CHAPTER VCREEPING THINGS
Upon the brink of Dickie Barre, on a triangular outcrop of stone bare of brush but topped by whispering pines, Douglas lounged in luxurious content, basking in the mellow warmth of September sun.
Behind him his pack leaned against the base of a pine. Beside him lay his gun. Before him stretched the long panorama of the Traps.
From the half-naked rock of Millbrook Mountain, where the rim of the great bowl curved westward to merge into the Minnewaska steeps, to the castle-like peak of Sky Top, beneath which the strange lake of Mohonk nestled out of sight in a cup of sheer stone, rambled the top of the Great Wall. Northward from Sky Top it dipped downward in a long sweep, and there the east-swinging wall of Dickie Barre seemed to close in and complete the unbroken ring of uplands surrounding the forested chasm. But the man loafing up on the breezy point knew that such was not the case.
Though he had not yet traveled in that direction, he had been studying a couple of squares of Government topographic map, of which several were in his ditty-bag; and he knew that the walls did not close. They pinched together into a narrow ravine, thenveered apart again, each pursuing its own way into the north until it became only a series of rounded knolls sinking into the other low hills beyond. And that ravine, or perhaps the wider valley floor beyond, must be the Clove of which Marion Oaks had spoken.
Through that ravine and on into the north, the map said, ran a road—the inside road of the Traps; and along that road-line, at wide intervals, were the little square symbols which, to the topographer, signify “houses.” One of those dots must be the house where Jake Dalton had lived before he was found “swelled up terrible”; where now even the hard sons of the craggy hills dared not sleep because of the fearful thing which could not be seen but could be felt. Before sundown, the lone blond man intended, he would find that house and see whether it was fit for habitation. If so, he meant to inhabit it, ha’nt or no ha’nt.
Everything impelled him toward that house. To live continuously among the bowlders where he had stayed last night was neither comfortable nor sensible: the place was too far from water, from food, from human associates; and when the drenching fall rains should come, as they might at any time, he would be almost unprotected. For sinister purposes, for the concealment of nameless activities and of wanted men, the maze of cliff-blocks was ideal; but for the steady residence of a man who dodged neither lawmakers nor lawbreakers it was the reverse. And to a red-blooded, two-handed fellow like Douglas Hampton the story of the uncanny house was enough. Had it been an even poorer place than his rocky lair, he wouldhave journeyed thither to seek the solution of its mystery.
But the day was far from old, and there was time to loaf and look and bask and think, unworried by necessity. Here was none of the rush and drive of the city, the scurry to fill assignments, the fret and fume of the hordes of business-slaves hurtling over-ground and underground in ant-like activity. Here was nothing to do but relax, absorbing the golden sunlight and the green beauty of nature and the clinking music of unseen hammers far below and far away on the Mohonk slope, where millstone-makers were rifting rock in their little quarries. What though one had no habitation? What though his food was almost gone and the pipe dangling from the corner of his mouth was empty? Time enough to seek shelter when night approached; time enough to rustle for food when the last crumb had vanished. Now was the hour to let his city-starved soul feast on freedom.
So he leaned there on an elbow, blinking outward and downward at the varying verdure of the hardwood forests, the red spots of sumach and the orange tips of goldenrod brightening the little fields, the tiny houses dotting the openings, the little ribbons of smoke drifting away from their chimneys. His thoughts moved in a slow circle—from Marion to Steve, from Steve to the haunted house, from the haunted house to the legend of the long-dead outlaw gang, from the gang to its women prisoners, and so back again to Marion. Where was she now? Down in one of those houses, beaten and sworn at for running away? Muchnearer, still talking with her escaped-convict lover in the “hide-out” to which she had taken him? Limping along somewhere in the masking brush, forgetful of pain, thinking only of bringing food to the worn-out fugitive? Only the labyrinth below could tell; and it was not in the habit of telling tales about its children.
And this Snake Sanders, who had wriggled out of the way of officers and let a boy suffer the penalty of some unknown crime—who and what was he? The thinker, accustomed to studying faces and voices, felt that Steve’s denial of guilt and denunciation of Snake were genuine. His virulent hatred, his vicious threat against that man, were those of the bitterly wronged. Yet Marion, herself swift-tempered and courageous, had shown that she feared this Snake, who might be a-sneakin’ and a-slidin’ along near at hand——
The blond man grew tense. Somethingwassneaking along, though not very near. Something was creeping stealthily toward him from the thick growth behind; something which made no footfall, but which caused a slight difference in the rustling of the breeze-kissed leaves.
He started to turn his head, then checked the movement. He felt that he would see nothing: that the creature was traveling with Indian stealth, keeping itself masked; that his look behind would only warn the sinister thing that its approach was known. He was lying dangerously close to the edge, and his nerves shouted to him to get back while there was time. But he held himself where he was.
His eyes flicked downward at his gun. Then hecarelessly raised himself to a sitting position, took his pipe from his mouth and glanced at it, put it back, and let his hand stray down to his shirt pocket. It hovered there a moment, then sank loosely as if empty. But cupped in his palm now was a little round mirror.
Casual though his movements had been, the soft rustle of progress had ceased. Only the little flutterings caused by wandering air-currents came to him. As he sat still, however, apparently absorbed in contemplation of the scene below, it recommenced. Slowly, imperceptibly, he turned his hand, slanting the mirror up and down by degrees, watching it from the corner of his eye. It was a schoolboy trick which he had used more than once in later years when desirous of seeing something behind without turning his head. And now, listening keenly and moving the telltale glass with practised hand, he soon located the advancing thing behind the pine, some ten feet away, where his pack lay.
It was creeping now on the ground, free from the brush beyond but still unseen; keeping itself concealed behind pack and pine, making only a slight slither as it came. The sound died. For a long minute all was quiet. Then, slowly, above the edge of the pack rose a hat.
