The Silent Alarm

  CHAPTER IX BEYOND FORBIDDEN PORTALS

  "Uncle Billie, has the whipsawed house an attic?"

  Florence asked the question eagerly as she met her venerable friend onthe creek road next day.

  "Sure enough! Now has it? I most forgit." The old man scratched his head.

  "It hasn't a stairway, nor an opening for a ladder, but there must bespace up there, and if there's space there must be something there."

  "Shore there are. Cobwebs, dust, an'--an'" the old man, startled with asudden thought, almost lost his balance and fell over, "an' of coursethat ar Confederate gold. Shore enough. Whar else could it be?"

  "You come over at five this afternoon and we'll explore that place,"smiled Florence. "That is, if Mrs. McAlpin will permit us."

  "I'll shore be thar at the apinted hour--sun time," Uncle Billie beamedlike an excited child.

  "Plum quare gold it were," he added as Florence hurried away to school.

  At sight of the old log schoolhouse, all thoughts of the fabled gold weredriven from her mind. The responsibilities of the day came flooding inupon her. What had been the results of yesterday's affair? She had askedMarion to visit Ballard Skidmore in his home and get his story of thequarrel with Bud Wax. She did not doubt but that Bud had been entirely inthe wrong, and hoped Ballard would return to school. Bud, of course, shewould never see in her school room again. Somewhat to her surprise, shefound herself regretting this. There was much good in the boy. She hadgrown rather fond of the sight of his restless blue eyes.

  "If only he did not belong, body and soul, to Black Blevens," she toldherself, "one might make something of him."

  Again her mind went to work on the problems directly before her. How hadBlack Blevens taken the affair yesterday? Had he been the silent watcheron Lookout Rock? What had this setting of a watch meant? What would hisnext move be?

  And what of the coming election? Would there be enough voters to enablethem to win? Ransom Turner had promised to make a canvas of the communityand tell her how matters stood.

  Her trial? Her heart sank at thought of it! To be tried by a jury withall the mountain people looking on!

  "But it's all for them, for the little ones," she whispered, and wascomforted.

  Imagine her surprise when, upon entering the school yard, she saw Bud Waxwith the larger boys, pitching rocks at a stump.

  "I--I didn't think he'd come back," she whispered to Marion.

  "Neither did I."

  "Is Ballard coming back?"

  "Yes."

  "Will they fight again?" Florence's heart was in her throat. She feltthat another day such as yesterday would prove her undoing.

  "Ballard said he'd do his best. Bud had been teasing him for a long time.He called him a name that no mountain man or boy will allow himself to becalled. Then Ballard struck him in the face."

  For a time Florence pondered the problem of further punishment for Bud.In the end she concluded that any punishment after the destruction of hispistol would be anticlimax.

  "We'll let bygones be bygones," she told Marion. "But keep your eyes openfor further trouble. Why did he come back anyway?"

  "Who knows?"

  That day Bud was a model pupil. Quiet, far too quiet for comfort, hestudied hard and recited perfectly. The day passed as a model in thehistory of the school. Florence went home more puzzled than ever. On thedoorstep of the whipsawed house she found Uncle Billie Gibson. He wassmiling his brightest smile and glancing up at the eaves as if heexpected a shower of gold to come rattling down from the shingles.

  A moment later two breathless young ladies were eagerly begging Mrs.McAlpin for permission to remove a board from the ceiling of their roomthat they might explore the attic of that venerable house.

  Consent of the good lady was readily obtained and in a twinkle, armedwith a wood chisel and hammer, they were at the job.

  Have you never entered an old house whose attic has remained unexploredfor years? Then you have never enjoyed the exciting dreams that come withthoughts of treasures that may be found there. Chests filled with curiosfrom many lands; ancient trunks packed with rare old laces; agrandfather's clock; rare old books worth a fortune; period furniturethat a millionaire might covet. Indeed, who knows what rare treasures maybe hidden there?

  As for the two girls and Uncle Billie, they were looking for but onetreasure--a stack of yellow gold.

  As Florence inserted the chisel in a crack and gave it a pull there camesuch a screech from the ancient hand-hammered nails as brought a screamof fright from Marion. The next moment the board gave way with asuddenness that all but knocked Florence from the chair upon which shewas perched and showered her with an accumulation of aged dust. With ashrill cry she leaped to the floor.

  Over their heads, as they regained composure, they saw a broad, black,gaping hole.

  "Dark up there," said Marion with a little shudder.

  "Have to use a flashlight." Florence dug down into her trunk. "Here itis."

  "But it won't work."

  "Battery's dead. Have to use a candle."

