Mystery of the Sassafras Chair (9 page)

His teeth were chattering with the chill as he stumbled forward in the cabin's dimness and crouched by the fireplace. Kindling and wood were already in place, awaiting a match—a circumstance that seemed strange, though he was too tired to give it more than fleeting thought. His unsteady hand found a match in the wooden matchbox on the right, but it sputtered out in the rainwater that ran down his arms. He was more careful with the next match, and presently flames were leaping up from the kindling.

When the fire was blazing brightly he brought the sassafras chair inside, then closed and barred both doors, stripped off his sodden clothing, and wrapped himself in a blanket from the foot of the bed.

Timor was too exhausted for thought as he slumped down before the fireplace. The chair wasn't heavy, but his arms ached from carrying it so long, and his whole body throbbed after the unaccustomed exertion of scrambling over rough country.

Gradually the fire's warmth went through him and his head began to nod …

When he opened his eyes he found he was curled up by the hearth, with only his face exposed in the cocoon of the blanket. The fire had died to a glowing mass of embers. He got up stiffly, threw more wood on the fire, then unbarred the front door and glanced out.

It was black night outside. The rain had stopped, though moisture still dripped from the trees. A few yards away the swollen creek rushed past with a steady roaring.

Suddenly realizing he was very hungry, Timor closed the door and lighted the old kerosene lamp that was in its accustomed place on the table. For the first time he peered about him curiously.

The place, with its handmade furniture, and familiar herbs hanging from the rafters, looked exactly as he'd seen it last. But if Rance Gatlin had broken in to search through Wiley's things, the room would have been left in disorder. It was hard to imagine either of the deputies bothering to clean up their litter. Yet the tiny cabin was as spotlessly clean as if Wiley had just stepped out of it. The bed was carefully made, the dishes were washed and stacked on the shelf, the floor had been swept recently, and all the clothing put away in the corner cupboard. Even the woodbox was piled high with fresh wood and kindling.

Who could have done all this?

Timor glanced at the sassafras chair. The golden wood was glowing in the firelight. He watched it in sudden hope, praying that Wiley would appear and tell him what had been going on. At the moment nothing would have made him feel better than to see and talk to his old friend again. But the chair remained empty, and the only sounds that could be heard were the steady roaring of the creek, the crackling of the fire, and a small noise as if some night creature were on the prowl outside.

Then Timor went rigid. Something was on the porch, something large, for it was heavy enough to make one of the boards creak. Someone was out there, moving stealthily up to the door.

He stared at the door, and felt a quick stab of fright as he saw that he'd forgotten to slide the bar in place. A faint click drew his eyes to the ancient latch. Terror mounted in him as he watched the latch slowly rise with the pressure of the unknown hand on the other side.

It was too late to leap forward and thrust the bar into its slot. He snatched up the only weapon in reach—one of Wiley's old walking sticks standing beside the fireplace—and managed to cry out boldly, “Who's there? What do you want?”

He heard a surprised grunt, and the door swung open. A gaunt figure in patched overalls stood on the threshold. The narrow face that stared uncertainly back at him from under a shapeless hat was grim, youngish, unshaven, and somehow very familiar. Then he realized it was the ginseng hunter he had glimpsed here last year.

“Oh—it's you!” Timor said at last. “You sort of scared me.”

“Didn't aim to.” The grim face relaxed a trifle. “You kinda had me worried. You—you're that Hamilton boy, ain't you?”

“I'm Tim Hamilton.”

“You been here long?”

“Since just before dark. Why?”

“That feller Battle at the Forks, he come up here lookin' for you. Reckon he just missed you.”

“Nathaniel? He was looking for me?”

“Yeah. Folks are saying you done run off an' got yourself lost. They're gettin' up a search party down at the Hamilton place now.”

Timor's mouth fell open with shock. He should have realized this would happen. He felt a little sick.

The ginseng hunter was scowling at him. “Never figgered it was you in here. Reckon I'd better go back an' tell them people where you are.”

“No!” Timor burst out. “Please don't! I can't go home tonight. I just can't.”

“How come?”

“I—I've something to do here. It's terribly important.”

