Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1952 (15 page)

 
          
“His
own arguments?” repeated Randy.

 
          
“Hear
that echo?” said Jebs to Sam. “You ought to change the name of New Chimney Pot
to Echo in the Valley.”

 
          
“It’s
just as Jebs says, Randy,” grinned Sam. “He and I are trying to study the case
along the same lines.”

 
          
“And
you think,” said Randy after a moment, “that Willie may be faking that
werewolf-story idea to cover up.”

 
          
“Randy
learns fast, Sam,” commented Jebs drily. “You reckon this special-deputy stuff
is catching?

           
Or is it just the natural Randy
Hunter genius for digging up what looks silly and making it
look
sensible? I’ve seen him work before, you know.”

 
          
“Nobody
can accuse Willie on mere guesses,” Sam warned the boys. “Let’s understand that
before we go on. But we’ve all been thinking about how odd it was that he
showed up at the burning house.”

 
          
“That’s
the truth!” cried Jebs. “And it’s double odd, because when Driscoll and I were
at Mr. Martin’s, Willie swore up and down and crossways on the bias that he was
too scared to come with us.”

 
          
“Might
Willie be running with the dogs?” Randy voiced the thought of them all.

 
          
“It
doesn’t seem logical,” said Sam.

 
          
“Then
he’s the one,” decided Jebs. “You know the mystery books—the least suspicious
guy turns out to be guilty. Another thing about mysteries; it’s apt to be the
butler. Willie’s no butler, but he works for Mr. Martin. That’s as close to a
butler as we’ve got on this case.”

 
          
Randy
got up, found pencil and paper, and sat down again. “Shall we make notes to
mull over later?” he suggested.

 
          
“All
right,” granted Sam, “but I’ll keep them after they’re made. And remember, no
going off halfcocked on any wild guesses. All right, after Willie, who’s our
next suspect?”

 
          
“We
can’t put down Mr. Martin,” said Jebs, “because he was with us a right long time
before we even came close to the house and found it burning. And before that,
Driscoll drove clear to his farm to get him. He couldn’t be in two places at
once.”

 
          
“There’s
Hobert Tasman,” mused Sam.

 
          
“You
might as well write down Bugler,” said Randy. “Jebs saw me test his blindness,
by shoving a book at his face. He didn’t see—he never even blinked. I know he’s
not faking.”

 
          
“Beyond
those, there’s my bunch of Indian friends,” resumed Sam. “As I told James
Martin, I’d stake my life on their being square with us. That brings us to Mr.
X.”

 
          
“Who’s
he?” asked Randy, looking up from his notes.

 
          
“Mr.
X, the unknown quantity,” said Sam. “Acting in secret, for secret reasons none
of us can figure out. But Mr. X is a sort of genius. He has the friendship and
obedience of those wild dogs.”

 
          
“Then
they aren’t wild,” objected Jebs.

 
          
“No,
they aren’t. They’re a pack of well-trained, well-disciplined hunting animals.
They operate at the wish and direction of Mr. X in his spotted jacket.”

           
“Which either was or wasn’t burned
up in the fire,” reminded Jebs. “How can we find out?”

 
          
“I
told you how,” said Randy. “In the jacket pocket was that mysterious metal
tube. If we find it in the ashes, the jacket burned up.”

 
          
“We’ll
have to wait a day or two, until the ashes are cool enough to examine,” said
Sam. “Meanwhile, all we need to do is figure out who Mr. X is.”

 
          
They
were still discussing, arguing, and jotting notes when Driscoll came home.

 
          
JEBS
IS MYSTERIOUS

 
          
But
again the rain had ceased before dawn, and the sun rose in bright splendor over
green thickets. Randy rose early enough to help
Sam
Cohill
start breakfast,
then
went out to scatter grain to the chickens. He looked for evidence of a prowling
visit from the wild dogs, and with satisfaction he saw that all was well.

 
          
“No
casualties on our side so far,” called Driscoll from the pigpen, where he was
pouring a bucket of mash into the trough. “You’ve been the closest to danger so
far, Randy, and you got off without a scratch yesterday. Left the enemy with
one wounded soldier, too—that wolf-dog you speared.”

 
 
         
“Don’t forget the others that were
speared by my little partisan rangers, the wasps,” laughed Randy.

 
          
“Too
bad we can’t have the wasps fighting on our side all the time,” spoke up Jebs.

 
          
He
had led Willie Dubbin’s friend the mule into the open, and was offering him an
ear of corn. Judiciously the mule eyed this gift, sniffed at it, and finally
caught it by the end in his teeth and slowly ate it, cob and all.

