The Black Dog Mystery (23 page)

And he, too, started running toward Mr. Pindler’s, running as hard as he could tear.

At Les’ Sedd’s shack, four men watched Les’ Sedd as he stood by the rusty oil-burning cook stove in his dirty kitchen. He was getting breakfast ready for them, but his hands were shaking with fear, and his face was a pasty gray with terror. His knees were shaking under him. From time to time he darted a frightened glance through the window, hoping wildly that he would see someone coming to his rescue. But no one came.

Standing beside him, moving wherever he moved, was Morrison, a revolver in his hand. Leaning against the doorway opening into the next room, was Torn-Pants, equally watchful. Scar-Thumb and Willie sat at the kitchen table, grimly waiting.

Morrison glanced carelessly at his wrist-watch. “Half-past eight!” he observed, with a pleased smile. “We are being even more punctual than I could have hoped! Now, my dear Mr. Sedd, if you will only pull yourself together and stop this childish nervousness you are showing, I am sure all of us will be happier. That ham is done to a crisp already. Put it on the table, Lester. That coffee is ready, I’m sure. Careful, don’t spill it!”

With trembling hands, Les’ Sedd poured out the coffee into the hastily washed cups he had placed on the table. His eyes were glassy with fear.

Half-past eight! He had an hour left to live …

The faint light of the cellar where Djuna and the old man were prisoners slowly and almost imperceptibly grew stronger as the sun climbed higher. But the trickle of the water, never ceasing for a minute, was dreadful to their ears. It was rising, now, slowly but mercilessly. On some parts of the uneven earthen floor it was already an inch in depth. And now, like the tongue of a snake, a ribbon of water darted across the floor and touched the tip of Djuna’s foot.

“Pull on the post, Mr. Boots!” he shouted frantically. “Pull! Pull!”

The old man gathered himself for the effort. With a sudden heave, he strained forward against the ropes that bound him to the post. The ropes creaked with the tug, cut into his heaving chest, but yielded not the fraction of an inch. A little yellow dust floated down from the top of the post, and that was all.

“Push backward!” cried Djuna. “Then yank again! Jerk back and forth, Mr. Boots, it’s the only way!”

Clenching his teeth to endure the pain, the old man struggled to bend forward, then, as suddenly, threw his weight backwards. The cords creaked again, the post trembled from floor to ceiling. Again he jerked forward, desperately, blind to all pain. And this time there was a faint snapping of wood, like the breaking of a single matchstick.

“It’s going, it’s going!” Djuna babbled. “I heard it crack!”

Mr. Boots gathered his strength for one last effort. Gasping, his face purpling with the strain, the mighty muscles of his shoulders and back knotted like ropes, he drove his heavy body backward and forward, against and away from the post, rocking his body on the rusty-banded keg on which he sat.

The remnant of the post snapped, cracked through! It fell away from the beam overhead. And with it, the post still lashed to his back, the old man fell heavily to the muddy floor. He fell sidewise; and, borne down by his weight, the staves of the keg collapsed inward, snapping the rusty bands that held them together.

The fall half-stunned him. For a moment he lay there, the breath knocked from his body. Then Djuna’s voice floated dimly into his consciousness.

“Are you all right, Mr. Boots?” Djuna was sobbing. “Are you all right?”

Mr. Boots groaned and struggled to rise, but could not. His arms were still tied behind him, and a weight held them down. Dimly he realized what it was—the post to which he had been tied. But, as consciousness flowed back, he found to his surprise that he could move his feet. The ropes that had bound them lay loosely now—the keg around which they had been stretched was lying in fragments.

“I’m all right,” he groaned. “Hold on, Djuna, hold on!”

Feebly moving his knees, he managed to work the loosened ropes from around his ankles. All the cords were looser now, for the whole coil had been wrapped around him in one continuous line, ending in only one knot. He rallied his strength and pulled himself up to his knees. One end of the post dragged on the ground.

“If you can git this knot untied, I’ll be loose!” he gasped hoarsely.

“Hurry!” whispered Djuna feverishly. “Hurry!”

Mr. Boots, lurching drunkenly from side to side, dragging the post with him, crawled inch by inch towards him, on his knees. He reached the post to which Djuna was tied, turned blindly until he could feel Djuna’s fingers touching his.

“Find the knot, Djuna! Quick!” he gasped. “I’m tuckered out!”

