Heart of the Blue Ridge Part 6

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Clara Kimball Young under the direction of Lewis J. Selznick._ AFTER THE RAID.]

The raiders realized the need of haste, for they must be done with their work here, and down the steeps of the mountain into the open road, ere the fugitives should have time to arm themselves, and waylay the posse from the thickets. So, with due watchfulness of the two prisoners, the men set about that task of destruction which their duty required. The fermenters, huge tubs holding the mixture of meal, malt and water making ready for the still, received first attention. Since York had fallen before these, the men rolled him roughly to one side, without arousing him to any sign of consciousness. Stone knew the man to be shamming, since there had been no show of even incipient drunkenness before the moment of the raid. He resolved to try a test at least, for he was alert to the hindrance the limp form would prove in the descent of the mountain. He thrust the body forward with his foot, close to one of the great "stands" of the mixture, and bade an appreciative a.s.sistant apply the ax to the slippery-elm hoops that bound the staves. As the bands fell and the great volume of liquid gushed forth, the raiders leaped aside from the flood. But York never stirred. The down-rushing tide fell fairly on him, engulfed him. He made no movement, no outcry. Even Stone himself was led to a half-remorseful wonder whether he had been deceived concerning the fellow's state. Then, after a few seconds, the bald head rose, glistening from the pool of the "beer." The thin wisps of gray hair hung in dank strings; the jungle of beard seemed strangely thin; there was something curiously unlike Ben York in the lineaments. The marshal guessed that the metamorphosis was wrought by the swirling mess, which had scrubbed the weazened face almost clean for the first time in the memory of living man. As the dilapidated head emerged, it showed the grotesque caricature of a Neptune, whose element was not the waters of ocean, but the shattered hogsheads of "beer." Even now, however, Ben clung to his role. Once his face was clear, he continued to sit placidly, though the surface of the viscous pool was at his neck. For better effect, he blinked vacuously, and gurgled. Perhaps, memory of a bath in infancy inspired him. He had had none since. He beat his scrawny hands in the "beer," and cackled. It was admirable art, but wasted.

The eight fermenters were broken and emptied, the whiskey stores, both "singlin's" and "doublin's," were poured out on the ground, which drank them as thirstily as did ever law-scorning "boomer." Then, the raiders turned to the chief spoils, kettle, cap and worm. Stone and his men took the copper worm from the cooling barrel, removed the cap, drew the fire from the furnace, and finally pulled down the kettle. In the varied excitement of the night, the marshal had almost forgotten his second great ambition, in the accomplishment of his first. Almost, not quite. Now, the memory of it jumped within him. He thrust the cap where the glow of the fire would light it clearly, dropped to his knees, and peered closely. His stern face relaxed abruptly to joyousness.

"By the Lord, boys," he shouted, "it's the Bobbie Burns' still!"

Nevertheless, Stone wasted no time in exultation. He merely ordered his men to carry the copper utensils along, instead of destroying them on the spot. Then, he addressed Ben York, who grinned idiotically from toothless gums, where he crouched in the diminishing puddle. The marshal's voice rasped.

"You're going with us, Ben. It's for you to say how. If we have to, we'll carry you all the way. We'll snake you down the mountains without being too almighty careful of that rum-tanned hide of yours, and then we'll sling you across the roughest-gaited horse we've got--face down across the saddle and roped snug. That's the way you'll do twenty-odd miles, Ben, if we have to tote you down a single rod.

Make up your mind--now! It'll be too late to change it, in a minute.

You're plumb sober, and I know it. Get up, you old fox!"

And Ben York, shivering in his sticky, drenched rags, recognized the inevitable, and scrambled to his feet, snarling curses.

"Hit was thet-thar d.a.m.ned gal!" he mumbled venomously. But none heard.

CHAPTER IX

It is a far cry from the savagery of the illicit mountain still to that consummate luxury of civilization, an ocean-going steam yacht.

Yet, in actual s.p.a.ce, the distance between these two extremes was not great. _The Josephine_, all in snowy white, save for the gleam of polished bra.s.s-work, and flying the pennant of the New York Yacht Club, glided forth from Norfolk Harbor in serene magnificence on the same day that _The Bonita_ chugged fussily over the same course. The yacht was setting out on the second stage of her leisurely pleasure voyage to Bermuda. The skipper had been instructed to follow the coast southward as far as Frying Pan Shoals, for the sake of rounding Hatteras. Afterward, since the weather grew menacing, the craft continued down the coast to Cape Lookout, where anchor was dropped in the Harbor of Refuge.

The island that lies there is a long, narrow, barren strip of sand, dotted thickly with dunes. Only a coa.r.s.e marsh gra.s.s grows, with dwarfed pines and cedars. In this bleak spot live and thrive droves of wild ponies, of uncertain ancestry. It was these creatures that just now held the attention of two persons on the yacht.