 
          
“I’ll
ride him back to Martin’s as soon as I’ve had a bite of breakfast,” announced
Jebs. “You don’t reckon he’s like the mules in the funny papers, do you? He
won’t buck me off or anything?”

 
          
“If
Willie could ride him, you ought to be able to,” said Randy.

 
          
“Maybe
he and Willie are members of the Mule Brotherhood together,” said Jebs. “Well,
I’ll give it a try. He won’t be the first mule I’ve hopped onto, and if he sets
me off again he won’t be the first mule to do that, either. Why, gentlemen,
I’ve had mules flip me so high up in the air that the jaybirds could have built
nests in all my pockets.”

 
          
“I
love that homespun humor Jebs is always whipping up for us,” said Randy to
Driscoll, “but I’m not laughing just now. I remember what he said a moment
ago—too bad we don’t have the wasps on our side. Something tells me that if it
stays clear tonight —and the sky looks mighty empty of clouds right now—we’ll
see our wild dogs dropping in for a visit. They’ve stayed away two nights, and
I doubt if they’ll neglect us any longer.”

 
          
“Hey!”
said Jebs.
“How’s about some breakfast now?
And after
a while, somebody come over to Martin’s with the jeep to carry me back.”

 
          
Breakfast
over, Jebs mounted the mule and headed off across the rough bridge to the
woodland trail beyond. Despite his apprehensions, the long-eared beast accepted
his weight cheerfully. Driscoll and Randy examined the water wheel and the
generator in its snug little quarters. The dam looked solid and sturdy, but the
two worked a few minutes, adding some final touches for strength and
efficiency. Sam came and loomed over them, grinning.

 
          
“I
think you like that dam and the electric plant all the better because we
ourselves got it running,” he declared.

 
          
“Let’s
make sure it keeps running,” said Driscoll.

 
          
“Amen
to that,” said Sam. “We aren’t going to throw away any kerosene lamps or
stoves, and I want to start improving on the little I know about electrical
repairs, too. I have to send off for a book on wiring. I wonder if a man can
take a correspondence course in electrical
mechanics?
”

 
          
“Ask
Lyman Hager over in
Wagram
,” said Driscoll, “or ask Jebs Markum. Jebs is right deep in stuff like
that. Speaking of Jebs, I’m going to drive over for him in an hour or so. Want
to go with me, Randy?”

 
          
“No,
I want to visit Hobert Tasman.”

 
          
“Mud
and all?” inquired Sam, surprised.

 
          
“Mud
and all,” said Randy. “I don’t feel right, with him alone and helpless. If he
doesn’t worry about wild dogs, I do.”

 
          
“Well,
don’t go wandering off into a new ambush,” warned Driscoll.

 
          
“That’s
right,” said Sam. “Stick to the trail from here to Tasman’s place, and stick to
it when you come back.”

 
          
“But
don’t stick too tight,” Driscoll put in a new warning. “We don’t want to have
to come and gouge you out of the mire.”

 
          
“I
promise,” said Randy, and went to fetch a stick and the book about
Lives of the Hunted.

 
          
A
second night of rain had made the way muddier and marshier than ever, but Randy
had expected that. He paused beside the first puddle, took off his moccasins,
and rolled up the legs of his dungarees. Then he waded into the mud and water.
At some points it was shin deep, and he groped ahead with the end of his stick
to test the footing under the brown surface. Coming up on fairly firm ground
near the clearing, he put on his moccasins again and approached the yard of
Hobert Tasman.

 
          
He
saw the slender figure of the clay-potter, sitting on the cabin doorstep.

 
          
“Good
morning, Mr. Tasman,” called Randy. “It’s Randy Hunter.”

 
          
“All
alone today, are you?” replied Tasman, his sightless eyes seeming to stare.
“What do you want?”

 
          
“I
came to read to you again,” Randy told him. “I brought
Lives of the Hunted”

 
          
“What
happened to you yesterday?” demanded Tasman. “Your friends all came poking and
fussing around here, looking for you. I told them you hadn’t been here, but I’m
not sure they believed me.” The lean brows drew together. “I think they
suspected me of hiding you away somewhere. I’ve been wondering what happened to
you.”

 
          
So
saying, Tasman leaned against the door jamb.

 
          
“It’s
a long story, and a peculiar one,” Randy informed him. “I was trapped up on the
roof of a deserted house, by those wild dogs.”

