Newspaper Page Text
APRIL 14, 1921.
ESc
blue
moon
X yi Tale of the
Flatwoods
By David anderson
wawaWaWaVS
(Copyright by the Bobbs-Msrriil Company)
Time goes slowly to one who
watches and waits. It was probably
Hf!t more than ten minutes, though It
seemed far longer, when, without so
much as a diverted fleck of spray in
warning, the waterfall flung forth up
on the flat-topped rock a lithe and ac
tive figure that sprang lightly to shore
over the two intervening stones.
Pausing on the hrink of the pool
barely long enough to shake his coat
by the lapels and to knock his hat
against his hand, he immediately set
out along the bluffs toward the vil
lage, as unconcerned as if he had not
just pulled off about the most sensa
tional stunt ever seen by a Flatwoods
man.
The Pearlhunter slipped out of the
cover and, softly followed; trailed him
up the bluffs, through the corner of the
woods and out to the river road where
jt angles north through the cut in the
cliffs; listened at the fence, near
where the path crossed it, till the re
ceding steps were well on their way
to the village.
CHAPTER X.
The Candle In the Cranny.
All the way back to Fallen Rock the
Pearlhunter pondered the scene he had
guzed on through the chink in the
Cabin wall: the man’s transfigured
face; his actions with the picture—that
above all—the picture. It puzzled him,
angered him. That such a man should
have her picture; his mother's —with
the darkly beautiful face and wonder
ful eyes—warm against his breast! It
was another reason why he should
hunt him down.
The Pearlhunter was as brave as
the woods make them but It is no dis-
to his manhood to say that
bis blood ran a little faster as
he stepped down off the rock into the
water and waded through the falls.
Every inch of the way had to be felt
out with his fingers before his feet
could be trusted to follow.
The roar of the falls had dulled a
little when suddenly a sound came out
of the dark just ahead—a sound like a
garment rubbing against some rough
surface. The Pearlhunter stepped to
one side of the passage and flattened
himself against the wall. Out of the
dead silence the sound came again. A
grin loosened his face. The very
sound he had half expected—a horse
, contentedly munching his hay.
The Pearlhunter came out from
against the wall and Inched his way
deeper into the blackness of the pass
age. It abruptly widened until he was
no longer able to reach from one wall
to the other with his outstretched
arms. Though denied the use of his
eyes, he knew T that the passage broad
ly expanded just there and became a
cave. He stood in the very entrance
of it
The next step—there was no help
for it —light I Desperate and danger
ous —the first spark, and the cave
might spring to life. Still, It was bet
ter than to stumble over a sleeping
man; or walk into a knife. With his
revolver balanced, his face to the open
cave, he reached his left hand along
the wall to the farthest stretch of his
arm, bringing his body as far as possi
ble from the light, and with his fin
gers fumbled out a spot suitably
smooth and dry—for there must be no
failure. The match scraped. A tiny
flame leaped away from the rock. It
lighted up the place surprisingly.
The cave was not large—hardly
twice the size of an ordinary room.
The first swift glance showed him that
—except for the horse —it was empty.
The stub of a candle caught his
eye, stuck by its own tallow to an out
standing stool of shale just beyond the
mouth of the passage. He crossed the
passage and held the match to the
wick. In the better light he studied
the place more closely.
The cave could not have been far
below the ground, for an oak root had
found its way through the wall. It
was to this that the horse was tied.
For a moment he was strongly
tempted to stay where he was till his
prey returned the following night and
then rid the Flatwoods of him, and
trust what evidence he already had to
prove his case.
But a better plan had been forming
ever since he came into the cave, and
there was much yet to be done; though
the cave would have made a good hid
ing place during the coming day—al
ways provided the bandldt did not
chance to return before his time.
Selecting a spot that he judged to be
about right for the take-off, he leaped
at the fails, and, half to his surprise,
landed on the flat rock outside. It
was like breaking through the crust
of creation into anew world. Mar
veling at the small amount of water
that had clung to him, he sprang over
the two intervening rocks to the shore.
He hurried around to the front of
the cabin, raised the lntch, entered
and closed the door. Snatching up
smae cdd biscuits and strips.of fried
ffffffffff
He Leaped at the Falls . . . and
Landed on the Flat Rock.
fmcblT, Tie Turf redly IhSde 'STr Sand
wiches and stuffed them into his pock
ets. Resting at the spring long enough
to eat two of his sandwiches, he
drained a gourd of water, crossed the
branch below the falls and hurried
away up the bluffs into the deep
woods.
A mile and more north of the wa
terfall, Wolf Run bends west to dou
ble and twist and loop through a tan
gle of hills and gulches known as Fox
Den, the wildest and most inaccessi
ble district of the Flatwoods. The
Pearlhunter had heard of the place.
He resolved to take his chances there.
The spot was no great distance above
the three-gabled cabin.
Away up tfle bare front of a cliff his
eye lighted on the mouth of what ap
peared to be a cleft in the rock. Wolf
Run washed against a narrow ledge at
the very foot of this cliff. He spread
himself flat against the face of the
rock and strained from crevice to crev
ice. It was a prodigious task, but all
tasks have an end —either at the bot
tom or at the top. The Pearlhunter’s
task finally ended at the top. It
had to.
The strata gaped apart half the
height of a man, leaving a wide-open
scar in the face of the cliff. It was per
haps ten feet deep, and seemed to be
closed at the back by the dipping to
gether of the two strata.
Rolling back as far within the open
ing as the converging strata would
comfortably allow, he dropped his bat
tered head upon his arm to sleep the
rest of the night away.
The Pearlhunter waked with the
woods. His limbs and breast and
shoulders were so sore that he was
hnlf glad for the snug place to lie in,
like a fox in his burrow, while the
hounds beat up the woods at fault.
Lack of water was the greatest
drawback. Thirst was already begin
ning to annoy him. He took out his
sandwiches and ate two more of them,
saving the other two until later in the
day** The salty bacon made the wa
ter more tempting still.* He drew back
a little space from the brink of the
ledge out of sight of it. The sound of
It still tempted him.
Voices reached him suddenly, break
ing upon the silence from around a
sharp turn of the gorge down stream.
He drew his face back from the brink
of the ledge and lay listening. It was
far too risky to look. His ears made
out three of them —three tongues, all
going at top speed, a sure sign that
eyes and ears were not as busy as
they might have been. Opposite the
cliff where the fugitive lay, the steps
stopped.
“What’s that hole up there?”
It was a gruff and heavy voice that
asked, thick still with the flare of tem
per that had not yet cooled.
“Wolf den, more'n likely,” answered
one of the others.
“If we wus up tli’ bluff cross there
fuminst the hole, we could see in,”
suggested a voice.
The other voices grunted; and the
Pearlhunter heard them hopping back
across the stream, heard them clawing
their way through the tangled under
brush up the opposite bluff The scar
In which he lay dipped slightly to
ward the rear. He rolled back as far
ns possible, so as to have the protec
tion afforded by the slightly higher
edge; stretched himself on his right
side; and waited for them to come
into view.
Fortunately the sun hit their side
of the gorge, and the Pearlhunter
could see them well, while, being on
the shady side, and back In the dark
ness of the scar, they could not see
him at all. The three of them drew
together In consultation. The Pearl
hunter could not make out their words,
but the manner in whictr they handled
their rifles, which they had managed
to drag up with them, indicated only
too plainly the general drift of what
was being said.
With a final nod all around, they
faced the pocket, and one of them
raised his rifle. The bullet struck the
roof of the scar Just In front of him,
showering him with dust and bits of
shale. The second fired. The bullet
passed close to his feet and lost It
self far back in the crevice where the
two strata of shale converged.
It was now the third one’s turn.
There came the hot spit #>f smoke;
tKe vicious srap of the report. But
even before he saw the one, or heard
the other, he felt something like a
red coal sting his side just under the
armpit.
His side! A thousand flames had
got at it. Something warm and sticky
ran down under his tattered shirt and
made it musky. The flames reached
his face and twisted it. The air seemed
to forsake the pocket. He crawled to
the front of the scar.
He couldn’t take his eyes away from
the water glancing along at the *oot
of the cliff. The flames had scorched
him dry. If he could only havq one
sup of the water to moisten his lips
so that the breath could get through.
He crawled a little nearer the open
ing; held his face out over the ledge.