Under the awning in the stern, two girls were chatting as they dawdled over their morning chocolate. The younger and prettier of these was Josephine Blaise, the motherless daughter of the yacht-owner; the other was Florence Marlow, her most intimate friend.

"Dad told me I could have the runabout ash.o.r.e," Josephine was saying, with a sudden access of animation. "We'll go along the beach, as long as the going's good, or till we scare up the ponies."

"I do hope we'll see them digging holes in the sand, so as to get fresh water," Florence exclaimed.

But Josephine was quick to dissent:

"They don't dig for water," she explained, with a superior air. "They dig the holes in the beach when the tides out, and then the tide comes in and fills the holes, of course. When it ebbs, the ponies go around and pick out the fish, and eat them."

Florence stared disbelievingly.

"Oh, what a whopper!" she cried.

"Captain Hawks told me himself," Josephine a.s.serted, with confidence.

"He knows all about them--he's seen them wild on the island and tame on the mainland."

"Same ones, probably!" was the tart retort. "I thought the doctor lied ably, but he's truth itself compared with that hairy skipper of yours."

Josephine tossed her head.

"We'll run 'em down and observe their habits, scientifically, and convince you."

A glance sh.o.r.eward showed the car awaiting them. As they descended the ladder to the launch, a yelp sounded from the deck, and a bull-terrier came charging after. Florence regarded the dog without any evidence of pleasure.

"Does the pest go, too?" she asked, resignedly.

Josephine pulled the terrier's ears fondly, as it cuddled close against her skirt.

"Chubbie deserves an outing after the b.u.mp he got from that horrid man yesterday," she said.

The girls exchanged glances, and laughed over some secret joke. When, presently, they were seated together in the runaabout, with Josephine at the wheel, the bull-terrier squatted in dignity on the small back seat. The level sand formed a perfect roadway, and the car darted smoothly and swiftly between the twin barren s.p.a.ces of land and sea.

As they swept forward, the girls watched alertly for a glimpse of the ponies among the dunes, but there was nowhere any sign of a living thing, save the few hurrying gulls. They had gone perhaps twenty miles, and were beginning to fear disappointment, when, without warning, a drove of the horses came galloping over the crest of a little rise, a half-mile beyond. As the car ran forward, along the ribbon of sand below the higher ground, the ponies suddenly perceived it, and halted with the precision of a troop of cavalry. Near at hand, now, the girls could note details, and both observed with interest the leader, which stood a little in advance of his troop, at the end near the approaching machine. He was a handsome creature, with lines as suavely strong as an Arabian's. He stood with head held high, tail streaming, a fore-hoof pawing challengingly at the sand. Only the thick, s.h.a.ggy bay coat showed the barbarian, rather than the thoroughbred. The mares, a score of them in one orderly rank behind him, were crowding and lashing out nervously, as they watched the strange monster racing so fast on the ocean's edge. Some of them nickered curiously. But the stallion rested silent, until the automobile halted, hardly fifty yards away. Then he tossed his head proudly, and blared a great trumpet-note of defiance. Josephine instinctively answered with the horn. The mechanical cry broke harshly, swelled and wailed. The eerie response terrified the mares; it perplexed and alarmed their lord. But he showed no dismay. For a moment still, he remained motionless. His noisy challenge rang forth once again. Since the invader on the sands below kept silence, nor made any movement toward attack, the leader seemed to feel that his prestige was safe enough; that prudence were now the better part. He sounded a low call, and set off at a gallop along the ridge top. The rank of mares pounded obediently at his heels.

"Oh, after them, Josie!" Florence cried.

In a moment, the car shot forward. The horn clamored again. The fleeing horses looked back, then leaped to new speed before the monster that threatened them with unknown terrors. As the car increased its pace, the ponies strove the harder. Their strides lengthened, quickened. The stunted marsh gra.s.s beat on the low bellies. Despite their desperate striving, the runabout drew closer and closer, reached abreast of them. The excitement of the chase was in the sparkling eyes of the girls. The dog, scrambling up and falling in its seat, yelped madly. Here, the beach broadened to a sharper ascent of the ridge. Josephine shifted the wheel. The car swung in a wide curve and drove straight toward the panic-stricken troop, as if it would soar up to them. Fear took pride's place in the leader's heart. He sounded a command. The flying drove veered, vanished from the ridge top. The m.u.f.fled thudding of hoofs came faintly for a minute against the sea wind. Then, as the car came to a standstill, the girls listened, but heard no sound.

"It was bully fun!" Josephine said. "I'm sorry it's over."

"After that run, they may be thirsty enough to dig for water,"

Florence suggested, with a laugh. "Let's climb up, and take a look round from the ridge."

