It was difficult to say which of the two was the more frightened, the man in the bushes or Jim. The only difference was that Jim held a rifle. He didn’t know quite what to do with it as all his training had been to the effect that he should never point the muzzle of a gun at anyone. So he waved the gun around uncertainly, first pointing it at the man and then away. The erratic maneuvers of the gun muzzle served to terrify the stranger even more. “Don’t shoot!” he repeated, his frightened eyes going back and forth as they followed the end of the waving gun barrel with a horrified fascination. The man presented a very odd sight. He was short, but with abnormally broad shoulders and powerful arms. His heavily muscled body was stripped to the waist, and he wore nothing but a pair of faded khaki trousers. This garment was crumpled and dirty with several jagged tears in the legs. He was both barefooted and bareheaded. His brown weathered face and arms had numerous partially healed scratches and cuts. At first Jim received an impression of villainous ferocity caused by the man’s mangled face. Then as he calmed down he saw the stranger had an ugly but rather pleasant countenance. Also, that powerful chest looked rather gaunt, for the ribs were beginning to show. Jim looked at his captive in uncertainty, unable to decide whether to feel angry, terrified, or sorry for the man. “Did you steal my horse?” he asked finally, when he found his voice. He tried to sound stern, but his voice insisted on quavering. “No, sir!” denied the stranger, who was more frightened because Jim was obviously excited than he would have been had the boy been calm and steady. “I borrowed a horse a couple of days ago but I took good care of him and turned him loose so he could go home.” Jim thought this over for a minute. The evidence of the bridle and Ticktock’s recent grooming pointed to the truth of the statement. “Why’d you borrow him?” he asked. “I went down to the railroad tracks to see if you were hurt, and you ran off with my horse.” “I was scared,” said the man frankly. “I didn’t see you were a boy. A railroad cop had just chased me off that freight. I thought maybe they had rangers in this state like they have in Texas and one was after me for bumming a ride. I just lost my head and ran.” “How did you get here?” Jim was very annoyed at anyone’s finding his hideaway. “After I got on the horse I just rode away as fast as I could. When I came to this woods I slowed down and let that little horse walk along. All of a sudden he turned off the road and came here. It looked as good a spot as any, so I stayed.” The explanation was very logical. For once Jim wished that Ticktock would refrain from displaying his intelligence to others. It was all right to be smart, but to take a stranger to the secret hideaway was another matter. “We’ll go back to the clearing,” he said firmly, motioning with his gun. “Yes, sir,” the captive moved forward promptly. Jim marched behind the man, his nervousness gone. His brown hands held the gun steadily, and there was a serious frown on his normally cheerful face. He couldn’t quite figure out the situation. The stranger seemed perfectly frank and straightforward in his manner and didn’t look like a horse thief should. According to Jim’s conceptions, a horse thief should be a sullen, villainous man with a mustache and a long scar on his cheek. This man was a good-natured, honest-appearing person. When they arrived at the clearing, Ticktock was standing near the brush hut. The man walked up to him and began patting him on the neck. “How are you, old fellow?” he asked in a soft persuasive tone. Ticktock seemed to like the man. He looked over and winked at Jim as if he were putting the stamp of approval on the stranger. “Nice horse you got here, son,” said the man. “He sure is,” agreed Jim. He always warmed toward anyone who appreciated the mustang. Yes, this whole thing certainly was a puzzle. “Why did you let him loose?” he asked. “You don’t think I’m a horse thief, do you?” asked the other indignantly. “I could see that someone was taking awful good care of this pony and must like him. So I turned him loose.” “Look here,” said Jim, “I can’t figure this out. Why should you be so scared just because you were riding on a freight? Lots of people do that.” “In some states they put them in a chain gang or jail too, when they catch them.” “That would explain your running off with Ticktock,” said Jim, reasoning out loud, “but it doesn’t account for your staying here in the woods. You look peaked and hungry to me. Why don’t you go some place where you can get something to eat? And where are your clothes?” Where are your clothes? “I washed my clothes,” said the other nervously. “They’re hanging over there in the bush.” Jim’s eyes followed in the direction of the pointed finger. There was a shirt, undershirt and two socks hanging on a limb. They had obviously been washed, although it was rather a poor job, since there had been no soap and only the cold water of the stream. “That doesn’t answer the other questions,” said Jim stubbornly. “I think you are hiding for some other reason.” The man looked at Jim long and searchingly. Apparently he was reassured by the appearance of the boy’s frank face and steady brown eyes. “I think I’ll tell you the truth,” he said at last. “I think you’ll understand.” “Go ahead.” “Look, I’m kind of weak from lack of something to eat. Why don’t we sit down, because this is a long story? And how about pointing that rifle just a little bit in the other direction? It makes me nervous.” “All right,” agreed Jim, sitting down on a log, “but I’m keeping this gun handy.” As Jim placed the rifle across his knees, he suddenly realized that he had forgotten to load it. There was a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach and a big lump suddenly came up in his throat, threatening to choke him. He couldn’t very well reach in his pocket, extract a shell, open the breech, and load the gun. Nervous as he was, he knew he would be slow reloading it. He knew how, but had never had much practice and it might take a long time. The other man was too close to permit such a maneuver. There was nothing to do but try not to change expression and stick it out. “You were right,” said the captive, commencing his story and apparently noticing nothing wrong in Jim’s expression or behavior. “The law is after me. I’m wanted for killing a man.” “A murderer,” said Jim involuntarily. He gulped. Matters were getting worse by the minute. “I’m no murderer,” said the man with indignant sincerity. “But I’m sure in the worst mess that ever happened to any man. The police are after me, I’m starving, and I don’t have any place to go. All of it’s an accident too.” The man’s tone was full of so much woe that Jim felt a wave of sympathy sweep over him. Somehow he couldn’t help liking the man and believing in him. He didn’t look like a murderer. “How did it happen?” Jim asked. “I’m a horse trainer—one of the best in the country,” said the other proudly. “I’ve handled all kinds of horses, from big work teams to race horses. The last few years I’ve been training race horses. I was working for Mr. Medway and we had his horses at Churchill Downs just outside Louisville. Last Monday—it seems like a year—I was walking along outside the stables when I saw a jockey named Willie Fry in one of the stalls. I don’t suppose you know much about the things people do to horses now and then at race tracks, but this jockey was doping a horse. You can dope a horse several ways—you can give him something to make him slow and dopey so he can’t run well or you can give him a shot to make him all hopped up.” “What’s that?” asked Jim, so interested that he forgot about the unloaded rifle. “It’s just like a man taking snow-cocaine, any kind of dope. It makes him think he can do anything. Well, the same thing happens to a horse. A horse that’s hopped up can run much better than he would normally. It’s bad on his heart, bad all over for that matter. He’s apt to strain himself and be ruined. Sometimes a horse can run so hard he may go blind.” “Was he giving a horse that kind of dope?” asked Jim, full of indignation. “No, this was the night before the race and he was doping a horse to make him sick and slow. Judges can usually tell a horse that’s hopped up, but it’s hard to tell when a horse has been given something to make him sick or is just naturally not up to form. Well, I hate to see a horse doped or mistreated in any way. What made me even madder was that Willie was doping my horse. Redwing was the horse, and she was a sure bet to win the next day. I had most of the money I’d saved all summer on that race.” “Why didn’t he want her to win?” asked Jim, puzzled. “Well, there could have been several reasons. One—he was riding a horse that was the second favorite, but he knew as well as I did that he didn’t have a chance against Redwing. Then he could have been paid by the bookies—they are the men that take bets on the race—to fix it so the favorite couldn’t win. That way they could clean up, not only on not having to pay off on any money on Redwing, but by putting money up themselves on Willie’s horse. Anyhow, I was really mad. I jumped on Willie and he started to fight. He pulled a knife on me and so I grabbed a bottle that was handy. I hit him over the head, and he dropped like a sack. Blood started running down his face. I was really scared. I felt his pulse and couldn’t feel a thing. So I lit out of there and I’ve been hiding ever since.” “Why didn’t you go to the police and tell them what happened?” asked Jim. “I was too scared to think straight and then there were a couple of things against me. No one saw Willie doping the horse, or the fight, so it would have been just my