The ledge seemed to be rocking up
and down; the trees were dipping and
going around In a queer whirl that
made him dizzy. He had never known
trees to act like that. The tops of
the gorge were bending together. The
gorge came together—slowly—shut out
the air—shut out the sky.
CHAPTER XI.
Only the Hunted Know.
For a long time the Pearlhunter lay
wondering why the gorge didn’t fall
In. While he lay and wondered, an
other strange thing happened—the
very strangest of all.
The top of the gorge began to open
—opened and let in two little patches
of sky. He kept his eyes on them —
two little spots of blue set between
clouds of pink and gold. The gorge
top opened wider. He came back to
the two patches of sky; smiled oddly
—they had transfigured; had become
the eyes of the Wild Rose.
The shooting had brought her. Her
arm was under his head, and she was
saying something. A tinge of crimson
deepened the pink in her cheeks when
his eyes came open. What if he had
heard! But she met his eyes with
frank directness. He lay looking up
at her a long time; trying to compre
hend it all; the wonder of it!—that
she was there!
She helped him edge a little nearer
the brink of the ledge, raised him, and
he drank out of her cupped palm.
Whether it was the cup he drank
from, or the thirst that parched him,
he took no thought, but it was the
sweetest drink that ever passed his
lips. She eased him back upon the
ledge, her arm still under his head. A
strand of her hair fell upon his face.
She tried to shake it off. He put up
his hand and covered it.
Her eyes dropped to his wounded
side.
“I didn’t know he was the Red
Mask,”’she said, as if in pursuance of
his first remark, “till those men came
this morning.”
Her next words were low and thought
ful. “I’ve wondered if it could have
been he that hurt Daddy?”
“It was him."
The girl’s breath quickened. He saw
her fingers clench.
But there was much to do. Her eyes
turned again to his blood-stained gar
ments, and she set about uncovering
the wounded side. There was little
enough to remove—a shred or two of
tattered shirt; a laying back of the
tom blouse. After the first start at
sight of the wound she became curi
ously thoughtful. The color mounted
to her face; he tried to meet her eyes,
but they turned away.
“Can you spare me for a minute?”
For answer he lifted his head. She
took away her arm, eased him back
upon the rock, and he heard her light
step as she sprang around an angle
of the cliff.
She was gone barely more than the
minute asked for. When she returned
she was carrying in her hands a num
ber of strips—bandages—of white
cloth. Where she got them —well,
that’s her secret.
The bullet had cut a deep, ragged
gash just below the armpit. It had
grazed a rib, but seemingly had not
broken it. With thnt encouraging fact
established, and the sting of the
wound much allayed, the mind of the
man began reaching forward to the
night; the all-important night—when
a certain suave individual In a frock
coat would come to feed a certain
horse. He said no word of this to the
girl already binding the bandages
around the clean-washed wound. She
would have scouted the bare sugges
tion of the things he was planning to
do the moment the dark was sufficient
ly dense to hide him.
She drew what was left of his tat
tered shirt and blouse over the ban
dage nt last, laid his wounded arm
across his breast and slung it there by
a strip of cloth passed up around his
neck, and helped him to his feet.
It shamed him thnt he was abso
lutely compelled to cling fast to her,
to lean heavy upon her, or go back to
the rock. His face was far too white
to show the mortification he felt, but
she saw it in his eyes. Lifting his
well arm and laying it across her
shoulders, she caught her left arm
about his blouse waist and steadied
him.
The Wild Rose seemed to have tak
en toll of every bit of sunshine that
ever struck the Flatwoods. That was
the distinguishing feature of her per
sonality. That and her good, sound
sense. Her face was beaming full of
both right now—the sunshine and the
sense. She was smiling up at him, he
knew. He was stnring away above her
head—but he knew. The smile grad
ually drew his eyes down out of the
trees. He could no more help It than
he could help leaning upon her. She
laughed—a heartening little laugh—
like the happy water curling against
the ledge. He laughed back. He
couldn’t help it. The restraint was
broken ; the smart gone.
glanced down at the ledge before
THE WINDER NEWS
leaving to see that no tell-tale blood
spots or bits of doth were left A
needless precaution—her woodcraft
was as fine as his own.
How she managed to lead him, hnlf
carry him, out of the rocky and brok
en gulches of Fox Den and down the
rough banks of Wolf Run to the cabin
of the three gables she never knew.
