" she hesitated, "maybe in a bad dream."

  "Oh!" Marion was excited. Perhaps here was a clue to the little girl'slost identity. Perhaps she had seen the man before in that other lifelived before the blow on her head.

  "If only I could find that man, perhaps he could tell me," she toldherself. Yet she knew right well that nothing could induce her to returnto the mountain that night to search for him.

  "Did he say anything?" she asked after a moment's silence.

  "Yes," the little girl spoke quickly. "He said: 'Hit's her. Hit shorelyare'!"

  Marion started. What further proof did she need that this was the man shehad seen peering in at their window? One more thing was certain, too; ithad been the little lost girl he had thought of when he said, "Hit'sher."

  At the fireside council that night all the events of the day werediscussed. Mrs. McAlpin approved to the fullest extent the girls' resolveto make a stand in the interest of the mountain children and to do all intheir power to elect a school trustee who had the children's interest atheart. She would do all within her power to help win the election.

  In regard to the mysterious man and little Hallie, it was decided thatshould the man be seen again, every effort would be made to obtaininformation from him regarding the identity of the child.

  "In the meantime," said Mrs. McAlpin, "we must keep an eye on the childevery moment. It is one thing to find her parents, quite another to haveher spirited away by one who may have no claim whatever upon her. Atschool, at home, at work, at play, she must be carefully guarded."

  With this the council broke up and a few moments later Marion foundherself beneath the homespun coverlids, staring up at the brown beams anddreaming that they were being slowly transformed into shining trenchesfilled with Confederate gold.

  Black Blevens was not long in carrying his election war into everyquarter. The summer school at once became a center of fire. At this timethe free summer school was more than half over and, though neitherFlorence nor Marion had taught in day school before, they had met withsingular success. They had found these young feud fighters regularstorehouses of explosives, but once the children came to know that theirteacher meant to deal justly with them and that they had a deep andabiding love for them, they had settled down to hard study in a way quiteremarkable.

  Now, on the Monday after the election struggle had been determined upon,there came a new pupil to the school. With two battered books and a halfof a tablet under his arm, he marched to the teacher's desk and announcedhis intentions of going to school.

  His manner was meek enough to disarm the most wary of teachers. He wassixteen. He was not badly dressed and an attempt had been made to combhis unruly locks. Only in his restless blue eyes did there lurk a warningsignal of danger.

  Florence's lips trembled ever so slightly as she asked his name.

  "Bud," was the answer.

  "Bud for Buddington, I suppose?"

  "No'm, jest Bud."

  "All right, Bud," Florence's smile was a doubtful one. She was beginningto suspect the truth.

  "Bud Wax," the boy added reluctantly.

  Florence started. She had feared this. Bud Wax, known as the mosttroublesome boy on Laurel Branch, a boy who had been known to ridethrough the settlement at midnight shouting like a wild Indian and firinghis pistol in air. And worst of all, he was a distant relative of BlackBlevens and lived at his cabin.

  What could be the answer? There could be but one; he had been sent tomake trouble. If Black Blevens could break up the summer school he couldall the more easily convince doubtful voters that these girls from theoutside were unqualified to handle the school.

  For a moment she wavered. She could refuse to admit him. The control ofthe summer school was in her hands. Yet there was no real reason tooffer. Bud was larger and older than most of the other children, yetthere were a few older than he.

  "And besides," she told herself as she set her lips tight, "to refuse toadmit him is to surrender without a battle. I won't surrender."

  All this thinking took but a half dozen seconds. At the end of that timeshe favored the boy with her very best smile and said:

  "All right, Bud, you may have the seat by the back window on the rightside."

  For a moment the boy stared at her in silence. A seat by a back window isat once a much coveted place and a spot quite advantageous for mischiefmaking. Bud knew this; yet this girl teacher gave him this place. Justwhat his conclusions were regarding this move Florence could not evenguess.

  Every hour of that day seemed the hour before a thunder storm. Everychild in the room knew why Bud was there; and while as a whole they werefriendly to their teachers, they were at the same time normal children.And where is the child who does not long for excitement.

  The day passed as others had. The slow drone of bees outside, the murmurof voices reciting lessons, loud shouts of play at noon and recess, thenthe glad burst of joy as the sixty children went racing home.

  "Bud was just like the rest," Florence said to Ransom Turner thatevening. "Perhaps there's nothing wrong after all."

  "Just you wait!" Ransom said with a shake of his head. "Old Black Blevensain't sendin' that boy to school fer book larnin'. Hit's time for layin'by of the corn. Took him right outen' the field, he did. Don't makesense, that ar don't, unless he hopes Bud'll make trouble."

  Florence went to bed with a headache. Doubtless Ransom was right. She wastempted to wish that they had never started the fight, that they had leftBlack Blevens and Al Finley to collect their ill gotten school money.

  "And the children without an education!" she whispered fiercely. "No!Never! Never! We'll fight, and by all that's good, we'll win!"

  A whole week passed and nothing unusual happened. If Bud Wax and BlackBlevens meant any harm they were taking a long time to tamp powder andlay fuse. All Ransom would say was:

  "Jest you mind what I say. That Black Blevens is a plumb quare worker,but he's always at hit."

  Two little rumors came to Florence. A small child had told her that Budcarried his pistol to school. An older boy had said that Bud was tryingto pick a quarrel with Ballard Skidmore. Ballard was larger and olderthan Bud, a big, slow-going, red-headed fellow who somehow remindedFlorence of a St. Bernard dog. She put little faith in either of theserumors, and as for picking a quarrel with this slow-going fellow, she didnot believe it could be done.

  On Saturday something vaguely disturbing occurred. There were manysquirrels on the upper slopes of Little Black Mountain. Ralph had taughtFlorence how to shoot with his long barreled .22 pistol. She decided totry her hand at hunting. Had it not been Marion's day for helping withthe work she would have asked her to go along. As it was, she struck awayalone over the tortuous cow path that led to the upper reaches of themountain.

  Having donned a pair of canvas knickers, high boots and an old huntingcoat, she was prepared for a free, rough time of it. Free and rough itwas, too. Brambles tore at he
r, rocks slid from beneath her feet to sendher sprawling, a rotten tree trunk over which she was climbing suddenlycaved in and threatened to send her rolling down the mountain. Sheenjoyed it all. A typical American girl, strong and brave, born for theout-of-doors, she took the buffets of nature and laughed in its face.

  As she reached a higher elevation the slope became gentler. Here shefound an abundance of beach and chestnut trees, and higher up a grove ofwalnut.

  Hardly had she reached the edge of the walnut grove when she caught aflash of red, then a scolding chatter from a tall tree.

  "A squirrel," she breathed as she silently lifted the hammer of her longpistol. "I wonder--I just wonder--"

  Her wonderings were cut short by a sudden thud close by, then another.Two frisking squirrels had come to the ground within a dozen paces ofher. Like a flash of light they were away over the moss and up anothertree. This tree was not large and the leaves were scanty. On tip-toe shestalked it.

  Gazing intently upward, she discovered a pair of small black eyes lookingdown at her.

  "There's one."

  She lifted the shiny barrel, but at that instant the eyes vanished.

  Off to the right she caught a chatter. Then, just as she went tip-toeingaway, a half-grown walnut dropped at her feet. She picked it up. Theshell had been half eaten away.

  "You saucy things!" she exclaimed, shaking her fist in mock anger at thefrolickers.

  With eyes wandering everywhere, tip-toeing, listening, pausing for amoment to start quickly away, she at last crossed over into a grove ofchestnuts.

  All this time the inside of her pistol's barrel remained as shiny as whenshe started. Always, as she prepared to shoot, she caught a shrillchatter or saw the flash of a bushy tail. It was great fun, so she wenton with it until at last, quite tired out, she flung herself down beneatha great chestnut tree to half bury herself in green and gray moss as softas a velvet cushion. There, flat on her back, breathing the freshmountain air, listening to the songs of forest birds far and near,catching the distant melodious tink-tank of cow bells, squinting at theflash of sunlight as it played among the leaves, she at last drifted offinto a dreamy sleep.

