The morning of the last day of the month dawned bright and clear.
The day before, Harry, as he had promised Crawford he would do, had come over to the Boy Scout camp and had a long talk with Mr. Durland. Flannigan had not come back from his prospecting trip nor had they heard from him in any way. The only conjecture was that he had been delayed longer than he had expected, but had probably planned his return so as to stop at the junction point to receive the express package that always arrived for him on the last day of the month in order to meet the payroll, and from there would drive over to the logging camp.
It was absolutely necessary that somebody should reach there before the arrival of the train in order to give him ample warning, and let him make his arrangements accordingly. Jack was selected as best fitted for that important duty and immediately after breakfast he started off for the Junction.
He gave himself plenty of time. It would not do to take any risk when theft was in the air and when possibly a life also depended upon his getting there before the train. The distance from the Boy Scout camp to the Junction was about five miles as the crow flies. If he had been able to go by the road, he could easily have made it in a little over an hour. The path, however, lay chiefly through the woods and there were brooks to be crossed and occasional hills to be climbed and for all this Jack had to make allowances. Thanks to the efforts of the Boy Scout Pathfinders, the district had been thoroughly surveyed and rough paths indicated, and as Jack himself had been in the thick of this exploring, he had a perfectly clear idea of the shortest and easiest way to get there.
The train was due at the Junction at ten thirty-five. Usually it was behind time. It ran on a little spur jutting off from the main road. It was a single narrow-gauge track, with only one train each way every day. It carried both freight and passengers and stopped, as its patrons sometimes grumbled, at “every dog kennel” on the way. The chances were that it would be late, but then again on this one occasion it might happen to be on time and Jack could take no risks. He figured that, with all the roughness of the road, he could make the distance easily in two hours. He gave himself an extra hour and a half, however, to allow for any possible hindrance and left camp at about seven o’clock.
It was a splendid morning. A slight haze tempered the heat of the sun and made walking a delight. As Jack swung into his stride, the charm of the morning took possession of him. The full tide of youth and strength ran through his brain. The balsam of the woods filled his nostrils. The woods were full of life. Birds sang in the trees overhead. He caught glimpses of chipmunks and squirrels gliding through the bushes and occasionally crossing the path. It was good to be alive, and it seemed scarcely possible that on such a day robbers and murderers were abroad and the possibility of a crime near at hand.
As this last thought came to him his step quickened. He didn’t anticipate any danger in his mission, and yet his blood was stirred by the possibilities that lurked in the day’s work. He had no idea that he himself would be concerned in it or come face to face with the robbers.
What he had to do after all was perfectly simple. He only had to warn Flannigan and he knew enough of that individual to have perfect confidence in him. He was sure that the big, burly Irishman could easily hold his own if it came to a tussle. But there would be no tussle. He was sure of that. All the foreman had to do was to take no chances in going by the main road, but to take a less traveled path, rough, to be sure, but over which a horse could be driven, and thus reach the camp. It was a much longer road, but in this case at least the old proverb was true that “the longest way around is the shortest way home.”
He had no doubt that Flannigan would be at the station. No matter how important his business might have been, he would never let pay-day go by without turning up in camp. That was the one unwritten law of the logging camps that was like the laws of the Medes and the Persians and could not be broken. The rough characters that Flannigan had to deal with in their hard-worked and narrow lives looked forward all through the month to that one day of the pay envelope. To be sure, the money didn’t last long when they got it. A big spree in the county town usually followed and, after a day or two of gambling and drunkenness, the men stumbled back to the camp and began to work for another month, and dream of the next pay-day. They were quick tempered at the best, would listen to no argument or explanation and only the sight of the money would appease them. If Flannigan did not turn up at the camp that day, there would be a riot, and nobody knew this better than Flannigan himself. Therefore he was sure to be on hand.
While Jack was thus pressing steadily forward, two men lay in a clump of bushes alongside the road about half way between the Junction and the logging camp. They had chosen another place than that on which they had first determined. They felt a vague uneasiness regarding the Boy Scouts. While the sudden appearance of Don had given rise to some misgivings, they had not been sure that they had been overheard. They had missed Dick on his trip to the logging camp to give warning and though after that day they had kept a sharp lookout, they had seen no proof of any communication from the Boy Scouts to the lumber camp. As a matter of fact, on the strict injunction of Mr. Durland, the Scouts had kept carefully away from that section since that day. Still on the mere chance they had thought to “make assurance doubly sure,” and had picked upon a new location where, squatting in the bushes, they waited the coming of Flannigan.