Neither did he. It always remained a
matter of wonder to him. Who does
know the source of power—that mys
terious augmentation of strength—that
comes to a woman in a crisis?
She led him into the house and to
the sofn in the main room; the queer
little leather-covered bed that had
stirred his curiosity the afternoon of
his first visit two days before.
The old man was not in the room.
Shg must have caught his eyes search
ing for him.
“Daddy?" she answered to the eyes.
“He often spends hours away. There’ll
be little pass In the woods today that
he won't see, though nobody will see
him. Poor Daddy!”
“We’ll send for that surgeon tomor
row," he said.
She was back in a moment, carrying
a pan of water, fresh bandngefe, and a
formidable-looking brown bottle—cam
phor, the universal first aid in the
Flatwoods. The blood-soaked ban
dages were deftly removed and the
wound re-washed. She picked up the
brown bottle.
“I am sorry to hurt you,” she said.
“But It will keep the fever down."
“You’re the doctor," was his slow
answer.
She uncorked the bottle and applied
some of its contents to the wound with
a bit of cotton. Hurt I It hurt so that
he laughed.
“Anything to get ready for tonight,”
he grinned, under the bite of the pow
erful antiseptic.
“Tonight!" she repeated blankly.
“Why, you mustn’t think ”
“I must, though. Big things depend
on tonight.” She saw a sternness
gather in his eyes. “He'll think I’ve
left the Flatwoods,” he muttered on,
more to himself than to her. “It’s
what he’s been waiting for. His game I
—tonight!—and—!”
The girl saw the fingers of his right
hand clench against his palm—doubt
less quite unconsciously—while the
knotted ridges of his great forearm
bunched and swelled; but the full
meaning of the muttered words hap
pily missed her.
“Can you stand more camphor?” she
asked.
“I’ll swim in it, if It will get me up.”
The girl laughed, moistened the cot
ton and laid It on the wound. He did
not even wince. The sting of it had
become to him a necessity, the grate
ful means to an end thnt must be ac
complished. Without tonight there
could be no tomorrow. She saturated
more of the cotton, laid it on the gash
and bandaged it there, drew the blouse
back into place, smoothed the pillow
under ills head and went to the
kitchen.
He heard the rattle of the stove, and
knew that she was preparing him
something to eat. It moved him, for
he knew how pitiful little that kitchen
held, and yet she was going to share
it with him —the best of it —share it
with a smile, and the grace of a prin
cess. He swore to himself that there
should be food In that kitchen tomor
row. _ __
f
She was back In a surprisingly short
time, bearing a tray of such food as
she bad been able to prepare hastily—
some l roth, crisp toast, a poached egg,
and black coffee.
He was sound asleep.
She tiptoed back to the kitchen, set
the tray on the stove hearth where it
would keep warm, re-entered the room,
drew a chair up beside the sofa, and
kept the buzzing files away from his
face while he slept.
Noon came and passed. Several
times she went to the kitchen to mend
the fire and keep the tray warm ; many
a time she slipped from window to
window, and listened at the doors for
sound of the hunters that somewhere'
combed the woods. The shadows
turned eastward and still the man
slept. The day had worn away to mid
afternoon when he tossed restlessly
and flung his right arm above his hend.
The movement seemed to provoke the
hurt. He came awake —with the quick
intuition of the woodsman knew he
had slept long. He started to rise.
She sprang up and laid her hand on
his shoulder.
“But I mustn’t impose on you like
this,” he protested.
“Didn’t you say a little bit ago that
I‘was the doctor?”
That dry smile that always started
In his eyes first, cruwled out across
hla. face.
“Then I command you to stay right
where you are,” she answered to the
slow smile, as she hurried out to the
kitchen and carried in the tray.
She sat down beside him on the
couch, fixed his arm easy in the sling,
put sugar in the black coffee, and even
buttered his toast. The Pearlhunter
had never lived in such luxury. It
was a dream—like some of the stories
of fairies and enchanted palaces his
mother used to tell of years ago In the
long winter evenings on the house
boat He half feared that he might
not really be awake; that, after all, it
might turn out to be some trick, like
that of the gorge that closed.
She rose, pushed away the table and
helped him back upon the couch.