  A candle was brought. Then while Marion sat on the chair, Florenceclimbed the back of it and thrust her head and shoulders through thehole.

  "See anything?" Marion asked breathlessly.

  "No, not a--yes, there's something, a black bulk over there in thecorner. It's a--"

  "A chest, of course!" Marion was quite beside herself with excitement.Without thinking she sprang to her feet. The next instant the chairtoppled over and Florence, lighted candle and all, came crashing downupon it.

  "Wha--what did you do that for?" she demanded, once she had regained thebreath that had been knocked from her by the fall.

  "I--I forgot!" said Marion. "Truly I'm sorry. Let's try again."

  "Not that way," said Florence, rubbing her bruises. "The bed will bebetter. Come on, let's push it over."

  The bed was soon under the hole and a moment later the two girls, closelyfollowed by an agile old man, were creeping from beam to beam toward thebulk in the dark.

  "I know it's the chest of gold," whispered Marion.

  "I--I--someway it don't look right."

  "Phoo-ee!" chuckled Uncle Billie. "That ain't no chest. That's a poundin'mill. What hit's doin' stored up here is more'n I know."

  "A pounding mill? What's that?" demanded Florence as she held her candleabove a great cylindrical block of wood on which there rested a similarblock of smaller dimensions.

  "A poundin' mill's used for poundin' out corn meal. They ain't used nowon account o' water wheels, but they was a powerful help in their day.You all never seed 'em work? Well, hit's this way."

  Uncle Billie lifted the smaller cylinder and dropped it into a hole inthe larger block, which was some three feet high and four feet across.

  "You put your corn in that there holler, then you tie this block to asaplin' to help you teeter hit up an' down, an' you pound your corn untilit are meal. That's all there are to hit."

  "That's a powerful heavy block!" he exclaimed, trying to tip it. "Must bemade out o' first growth hickory, as sizeable as hit is."

  "But where's our gold?" asked Marion. Her voice dropped off into a littledisappointed wail.

  "Peers to me like we'd been barkin' up the wrong tree," said Uncle Billiewith a sad shake of his head.

  "Might be hidden around somewhere among the rafters," said Florence."Let's have a good look."

  They explored the attic thoroughly. Not a pile of dust but was disturbedthat day. Their only reward was a rusty Civil War canteen that, as UncleBillie expressed it, was "as empty as a bear after a winter's sleep."

  Just as they were preparing to descend, Marion made an interesting find.Having noticed a circular spot on the dust covered boards that might havebeen a knot, she put out a hand to pick up a circular disk.

  "What's this?" she exclaimed excitedly. "How heavy it is! It--why, itmust be gold!"

  "Hit shore are!" exclaimed Uncle Billie, taking
it from her and rubbingit clean on his ragged trousers' leg. "Hit sure are. Hit's one of themare pieces of Confederate gold."

  "But it doesn't say Confederate," whispered Florence after examining itclosely. "It says on one side 'Georgia gold', and on the other--let'ssee." With a trembling finger she rubbed away the last vestige of dust."It says: 'T-e-m-p-l-e R-e-i-d. Temple Reid, Ten Dollars'."

  "Georgia Gold. Temple Reid. Ten Dollars!" exclaimed Marion. "Whatnonsense! How could a man coin money? Money is made by nations, not bymen."

  "But that's what it says," insisted Florence.

  "Well, anyway, it isn't Confederate gold," said Marion, disappointmentcreeping into her tone. There had been a glamor of romance in her hope offinding some coins struck by that long since dissolved government.

  "You can't most always tell," said Uncle Billie with a wise shake of hishead. "That ar's Georgia gold. But hit's jest one. There were a hundred,mebby four-five hundred. Stands to reason some was Confederate, ferhadn't Jeff Middelton come from right down thar whar that sort of moneywere made?"

  Uncle Billie's logic seemed weak, but, that they might not hurt thefeelings of the good old man, the girls let it pass. They all adjournedto the rooms below. Dust and dirt were scrubbed off, the hole was nailedup, and there the matter stood, closed for the time being.

  One thing was decided upon. The strange gold piece was to be sent to acurator of Field Museum, who was a friend of Marion. He would be able totell them the origin of the piece, and its value.

  "That one coin may be of considerable value," said Marion. "There arecoins worth hundreds of dollars."

  "Yes, and it may be worth just exactly its weight in gold," laughedFlorence. "But send it along. It will do no harm."

  That night the bit of gold went North in the registered mail pouch, andthe girls, forgetting their disappointment as quickly as possible, setabout two important tasks that lay just before them; the winning of theschool election and preparation for Florence's trial.