Djuna tried to move his own fingers. They were numb. He could hardly feel the knotted rope, but he gritted his teeth and struggled to unloosen the knot, staring blindly ahead of him.

And at last he won!

The old man shook himself free of the snaky coils, and staggered to his feet. His fingers worked swiftly on the knots that held Djuna bound.

As the old man unwound the last coil of the rope that had bound Djuna and he staggered to his feet, Djuna almost fell. Mr. Boots caught him by the arm.

“Can you walk?” he whispered.

“I’m all right,” gasped Djuna. “Hurry, hurry, hurry!”

Ankle-deep in water, they slipped and stumbled toward the cellar door and tottered up the cellar steps. The bright sun dazzled their eyes.

They looked wildly around. They were not yet out of danger. Where were the men? They scarcely dared to move from where they stood, for fear that when they turned the first corner of the house they would run right into the bandits’ arms.

Which way should they go?

Old Mr. Boots, half-dazed by fear, pointed in the direction of Les’ Sedd’s shack. “They’re over there still!” he whispered. “We gotta go th’ other way!”

Djuna clutched his arm. “We can’t!” he whispered fiercely. “They’ll hear us in the bushes if we go that way; they’d catch us sure! We’ve got to double back!”

The old man hesitated. “You know the way, Djuna?” he groaned. “You go ahead, then, boy. I’ll follow ye.”

“We’ll find the path Tommy and I were on,” whispered Djuna. “They won’t see us if we go that way.”

Mr. Boots nodded, and they crept forward, with Djuna leading the way. Cautiously they parted the bushes growing close to the cellar steps and entered the woods. Djuna crouched on his hands and knees and the old man followed his example. They crept forward without making a sound. For the first two hundred feet they were going straight toward Les’ Sedd’s shack, and as they crawled closer to it they moved more and more slowly, scarcely breathing. At last they were no more than a hundred feet from the house. They could hear the men talking to each other. Mr. Boots and Djuna flattened themselves against the ground.

The faint strokes of a bell, barely heard, came floating from far away. It was the clock in the steeple of the old church at Clinton. The mellow tolling drifted across the valley like the beating of a pulse.
One! … two!
… Djuna counted … The ninth stroke died away … nine o’clock!

In less than an hour the bandits would be starting for the bank at Clinton!

Djuna motioned silently to Mr. Boots that they must creep on farther. Again on their hands and knees, they crawled and wriggled beneath the bushes. They came to the intersection of the paths, one leading to Les’ Sedd’s house, the other—the old path leading to the dam—turning off to the right. This was the one that Tommy and Djuna had found before. Djuna pointed in the way it led. Mr. Boots nodded. They crawled, foot by foot, along that hidden path.

The murmur of the men’s voices slowly grew fainter behind them. Louder, on their right, rose the gurgling of the stream, rushing on its way to the deserted cellar.

A dozen automobiles came tearing northward along the road between Clinton and Edenboro, the dust clouds streaming behind them. There were three or four men in each car, and the men carried guns. At the dusty path that led across the fields to the woods, the line of cars turned and sped towards Les’ Sedd’s shack, bouncing along the rutted road without slackening speed. Three hundred feet away from the shack, the uniformed man in the leading car waved his arm, and all the cars came to a sickening stop, their brakes grinding and squealing. Men poured out of every car and scattered around the house in a half-circle, running hard to surround it completely.

“Drop those guns and put up your hands!” shouted Captain Crackle.

That was the first shout that came to Djuna’s ears, as he and Mr. Boots were still struggling on, almost too tired to force themselves any farther. He tried weakly to stand up, and could not.

“Listen!” he cried, reeling dizzily. “They’re here!”

And now there were fierce shouts from a dozen voices—the voices of Captain Crackle’s deputies, sternly ordering the bandits to surrender.

“Don’t shoot!” Djuna heard Scar-Thumb’s frightened squealing. “Don’t shoot!”

But then there came a rattle of shots, bullets tore through the leaves over Djuna’s head, and he and Mr. Boots threw themselves flat on the ground. Someone was running towards them, crashing through the bushes in his mad flight.

“Get him!” yelled the pursuers. “Head him off!”

But the flying footsteps of the hunted criminal came closer and closer and in another second he burst through the bushes twenty feet away from Djuna and Mr. Boots and plunged past them, running like a deer. Djuna caught one glimpse of his desperate face, heard his panting breath, saw the gleam of the revolver in his hand, then he was gone. It was Morrison.

