Mystery of the Sassafras Chair (12 page)

Timor raised his head worriedly and peered around. On his right he could see the yard for the first time. It was jammed with cars and men moving about. A man in a Forest Service uniform was standing in front of the cabin, giving orders to a large group with packs on their backs. Timor watched a moment, stricken, then tried to locate Nathaniel's jeep. He could not see it, but in front of the truck he noticed the yellow sports car belonging to Si LeGrande.

Almost in panic he started to crawl away, when he heard voices by the truck. He paused, suddenly sick at heart as it came to him why the truck was here. It was a television truck, and they were getting ready to broadcast.

“Ready?” said a clear voice.

“Take it, Hal.”

There was a short pause, and the clear voice began:

“This is Hal Grundy, your on-the-spot newsman reporting to you from the Hamilton summer place on Blue Gap Road, high in the Carolina mountains. These remote highlands are now witnessing one of the strangest manhunts that has ever taken place on our troubled planet. At this moment scores of searchers are combing a great stretch of wilderness for a lost boy with a talking chair, who disappeared from this spot more than twenty-five hours ago. Yes, I said a talking chair, for when young Tim Hamilton left home and entered the forest, he took with him his most cherished possession, a mysterious ladderback chair made of sassafras, which is widely rumored to have the power of speech. Men have been looking for Tim Hamilton since early last evening; they've searched all night and all morning, but so far they have found not a trace of either Tim or his chair.

“Few people have actually seen Tim Hamilton's chair, but everyone knows about it. It is a thing they discuss only in whispers. To help you understand how it has affected this area, I will turn the microphone over to Si LeGrande, well-known authority on mountain lore and legend, who will tell you more about Tim and give you some of the background …”

Timor was too stunned to hear any more. The enormity of what he had brought about was almost past belief. Television—scores of men searching—Nathaniel out all night—more men leaving now—the yard full of curious people and reporters.… He could almost see his uncle raging. Never, as long as he lived, would the colonel forgive him for what was going on.

Somehow he managed to creep away from the truck and gain the edge of the wagon trail. He got to his feet and plunged onward a little blindly, his mind in a whirl, his aches momentarily forgotten. He felt curiously weak, and gradually it came to him that he was not only thirsty but very hungry. He had eaten little at breakfast yesterday, and only a small can of peas last night. This was another day—Wiley's last day to help—and already it was half over. How could he have slept so long?

Occasional small springs seeped from the slope on his left and trickled down to the creek. He paused by one and drank deeply. It made him feel a trifle better, though now he was more aware of his pains and hunger. There was food at Wiley's place, if he could manage to enter it unseen. But the chair was more important. He must go to it first and talk to Wiley.

He went on warily, keeping watch behind as well as in front. During the next half hour he saw no one. Apparently the searchers had decided that he could not be on this side of the ridge, and were spreading through the wilder country beyond. Only the Grossers and the man named Al Means knew better.

Thinking of the Grossers, Timor grew more cautious as he drew near Wiley's place. He circled behind it, studying every bush and tree for a hidden watcher. Reassured at last, he went on past the barn and approached the spring.

There was no sign that anyone had been here since his visit last night. Creeping to the edge of the rhododendron thicket, he whispered hopefully, “Mr. Pendergrass?”

There was no answer, and he called again.

Why wasn't Wiley waiting for him? Surely, by this time …

In sudden worry he looked into the thicket, trying to see the chair. He must have hidden it better than he'd realized. It
had
to be here somewhere.

But it wasn't! The sassafras chair was gone.

Frantically, Timor plunged through the thicket and into other thickets nearby. There was no sign of the chair, not even a broken fragment. Whoever had taken it had not destroyed it here.

He sank down at last on the mossy ground. A dry sob broke from him. Suddenly, everything had come to an end.

What could he possibly do without the chair?

