Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

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.