  With the twenty-five dollars reward money added to his previous earnings, Jim now had over fifty dollars. Fifty dollars was more money than he had ever seen before and seemed like the largest sum in the world. It must be adequate, he felt, to cover the cost of Ticktock’s feed for the winter. Mr. Meadows had not brought up the subject, and Jim was content to keep the unannounced truce. His father seemed to be over his anger about the watermelons. Jim reasoned that if the matter of Ticktock’s board was never mentioned, he would be foolish to call attention to it. It was simple arithmetic—he would be fifty dollars wealthier if he let sleeping dogs lie. If Mr. Meadows did raise the question, Jim was prepared. If necessary, he figured he could even pay for Ticktock’s keep elsewhere, although it would have broken his heart to have the mustang where he could not be seen and ridden daily. Still, such a course would be better than having to give up the pony in the fall as his father had threatened. All over fifty dollars Jim felt he was free to spend. As he earned money from odd jobs, he began using it to stock his hideaway. He bought cans of pork and beans, sausages, corned beef, vegetables, fruits, soups, condensed milk, and even one can of Boston brown bread. Anything that came in cans or packages that seemed safe from spoilage was carefully stowed away in the cave. He was frugal about the process, preferring to take quietly those items that were in plentiful supply at home rather than spend his hard-earned money. For quite a while now, Jim had been allowed to take food from the pantry for his picnics and all-day trips without asking for specific permission, provided there was plenty on hand of what he needed. In case of doubt, it was understood that he ask his mother. It was the same with anything that his mother had piled on the left-hand side of the attic. Both he and Jean could take anything they wished from the accumulation there. Now, therefore, to the supplies which he bought with his own money, he added from the family cupboard sugar, coffee, tea, salt, pepper and a small quantity of flour. These he put carefully in jars that he picked up. In the same manner he slowly accumulated a set of battered pots and pans, two plates, and a few odd knives and forks, as well as an old blanket and a torn quilt from the attic. The only difference between what he did this time and what he had done before was that he didn’t say a word to his mother about it all. Since always before he had talked over his plans with her, he now had a guilty feeling. “I’ll keep a list of everything,” he said to himself, “and show it to Mother later on.” It was so much more exciting to act mysteriously and in secret. It made the cave a real hide-out, something that belonged to him alone. The quilt and blanket were the last items he needed to complete his preparations. Since he couldn’t very well ride out of the yard with them without causing questions, he slipped out one evening and hid them a respectable distance down the road. The next morning when he had finished his work, he saddled Ticktock and rode off to recover them. As he stopped to pick up his bedding, he was congratulating himself on how secretly he had managed everything. He looked under the little bush where he had left them the previous evening but the quilt and blanket were gone. With a puzzled frown on his tanned face, he tried to figure out the mystery. There was little traffic on the road past the farm and no reason why anyone would be prompted to stop at this spot and discover his bedding. Very annoyed, he looked up and down the road to see if there was any other bush he could possibly have confused with this one. “Looking for your blankets?” asked a teasing voice. Jim looked up, and there was his sister Jean sitting on the opposite side of the road. She held his missing loot in her arms. “What are you doing here?” Jim demanded, very crestfallen at being caught. “What are you doing with these?” asked Jean promptly. “Oh, I was just going to use them somewhere!” said Jim in confusion. He tried to think fast. “I thought I might go fishing and want a soft place to lean back on while I fished.” “Funny you’d go to all this trouble just to take some blankets with you fishing,” observed Jean with mockery in her voice. “You forgot your fish pole too.” “Well, it’s none of your business,” replied Jim lamely. “Yes, it is,” said Jean. “You were taking them to the hideaway and the hideaway is part mine.” “Don’t be silly. Whatever gave you the idea I was taking them there?” “Oh, I’ve been watching things,” said Jean calmly. “Let’s see, you’ve got sugar, coffee, plates, cups and two jars of peaches. Of course, I don’t know what you might have bought in town. Where else would you take all that stuff except to the cave?” “Well, all right, the stuff was for the cave. Now what good does it do you to know?” “None, unless I know where the cave is. But you’re going to show me now.” “Like fun I am.” “Either you spill the beans or I’ll squeal.” Jean had read enough comic strips that she could talk like a thug, and this was an occasion when she felt she had to act tough. “You promised not to tell when I took you to the hideaway,” objected Jim. “Yes, but I didn’t promise not to tell about all this stuff you’ve been stealing.” “It isn’t really stealing,” protested Jim. “It looks like stealing to me,” said Jean with infuriating calmness. “You took a bunch of junk but you didn’t ask.” Jim felt trapped. He still didn’t consider his recent activities thievery, but that wasn’t the important part. If Jean talked, his parents would ask embarrassing questions about what he had done with the articles. They would know he had a secret headquarters, which spoiled half the mystery. It was better that Jean knew, than everyone. Thus far she had kept very quiet about what she already knew. “Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll take you there on your birthday,” he offered finally. Jean considered thoughtfully. “That’s three weeks away.” “Yes, but I’m awful busy now. Besides, wouldn’t it be a nice birthday present—making you a full partner in the hideaway. I’ve got a lot of things there I bought at the grocery store and you can have half of them.” Jim hoped she would forget about the matter in three weeks. He didn’t expect it, but it was a possibility. “All right, on my birthday.” “O.K. Give me the blankets and remember, don’t tell anyone.” “Oh, I won’t, now that everything is going to be half mine!” said Jean with decision. “What are you going to do with all the stuff anyway?” That question rather stumped Jim. He hadn’t gone into the reason behind all his activity in stocking the cave. He had long ago forgotten his idea of going there to live the life of a hermit. In the thrill of secretly gathering a hoard of food and utensils he hadn’t given much thought as to the purpose of it all. “Well, I hadn’t thought about that too much,” he admitted frankly. “It’s just fun to have the stuff in the cave. I can pretend I’m an outlaw hiding out. Maybe Mother will let me camp out all night sometime.” “Well, we could pretend we were shipwrecked on an island or that we were in a war and surrounded by enemies, and lots of things,” suggested Jean. “Good ideas,” said Jim. “Well, I better be going. I’ll take you there on your birthday.” He rode off feeling that Jean might not be such a bad partner to share his hide-out. She was resourceful and she had imagination. Also, there was still three weeks in which he could enjoy the secret in solitary splendor. Jean watched her brother disappear down the road. She had earned a victory, but three weeks was a long time. She walked back to the house with a very thoughtful look on her determined young face. She had been doing much thinking and observing, and she wasn’t going to stop and wait calmly for her birthday. Jim delivered his blankets to the cave. After gloating over his very respectable pile of provisions, he made himself a pot of coffee. It was a lot of trouble, and he didn’t care too much for coffee, particularly with a lot of grounds, as his somehow always managed to have. Still it was fun. He washed the pot in the stream, scouring it carefully with sand before replacing it in the cave. On his way back home he made a detour to go by the railroad tracks. It was about time for the morning freight to pass by, and he enjoyed watching the long train labor slowly up a hill which was about a mile from the farm. Arriving at a good point of vantage near a stream at the foot of the hill, he dismounted to sit by the roadside. Ticktock grazed contentedly while Jim chewed on a long stem of grass. In a few minutes the train came whistling around the bend at full speed, trying for a head start up the hill. Jim counted the cars as they appeared, his largest total was fifty-seven and he had hoped this freight would break the record, for the engine slowed and began laboring the moment it hit the upgrade. As the sixteenth car appeared around the curve, he forgot about counting. A figure was running along the top of the boxcars toward the engine, looking frantically over his shoulder every few minutes. About ten cars later Jim saw the cause of the excitement. A second man was pursuing the first, but the latter did not seem particularly worried. “Railroad cop,” thought Jim. “He’s trying to catch that hobo.” The first man apparently realized that he didn’t have too far to run before he reached the engine. He stopped in his flight and began clambering down the side of one of the freight cars. The train had slowed considerably now that it was part way up the hill. The man looked down at the ground and then up at the car tops where his pursuer was hidden from view. Then he jumped. The leap occurred almost at the point where the tracks crossed the trestle over the stream. Jim could not tell if the man landed on the ground or in the water. In either case, he must be badly shaken up, for although the train had lost much of its speed it was still traveling at a respectable rate. It was several hundred yards to the trestle, so, deciding that it would be quicker to ride than to walk, Jim dashed for his horse. Unfortunately, Ticktock had strayed up the road looking for choice bunches of clover. By the time Jim had run to his horse, mounted, and then ridden over to the trestle, several minutes had elapsed. Pulling Ticktock to a dust-raising stop that would have done credit to a Western movie, Jim slid to the ground. There was no mangled corpse in sight. He rushed to the edge of the bank bordering the stream and peered down. Still there was nothing to be seen. As there were a number of bushes, weeds and stunted trees on the steep banks, whoever had jumped might be lying unconscious behind some clump. There was nothing to do but make a search. Jim climbed up and down the sloping sides of the stream covering the area where anyone might possibly have fallen. When his efforts turned out to be fruitless, he decided there could be only one other solution. If the man had landed in the stream, there was sufficient water to carry him along to the shallows on the other side of the