But a glance from this point of advantage made it clear that the peculiarities of the ponies in drinking or fishing were not to be explained to-day. They were visible still, to be sure, but a mile off, and the rapidity with which the moving ma.s.s diminished to the eye was proof that they were still in panic.

"We might as well get back to the yacht," was Josephine's rueful comment. "There's not another single thing to see, now they're gone."

She ran her keen gaze over the dreary waste of the island with a little shiver of distaste. Then her glance roved the undulant expanse of sea. She uttered a sharp e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n of surprise.

"There is something, after all," she called out, excitedly. "See--over there!"

Florence looked in the direction marked by the pointing finger.

"It's a canoe," she hazarded, as her eyes fell on the object that bobbed lightly in the surf, two hundred yards from the sh.o.r.e. "I can see the man in it. He's lying down. Funny!"

But Josephine, wiser from much experience on shipboard, now saw clearly, and the sight thrilled.

"It's a life-raft," she declared, with a tremor in her voice; "and there's a man on it. It's a--real--castaway. Come!"

With that, she set off running down the steep slope of the ridge toward the sea. Behind her came Florence, startled and alarmed. The dog barked exultantly once, then leaped ahead, only to return and circle the slower playfellows joyfully. They came to the water's edge, and halted, perforce. Josephine saw the raft, as it rode on a breaking wave. It was perceptibly nearer. She dared hope it might be brought within reach. With deft motions, the flannel skirt was tucked within her belt, leaving her legs free. Florence, somewhat reluctantly, made the like adjustment. The bull-terrier, disheartened by this immobility, sat on its haunches, and regarded the two doubtfully, perhaps prudishly disapproving. From time to time the raft showed for a few seconds; only to vanish again behind the screen of spume. But it advanced sh.o.r.eward, steadily. The body of the man was distinct--p.r.o.ne, motionless. The girls watched and waited in palpitant eagerness. The dog, sensing the tension of the moment, began to hasten to and fro, snuffing and whining. Suddenly, the two cried out in the same moment.

They saw the raft floating fast and smoothly toward them on the crest of a breaker. They dashed forward, knee-deep, to meet the charge. The huge ma.s.s of the wave pounded upon them, almost swept them from their feet. The angry waters boiled about them. It was up to their waists now. The flying spray lashed their faces and blinded them. When, at last, their vision cleared, the raft had vanished. They caught sight of it again, presently. It was floating from them, already fifty yards distant.

Nevertheless, the girls, though discouraged, did not give over their hope of rescue. Not even when another wave thrust the raft fairly upon them, so that their hands clutched the tubes, then tore it ruthlessly from their puny grasp, and flung it afar. The dog, accustomed to sporting in the surf with its mistress, rushed to seize this flotsam, but the powerful jaws could find no hold. As the dog approached, swimming, Josephine put her hand to its collar, and so supported it while they waited anxiously for the raft's return.

It came more quickly than before. It was, indeed, as if fate finally relented, for the raft was borne this time on a smaller wave, almost with gentleness, as it seemed. Yet, the gentleness of appearance was only mockery. When the two girls laid hands on it with all their strength it swerved violently, wrested itself from their clutch.

Josephine cried out in despair. She saw the dog, released by her effort, plunging forward. A rope dragged in the raft's wake, a remnant of the lashings. The dog lunged viciously, and its jaws locked on the rope. Immediately, then, the bull-terrier began swimming toward the sh.o.r.e. There was no progress. But the going of the raft was momentarily stayed. Josephine saw the opportunity and shrieked to Florence. The two sprang, and caught the raft again. It rested pa.s.sively in the grasp of the three. The dog continued swimming, its face set resolutely sh.o.r.eward. The girls, up to their b.r.e.a.s.t.s in water, stepped forward, tugging l.u.s.tily. The three advanced slowly.

The raft moved with them.

It was a struggle that taxed the strength of each to the uttermost.

Those three puny creatures fighting against the might of the ocean for the body of a dead man! Dead the man seemed, at least, to the girls, who, after one glance into the drawn and ghastly face of their burden, dared not look again. The undertow writhed about their legs, jerked at them wrathfully. Waves crashed upon them with shattering force. Once, Florence was hurled from her footing, but her hands held their grip on the raft. The wrenching shock was sustained by Josephine and the dog.

They gave a little, but with fierce, stubborn resistance. Florence regained her feet. The rout was stayed. The pitiful combat between pigmies and t.i.tans was on again. There was good blood in the three. A fighting ancestry had dowered them with the courage that does not know defeat when it is met. Their strength was exhausted. Yet, they battled on. A great comber smashed against them. It s.n.a.t.c.hed the raft from the weakened hold of the girls, threw it far up on the sand. The dog shot in a wide arc through the air. They could hear its grunt as it fell.