word about what happened. Then the worst thing was that Willie and I had been in a fight the day before over a girl. I warned him to stay away from the girl I was going to marry. The police would play that up big and I wouldn’t have a chance.” “You sure are in a tough spot,” sympathized Jim. “It’s even worse that you ran away.” “I know it is,” said the man mournfully. “That’s why I was so scared when I was on that train and when you came hunting for me. I figured that everyone had seen the newspapers and was searching for me.” “What were you planning on doing, just staying here?” asked Jim. “Well, when I first got here I thought that brush hut and fireplace had been built by some hunters. The place didn’t seem much used, and it wasn’t hunting season; so I thought I’d stay until things sort of quieted down. That is, if I could figure out some way to eat. Then about noon today I noticed those jumping bars for a horse. That and the way that little horse brought me here made me think that someone was using the place for something. So I decided I’d better move on. I turned the horse loose and figured I’d leave when it was night. I didn’t think whoever owned the horse would be back inside of an hour. I was wrong. You showed up and caught me asleep.” “Haven’t you had anything to eat since I saw you jump off the train?” asked Jim solicitously. “I had two sandwiches that I had in my pocket,” said the man. “I picked them up the night before in a diner near a freight yard. But that’s all. I sure am hungry.” “I think maybe I could get you something to eat,” said Jim, considering. “I knew you would believe the truth when you heard it,” said the stranger. “You’re not going to turn me over to the law?” “I believe you. I don’t blame you a bit,” said Jim. “Since I’m going to trust you, I may as well put this gun down. I am pretty relieved anyhow, because I forgot to load it.” The man stared at Jim in amazement. “Captured by a boy with an unloaded rifle! I’m certainly a desperate criminal.” Jim grinned. “I think you better stay right here for a while,” he said, taking charge. “I can feed you here and you are better hidden than at any place I can think of.” “You found me,” pointed out the late captive dubiously. “Well naturally,” said Jim scornfully. “This is my secret headquarters. No one else knows about it though. Besides, you haven’t seen half of it yet. If you’ll promise never to tell, I’ll show you everything.” “You have the sacred word of Timothy Dinwiddie,” said the man solemnly. “Follow me.” Jim led the way to the hidden cave. He paused just outside the entrance. “Don’t let anybody ever see you enter here.” He pushed back the bush covering the cave mouth. “I keep a flash light hanging here just inside the door.” Timothy followed the boy inside. He stood with mouth open as he followed the flash-light beam around the walls. There were several rows of cans—baked beans, vegetables, shoestring potatoes, chow mein, corned beef and everything possible to preserve. “Food! Beautiful, beautiful food!” said Timothy in rapture. “This is the most wonderful sight I’ve seen since a horse I picked won the Kentucky Derby about ten years ago.” “Pick out what you want,” said Jim, very proud of his stock of provisions. He was gratified that they were proving so handy. In a few minutes the two had a fire going. Baked beans were warming in a pot while some weiners were simmering in a frying pan. The coffee began to boil while Jim was opening a can of peaches. Timothy sniffed the appetizing odors hungrily and put more wood in the fireplace. He finally decided everything was warm enough and dished out a huge portion. Jim wasn’t hungry, but the enjoyment he received from watching Timothy devour the food more than repaid him for all the trouble and expense he had undergone in collecting his stock. After finishing the first helping, Timothy filled his plate again. He ate everything down to the last bean. Then he and Jim had a cup of coffee together. “That was certainly the finest banquet I ever ate,” said Timothy leaning back in satisfaction. “You really got a well-stocked kitchen here. And that cave is about the trickiest hiding place I ever laid eyes on.” “It is pretty good,” said Jim glowing with pride. “I just laid in that food in case I might need it sometime.” “I’m certainly glad you did. It saved me from starvation.” “I get to town quite often,” observed Jim. “You look the stock over, and anything you need or that gets low I’ll pick up at the grocery store.” “Look, Jim,” said Timothy, reaching in his pocket. “I got about thirty dollars. You better take twenty to buy groceries.” “I don’t want your money,” protested Jim. When he decided to be friends with anyone he made no reservations. “You may need it.” “You are the one that needs it. You can’t feed a hungry man like me for nothing.” Timothy shoved the twenty-dollar bill in Jim’s shirt pocket. “When