Shapeless, dingy felt it was, with a ragged hole below its crown. Under its brim glimmered black eyes, beady and cold as those of a reptile. Little by little the nose came up into view—a flat, wide nose with something of the triangularity of a snake’s head.There it poised, mouth and jaw hidden behind the bulk of the pack.
The opaque eyes fixed greedily on the new shotgun lying beside the watcher’s leg. Then they returned to the back and shoulders of the blond man, and the lids narrowed into wicked slits. The nose drew downward, the eyes followed, the hat faded. Above the pack nothing showed except the low branches of the pine.
Little sounds of movement came—of movement but not of advance. Douglas moved the mirror to right and left of the lump of blankets. His fingers grew rigid. Something had appeared beside the pack—a light but strong box, from which a dirty black-haired hand was lifting a lid. As that lid arose the box was tilted so that its top became an open side, facing toward the man on the brink. And out from it crawled a big copperhead.
Head raised, it glided forward a foot or two and stopped, its tail still in the box, which lay motionless. Its venomous eyes focused on the still figure of the man beyond, who remained as rigid as the rock on which he sat. Its tongue ran out and vibrated in menace. Slowly it slipped forward a little farther, then paused again. Douglas braced himself to snatch up his gun, whirl, and fire the instant its approach was resumed. But it was not resumed.
Instead, the repulsive creature lay quiet, absorbing the warmth of rock and sun. Minutes passed, and it made no move. Then from beyond the pack came a faint sibilant sound—an almost inaudible noise whichwas not hiss nor breath nor whistle, but something of all three, and which seemed to arouse the reptile. It turned, and crept sluggishly toward the spot whence the sound had come.
Twice that indescribable sibilance was repeated, and the snake moved on in its deliberate, fat-bodied way. Just then a sudden gust of wind swooped playfully along the brink, startling the leaves into a flapping chorus like the beating wings of trapped birds. The hideous thing on the ground slid around the pack, paused, was gone.
Douglas drew a long breath and became aware that his shirt was clammy with cold perspiration. A chill shivered down his back. Moving the glass, he scanned all around and above that pack. Nothing showed. The gust of wind fled along on its frolicsome way, and all grew quiet. No sound came from behind the pine.
Still controlling his movements, he looked casually around, then arose as if tired of sitting. As he stood up, however, his gun was in one hand, and he loosely swung its twin muzzles to cover the pack. Feigning a yawn, he stepped lazily toward the pine, dropping the mirror into a trousers pocket as he moved. With a quiet click his safety-catch slid, and two solid charges—of buckshot—were ready for instant use.
A good stride away from the blankets he turned aside and drifted around the butt of the pine. Then he halted, sorely puzzled. The man who should have been lurking there was not. The box, too, had vanished. Not even the snake——
But yes, the snake was there. It was curled just below and behind the pack, hidden from any eye except one searching for it; three feet of silent death, ready to strike its fangs into the hands of the man stooping to lift his back-burden before slinging it on his shoulders. Even now, with that man’s eye on it, it was poising in venomous alertness, its tongue vibrating again like a blur.
Douglas stepped onward a little, lifted his gun, and fired. The snake rolled writhing away, blown apart. Instantly he wheeled, the other barrel ready to meet any menace. But still nothing showed itself. The growth beyond seemed empty.
Warily watching, he stepped to his pack, swung it up one-handed, and stood a minute longer scanning his surroundings. Seeing nothing new, he got into the straps and strode away. Only a few rods to his left, he knew, ran a faint trail—the path by which he had come here after finding a steep slope which had enabled him to climb Dickie Barre. The trail would be empty, of course; the skulking assassin in the felt hat would be so cunningly hidden in the encompassing tangle that no mere stranger could find him. No use hunting him.
But as he emerged into that path he stopped, startled. There, only a few feet away, stood the man.
So astounded by the other’s audacity was Douglas that he stood gaping. The sinister hillman grinned guilelessly.
“Howdy, stranger!” he greeted. “Scairt ye, did I? Was that ye a-shootin’ jest now?”
Douglas swallowed an impulse to leap at him. Still amazed, he glanced rapidly over him. Below the ophidian eyes and flat nose which he had seen before, he now noted a coarse mouth, tobacco-yellowed teeth, scraggly black beard about a week old, long lean frame, and nondescript garments. His curving hands were empty. His snake-box was not with him now. Nor had he any gun.
The man moved slightly, shifting a foot. In the movement was something reptilian—a sinuous smoothness that was serpentine. And in the short sentences which he had just spoken was a repellent hiss.
“Howdy yourself!” growled Douglas. “What are you doing here?”
“Jest a-ramblin’ round, stranger. Might ast ye the same. What was ye shootin’?”
“Snake.” Douglas gave him a hard look.
“Yeh? Huh! Awful waste o’ powder. Us fellers use sticks onto them things. Thought mebbe ye got what ye’re into here for.”
A cunning wink followed his last utterance.
“Meaning?”
The yellow teeth bared themselves in a wide, silent laugh. But the beady eyes held no mirth.
“Think I dunno ye? Huh! I ain’t no fool. Ye ain’t here jest to look at rocks an’ things. Trouble is, ye dunno this kentry an’ how to work it. None o’ ye do. Everybody into the place knowed days ago ye was here, an’ ye’ll never git yer man ’less’n ye do business. I’m the feller to do business with.”
Again the cunning wink.
“Meaning?” repeated Douglas.
“Huh! Ye know. We’ll work shares. I’ll toll yer man to ye for half the reward. Who d’ye want? How much’s he wuth?”
The blond man bit back a sudden desire to grin.
“Who are you?” he countered.
“Me? Snake Sanders.”