Part 17 (1/2)

So the other hillsides had been searched and the tongues of local gossipers had wagged incessantly. Bitter enemies had it that, seeing herself defeated in the coming election and being ashamed or afraid to stand trial for carrying concealed weapons, the girl had fled in the night and had taken the child with her to the ”Outside.” All this, they argued, was known well enough by Mrs. McAlpin and Marion, but they did not care to admit it.

In spite of all this, Ransom Turner and Marion had continued, almost against hope, to carry on the election fight. Black Blevens had sent word to Lige Howard up on Pounding Mill Creek that his mortgage would be foreclosed if he and his three boys did not promise to come down on election day and vote for him as trustee. Ransom Turner, on hearing this had sent word to Lige that his mortgage would be taken care of-that he was to vote for the best man.

Mary Anne Kelly, a niece of Black Blevens, who lived down at the mouth of Ages Creek, sent word to her fiance, Buckner Creech, that if he did not vote right she would break her engagement. That had put Buckner on the doubtful list. Pole Cawood's wife, who was a daughter of Black Blevens, threatened to leave him and his four small children if he did not vote for her father.

”Such,” said Marion, rubbing her forehead with a groan, ”is a school election in the c.u.mberlands. Nothing is too low or mean if only it helps to gain an advantage. We have fought fair, and lost, as far as I can see.

Ransom says we will lack ten or twelve votes, and he doesn't know where we can find a single other one.”

And yet, with the cheerful optimism of youth, the girl still hoped against hope and looked forward with some eagerness the coming of to-morrow and the election.

Needless to say, with worry over Florence and Hallie, and interest in the election, she had found neither time nor interest for further exploration of the attic nor a search for Jeff Middleton's treasure.

Strange were the circ.u.mstances that had held Florence within the forbidden gates these three long days.

She had wakened with a start on the morning following the storm and her strange experiences in the cabin. The sun, streaming through a small window, had awakened her. At first she had been utterly unable to account for her strange surroundings. Then, like a flash, it all came to her. The aged giant, Bud Wax with his arm in a sling, the women, the other man, little Hallie, the storm,-all the strange and mysterious doings of the night flashed through her mind and left her wondering.

The very window through which the sunlight streamed suggested mystery.

Whence had it come? These mysterious people who lived beyond the stone gateway had come from below, had travelled up Laurel Creek and had not come back to the settlement. Where had the gla.s.s for the window come from? Had it been taken from some older cabin? This log cabin seemed quite new. Had these strange people some hidden trail to the outside world? Ransom Turner had said there was no mountain pa.s.s at the head of Laurel Branch. Could it be possible that he was wrong?

All the wondering was cut short by thought of little Hallie. How was she?

Had consciousness returned? Perhaps she needed care at this very moment.

With this thought uppermost in her mind, Florence sprang from her bed, drew on her outer garments, then pushed open the door that led to the other room.

She found Hallie feverish, and somewhat delirious. Upon discovering this, without begging leave of her strange host and with not one thought for her own safety, she set herself about the task of bringing the bloom of health back to the child's cheek.

The people about her brought the things she asked for, then stood or sat quietly about as they might had she been a doctor.

During the course of the day some twenty men and women, and quite as many children, came to peek shyly in at the door, or to enter and sit whispering together.

”More people in this neighborhood than one would think,” was Florence's mental comment.

A day came and went. Hallie improved slightly. The next day she was so much better that Florence took time for a stroll out of doors. It was then that she received something of a shock. Having wandered down the creek trail until she was near to the stone gateway, she saw a tall, gaunt, young mountaineer step out into the path. With a rifle over his arm, he began to pace back and forth like a sentry on duty.

”I-I wonder-” she whispered to herself, ”if he would let me pa.s.s?”

She had no desire to leave without taking Hallie, she did not try, but deep in her heart was the conviction that for some strange reason she was virtually a prisoner within those gates.

At once her mind was rife with speculation. Who were these people? What had they to fear from contact with the outside world? Were they moons.h.i.+ners? She had heard much of mountain moons.h.i.+ne stills before she came to the c.u.mberlands. If they were moons.h.i.+ners, where had they sold the product of their stills?

”No, it couldn't be that,” she shook her head.

Were they a band of robbers? If so, whom did they rob? She thought of the peddler and the one-armed fiddler, and shuddered.