“Try to sleep,” she said, while
smoothing the pillow under his head.
"and gain every bit of strength you
can, If you must go tonight."
Her manner seemed not to invite a
reply—rather seemed to forbid one.
He closed his eyes and settled himself
Into the luxurious novelty of the sit-
5& ffffffffff
The Man Both Dreaded Most to See.
uation—the happy privilege of obeying
such a nurse.
She moved the table back by the
window, re-arranged the work basket
and vase of roses, and went to the
kitchen with the tray. He opened his
eyes the minute she was gone. It was
farthest from his thoughts to spend
another moment of that wonderful day
In sleep. His great regret was that
he had already spent so much of It
that way. Whatever was to happen,
it wns no time to sleep.
The girl, busy with the dishes, heard
the couch creak, and pitied him in his
restless pain.
“Wild Rose!”
She almost dropped the cup She was
wiping. That call w*as not inspired by
pain. No pain in the world could have
wrung it from him. She hurried back
into the room. He had risen and was
standing near a window, a look on his
face that made her half afraid of him,
his eyes like a blade half drawn. He
had heard a step. How he heard it
emised it—only the hunted know.
The girl sprang to his side, her eyes
followed the motion of his hand, and
her lips turned white. A man was com
ing up the path—the man both dread
ed most to see.
Handsome, jaunty, debonair, smooth
faced except for the aggressive mus
tache slightly shot with gi*ay, the no
torious bandit swung along up the
walk. The Pearlhunter stood crouched
forward. His hand dropped to his hip,
closed over the butt of the r Iver,
then-slowly unclosed. He wns taking
l.is arm out of the sling when the girl
caught him, shook him, dragged him
ha
“Quick!” be rriod, pushing him
across tlie floor, “My room! Behind
the curtains!”
At the door he hung back, ids head
still over his shoulder.
“I reckon I must hide!” he muttered,
still glaring back toward the window.
"But not there! The kitchen?”
“No, my room. It’s safest.”
She pushed him behind the curtains.
“But if he comis In?"
“He won’t!”
He caught a glimpse of her—white,
hard as the face of the hills, and the
blue in her eyes like bright steel
touched with flame.
A quick glance at the tiny slit be
tween the curtains behind which she
knew the Pearlhunter was standing, a
very positive and vigorous shake of
her finger that said plainer than words
to stay there; and she rose and walked
with a firm step to the door. A nar
row inch she opened It and with her
left hand held It so, with her right
shoulder propped against it In such a
way that her right side and arm were
concealed.
The mnn on the outside of the door
drew* back a step, and, with a sweep
ing bow—too sweeping, even for the
Flatwoods—his hat came off and his
handsome face put on Its most affable
smile.
“And how is my wood fairy this aft
ernoon ?”
The girl made no reply. Her face,
framed In the narrow opening, changed
not a shade.
Nothing so disconcerts a man as to
hnve his advances met with silence.
Rome of the lines nnd wrinkles that
did duty for the smile left the bold
face of the renegade.
"It was so very lonesome !n the vil
lage. with the men all hunting that
desperado, that I thought I’d walk out
and spend the afternoon with you, and
talk over with you some very chnrm-
Ing plans I have formed. You hnve
what I believe to he a wonderful vo'ce.
While, to my great regret, you have
never sung for roe. yet, ns I hnve
passed back nnd forth through the
woods Iri my business of looking up
timber options, I have sometimes
heard you sing. You undoubtedly have
a great voice. Now, I am rich, with
no one to spend my money on. What
better could I do with It than give to
the world a great singer? If you will
go with me, you shall have the best
training the world affords."
He put one foot up on the door-step,
bis face beaming—lf such a face can
beam. The Pearlhunter stiffened In
bis place behind the curtain. The girl
never changed a hair’s breadth In the
narrow opening between the cheek of
the door nnd the jamb. Her cold si
lence was apparently too much even
for the hold man that faced her. _
(Continued on last page)
SUBSCRIPTION; *1.50 A YEAR
PLEASANT HILL
Messrs. W. C. and E. E. Mobley and
W. J. Thomas were in Athens Saturday
on business.
Misses Suuie Wall and Odclia Mobey
spent Wednesday in Statham as the
guests of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Mobley.
