With the news of the event, a flame of wrath swept through the coves. Everywhere, the men gathered in parties, to hunt, rifle in hand, for some trace of the outlaw. There was none to give him favor, save the outcasts numbered among his dependants. The usual sympathy for the illicit distiller ceased utterly, destroyed by hatred for the criminal’s final offense. For the first time in the history of the mountains, there was no voice raised to protest—nor any rifle pointed in the laurel—against the Federal officers, who wandered at will in the wild places. In execration of Dan Hodges for his sin against the peace and dignity of the community, the people forgot for the nonce their ancient enmity against the Government. With one accord, the folk of the mountains joined in abhorrence of Hodges, sullenly anxious to bring about his punishment, to avenge his victim at least, if too late to save her.

Seth Jones turned from the joys of the belated honeymoon to give every aid in his power. His counsel and the comfort of his presence were boons 180 to Uncle Dick. The veteran had learned from his bride concerning the disfavor in which Zeke was held, and the reason for it. It seemed to him the part of wisdom, in this crisis, to feign ignorance, and he blandly suggested, on the return of the two from the fallen poplar, that they should ride to Joines’ store in the evening, there, over the telephone, to dispatch a telegram to Zeke in New York. It was the psychological moment for success. There was not even a flicker of resentment aroused. Uncle Dick remembered that the Quaker school-teacher spy had been saved by Zeke from Dan Hodges. In his new mood, that fact was enough to overcome all rancor against the lad. Moreover, he realized the tragedy of Plutina’s fate to her lover, and he was moved to compassion. He accepted the veteran’s suggestion without a word of remonstrance.

It was Seth Jones, too, who broke down the old man’s last prejudice by persuading him to summon Marshal Stone. Uncle Dick yielded with an odd mingling of emotions—shame and relief: shame over such trafficking with the “revenuers,” whom he had consistently fought and despised through three generations; relief that he had gained the strong arm of the law to his side. He had been greatly heartened when Stone answered over the wire that he would set out with a posse at midnight for the Siddon cabin, so that, after a conference there, the 181 active work of searching could be begun promptly at dawn.

Thus, it came about that, for the first time in history, Uncle Dick Siddon welcomed the sound of hoofbeats pounding up the trail through the darkness. Where, aforetime, he would have leaped to wind a blast of warning to the moonshiners above against the coming of the “revenuers,” the old man now hastened to the cabin door, and flung it wide, and went forth on the porch to give grateful greeting.

When a council had been held, three parties set forth. Seth Jones was the guide for one, which went to the northeast, through the Bull Head Mountain region, whither, in all likelihood, the outlaw would make his way, if he meant to escape out of the country. The marshal, with one companion, skirted Stone Mountain. Uncle Dick led two of the posse to the yellow poplar where the struggle had occurred, after which they would follow the general direction of the tracks. The marshal expected to make a circuit of the mountain rapidly enough to effect a junction with Uncle Dick’s party by noon, at the Woodruff Gate. The veteran and his two men, who would have by far the roughest going, were not to report until sundown at the Siddon cabin.

From the poplar, Uncle Dick and the deputies 182 were able, with great difficulty, to follow the tracks of the outlaw and his prisoner toward the south for a full mile. But at this point, an expanse of outcropping rock baffled them completely. Search as they would, there was no least sign of footsteps anywhere. After an hour of futile questing, they gave up in despair, and hurried to the rendezvous at the Woodruff Gate.

The marshal and his men had already reached the gate, and Stone had wherewith to give the distraught grandfather new hope.

“I came on their tracks a mile below where you lost them,” he explained. “They still keep to the south. We followed as far as the sand bar below Sandy Creek Falls.”

“Come on!” Uncle Dick cried, fiercely. “Let’s arter ’im this-yer minute.”

The marshal shook his head at the old man’s enthusiasm.

“We’re not much better off yet,” he declared. “We found the place where he camped last night. ’Twasn’t far. I reckon the girl made his going as slow as she could. She naturally would.” Uncle Dick nodded somberly. “But the trouble is, the trail ends at the sand bar—ends absolutely.”

“We’ll find hit ag’in,” Uncle Dick exclaimed, stoutly. “We jest got to find hit. Come on!”

The marshal urged the other to rest in preparation 183 for the hard climb—down the ridge, and then up the sharp slopes and ledges of the mountainside. But the old man would have none of it. So, straightway, the two moved off, leaving the others, less hardy, to repose, and in due time they came to the bar below Sandy Creek Falls.

