Mystery of the Sassafras Chair (11 page)

“We'd better,” the other advised. “He'll cut over in this direction if he ain't lost.”

“You don't believe he's lost?”

“With that devilish chair? Don't seem likely. I say he's hidin', but he'll try to make it to Wiley's when he gets hungry an' wants a place to sleep.”

“But Sammy's keeping watch up there.”

“Sammy ain't got no patience. If that kid ain't showed up by now, Sammy's liable to leave. That chair's got 'im mighty upset.”

The man with the deeper voice cursed. “Sure save us a heap of trouble if that little varmint was to take a fall an' get his neck broke.”

“I'd rather see the chair broke first. Look at that mark yonder—know what made it?”

“Can't tell in these wet leaves. Wasn't no deer.”

Timor chilled. He risked a stealthy glance around his hiding place and made out two figures stooping to examine the ground. They were barely twenty feet away. He drew back quickly as the light swept up the slope toward him.

The man with the light grunted. “Someone's been through here tonight. Couldn't be nobody but that boy.”

“Which way's he headin'?”

“I ain't one for readin' trail sign. If Rance Gatlin was here …”

“Glad he ain't. Dunno how he feels about all this.”

“He'll never tell you, but I know.” The light probed upward. “Mighty thick up yonder. Don't seem reasonable anybody would be goin' in that direction. Most likely he was comin' down, aimin' for the old road here an' Wiley's. These marks are recent. Bet that varmint ain't far ahead of us.”

The light went out. The other man said, “Put it on—we got to catch 'im!”

“No—he may see us comin'. Be too easy for 'im to hide the chair an' take off. We'd best wait till he gets to Wiley's an' settles down.”

They were silent for a while. Then the deeper voice said, “They say the kid didn't take no light when he left. How can he see in the dark?”

“He's got the chair, ain't he? If the devilish thing can talk to 'im, it can do his seein' for him.”

“You believe that, Fritz?”

“I don't know what to believe, but that ain't no ordinary chair, an' I ain't takin' no chances. Didn't you hear Brad tell about it?”

“Yeah, but Brad, he acts like the little varmint's just crazy in the head.”

“Brad's just whistlin' in the dark. He'd be the first one to bust up that chair if he ever laid hands on it. Mebbe the kid is crazy in the head—but if he is, it's the same kind o' craziness old man Gatlin, Rance's pa, had.”

“I never knowed the old man.”

“Good thing. He had second sight, sort of. You couldn't hide nothin' from the old rascal. That's why Rance an' his brother Jake left home. Scared blue of their pa—but you'll never hear 'em admit it. Rance, he's had schoolin', but it ain't changed him inside. He wouldn't burn sassafras no more'n you would.”

Again they were silent. Then the deeper voice growled, “If that little varmint's got second sight …”

“I don't really think he has. I figger it's mainly the chair.”

“Better be. If it ever come out about our likker trades …”

“Won't, if we get the chair. That kid, he's got his mind on what happened at Nat's place.”

The other grunted. “That was a queer thing. You an' me know Wiley never took that box 'cause he was in the store making a deal with us when it happened. You reckon it was Rance Gatlin himself took it?”

“Couldn't 'a' been, or Brad would 'a' knowed about it. Can't figger it. All I know is we better find that kid before Nat Battle does. Did you hear Nat arguin' with that Colonel Hamilton?”

“Heard part of it. Thought they was going to have a fight.”

“Almost did. Each one seemed to be blamin' the other for the kid runnin' off an' gettin' lost. That Nat, he's as sharp in the woods as Rance Gatlin; he'll track the kid down for sure by mornin' if we don't catch 'im tonight.”

“I think we've waited long enough. Let's get on to Wiley's.”

The light appeared again and began moving away. Timor waited until he could no longer see it, then crept down to the trail. At the thought of Nathaniel he began hurrying, plunging through the new growth and racing over the open stretches as fast as his small feet would carry him. His uncle's place couldn't be much farther ahead. If he could get there in time to stop Nathaniel …

Long minutes later he broke through the grove of hemlocks behind the cabin and stood gasping for breath while he studied the yard and the lighted windows.