Who could have taken it? Not Sammy, for Sammy would have destroyed it on the spot. So would Fritz Grosser and the other man. Remembering Sammy's fear of it, it seemed strange that anyone who wanted to get rid of it would actually carry it away.

Gnawing hunger finally drove him to his feet and on to the cabin.

He approached the cabin from the rear, forgetting that he had barred the back door until his hand touched the latch. But the door swung open to his touch.

He entered slowly, suddenly watchful again. The cabin had been restored to order since his bout with Sammy, for every piece of the broken hickory chair had been picked up and stacked neatly in the wood box. Even the blanket he had dropped had been folded carefully and replaced on the bed. It was hard to imagine Sammy or his father doing this.

Timor hurried to the back shelf and started to select a can. Instantly he noticed something he did not remember seeing before. One of the cans had a piece of white paper folded about it, covering the label. On it was scrawled the word
Wetan
.

He stared at it curiously, then comprehension came.
Wetan
had the same meaning as
timor
, the Malay word for east. The paper about the can must be a note addressed to him—only the writer of it had cleverly used the synonym instead of his real name. If other eyes saw it the word would be meaningless, for anyone glancing at the shelf would suppose that old Wiley himself had put it there, to label some concoction of his own.

All this flashed through Timor's mind in an instant, and he knew that the writer of the note had placed it in the one spot where he would be bound to find it—in the middle of the shelf where food was kept.

Only Nathaniel would have come here and thought of this way of communicating.

Eagerly he snatched down the can and started to unwrap the paper. Then, without quite realizing why he did so, he quickly rewrapped the paper about the can and thrust it into his jacket pocket. The invisible string was tugging at him again, urging him across the room to the front door. He hesitated, looking about him and listening. His ears could detect nothing unusual or suspicious.

Then his eyes, roving about the dim room, fastened upon something small and white on the hearth.

It was a match with a chewed end.

The sight of it brought a small sharp icicle of fright stabbing through him. He gained the front door, jerked it open, and ran. As he sped away he was almost certain he heard a small sound in the room behind him, as if the rear door were being opened. But he did not take time to look back.

11

Pursuit

T
IMOR dodged through the trees along the creek, heading upstream. When he paused briefly to glance behind him, the cabin was no longer in sight, nor could he see anyone coming. But the invisible string still tugged at him. Without quite thinking what he was doing, he turned left at the tiny branching stream he had followed so long yesterday, ran a few yards to leave footprints by the edge, then stepped into the water and waded carefully back to the creek.

It was a trick Wiley had told him about one day when they were discussing trails and trail signs, though he did not consciously remember it now until he had waded up the creek to the huge yellow rock that marked his favorite fishing spot.

Timor crept through the shallows to the back of the rock, and climbed up and crouched behind the ancient chestnut log that had fallen across the top. From this vantage point he could easily make out anyone approaching without being seen. The can made a comforting bulge in his jacket pocket. Perhaps he could open it later with his knife …

With a watchful eye on the trail, he fumbled in his pocket and unrolled the note.

The note read:
Saya pegang krosi. Tunggu buat saya sebrang jembatan. Saya kembali lekas. Saya mengerti semua jadi sini. Ati ati orang sama korek api. N
.

Nathaniel's Malay wasn't perfect but, freely interpreted, his meaning was clear:
I have taken the chair. Wait for me across the bridge. I will return quickly. I understand all that happened here. Beware of the man with the match. Nathaniel
.

Timor's spirits momentarily leaped with the first line and dropped with the last. But his already high opinion of Nathaniel went up several more notches. He had no doubt that Nathaniel, on going back to Wiley's place, had correctly read the signs he found there. As for the chair … He breathed a prayer of thanks. If Nathaniel hadn't located it first, another skilled trail follower might have had his hands on it by this time.

Where was Nathaniel now? He must have carried the chair away in the jeep, probably to the shop. The note couldn't have been written long ago, for if Nathaniel had returned and not found his passenger waiting, he would have gone on to the cabin to see if the note had been taken.