  She did not sleep long, but when she awoke she was conscious of someliving creature near her. Then she heard a thump-thump among the leaves,followed by a scratching sound. Without the least sound, she moved herhead from side to side. Then she saw him, an inquisitive red squirrel. Hewas sitting on a stump, not ten feet away, staring at her. Instantly herhand was on her pistol, but she did not lift it. Instead, she rolled overand lifted up her head to look again.

  The squirrel had retreated a little, but had mounted another stump for asecond look.

  "How easy!" she thought, silently gripping her pistol.

  There came a rustle from the right, then one at the left. The ground wasalive with squirrels who had made a party of it and had come for a lookat this sleeping nymph of the woods. She caught the gleam of theirpeering eyes from leaf pile, low bush, stump and fallen trees.

  "No!" she whispered at last. "I couldn't kill one of you. Not one. Butit's been heaps of fun to hunt you."

  At that she sat up and began shaking the dead leaves from her hair.Instantly her furry visitors vanished.

  But what was that? She caught a sound of heavier movements in the leaves.

  Instantly she was on her knees, peering through the bushes. What could ithave been? Surely not a squirrel. Too heavy for that. There it was again!Rustle! Rustle! Rustle!

  Then again there was silence, a silence that was frightening. The girlfelt the hair rising at the back of her neck. She was alone on themountain. Was it a bear? There were bears on the mountain. Was it a man?An enemy?

  As she glanced about she realized with a little burst of fright that,like sparrows at sight of a hawk, the squirrels had vanished. This indeedwas an ominous token.

  Springing to her feet, she thrust her long barreled pistol into an insidepocket of her jacket, where it could be snatched out at a moment'snotice. Yet, even as she did this, she realized how absurd a weapon is along barrelled .22 when one faces real danger.

  For a moment, standing like a wild deer, poised on tip-toe ready forinstant flight, she stood there listening. All she heard was the wildbeating of her own heart and the faint tink-tank of cow bells in thevalley below.

  The sound of these bells increased her fear. Their very faintness toldher the distance she had wandered away over the mountain.

  The next moment, walking on tip-toe, scarcely breathing, with her pistolsnugly hidden in her coat, she was making good her retreat.

  It was not until Monday morning that the real truth of this mountainexperience came to her. Then it came with a suddenness and force that wasstrong enough to bowl over even a man of strong heart.

  She was on her way to school when Ransom Turner, having called her intothe store and closed the door, said in a low husky tone that told her ofdeep feeling:

  "There's a warrant out for your arrest, but don't you care narry bit!"

  "For my arrest?" Florence stared. "What have I done?"

  "Hit's for carryin' concealed weapons, a pistol gun, I reckon."

  "Why, I never--"

  The girl paused and caught her breath. It all came to her like a flash.Those stealthy movements on the mountain had been made by some of BlackBlevens' men. They had been spying on her. She blushed as she realizedthat they might have seen her sleeping there in the leaves. But her facewas flushed with anger as she realized that, having seen her pocket thatall but harmless pistol, they had taken a mean advantage and had swornout a warrant for her arrest.

  "Don't you keer," said the little mountain man, putting a hand on herarm. "Don't you keer narry bit. This store's mine, an' all them goods.I'll mortgage hit all to go your bond. You go right on teaching yourschool. 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 betreated as a criminal in a strange land and by the very people you weretrying 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. "Down here in themountings law's a club to beat your enemies with. Hit's quare, but hit'strue. We'll git a lawyer from the court house. We'll beat old BlackBlevens, just you wait and see!"

  Three times more that morning Florence was reduced to tears byrough-clad, shuffling mountaineers who came to knock timidly at theschoolhouse door and to assure her that they had heard of her plight andwere ready to go her bail and to help in any way. "If hit takes the roofoff from over my ole woman an' the last hog shoat I got runnin' in thebranch," as one of them expressed it.

  It is always good to know that one has friends, and when one is amongcomparative 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 thePeace 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'llfine me and let me go; perhaps give me ten days in the county jail. Tendays in that place!" Her heart stopped beating. She had seen that jail--adark 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 beimposed was twenty-five dollars; one of the men had told her that.

  "In the Constitution of the United States," she whispered to herself, "itsays that in trials over matters amounting to twenty-five dollars, orover, the defendant may call for a jury. I'll call for one. If I musthave 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 tosay about his own hanging.