Mystery of the Sassafras Chair (14 page)

Presently she said, “They've decided to follow. They're only guessing, of course. They're too smart to try anything; they'll just tag along and keep us in sight.” She gave a harsh little laugh. “This is as bad as an old-time movie, but the awful part of it is that we can't prove anything against them. Not one single thing! If I told Maggie McBane they tried to kill you and run Joey off the road, she'd get on her high horse and say I was imagining it. She's as hardheaded as that uncle of yours. Oh, I'd like to give him a piece of my mind!”

Timor thrust the jacket aside, but remained on the floor. “If I could find that lost box, it would be proof enough, wouldn't it?”

“It certainly ought to—if it had fingerprints on it.”

“Would being buried in the ground ruin the prints?”

“Not too much, I understand. All they need is one little print. Have you any idea at all where the box is?”

“Yes, but I'll have to talk it over with Nathaniel.”

“Well, we're almost at Wiley's road. Nathaniel may be there waiting.”

She slowed almost to a stop, and leaned over Timor for a quick look down at Wiley's parking space. Then her foot stabbed the gas pedal. “His jeep's not there. Better cover up again—we'll be passing your uncle's place in a minute. It's swarming.”

The truck rushed on. “If only Nathaniel had thought to bring the chair to me!” she wailed. “Tim, if he wrote that message to you at noon, it was hours ago. I can't help feeling …”

She slowed once more as they neared his uncle's road, creeping along until she had studied the cars parked along the road's shoulder and beyond the bridge. “No sign of him,” she announced. “Pray he's at the shop.”

The truck raced ahead, its tires making a different sound as it reached the newly graveled area that stretched downstream. Timor listened to the sound, wondering if Nathaniel had guessed.

“Are the Gatlins still behind us?” he asked.

“I don't see them. Either they're up to something, or they were stopped by the highway patrol. There's a confab going on by your bridge—if Rance is supposed to be out searching, they'd want to talk to him …”

Minutes later she turned in at the Forks. Timor sat up. Nathaniel's jeep was at the back of the shop. Mrs. Casey braked beside it, leaped out, and ran to the door.

The door was locked. She pounded upon it, then raced around to the front. She reappeared in seconds, her freckled face tight with worry.

“I knew something was wrong! Oh, what could have happened? Maybe somebody at the diner can tell me …”

She started away, then stopped as a taxi came speeding across the highway bridge from town. It turned towards the shop and braked near the front. A very grim Nathaniel sprang out, thrust money at the driver, and hastened to the truck. His eyes widened, but he said nothing until the taxi was gone and he had let them into the shop and locked the door.

“Praise be!” he burst forth. “How in the world did you two get together?”

Mrs. Casey told him. “But for heaven's sake, what's happened to you?”

The hawk face was unshaven and bruised. The khaki shirt and trousers on the sinewy frame were dirty and torn. The knuckles of the lean brown hands were bandaged. At her question, the black eyes flashed.

“I've been in jail, Lou. Your brother got me out.”

“Jail!” she shrilled. “What ever for!”

“Assault and battery. I'm sure Tim told you about running into Sammy last night. Well, the signs were clear. This morning I caught Sammy watching near Wiley's place and went to work on him.”

Lou Casey grinned. “You beat up that big lunk? Where is he now?”

“In bed,” Nathaniel growled. “But he babbled before I put him there. I learned some things. Trouble was, he's Brad James' kin—and Brad came after me with a warrant just as I got here with the chair—”

Timor gasped. “The chair—is it safe?”

“I hid it in time. No one knows it's here. Before I get it out, let's check and see where we stand. But I've got to have coffee. Guess we all need it. Tim, while I'm making it, let's hear about you.”

The coffee was ready when Timor finished. He sipped from his steaming cup, and asked, “Did Sammy see Mr. Gatlin hide the box in one of the gravel trucks?”

Nathaniel shook his head. “No, but he saw enough to figure it out. He made the same mistake we did at first. He thought Rance had tossed it in front in one of the cabs. When he sneaked back that night to get it, it wasn't there. It wasn't till later that he realized the box had been hidden in the gravel—shoved out of sight—and that Rance hadn't had time to come back and get it before it was dumped on the road.”

Mrs. Casey nearly dropped her cup. “You mean to say your box has been up there in the road all this time?”