  It was five days later. It was evening, but there was no sunset. Dull,gray clouds had hung low on the mountains all day. Dull clouds ofdisappointment and defeat hung heavily on Florence's spirits. She hadtaken a long, long walk up Laurel Branch. Her hopes that this walk wouldrevive her drooping spirits had proven vain. Each leaden mile had foundher head drooping more and more.

  "It's lost!" she murmured as she marched stolidly on.

  It was true; at least Ransom Turner had assured her it was. The schoolelection was lost. Each side had begun work early. The canvass had beentaken; the line-up, in so far as anyone could tell, was completed, and atthe present Black Blevens and his choice for teacher, Al Finely, wereeight votes ahead.

  "Eight votes!" she had said to Ransom. "How can we overcome that?"

  "Hit can't be done," Ransom had said. "Hit's a fact. That Black Blevensis the election fightenest man I most ever seed. We're jest as good aslicked right now."

  "And yet," Florence said to herself as, undecided whether to pause forrest or to wander aimlessly on, she paused beside a great flat rock, "itdoes seem that there is a way to win if only we knew it."

  Just as if in answer to her worrying problem, the fog lifted, revealingbefore her in startling clearness the natural gateway that led to thehorseshoe valley at the head of Laurel Branch.

  "The gate," she breathed. "The gateway to that mysterious valley wherestrange people live without visiting the outside world, the valley fromwhich men do not return!" Her heart was all a-tremble. Her shaking kneesobliged her to drop suddenly upon an inviting rock.

  At once her keen mind was at work. She had come farther than she thoughtand she should turn back at once. Then, too, that gateway held for her anirresistible fascination. Did she hope from this point of vantage tocatch some glimpse of the life of those strange beings who lived beyondthe gate? Was some good angel whispering to her soul some of the hiddenthings of the future? Who can say? Enough that she sat there alone whilethe dull shadows deepened.

  It did not seem strange to her that her thoughts at this moment shouldturn to the little girl, Hallie, who had been so mysteriously thrust intothe life that centered in the old whipsawed house. Indeed, she had oftenenough associated her with this same stone gateway and had wondered ifafter all she had been brought through this very portal to the outsideworld.

  Wherever she may have come from, Hallie had grown to be the life of thatold brown cabin. She had come to them dressed in a water-soaked scarletdress and a mud smeared tam that shone bright even in their terribledisarray. The bright colors had suited her so well that they had dressedher so ever since. Closing her eyes, Florence could see her now.

  "Like a scarlet bird fluttering from branch to branch of an old tree,"she mused as she saw her moving from room to room. "How we'd miss her ifsomeone came for her!"

  Imagine her surprise when upon opening her eyes she saw, not twenty yardsbefore her, down the creek, the very person of whom she had beenthinking.

  Suppressing a cry of surprise, she waited and watched. Walking slowly, asif in a trance, Hallie passed within four feet of her without seeing her,then marched straight on toward the rocky gateway that lay between herand the hidden valley.

  At once Florence's mind was in a whirl. Her lips parted to call the childback, but no sound came forth.

  What should she do? Evidently something had happened to the child. Shewas in a daze again. Perhaps the old fever that had wiped out her memoryhad returned. Had memory accompanied it? Was she now groping her way backto her own home?

  "Home!" Florence spoke the word softly. Home had meant so much to her.Like a moving panorama she saw before her twilight scenes at home by thefireplace, bed time and prayer beside her bed with her mother bendingover, joyous mornings and sunny afternoons. Home! Ah, yes, home! Andperhaps this little girl was going home. Could she stop her? And yet,could she allow her to wander alone in the gathering darkness throughthose forbidding portals?

  The answer came quickly. She dropped down into the path, turned towardthe stone gateway, then marched steadily forward until both she and thechild were lost to view beyond the rocky pillars.

  Had Florence chanced to look behind she might have caught sight of aperson following at a distance. A skulking figure it was that moved byquick starts and stops from shadow to shadow. And, had her backwardglance been rightly timed, had it come as a sudden last feeble burst ofsunlight illumined his face, she would have seen that this person was BudWax.

  Had she seen him her heart would doubtless have been filled withmisgivings and wild questions. Why was the boy following her? Was this atrap? What did he know about little Hallie? What of the land beyond theforbidden gateway?

  Since she did not look behind her, but walked straight on, she askedherself no such questions. So the three passed into the mysteriousbeyond, the child as in a dream, the teacher sturdily on duty bound, theboy skulking from shadow to shadow. Hardly had they disappeared whensudden night came down to close the gate with a curtain of darkness.