The hunter shrugged. “Well, I ain't exactly itchin' to go back. I was on my way over the Gap, an' I promised that Battle feller I'd stop by an' have another look …”

Sound died in the ginseng hunter's throat. His widening eyes were fastened on the sassafras chair. Timor had been standing in front of it, but as he stepped aside to replace Wiley's stick, the chair was suddenly exposed to full view. The yellow wood glowed strangely in the firelight.

The gaunt hunter gave a strangled gasp. “Y-you brung it back here!”

Timor blinked at him. “Are you the one who left it in my room the other night, with the key?”

“Yeah.” The man had backed into the door; it closed behind him and now he flattened against it, his grim face tightening. “Ain't you afraid of it?”

“Of course not! Wiley was my friend. Why should I be afraid of a chair he made for me?”

“B-but it glows—an' sometimes it glows a heap too bright to be natural.”

“Sure. Wiley always said there was something special in the wood—and there is. He's proved it.”

The hunter swallowed. “Then it's true—all the talk that's goin' around? That you seen Wiley in the chair—an'—an' he told you things?”

Timor nodded silently.

The man swallowed again. “I knowed it was true. I just knowed it. That chair always worried me. Then the other night it started glowin' terrible bright in the firelight. Sure gave me an awful turn. Figgered Wiley was after me about what I done. I done him wrong, I reckon. Real wrong. I just couldn't stand it, so I started to throw the chair in the creek—then I remembered Wiley sayin' he'd made it for you. So I took it over to your place an' left it.” The hunter paused, and asked, “W-why did you bring it back?”

“I had to.” Timor explained while he spread his sodden clothes on a bench nearer the fire. “So you see,” he finished, “there's nothing about the chair to be afraid of. Wiley's trying to help.”

“Mebbe he is, but it don't make me feel no better about it. Has—has Wiley told you anything about me?”

“I—I'm not sure,” said Timor, thinking quickly. “What's your name?”

The gaunt man hesitated. “Folks around here, they call me Joey Jackson.”

Timor's heart skipped a beat. “Are you the Jackson that was working with Shorty Malone at the time of the accident?”

“Yeah. Me an' Shorty drove trucks for a little while, haulin' gravel up this way. First job I'd had in a long spell. I hunt for seng, mainly, but you can't find it after it loses its leaves and berries.”

Timor, still clutching his blanket about him, sat down on the edge of the bench. His hunger was momentarily forgotten. Remembering the man's hesitation over his name, he asked, “Jackson isn't your real name, is it?”

The ginseng hunter glanced uneasily at the chair and moistened his lips. “Jackson's part of it. The whole thing's Joey Jackson Pendergrass, but Wiley figgered I'd make out better gettin' a job if nobody knowed I was his relation. Folks think, because a feller's a Pendergrass …”

Timor gaped at him. Then he exclaimed, “I didn't know Wiley had a relative!”

“Reckon I'm the onliest one left,” Joey mumbled. “Pa, he died last winter, so there's just me. He was Wiley's cousin.”

“Oh.” Timor considered this a moment, then continued, “If you're Wiley's only relative, then this place belongs to you.”

“Yeah. Sure would like to live here, but I can't claim it.”

“Why not?”

“Too many things gone wrong.”

“What things?”

“Just—just things.”

“You mean about the robbery and all?”

“Yeah.”

“Why don't you tell me about it?” Timor urged. “It may help us both.” He looked knowingly at the chair. “There hasn't been time to ask Wiley much about you …”

Joey stole a sidelong glance at the chair and shifted his feet. Timor held his breath, almost expecting the hunter to bolt into the night. As he watched the tight, unshaven face, he realized Joey was much younger than he appeared. Why, he's hardly as old as Odessa, Timor thought.

“I—I reckon if I don't tell you, Wiley will,” Joey said at last. “But you gotta promise you won't let on to them deputies. I don't trust 'em.”

“Of course I promise. I feel the same way about them.”

Joey drew a deep breath. “The trouble is, I was with Wiley that night. H-he'd do anything for a feller. Even used to buy up seng from needy folks, an' pay more'n he could sell it for. Anyway, he took me down to the Forks that night.” Joey paused. He looked miserable.