The intervening days spent in wandering about the woods and brooding over their plot had not improved their appearance. They were unshaven and unkempt, and their clothes hung on them in tatters. But if their appearance was bad, their tempers were still worse. Their rankling bitterness and hatred of all society had turned them into wild beasts.
“Curse him!” growled Red, as O’Brien was called, “we’ll settle his hash this time!”
“Yes,” returned Lavine. “By gar, I get even with zat man to-day if I swing for it!”
“We’ve got to be pretty keerful,” said Red. “He’s a moighty handy man with his fists, begorra!”
“His feests I fear not,” replied Lavine. “What are his feests against zis knife?” and he ran his hand significantly across the razor edge on an evil-looking hunting knife. “Do you zink he weel hev a pistol?”
“No fear uv that,” said Red. “He’s too cock-sure of himself.”
Just at the turning of the road they had felled a tree and with true woodmen’s skill had arranged it so that some of the heavier branches lay across the road. They thought that Flannigan, on reaching the obstruction, would be forced to get down from the wagon in order to remove it and clear a path. While he was bending over, they planned to spring upon him from behind with their clubs. Taken by surprise, they figured that he would be helpless in their hands. The knives they held as a last resort. Their thought of vengeance went no further than to give the prostrate man a terrible beating and perhaps maim him for life. It would be safer than actually murdering him and the pursuit was likely to be less keen than if they had killed their man. Yet their knives were there and in a pinch neither one would have flinched from using them should it come to that.
“He’ll soon be here now,” said Red, looking at the sun.
Lavine responded with a growl and an oath, and the two outlaws drew their belts tighter and waited for the coming of their prey.
In the meanwhile Jack had caught sight of the Junction from the brow of the last hill. His watch told him that he had an hour and a half to spare and he knew that he could easily make the distance in fifteen minutes, leaving plenty of time. He stepped out briskly and came to the edge of a little brook. It was only about a foot deep and there were stepping-stones leading from one bank to the other. As he neared the farther bank, a round stone slipped from under him and he plunged forward, striking his head against a tree stump on the edge of the brook. The world swam around him and then his senses left him.
How long he lay there he never knew. When he opened his eyes he looked around bewildered. His legs were wet to the waist where he had lain in the brook. He carried his hand to his forehead that ached horribly and when he withdrew it, found it covered with blood. Where was he? What had happened?
As he staggered to his feet the thought of his mission came to him. How late was it? He looked at the sun. It seemed much higher in the heavens. Could it be possible that he was too late for the train? He glanced at his watch. It was no longer going. The force with which he had fallen had stopped it and the hands marked nine thirteen. He remembered that a few minutes before his fall it had been nine eight. How long had he lain there?
Suddenly a thrill ran through his veins. Over the hill came the shrill whistle of a locomotive. It must be the train that Flannigan was to meet. There wasn’t any other that morning. Could he possibly be in time? He knew that it would take him at least fifteen minutes, doing his best, to get there. The train would get to the station in less than five,—might be there now. Even yet, he told himself, he might be in time! Perhaps there would be a car to be shifted on a siding. Even after the train had gone, Flannigan might stop for a chat and gossip with the station agent. There might be some delay in signing for the express package. A dozen things might happen to help him. At least he might get near enough to wave his arms and attract attention.
While these thoughts rushed through his mind, now clearing from the effects of the fall, he had struggled to his feet and started dizzily on his way. At first he staggered, but with every step he felt himself getting stronger. Only a little part of the remaining distance was up a slight ascent but after that it would be easy sailing. All the way from that to the station would be down hill.
A groan passed from his lips as he reached the brow of the hill, half a mile from the Junction. The train had reached the station, let off a single passenger and, grunting and groaning, was just pulling out. Alongside the platform was a buckboard drawn by an old white horse. Holding the reins was a thick-set, sturdy figure, whom he recognized as Flannigan. Jack shouted but they could not hear him at that distance. He blew his Scout’s whistle but still there was no sign. He ran on, waving his hands wildly. Their backs were to him and no one saw him. A solitary passenger stepped into the buckboard, Flannigan gathered up the reins, the old white horse started off and disappeared around a turn of the road just as Jack rushed up to the station.
He was too late!