Heart of the Blue Ridge Part 14

"An' her a-lyin' out with thet-thar wolf all thet while," he mumbled, in despair. "Mebby, this very minute, she's a-screamin'--callin' to her ole gran'pap to save her. My Plutiny!" He walked with lagging steps; the tall form, usually so erect, was bowed under the burden of tormenting fears. The marshal, understanding, ventured no word of comfort.

It was late afternoon when the dispirited searchers reached the Siddon clearing on their return from the fruitless day's work. There, they were astonished to see the Widow Higgins come down the path toward them, at a pace ordinarily forbidden by her rheumatic joints. She waved a paper in her hand.

"Hit's a telegraph," she called shrilly. Her voice held something of the awe with which remoter regions still regard that method of communication. But there was a stronger emotion still that thus sent the old woman dancing in forgetfulness of her chronic pains. It was explained in her next sentence, cried out with a mother's exultation in the homecoming of her beloved. Almost, in joy over seeing her son again, she forgot the misery that was bringing him.

"Hit's from Zekie! Zekie's comin' home!"

Uncle d.i.c.k could not share the mother's delight. The lover's coming could hardly avail anything toward saving the girl. Nevertheless, he took the sheet of paper, which carried the message sent on by telephone from North Wilkesboro' to Joines' store. He read it aloud, that the marshal might hear:

Suffolk, Va.

Richard Siddon, Joines' Mill, N. C., Via Telephone from North Wilkesboro'.

Arrive to-night with bloodhound.

Ezekiel.

Uncle d.i.c.k's voice faltered a little in the reading. The black eyes were glowing with new hope beneath the beetling white brows, as he lifted his gaze to the mountain peaks. For the first time, he felt a thrill of jubilation over the young man whom he had rejected, whom now he accepted--jubilation for the fresh, virile, strength of the lad, for the resourcefulness that this message so plainly declared. The old man's lips moved in vague, mute phrases, which were the clumsy expressions of emotions, of grat.i.tude to Providence for the blessing of another's energy, on which to lean in this time of trial. There had been desperate need of haste in getting the hounds on the trail. Now, they were coming--to-night. Zeke was bringing them. Perhaps, after all, an old man's declining years would know the fond tenderness of a daughter's care--and a son's. Thank G.o.d that Zeke was coming!

CHAPTER XVII

Zeke, in his new life, found little leisure for loneliness, though nightly he fell asleep with an ache of nostalgia in his heart, longing for the mountains of home and the girl who dwelt among them. But his days were filled with various activities that held his whole attention. With a mind keen and apt to receive impressions, and hungry for knowledge, he gave himself joyously to learning the details of Sutton's tree-nail manufacture. The processes were, in fact, simple, and he mastered them with ease. Then, he was instructed more broadly in business methods, with the purpose of making him competent when he should become a manager of the projected factory in the Blue Ridge region. His time was thus so fully occupied that he had neither opportunity nor inclination for social pleasures.

He spent a week-end in his employer's Long Island home, and surprised that gentleman mightily by the propriety of his manners, which he had acquired on the yacht. On this occasion, Sutton spoke definitely of his plans. The railroad branch north from the main line was now a certainty, and the construction would soon start. At that time, Zeke would return to North Carolina, and set about securing options on the best available timber. A mill would be built, and the manufacture of tree-nails carried on. Zeke, in addition to an adequate salary, would receive a certain share of the profits. The prospect was one to delight any ambitious young man, and Zeke appreciated it to the full.

But most of all he rejoiced that his success should come to him in the place he loved, where the girl waited.

Zeke had a companion, who shared with him the tiny hall-room, and kept at his side in long evening rambles through the city streets. It came about in this wise:

It was one afternoon when he had been in New York for a week, that a visitor entered, unannounced, the office where he was listening intently to Sutton's crisp explanations of business routine. Zeke looked up at the sound of the opening door. Then, his jaw dropped, his eyes widened. Next moment, he sprang to his feet, his face radiant with welcome. His phrases, in the excitement of this meeting, were the mountaineer's idioms, which new a.s.sociations were beginning to modify in his ordinary speech.

"Why, hit's sh.o.r.ely Miss Josephine!" he cried, as he advanced upon her, with outstretched hand. He saw the dog, straining toward him on the leash. "An' thet-thar man-faced dawg!"

There was a little interval of confusion, while greetings were exchanged amid the demonstrative antics of the bull-terrier. Sutton was called away presently, and then the girl explained the object of her visit.