All the lights in the place were on, though he could see no one moving inside. He darted to the side of the building, stole a cautious look through the kitchen window, and crawled on to the shrubbery at the corner of the front porch. He could hear voices now, and when he raised his head he could see a small group standing by the steps—his uncle in jacket and boots, facing him a sturdy figure in uniform whom he recognized as the local game warden, and a much smaller man in a business suit who wore glasses. Neither Nathaniel nor Odessa was in sight.

Timor glanced despairingly around the yard. The bright lights from the porch shone on Nathaniel's jeep, parked just beyond the game warden's truck and a grey car with a press sticker on the windshield. His uncle's station wagon was gone.

The man with glasses must have just arrived, for Timor heard him ask, “Exactly where are they searching?”

“Nat Battle's gone up by Lost Falls,” the warden told him. “That's the general area the boy seems to have disappeared in. Miss Hamilton is patrolling the road in her car, and the Grossers and Al Means are covering the wagon trail—though I think that's all a waste of time. If the boy ever came down on this side of the ridge and struck the trail, he'd know how to get home. Unless, of course, he's hurt. He hasn't got a light.”

“Why didn't the others go along with Battle?” the small man asked. “That would have made better sense.”

“Nat wanted to work alone,” the warden grumbled. “There's nothing the rest of us can do till daylight.”

“How long has the boy been gone?”

“Since eleven o'clock this morning,” the colonel growled. “I know my daughter's raised a storm over this, but I don't believe Tim's lost. He's been acting like a stubborn fool over that confounded chair …”

“Colonel Hamilton,” the game warden interrupted, “in these mountains we can't take chances when a boy goes off alone and doesn't come back. It's past midnight now. Your nephew's been gone over thirteen hours. A lot could have happened to him in that time. This is wild country.”

The small man said, “I've been hearing a lot about his chair. I understand, Colonel, there's something about it that's convinced both your nephew and Nat Battle—”

“Plague take the chair!” the colonel burst forth angrily. “If you allow any more nonsense to be printed as you did in the Tattler's column, by heaven I'll sue you!”

“Colonel Hamilton,” the small man persisted, “your nephew has stirred up something in this county, and it's turning into front page news. It's going to be printed, and it's better to have the facts. When a man like Battle is convinced that a terrible mistake has been made about Wiley Pendergrass—”

“Wiley was a rascal, and that Battle is a fool,” the colonel snapped. “Now, if you're through with your questions—”

“I beg your pardon, sir, but if you'll look up Nat Battle's army record, you'll find he's anything but a fool. Furthermore, it might pay us to look twice at this matter. Whether or not there's anything unusual about your nephew's chair, the fact remains that some people
do
have unusual abilities—and your nephew may be such a person.”

The colonel made a growling noise deep in his throat, but the newspaperman went on, “Just suppose your nephew actually has knowledge that another person was really guilty of that crime at Battle's. If the boy has mentioned any names, it could be a very dangerous thing to know.”

No one spoke for a while. Then the colonel ground out, “You can believe what you wish, but I've heard enough nonsense for one day. If my nephew's lost, I'll move heaven and earth to find him. But I've a feeling he's hiding, and that he'll come dragging home in the morning when he gets hungry enough. If that's the case, he's going to be given something he'll never forget as long as he lives.”

10

Manhunt

T
IMOR'S TROUBLED CONSCIENCE had been urging him to step forth from his hiding place and attempt to explain what had happened. Surely, he'd thought, if he told everything he had learned, the colonel would be willing to help. But his uncle's last statement was like a door being slammed in his face.

In sudden despair he realized that the only possibility of changing the colonel's mind would be the discovery of the box, and proof of who had taken it. At the moment such a happy circumstance seemed as far away as the moon.