Mrs. Will Porter and children spent
Thursday afternoon with Mrs. Jimmie
Mobley.
Mrs. Lizzie Whitehead spent Thurs
day afternoon with Miss Jane Perkins.
Mrs. Grady Jones was the guest of
Mrs. Cora Johnson Thursday.
Mrs. J. 11. Mobley and children spent
Thursday with Mrs. W. C. Mob
ley.
Miss Dorothy Nell Boyd and Mr.
Coil Boyd of Oak Grove were guests of
Miss Avery Bedingfleld Saturday af
ternoon.
Mr. and Mrs. Ben Wall of Statham
were guests of Mr. and Mrs. Welton
Jones Saturday night.
Misses Pearlie and Zora Hammond
and Edna Williamson were guests of
Misses Sunie and Cleo Wall one day
last week. *
Mr. and Mrs. E. E. Mobley nnd chil
dren were dinner guests Sunday of Mr.
and Mrs. J. N. Mobley.
Misses Sara Lowe, Ida Lee Ross and
Ina Hammond and Mr. Herschel Lowe
of Statham were guests of Miss Avery
Bedingfied Friday night.
Mrs. Anna Robertson was in Ath
ens Friday.
Mr. Will Porter was the guest of
relatives in Jefferson Saturday.
Mr. and Mrs. Welton Jones, Mr. and
Mrs. Ren Wall, Mr. and Mrs. Jimmie
Mobley, of Statham, Messrs. Jessie and
David Mobley of Statham. were dinner
guqsts Thursday of Mr. and Mrs. G.
W. Jones.
Mrs. Julia TVall and daughter, Miss
Sunie Wall, were the guests of Mr. and
Mrs. W. C. Mobley Sunday.
Mr. and Mrs. George McDonald were
guests of Mr. and Mrs. Z. B. W all last
Sunday. ,
Mr. Frank Mobley spent Saturday
night in Statham with Mr. Daniel Mot
ley.
Porto Rico Potato Plants for Sale.—T.
L. Stokes, Pitts, Ga. 3t-pd
Classified Ads.
Good Gulf Gas leads them all.
Painting and Wall Tinting.
If it is good painting you want done,
old furniture repainted, wall tinting a
specialty, estimates large or small
cheerfully given, see G. C. Melton, Tel
ephone 88. No. 52-4 t
Porto Rica Potato Plants now ready
to ship. 1,000 for $2.00; 5.000 and up
$1.50 per 1,000. —I. L. Stokes. Pitts, Ga
Mcli fil,-St.-pd.
Stable Manure for sale. Will de
liver inside city limits. —L. L. Moore.
NANCY HALL SWEET POTATO
PLANTS for sale, government inspect
ed, $2.00 per 1,000, cash with order.
Ready for shipment.—H. Grady Evans.
Graham, Ga. Mar-4t-pd
Compare our hay prices with others.
Emory Smith at L. L. Moore’s Barn, tf
Winder Drug Cos. Phone 286, agents
for Norris, Whitman’s and Hollings
worth Famous Candles.
NANCY HALL POTATO PLANTS.
Government inspected; $2.00 per 1,000
cash with order, through April, May
and June. —Mrs. Addle Evans, Graham,
Ga. mch24-Btpd
Buy GOOD GULF “odorless” KER
OSENE.
SWEET MILK FOR SALE.—WiII
deliver every day—M. It. I>ay, Phone
289, Winder, Ga. tf.
TIMOTHY HAY.
*
The best Timothy hay at $36.00 per'
ton, or SI.BO per hundred. Buy fronjC
us. We put the price down.—Moore’s*
Barn,
0
We will deliver ice cream for your
Sunday dinner; call us and lenve your
order before 11 o’clock. Phone 286. —
Winder Drug Cos.
Don’t forget to pay us a visit these
warm afternoons; the coolest Drug
store in town. Phone 286—Winder
Drug Cos
Good Gulf is cheaper in long run.
FOR SALE.— One 5-H. P. Westing
house motor, for S9O, in fine shape, also
shafting, belts and pulleys at bargain
prices.—Winder News.
FOR RENT —4-room houp 2% miles
from Winder; can also furnish some
land if desired. —A Fee Ilurdigree.
Good Gulf Gas starts 'em easier.