“Yes. That's why Sammy was out searching every night.”

“But why wasn't Rance looking—” Then Mrs. Casey gasped. “Oh, the Connors! Their land was the important thing.”

Nathaniel nodded. “Sure, the box could wait. The Gatlins thought they'd skinned the Connors on that land deal—until that bronze sapphire was found. No one ever dreamed …”

“Poor May Connor told me this morning they're mortgaged to the ears and can't borrow another dime—and that the Gatlins will probably get the land back.”

“Exactly,” said Nathaniel. “Unless they finish paying. So now the Gatlins are worried. They're afraid Tim can find the box. That one sapphire is worth enough …”

Lou Casey set her coffee cup down. “How can anybody find that box under a mile of gravel?”

“Let's ask Wiley,” Nathaniel said quietly.

He drew the curtains and began shifting boxes. Presently he brought forth the hidden chair. The polished sassafras was glowing. Lou Casey stared at it in awe. Nathaniel blinked.

But Timor suddenly cried out happily, “Mr. Pendergrass!” For to him old Wiley had appeared almost instantly, his sharp eyes glittering with excitement.

“About time!” Wiley cackled. “About time! Ding blatt it, I thought you was never—Mis' Lou, Nathaniel, can you all see me?”

Mrs. Casey said nothing, but Nathaniel whispered, “Wiley, is that you talking? I can't see you, but …”

“Naw, 'course you can't—only Timmy here has what it takes.” Wiley pounded the chair arm impatiently. “You've got it all figgered out, so get goin'! You want that box, don't you?”

“B-but how can we find it?” Timor asked.

“I'll show you! Take the chair along, an' have Nathaniel cut you a witch hazel fork. You know how to dowse for gems. Nathaniel, Timmy's the best dowser I ever seen. But hurry before that meddlin' mule that put you in jail—”

Wiley groaned as footsteps crunched in the gravel outside. There came an abrupt pounding on the door.

“Open up!” demanded the voice of Brad James.

Nathaniel stood frozen a moment. His eyes narrowed in quick decision; he let the deputy in.

Brad James stared at Timor. Then he glared accusingly at Nathaniel. “So Sammy was right—you been hidin' the kid while the whole world's out huntin' 'im! What's the big idea?”

Nathaniel snapped, “I tried to tell you earlier he was in danger, and you wouldn't believe me. Rance and his brother tried twice to murder him today. They're somewhere up the valley now. Brad, you're going with us and arrest them.”

Brad snorted derisively. “Are you plum' crazy?”

“You blind idiot,” said Nathaniel, “you let that devil rob me practically under your nose that night! The proof's up the valley. Now let's get up there!”

“You've got rocks in the head. I'm takin' the kid home an' callin' off the hunt, but you—”

Nathaniel grabbed him by the shirt front. “You'll come with us and do your duty, or I'll tear off that badge and give you what I gave Sammy!”

“You tryin' to threaten an officer?” Brad said hoarsely. “I'll slap you back in jail so fast—”

“Stop it!” Lou Casey cried. “Brad, we know what we're talking about.
Look
—
look at the chair!
”

Brad James became aware of the chair for the first time. He stiffened, staring. The sassafras chair was glowing brighter and brighter. The glow became more brilliant than Timor had ever seen it, as if somehow old Wiley had managed to transfer all his own energy into the golden wood. Timor couldn't see Wiley now, but he could hear him chuckle faintly. “Takes a heap o' juice an' cackle, but this oughta fix 'im!”

Brad swallowed. He backed away and managed to say feebly, “Let's—let's get movin'.”

On the way up the valley they stopped once while Nathaniel cut a slender forked switch from a shrub. They passed the Gatlins' blue car, parked near the entrance to the Hamilton road. It was empty. Beyond it a highway patrol officer momentarily barred the way, then waved them on with a shout that was taken up by others as they crossed the bridge. With the cry that the boy had been found, a forest ranger fired his pistol three times into the air, and another began speaking rapidly into a walkie-talkie. There was sudden excitement at the television truck, and newsmen came running.

Timor shrank. Then he saw his uncle, stony-faced, hurrying down the cabin steps with Deputy Gatlin at his elbow. Timor clutched Mrs. Casey's arm. What was the fox up to now? Where was his brother?