High among the embattled cliffs of Stone Mountain’s eastern end, Sandy Creek races in tumultuous course. The limpid stream cascades in vertical sheen of silver from ledge to ledge. It writhes with ceaseless noisy complainings through the twisting ways of bowlder-strewn gorges. Here and there, in some placid pool, it seems to pause, languid, resting from its revels of flight. Such a pool lay at the foot of the longest fall. A barrier of sand circled from the cliff as the brim for this bowl of the waters. To this point, Marshal Stone and Uncle Dick were now come. The tracks were plainly discernible in the sand, along the edge of the pool. There were the huge misshapen outlines of the outlaw’s bare feet, deep-sunken from the heavy weight of the man. Beside them showed the slender prints made by the captive, lightly pressed. These tracks followed the curving bar, along the water’s edge. They reached to the foot of the cliff, close to where was the outer edge of the cataract. There they ceased.

The marshal, already familiar with the mystery, 184 and baffled by it, searched again perfunctorily. Uncle Dick hunted hither and yon with feverish activity, at first confidently, then doubtfully, finally in despair. He, in his turn, could find no further clue. He gave over his efforts eventually, and stood silent beside the marshal, staring bewilderedly. About the amphitheatre formed by the pool, pines grew in a half-circle, save where the narrow channel of the stream descended. But between the barricade of the trees and the basin of water lay the smooth stretch of sand, slightly moist from out-flung spray of the falls. Upon that level surface, the tracks showed forth—undeniable, inexplicable. They marched without deviation straight to the base of the great cliff. There, within a little space, they grew confused, as from much trampling. But they did not return; they did not go elsewhere. There was a clear distance of a rod over the sand to the rocky ground where the trees grew. On the other side lay the deeps of the pool. Before them reared the impassible wall of the precipice. And there the tracks ended.

Uncle Dick knew the place well, and on that account the mystery was the greater. He could find no possible explanation, however wildly improbable, of that disappearance. The broad sheet of the falls fell close to the cliff’s face. The rock was unworn by the torrent, without recess or cavern. 185 And that precipice, twice the pool’s width, mounted sheer a hundred feet, the height of the cascade. The front was unbroken save by tiny rifts and narrow ledges, where dwarfed ground pines clung precariously. With a muttered curse, the old man turned from his vain contemplation of the cliff, and let his troubled eyes rest on the pool. Suddenly, he started. He remained motionless for a moment, then, with nervous haste threw off his shirt, and trousers. Marshal Stone, chancing to look that way, was astonished to see his companion naked, poised at the water’s edge. He had time to note with admiration the splendid figure, still supple and strongly muscled despite the four-score years. Then Uncle Dick leaped, and dived. It was long seconds before he reappeared, only to dive again. He paid no attention to the marshal’s remonstrances. Only when he was convinced of the uselessness of further search in the pool’s depths, did he give over the task, and cast himself down on the sand to rest, panting and trembling a little from fatigue.

“They hain’t thar,” he said, with grim conviction. Then he voiced the question that hammered in his brain: “Whar be they?”

But the marshal had no answer.

As they made their way drearily back toward the Woodruff Gate, the officer broke a long silence: 186

“Only a blood-hound can trail them!”

The gloom of Uncle Dick’s expression did not lighten.

“They hain’t nary one in the mountings,” he answered, heavily.

“None nearer than Suffolk, Virginia,” the marshal said. “Cyclone Brant has a couple of good ones. But it would cost a lot.”

The old man flared.

“Fer God’s sake, git thet-thar feller an’ his dawgs. I hain’t axin’ what hit ’ll cost. Hit was my money got thet-thar damned cuss out o’ the jail-house. I hain’t likely to begrudge anythin’ hit ’ll cost to git him kotched. An’ Plutiny!—why, money don’t matter none, if I can save Plutiny!”

“I’ll send for Brant to-night,” the marshal promised, with new cheerfulness. “Let’s hope he’s not off somewhere. They send for him all over the country. If the dogs start day after to-morrow, they’ll still find the scent.”

Uncle Dick groaned.

“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 187 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 Dick 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: 188

Suffolk, Va.

Richard Siddon,
Joines’ Mill, N. C.,
Via Telephone from North Wilkesboro’.
Arrive to-night with bloodhound.

Ezekiel.

Uncle Dick’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 gratitude 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 God that Zeke was coming!