Timor managed not to show his astonishment. “No one saw you at the Forks. Where were you?”

“I—I was hidin' back in them pines where Wiley parked his truck. You see, it was this way: Pa, he used to make likker when we couldn't find seng. When he died, there wasn't no money to pay for things, an' all I had was some of his likker. My car was broke down, so I got Wiley to haul the stuff to the Forks. While I unloaded it, he went to see the feller that was buyin' it. The reason he come runnin' back an' drove away so fast was to make them deputies chase him. If they hadn't chased him, they'd 'a' caught me with that likker. Then I'd 'a' lost the job I'd just got, an' I'd be in jail now.”

Timor could only shake his head. He was beyond words.

Joey gulped. Suddenly he burst out defensively, “I know what you're thinkin'—that I could 'a' saved Wiley from being blamed for that robbery. But what was a feller to do in my place?”

“I don't know. But if you were hiding in the pines when Mr. Battle was being robbed, you must have seen …”

“But I
did
see, an' that's the worst part.”

“You—you know who did it?” Timor asked quickly.

“Sure I know. Leastways, I know it had to be one of two fellers—mebbe both of 'em. If I'd been watchin' more careful …, but I was waitin' for Wiley, see, an' wasn't payin' no mind to Battle's place. But I noticed that Grosser feller—what's his name?”

“Sammy?”

“Yeah. That Sammy was out back there for a minute. Then the next time I looked I seen Deputy Gatlin headin' for the gravel trucks that Shorty Malone an' me had left near the diner.”

“Did you notice if Mr. Gatlin threw anything in one of the trucks?”

Joey shook his head. “I was wonderin' about Wiley, an' didn't have no notion somethin' was wrong till somebody started shoutin' an' Wiley come runnin'. I was scared to hang around after he left, so I walked down to Shorty's house where I had a room at the time. I—I didn't hear about what happened to Wiley till the next mornin', when Shorty an' me went to work.” Joey paused, and swallowed. “It—it sure shook me up bad. An' the worst of it was I couldn't tell nobody what I knowed. Who'd believe me? Specially if it was Gatlin that did it.”

Timor nodded slowly. “If it was Deputy Gatlin …”

“I wouldn't have a chance,” muttered Joey. “That feller, he'd like as not kill me if he thought I knowed. An' lemme tell you somethin': if he's the one, you ain't safe either. Everybody's sayin' that Wiley's come back to tell you what happened at the Forks, so that you're bound to know the truth. If I was you, I wouldn't be hidin' here plum' alone. You'd be better off at your uncle's place where there's folks around.”

“No,” said Timor. “I've got to stay here with the chair.”

Joey shifted his feet nervously. “Well, if you're plum' bent on stayin', I reckon you'll be all right till mornin'. You get hungry, there's some canned stuff on them shelves.” His hand groped for the door latch, and he added, “If—if anybody comes, you better not put no trust in these doors. Them deputies, they broke down the back door gettin' in. This place was a pure mess when I come back here. Took me three days to repair things an' clean it up.”

Timor watched him open the door. A little chill crept through him at the prospect of being left alone. “You—you have to go?”

Joey's eyes crept once more to the chair; he flinched and turned quickly away. “I—I'd better. Got a job over the Gap now, takin' care of them summer cabins …” He almost ran out into the night.

Timor barred the door and stood uncertainly by the hearth while he tried to get his thoughts in order. Through his mind flashed a picture of Nathaniel hunting for him, of the search party being organized, and of Odessa's worried face. He really ought to tell Odessa where he was hiding. If he could manage to see her without the colonel knowing …

Frowning, he examined his clothes, and rearranged them on the bench to dry better. Then hunger drove him to the shelf where several cans were stacked. He opened a can of black-eyed peas, warmed it in the fireplace, and used a spoon to eat directly from the can. He was washing up in the icy spring water piped to the sink when he heard his name called.

He whirled. The sassafras chair was glowing, and old Wiley, gasping and wheezing, was just sitting down in it.

“Thank Pete an' bless Joe,” Wiley muttered. “The time I had findin' you! Lemme get my breath …”