For an instant Timor wondered if it had been Nathaniel he had run away from. Then reason told him it wasn't. Nathaniel would have called out to him.

Timor thrust the note back into his pocket and peered cautiously over the top of the log. He could see no one, nor could he make out even a suspicious shadow or a movement in the brush to indicate anyone was near. But someone
was
near. Of that he was sure. His skin prickled at the back of his neck, and he could feel a coldness that ran all the way down his spine.

He swallowed, and cautiously began lowering himself from the rock. Somehow he must manage to cross the creek unseen, and slip back through the brush on the other side and wait for Nathaniel.

The creek was not as high as it had been last night, though it still came rushing down with a swiftness that could easily send him tumbling if he missed his footing. He studied it for a few seconds, then waded up to a shallow area and began picking his way between the rocks to the other bank.

The icy water tugged at him and threatened to throw him as it swept up past his knees. He slipped on the last step and would have gone down but for an overhanging alder bush; he clutched it frantically, and drew himself to safety.

Thick alder scrub bordered this side of the creek, offering perfect protection as he crept down toward the bridge. Wiley had never bothered to enlarge the bridge so he could bring his truck over, but had always parked in an open spot between the creek and the road. As Timor neared the opening he watched hopefully for Nathaniel's jeep. The parking spot was empty.

While he waited on the edge of a thicket, he pulled off his sneakers and socks, squeezed the water out, and drew them back on. He was lacing his sneakers when he heard a car coming down the steep incline from the road. It must be Nathaniel returning.

But it wasn't. Timor had just time to flatten under the shrubs before a blue car swung into the parking place and stopped. With bitter disappointment he watched the driver get out and move slowly and watchfully down the path leading to the bridge. The man was a stranger, but there was an odd flatness to his face that made Timor think of Deputy Gatlin. Could this be Rance Gatlin's brother Jake?

The man paused near the bridge, took something from his pocket, and held it to his mouth. Timor had never seen anyone use a turkey call before, but now he recognized the sound when it came. The man was signaling.

What was keeping Nathaniel? From here it was five miles to the Forks; surely it wouldn't take more than a half hour to drive there, hide the chair in the shop, and come back.

Timor glanced worriedly in the direction of the bridge. He could not see it from where he lay, but he could make out the stranger's head and shoulders near a tree, and he glimpsed another man approaching through the shrubbery. The newcomer's face was hidden, but in his mind he could see the match thrust between the thin lips, and almost feel the impact of the pale eyes in the flat expressionless face.

The two men stood together only a moment, then quietly separated, one vanishing upstream into the alders, the other fading into the growth below the parking area.

Timor felt like a small mouse in a trap. He realized his trick of wading hadn't worked.
They knew he was on this side of the creek
. If he remained where he was, it would be only a matter of minutes before they found him.

Trembling, he tried to slide backward, deeper into the shadow of the protective shrubbery that arched over his head. The too-large jacket was an encumbrance. Weighed down by the can in one pocket and the flashlight in the other, it caught on the twigs around him and refused to budge without causing a disturbance. He tried to slide out of it, but froze as he saw movement a few yards away.

The movement stopped, and through the screen of leaves he made out the shape of a man crouching, watching the alder tangle stretching upstream. The man was gripping something in his right hand. Was it a short piece of iron pipe?

It was.

Timor chilled. Even without the weapon, the stealth and the deadly intentness of the watching man were enough to tell him of his danger. These two hunting him were not like the Grossers.

The Grossers had wanted only to destroy the chair, but the Gatlins seemed determined to destroy the chair's owner.

Why? Was it because they thought he knew who had taken the box? Rance Gatlin had taken it—there was no doubt of that now. But would they want to kill him merely because he knew? That wasn't enough. Was it something about the box? That had to be it. The box—the
peti blik
, as he always thought of it—was lost. The Gatlins hadn't bothered to look for it. Were they afraid the chair's owner might find it?