He was heading for the old dam, Djuna guessed, at the end of Lost Pond. If he could cross it, he might shake off his pursuers when he gained the deeper woods.

Forgetting all caution, Djuna tottered to his feet and staggered after him.

“Come back!” yelled Mr. Boots, frantically. “Djuna, come back!”

But Djuna was deaf to his entreaties. He panted on. Morrison was far ahead of him, and widening the distance between them at every stride.

By the time he had reached the edge of the lake, he could go no farther. He could see Morrison now, a hundred yards ahead, running tirelessly. Djuna lurched against the trunk of a tree, clung there to keep from falling, his breath gone.

Morrison reached the dam and ran out upon the heaped-up boulders, just as the foremost of his pursuers reached the spot where Djuna was standing.

And now Morrison was halfway across the narrow bridge of stones. Ahead of him, on the farther bank, were the deep woods—and escape!

A small, chunky, black-bodied thing, running close to the ground, flashed past Djuna like a shot out of a gun. It was Champ! His four short legs were moving so fast that they were just a blur. He burst through the last clump of bushes on the edge of the lake as if they were not there. Straight as an arrow, his flying stubby legs carried him out upon the top of the dam and he gained on Morrison with the speed of the wind.

“Get him, Champ!” yelled Djuna, wildly. “Get him!”

The flying black thunderbolt hurled itself through the air. Revolver in hand, Morrison whirled, but too late. Compact, chunky, solid as a rock, that flying black cannon-ball struck him just above the ankles. Morrison’s hands flew up, the gun slipped from his grasp and went flying through the air. He struggled wildly to keep his footing on the slippery stones.

But the little black dog seemed to be everywhere at once, no matter where he turned. Snarling, snapping, baring his long white teeth, Champ charged at his ankles again and again. Morrison struck wildly at him with his bare hands, lunged down to seize him. Champ always just out of reach, always charging in again, dauntless, lion-hearted, terrifying.

Morrison shrieked in terror, turned at last, to run for his life. The little black dog leaped at his heels. And Morrison, his foot slipping upon a stone, spun like a top, clutched wildly at the air to regain his balance, and plunged head foremost over the edge of the dam. Djuna, running towards them now, saw a fountain of spray shoot upward. The water there was very deep.

Champ trotted across the stones of the dam and stopped short at the spot where Morrison had toppled over. He peered over the edge, still barking furious defiance.

Captain Crackle’s men came running up.

Djuna and Mr. Boots had been carried home in Mr. Pindler’s own car. Djuna had been given a hot bath and had then been tucked into bed. Champ scrambled up on the clean sheets beside him, and no one told him to get down. Djuna, sitting propped up with fat pillows behind his aching back, kept one arm around the little black dog, while Miss Annie and Tommy and Tommy’s mother hovered around the bedside, beaming at both of them. But every once in a while, Miss Annie sniffled, and dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief, and her lips quivered as she tried to keep back her tears of joy.

Everybody tried to talk at once.

Someone came creaking up the stairs. Mr. Pindler’s face, grinning broadly, appeared at the bedroom door. Hanging behind him, shyly, was Clarabelle.

“Don’t mind if we come in without knockin’, do ye?” chuckled Mr. Pindler. “We both sort o’ thought we’d like t’ see what a hero looks like!”

Djuna blushed miserably.

“Aw, gee,” he mumbled. “Aw, for Pete’s sake! Is Mr. Boots all right?”

“Why, sure!” said Mr. Pindler heartily. “You couldn’t kill
that
old turkey-gobbler with an axe! My wife’s fed him three breakfasts already and he’s sittin’ up an’ hollerin’ for more! Say, Djuna, I’ve certainly got to apologize to you—that fella’ Morrison certainly pulled the wool over
my
eyes!”

“Did he get drowned?” interrupted Tommy fearfully.

“Not him!” said Mr. Pindler. “They drug him out by the ha’r of his head, wetter’n a drowned rat, an’ not a mite o’ fight left in him! They’ve got him locked up good an’ safe, now, along with them other three rats. Poor old Les’ Sedd, they had t’ take him t’ th’ hospital, over in Riverton. He just keeled over, skeert t’ death; an’ I don’t know’s I blame him. He’ll come around all right, though, th’ doctor says.”

“Djuna, it just makes me go cold all over, every time I think of how close that—that fiend!—came to drowning you!” said Miss Annie, her voice trembling.