Odessa raced past her father and darted through the crowd. “Timmy! Timmy—are you all right?”

“He's all right,” Mrs. Casey said grimly. “But no thanks to those Gatlins. Brad,” she cried, “get Rance before he—”

Odessa whispered quickly, “He's telling Daddy that Timmy's sick, and we mustn't listen to any wild story—” She stopped as the colonel strode up, thrusting a man with a microphone out of the way.

“I'll take over,” the colonel said firmly. “This boy needs medical attention.”

“Just a minute,” Brad James began, and suddenly faltered as he faced the colonel and the soft speaking man beside him.

“Arrest him!” Lou Casey shrilled. “He and Jake tried to kill Tim! Where's Jake gone?”

“This is ridiculous,” said the colonel. “Mr. Gatlin has told me how Tim's been acting. I'm sorry you people have been taken in by his tales. The boy isn't responsible. Come, Tim, into the house with you.”

“No!” said Timor. “He's lying and we can prove it.” He jumped from Mrs. Casey's truck, squirmed away from his uncle's grasp, and ran to Nathaniel's jeep. He had dreaded this return, and now he was badly shaken to find it so much worse than he had ever expected. What if he couldn't find the box after all?

Men crowded about them, and one cried, “Where's that talking chair?”

“Right here,” said Nathaniel. He jerked a canvas cover from the back of the jeep, lifted out the chair, and set it carefully on the ground. There was sudden silence as everyone stared at it.

For a moment it seemed to be only another ladder-back chair of rather unusual color. Then the sun, dipping behind the western ridge, cast a final ray upon it. The chair began to glow with an increasing brightness.

With awed murmurs, the crowd fell back. Timor did not notice his uncle; his attention was on the man beside him, who was chewing a match. As the man's pale eyes widened upon the chair, his mouth fell open and the match dropped. All at once he whirled as if to run. Brad James caught him and disarmed him; there was a tussle, then a click of handcuffs.

But the prisoner was by no means subdued. His soft voice was suddenly dangerous. “You've made a big mistake. This crazy boy has made fools of all of you! What are you charging me with? Where's your proof?”

“The proof's in the road!” Lou Casey's shrill tones drowned all other sound. “You people have been wrong about Wiley Pendergrass—this is the man who robbed Nathaniel. He hid the box in a gravel truck, and it was dumped on the road.”

There were exclamations. Men asked, “How are you going to find it?”

“Tim can find it,” said Nathaniel, as he rapidly trimmed the forked switch he had cut earlier. “He's a born dowser. He can find gems as well as water. Let's go over on the road.”

Timor took the witch hazel switch and followed Nathaniel, who carried the chair. Lou Casey and the silent colonel came behind, with the excited crowd at their heels.

“Tim,” the colonel suddenly murmured, “Tim, it's hard for me to believe in all this. Is—is it true about the box—is it really in the road somewhere?”

“Yes, sir. We know it's there.”

“And you actually think you can find it—by dowsing?

“I—I haven't had much experience, Uncle Ira, but I'll do my best. Wiley taught me how.”

On the road where the new gravel began, Nathaniel set the chair down. Suddenly he shouted, and began to run. Timor almost dropped the forked switch. Farther down near the blue car a man was digging desperately in the loose gravel by the road's edge. It was Jake Gatlin. At the sight of the crowd he dropped his shovel and raced to his car. Before Nathaniel could reach him he was roaring away towards the Forks.

Nathaniel hurried back. “Forget him,” he said. “He'll be caught. Was he digging in the right place, Tim?”

Timor looked at the chair, and shook his head. The chair was glowing reassuringly, and faintly from it old Wiley's voice was ordering, “Further down, Timmy—then get that switch to workin'! Them Gatlins was only guessin' …”

Beyond the spot where Jake had been digging, Timor paused. He closed his eyes in a fervent prayer, and held the forked switch upright in the way old Wiley had taught him. Slowly he paced forward. Nathaniel came close behind him with the chair. The silent crowd followed.

The chair's glow was dimming, and Wiley's voice was becoming fainter. Once Timor stopped, uncertain, and old Wiley said urgently, “Keep goin', Timmy! I'm near out o' cackle, but we're almost there … to the left … filled a deep washout …”