you go to town, would you buy any Louisville paper you can find for the last week. I’d like to know what they are saying about me.” “I know I can get the recent ones,” said Jim. “I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. Right now I better get home before my folks, because I left a note saying I was hunting for the man that stole Ticktock.” Jim rode home bursting with excitement. He wished there was someone to whom he could tell his exciting tale, but such a course was out of the question. Others might not realize, as he did, that Timothy was the victim of a bad break. Anyone who would try to dope a horse deserved to be hit on the head, he decided. He had to guard the secret of Timothy very closely, because if the police found him they might hang him. He guessed that’s what they did with murderers. The family had not returned when Jim arrived. He destroyed his note and then began grooming Ticktock. He was busily at work when the Meadows’ car drove in the lane. Feeling full of mystery and importance, he hailed his parents. “Ticktock came back!” “So I see,” said Mr. Meadows. “How’d it happen?” “He just came trotting up the road. Got loose I guess.” The explanation seemed so tame compared to the story he could have told, but he held himself sternly in check. The family gathered around to welcome the mustang back. Mrs. Meadows was very relieved, as she had worried over her son’s evident grief. Jean was overjoyed. She was becoming almost as fond of the pony as was Jim. In the general excitement, everyone talked at once and neither the father nor mother noticed anything unusual in Jim’s behavior. Jean, however, wasn’t to be deceived. She sensed that her brother was acting a little too mysterious and self-satisfied to know as little as he did. She said nothing, but watched him narrowly. On Monday Jim made some excuse and went to town early. At the local store, which sold newspapers, he was able to get Louisville papers from the preceding Friday through Monday. He was very conscious of his exciting new rÔle of helping a hunted man and played the part with all his usual intensity. Afraid that it might look suspicious to hunt through the papers while in town, he stuffed them in one of the saddlebags without even a glance. While walking down the street he met Constable Whittaker, to whom he gave a very cordial greeting. He grinned to himself. Constable Whittaker represented the only forces of law and order Jim had ever known. Being a conspirator who was outwitting Whittaker was rare fun. After buying a few groceries at the store, Jim completed his errands by purchasing a quart of ice cream and some cigarettes. They were to be a surprise for Timothy. He didn’t know if the fugitive smoked, but he suspected that he did. He was rather nervous while buying the cigarettes, as he knew they were not supposed to be sold to anyone under twenty-one. However, he had occasionally purchased them for his father. “They are for a client of mine,” he said casually to the druggist, who didn’t think of doubting Jim’s motives. The ice cream was carefully packed so that it was still in good condition when Jim arrived at the hide-out. “You certainly are the answer to a man’s prayer,” said Timothy, dividing the ice cream into two equal portions. “Ice cream and cigarettes! I really was craving a smoke. You put those ravens in the Bible to shame, Jim. Imagine a bird delivering a quart of ice cream! I prefer a boy with a horse. It’s not so fancy, but it’s a good deal more satisfying to the stomach.” Jim produced the papers and together they went over each page of all four editions. They made a hasty search first and then examined each article thoroughly. Even the financial pages were searched. There was not a single mention of Timothy Dinwiddie or his victim, Willie Fry. “That’s funny,” said Timothy, scratching his head. “It happened on Monday. You’d think there would still be some mention of the business on Thursday. I might not be so important as I thought, but Willie Fry was a well-known jockey.” “Maybe they’re keeping quiet on purpose,” suggested Jim, who had read his share of mystery stories. “What do you mean by that?” inquired Timothy nervously. “Sometimes the police keep very quiet in order not to let a criminal know they are hot on his trail,” Jim said ominously. “I hope that’s not what’s happened,” Timothy said fervently. He looked apprehensively around at the woods. “Well, I’ll go to the newspaper office. The editor and I are pals. He may have the old papers. I’ll think up some story and get the missing ones from Monday on,” said Jim. “I can’t go tomorrow, as it might look suspicious to be going to town too often. But Wednesday I’ll get them. I’ll bring you some fresh eggs and milk too. Also, we got a lot of melons if you want one.” “Boy, oh boy,” said Timothy, shaking his head. “You think of everything. I’m glad you’re not a cop.” |