 
          
“Trapped?”
echoed Tasman sharply.
“Wild dogs?”
Randy related his
adventure. The blind man listened with the utmost attention. He sniffed when
Randy described his makeshift weapon of wasps in the joint of stovepipe, and
cocked his head sidewise in an attitude of deep thought at the incident of
Randy’s spear-fight with the wolfish dog.

 
          
“Does
it occur to you,” said Tasman at length, “that you’re mighty lucky to be in one
piece today?” “It certainly does occur to me,” Randy assured him. “It occurs to
me over and over. I don’t want to go through anything like that again. And I
can’t understand why you’re willing to stay out here all alone, without any
defense if those dogs should try to raid you.”

 
          
“They
couldn’t catch me off guard,” Tasman said with a thin smile. “I could hear them
coming far away. I could hear a snake crawling around this house. Any dogs that
tried to rush me here would find my door slammed and barred against them. I’d
hear them coming, and I’d wait until I heard them go away again.”

 
          
“Why
don’t you come to New Chimney Pot?” urged Randy. “There wouldn’t be any danger
there, and Driscoll and Sam would be glad to have you, help you in any way—”

 
          
“No, thanks.”
Tasman cut him off emphatically. “I want to
live by myself, the best way I can, without help from anyone. Now, which story
did you think you’d read me?”

 
          
Feeling
rebuffed, Randy sat on a rock near the doorway and opened the book. He read for
some time,
then
looked at his watch.

 
          
“It’s
nearly
noon
,” he
said.

 
          
“Yes,”
agreed Tasman. “I feel the heat of the sun —it’s climbing toward the top of the
sky.” His upturned, sightless face was lighted by the sun’s rays. “Well,
Randy,
thanks for reading to me. But let’s get back to what
we were talking about before.”

 
          
“The
wild dogs?” asked Randy. He was surprised that Tasman should reopen a subject
he had closed so abruptly.

 
          
“Yes.
I’m not worried about them, but you are. You had a narrow escape. I’m surprised
you don’t go home, clear away from these woods.”

 
          
“Jebs
and I came to help Driscoll and Sam,” said Randy. “We’re helping them make a
real home at New Chimney Pot.”

 
 
         
“A home for Driscoll
Jordan
and that big hulking
giant?”

 
          
Randy
pretended to ignore the slur on Sam’s size. “Driscoll’s ancestors owned this
land more than a century ago,” he said. “Driscoll feels at home on it. He’ll go
to college—he and Jebs and I plan to be at the state university together—but,
between school terms, he’ll help Sam make a profitable property here in these
woods.”

 
          
“He’ll
cut the trees,” said Tasman fiercely.

 
          
“He
won’t destroy the woods,” Randy assured him. “He’ll leave the young trees, to
grow bigger for the future. I’ve seen his government bulletins on how to set up
a sensible lumbering project.”

 
          
“The
place will swarm with lumberjacks,” Tasman said. “I’ve seen them chopping down
whole mountain forests.”

 
          
He
was still gloomy as Randy headed home for dinner.

 
          
Even
as Randy reached the back yard of New Chimney Pot House, he saw the jeep
drawing up in front. He walked around the side of the house to greet Driscoll
and Jebs.

 
          
“I
had a quiet little council with Mr. Martin,” announced Driscoll. “He slipped
his two guns into our jeep. Later on, some time before sundown, he’ll stroll
quietly over here for supper.”

 
          
“All three miles?”

 
          
“Sure.
You think he’s one of those soft town-raised folks, who can’t even walk to the
street corner without getting tired? Anyway, he and Sam and I all think the
dogs will come looking for food and trouble tonight. Mr. Martin won’t tell
Willie where he’s going, and after supper he’ll stay all night. We hope to have
a showdown with our night-running pals.”

 
          
“And
with their night-running friend, the one with two feet,” elaborated Jebs,
getting out of the jeep.

 
          
Under
one arm he lugged the rifle and shotgun. His other hand clutched something dark
and cubical, from which trailed wires.

 
          
“What’s
that gimmick?” Randy asked him.
“A bomb or a portable radio?”

 
          
“I
borrowed it from Mr. Martin’s kid, Lee.”

 
          
Jebs
held out the wire-festooned cube. It was about the size of half a brick, and
made of dark, hard rubber. Its top was furnished with a metal band, on which were
spaced figures as on a gauge, and a short pivoted lever.

 
          
“It
looks like a transformer from an electric train set,” ventured Randy.

           
“Maybe because that’s what it is,”
said Jebs, and his square, rosy face took on an expression of mysterious cunning.