Timor sank down on the ground, his hands clenched tightly. He had never felt so terribly alone. If only Odessa would come, and he could manage to attract her attention …

He debated slipping over to the road and watching for her, and decided it would be better to remain here. Nathaniel might come back, and he badly needed Nathaniel's advice.

Beyond him he heard the newspaperman say he would return in the morning; presently there was the sound of his car pulling away, followed by footsteps across the porch as the colonel and the warden entered the house.

The night was cold after the rain and Timor was beginning to feel the damp ground through his clothing. The chill had not bothered him while he was moving, but now a spasm of shivering gripped his tired body. He got up, teeth clenched, trying to think of a better spot to wait. Suddenly he remembered there was an opening under the cabin on the opposite side below his room. He crept around to it, unlatched the little door, and squirmed inside between a pile of lumber scraps and bundles of old newspapers.

Even with the door closed it seemed almost colder here than it had outside, but the ground was dry. Timor tried to make himself comfortable by wrapping the too-large jacket about him, but this was not enough for one who had been raised in the tropics. As his misery increased he thought longingly of the blanket he had been forced to leave at Wiley's place. Then he recalled reading that homeless men often wrapped newspapers about them to keep warm in the winter.

He sat up suddenly and turned his light on the bundles of papers beside him. There were enough here to keep a dozen men warm. With shaking hands he tore open the bundles, and as quietly as possible began spreading papers on the ground and over his body. When he was covered with a thick layer of newspapers, he stretched out and drew Wiley's jacket over his ears.

Slowly his shaking stopped. Presently he became comfortably warm. He began to realize that he was becoming entirely too comfortable, for it was all he could do to stay awake and listen for Odessa's return. For a while he managed to fight off sleep. Finally, when he felt it creeping over him, he tried to sit up, but the effort was beyond him. Weariness from his long hours of exertion pressed upon him like a great weight.

Perhaps, if he slept just a little …

Vaguely, above the rushing of the creek, Timor became aware of the sound of motors and the murmur of men's voices. He burrowed deeper into his paper bed, trying to shut out the sounds, but the effort was painful. He opened his eyes, wondering why he felt as he did. Memory returned in a rush.

His eyes widened with shock as he realized the night had passed. It was bright daylight beyond his hiding place. Abruptly he sat up, trying to peer through a space between the boards; the effort made him gasp with pain and he sank back into the layers of paper.

He felt all right when he lay still, but the least movement brought a protest from strained muscles that had carried the chair too long over rough country. “
Hari busuk!
” he muttered. “I'm just one big ache.”

What was he going to do now?

Once before he had felt like this. It was after his first long tramp with Wiley; he'd never been in mountains like these, and he'd done entirely too much scrambling up and down for one who wasn't used to it. Wiley had said afterward that the best medicine for sore muscles was to get out and start using them again.

He would have to do that, but not immediately. Maybe if he lay still for a while, some of the ache would go away.

What was happening outside? His hiding place was near the rear of the cabin, and trees and shrubbery cut off all view of the yard in front. From the sounds, the yard seemed to be full of cars and people.

But surely, by this time, it would be known that he wasn't really lost! Sammy Grosser knew it. Wouldn't Sammy or his father tell the others that he'd been seen?

No, of course they wouldn't. Those secretive Grossers wouldn't breathe a word until they'd found the chair.

At the thought of the chair, Timor forced himself to sit up. The chair may have been safe for the night, but it wouldn't remain safe during the day with so many people in the woods. He ought to be on his way to it right now, for surely Wiley would have news for him.

Timor crawled to the little door and eased it open. He could see no one within his range of vision. There was shrubbery ahead, and if he stayed within it he could crawl around to the wagon trail without being seen.

Ignoring his protesting muscles, he squirmed out of the opening, thrust the door shut, and crept to the edge of the shrubbery. Painfully he began snaking through clumps of rhododendron and laurel. The trail was still some distance ahead when he found his way blocked by a large truck that had pulled into an opening under the trees.