"You never noticed it," she said somewhat pettishly; "but one time on the yacht, I came up on deck with Chubbie. You were over by the rail.

You snapped your fingers to him. I ordered him to stay with me. He wouldn't mind. He went to you. Well, I decided right then what I'd do."

"Why, shucks, Miss Josephine!" Zeke exclaimed, in much distress. "He jest nacherly didn't mean nothin' by thet."

"He showed something by it, though," was the retort. "He showed that he belonged to you, and not to me. So, here he is." She held out the leash to Zeke, who took it doubtfully, only half-comprehending. As he was about to speak, a gesture checked him.

"I'm not really a bit generous in giving him to you. My dog must like me better than anyone else in the world. That's why I really don't want Chubbie any longer. You're first in his heart, and I'm second.

And, though I'm quite selfish about it, I know I'm doing him the greatest favor in the world--that is, if you're willing to take him."

"I'd sh.o.r.e be tickled to death to have him," Zeke admitted. "But it don't seem right."

"Providence seems to have arranged it that way, anyhow," Josephine declared, airily. "Perhaps, if a surgeon operated on him for the dent you put in his skull, he might cease loving you. But nothing else seems likely to stop him."

The dog, thrusting its cold muzzle against Zeke's palm, whined a.s.sent.

Josephine regarded her disloyal pet a little regretfully.

"He's a good dog," she said, softly. "He deserves to be happy."

"Plutiny'll be plumb tickled to see the critter I've wrote sech a heap about," Zeke remarked. His eyes were suddenly grown dreamy.

"You and your Plutina!" she railed. But her voice was very kindly.

When she had learned of the young man's prospects and the nearness of his return home, she uttered a remark that puzzled Zeke.

"You don't need to envy anyone." There was a light almost of jealousy in the blue eyes.

"Why, I never thought o' sech a thing!" he answered indignantly. "Why should I?"

"Why, indeed?" Josephine repeated, and she sighed. She sighed again on taking leave, when she observed that the bull-terrier made no movement to accompany her, but stood steadfastly by Zeke's side.

Into the happy, busy routine of Zeke's life in New York, Uncle d.i.c.k's telegram came with the crash of catastrophe. It was merely with innocent wondering that he opened the yellow envelope, which a messenger delivered in Sutton's office on a pleasant summer afternoon.

It was the first missive of the sort in Zeke's experience, yet he felt no slightest chill of apprehension. His mood was too firmly joyous to be easily shaken. He merely wondered, and felt no fear whatever, as he pulled out the sheet of flimsy paper, and unfolded it, while his employer sat looking on curiously, himself already suspicious of trouble. Zeke read the typewritten words through stupidly, under the first shock uncomprehending. Then, he repeated the message aloud, as if challenging its meaning.

"Plutina been stolen," ran the summons. "Dan Hodges done it. Need help."

The name of Richard Siddon as the sender in itself told how desperate must be the situation, else Uncle d.i.c.k would not have summoned the suitor he had rejected. Zeke stared pitifully at Sutton. His eyes had the pathos of a stricken animal's. For a little, he seemed dazed by the unexpectedness of this evil. Then, very soon, rage mounted blackly. Sutton, listening, could not repress a shudder before the deadly hate in Zeke's voice.

"I'll kill Dan Hodges!" was the promise. The voice was low and even, but it roared in the ears of the listener. There was something terrifying in the stark savagery that showed in the mountaineer's tones and in the drawn, pallid face.

But, after the one outburst, Zeke maintained an appearance of hypocritical calm. Only in the tremulousness of his voice when he thanked Sutton did he betray the depth of his feeling.

In truth, he had new reason for grat.i.tude in this emergency to the man who already had so befriended him.

"You'll want to start at once, of course," Sutton said.

Zeke nodded a.s.sent.

"Well, I think I'll go with you. Perhaps, I might help. It'll be better for you with somebody along."

Zeke offered a protest, but it was disregarded.

"I know Plutina," Sutton said, earnestly, "and I know you, Zeke. I want to help. Now, I wonder--"

He fell silent for a s.p.a.ce, thinking deeply. When he spoke again it was with curt decisiveness:

"It's hurrying things a bit, but not too much. I'll have you stay down there, Zeke, and get after the timber as soon as you have Plutina back."

Then, as the young man regarded him in bewilderment, he explained fully: