An Oregon Girl Part 30

"Wait!" suddenly whispered Sam, in a warning tone. "There is a man ahead of us."

There was no mistaking it, for as they stood stock-still in their tracks, they saw a man's form occasionally obtruding between them and an electric light that shed its rays from afar off, across the water.

"Do you think he is the detective?" asked Thorpe, in a low voice.

"Wait!" and Sam placed his two hands over his mouth so as to form a hollow, and called out in moderate tones: "Caw! caw!"

It was answered by a single "caw," low, but seemingly so near that they were startled, and for a moment felt that they were being deceived.

They remained motionless and silent--Sam with his hand grasping the b.u.t.t of a revolver.

The "caw" was repeated low, but with rea.s.suring effect, for they now discovered that while the sound was apparently near, due to atmospheric conditions, it was in reality fully two hundred feet away.

"Detective Simms," whispered Sam. "He is waiting for us."

"Then let's hurry," urged his companion.

The words had scarcely left his lips when Thorpe's boot caught in a vine and down he went, making considerable noise as he stumbled and fell on his hip.

"You must be more careful," enjoined Sam, in a low tone, as he helped Thorpe to his feet.

"Much haste, less speed, and then a little noise may endanger our success, I fear. Are you hurt?"

"No, thanks. Let's go on," impatiently replied Thorpe.

As they drew near the detective, in order to make doubly sure of avoiding a trap, Sam uttered in a low voice the word "Hope!" It was a watchword previously arranged and provided as an additional precaution against a possible contingency of deep darkness rendering prompt recognition difficult.

It was answered by the word "Good," uttered in equally low and cautious tones, and which at once put them at their ease.

Almost immediately they met the detective at the edge of the clearing.

Before them, a little to the left, dimly but clearly outlined against the harbor lights, was a typical Willamette River cabin, commonly known on the waterfront as a "scow dwelling," moored about fifty feet from the sh.o.r.e, broadside on. It was the object of their venture.

So intent were they on sizing it up, and the problem of boarding it, that they were quite insensible to the magnificent panorama spread out beyond, and further to the left of Portland by night. At their feet the dark, shimmering Willamette silently glided along its course to the mighty Columbia; the great bridges on which the street cars, in a blaze of light, swiftly crossed and recrossed the gloomy river; the darkly-outlined towering masts of the ocean shipping in the lower harbor, the great industrial landmarks that reared their lofty shadows in different parts of the city. The myriad of bluish electric lights, that shone out like diamonds in the clear, balmy night, spread out over the city and up and up, in terraces and by gradual stages, to the hills, and along the heights that stretched away north-westerly. For miles on either side of the river the lights spread out, till at length, in diminishing brilliancy, they were lost in the shadow of the distant rugged hills, whose irregular dark-wooded crests were sharply defined against the rare splendor of the firmament, then aglow with glittering stars.

In fact, all the grandeur of the far-stretching panorama was neglected and lost to them in the intensity of their gaze upon the humble dwelling before them, built on a raft of logs.

(Booms of saw-logs are now moored abreast the cabin anchorage.)

Sam left Thorpe and the detective and wormed his way nearer the sh.o.r.e, to a position where he could obtain a better view of the cabin. Lying flat on his stomach, and concealed as much as possible, behind some driftwood and low, dead brush, he listened intently, and studied the situation with the practical eye of the frontiersman. He made out the cabin to be about twenty-four feet long, seven or eight feet high, with two small windows on the side which was nearest him. There being a light in one of the windows, he concluded the cabin was divided into at least two parts. The logs upon which the cabin was built projected some four feet at either end, on which was a platform, but no protecting railing. Proof that the occupant was not a family man, as "scow-dwellers" with children are careful to have railings about their craft.

He judged that the logs were large and water-soaked, and securely fastened together, and by their combined weight effected a certain stability and steadiness to the cabin resting thereon, during bad weather.

There appeared no means of reaching the cabin except by boat or swimming, and the mud of the river bottom at that point was evidently deep. Now and again he heard voices in the cabin, seemingly in altercation. But the distance was too great for him to distinguish the words. The quietness was profound except for the gentle lapping of the water, and disturbed occasionally by ripping sounds from a sawmill some distance down the river, which, if anything, added to the stillness instead of diminishing it.

Once he started at what sounded like a moan very near him, but it was so indistinct, so much like a faint whispering whistle, and it was immediately succeeded by the buzzing whirr of a bat as it darted about, and deep silence again environing him, that he dismissed the sound as a fantasy.

He was mentally calculating upon the chances of a surprise and rescue, and in an attempt to drag himself a few feet nearer the water-line to catch, if possible, some words of the conversation going on in the cabin. He stretched out his right hand to grasp what appeared to be a piece of driftwood, to aid in pulling himself along. His hand fell upon the dry, warm body of some animal.

He almost yelled aloud, so great was his fright. For a moment his heart beat madly. But the same strength of will that rushed to his aid in smothering the yell also quieted his agitation and restored his confidence.

The incident had almost jeopardized the favorable prospect of their enterprise. But nothing untoward happening, he again put out his hand and touched the body. It was warm and did not stir. The animal was lying on its side, and he plainly felt a faint throbbing of its heart.

He ran his hand down its legs, then along its spine to a large limb of a tree that lay across its neck. He concluded that it was a little dog when his hand felt a small rope wound tightly about the limb.

His curiosity being fully aroused, he determined upon further investigation. Not daring to light a match he did the next best thing that occurred to him. Still retaining his p.r.o.ne position, Sam pa.s.sed his hand along the dog's spine to the fore shoulder, and under the piece of wood, to its neck. Then he discovered the poor thing was in the last throes of strangulation. Its breathing was scarcely perceptible. Its tongue, swollen thick, protruded from its mouth.

Instantly his sympathy for the little sufferer became acute, and, without thinking of possible results should the dog recover quickly, whipped out his knife and severed the coils of rope about the limb.

Using his left hand as a lever, his elbow being a pivot, he pried up the weighty limb and with his right hand drew the dog from under it and to him. He quickly unwound the few remaining coils from around its neck, and as he did so, smiled with pleasurable emotion--for he was sure that he felt a feeble lick of the dog's tongue on his hand.

A dog's life is an inconsequential thing, according to some people's way of thinking, but here was proof that under Sam's rough and unpolished exterior there throbbed a heart full of gentleness and sympathy for suffering animals. He took the dog, which he then recognized as a small, s.h.a.ggy Scotch terrier, under his arm and stole back to the detective and Mr. Thorpe.

In discussing the affair afterward, it was deemed probable that the detective, finding his long vigil at the edge of the woods tiresome, had unconsciously fallen asleep; though he indignantly denied it, and during that time the dog had been taken on sh.o.r.e and tied to a heavy piece of driftwood to give warning of the approach of strangers by night, but the poor thing had become tangled in the brush, and in its efforts to extricate itself had tightly twisted the rope about its neck, and the heavy limb had rolled over and pinioned it to the ground.

In the meantime Mr. Thorpe and the detective were engaged in low, earnest conversation.

"Are you satisfied the child is my little Dorothy?" asked Mr. Thorpe.

"I am not positive, but I believe so. I have watched all the afternoon in hopes of catching a glimpse of her. Once I heard a child cry."

"Yet the child may not be Dorothy!"

"True!" replied the detective, "but whether the child be yours or not, I am satisfied the little thing in that cabin is there against its will."

"Did you note any visitors to the cabin this evening?"

"Yes; a man rowed over from the direction of 'Bundy's' about half an hour ago. He is in there now."

"Do you think the Italian, his visitor and the child are the only ones there?"

"I am positive they are the only ones in that cabin at this moment."

"Then let's wade out there," urged Mr. Thorpe.

"Careful!" cautioned Sam, who had just come up. "I know the Dago to be a cunning and dangerous man. We could not wade out that far any way, in the soft mud and tangled roots of that bottom. We must have the small boat."

"What have you there?" It was the detective who spoke.

"Our first rescue. A mascot!" and then Sam related the incident.

"Good!" exclaimed Mr. Thorpe. "Its bark would have betrayed us."

The three then held a brief consultation. Shortly afterward Sam retraced his steps along the trail, back to the steam launch, with the "mascot" steadily recovering, but still under his arm.

CHAPTER XIV.