bridge. Although the water was only a few feet deep, an injured or unconscious man could drown. Working his way downstream under the bridge, Jim reached the shallows about a hundred yards on the other side of the tracks without finding any body. Puzzled, he decided to give up the search. Perhaps he had just imagined someone had jumped. As he was slowly making his way back, he heard the sound of rapid hoofbeats. Panic-stricken, he rushed as fast as he could along the slanting banks. He clambered to the top and looked around for Ticktock. The mustang was gone. He looked up the road and there disappearing in the distance was his beloved horse. Hunched over the pony’s back, urging him to greater speed, was the figure of a man. “Come back, you dirty horse thief!” screamed Jim at the top of his lungs, with rage and panic in his voice. He continued to shout uselessly as the figure of the horse and rider grew smaller in the distance. Finally a curve in the road hid them from view. Heartbroken, Jim sat down by the side of the road. He buried his face in his hands and his body shook with sobs. It was a disaster much worse than any he could possibly have imagined. His beloved mustang had been stolen. He sat by the roadside for a long time before he looked up. The cheery sunshine of a few minutes earlier had suddenly become hard and bitter. The bright world had turned ugly, drab and cruel. Finally he got to his feet and started plodding dejectedly down the road. It was a long desolate walk. Each step seemed to take him farther from Ticktock. His parents saw him when he finally came forlornly up the lane. With his slow pace and sorrowful face, he was a heartbreaking sight. “What’s the matter, Jimmy?” asked his mother, running to meet him. “Someone stole Ticktock,” he said with a quavering voice. “Stole Ticktock?” asked Mr. Meadows incredulously. “How did it happen?” “I saw a man jump off a freight,” said Jim slowly. “I thought maybe he was hurt. While I was hunting for him, he stole Ticktock. He must have been hiding behind some bush.” “Why the dirty rat,” said Mr. Meadows, his rage mounting as he listened to the details. While he had threatened to get rid of the horse a few months earlier, now the idea that anyone would steal his son’s mustang made him furious. “I’m going in to call the sheriff. That horse is so well known the thief won’t be able to get far. We’ll get Ticktock back, Jim.” Two days went by, and they didn’t get Ticktock back. The sheriff passed the alarm to surrounding towns, while the Springdale Gazette carried big headlines warning everyone to be on the lookout. It forgot its usual joking tone about Jim and his horse and seriously asked everyone to cooperate in the search. Bill Arnold even had a front-page editorial on the subject. Jim sat at the telephone waiting for news, but there was no joyous message. He was grief-stricken and refused to be consoled. “Don’t feel so bad,” said Mrs. Meadows comfortingly. “You have money enough to buy another horse.” “I don’t want another horse. I want Ticktock,” said Jim. While he was deep in misery, Jim did not lose hope. Somehow he felt that Ticktock would escape from the thief and return. He was confident that no matter how far the mustang might be ridden he would discover the way back home. The third day following the theft was Saturday. The family tried to persuade Jim to go to town to take his mind off his loss, but he was firm in insisting on staying home. A message was sent to Colonel Flesher that he would not be in for work for the sale. Ticktock might possibly return, Jim felt, and he wanted to be home to greet him. Jim sat sadly on the front porch after the family left for town, looking up and down the road hoping to see the mustang. Three days was a long time. A man could ride a horse a great distance in that length of time. Still Jim kept gazing at the road hopefully. Suddenly he jumped up and rubbed his eyes. He had been searching so long that he thought he was now dreaming. He looked again and still saw the same wonderful sight. Ticktock was jogging contentedly down the road toward home. Jim ran to the gate to meet his horse. He threw his arms around the pony’s neck and hugged him through sheer joy. “You came back, boy, you came back!” he cried happily. Ticktock closed one eye and winked. He wasn’t a demonstrative horse. As Jim started to lead his prodigal pony into the yard, he noticed for the first time that Ticktock wore no bridle. “So you had to slip your bridle to get away,” he said. “Well, you did a good job. We’ll get another old bridle. I’ll bet you’re tired and hungry. You must have come a long way; so I’ll take the saddle off and let you rest.” When the saddle was removed, there was very little perspiration beneath the blanket. The hair was scarcely ruffled. Jim stood back and looked at Ticktock in puzzlement. “You don’t look as if you had come so far,” he observed. “In fact, you look as if you had just been groomed.” He opened one of the saddlebags. He usually carried a curry comb and brush with him so that he could use them in odd moments. The implements were still there, but it was hard to tell if they had been used. Whatever the thief had used, Ticktock had obviously been groomed only a short time before. The pony didn’t look tired either, but acted quite fresh and frisky. Noticing that the other saddlebag bulged suspiciously, Jim opened it. There, folded neatly, was the missing bridle. “Now why would anyone fold up a bridle and put it in the saddlebag?” asked Jim. Ticktock didn’t answer but just nuzzled his master contentedly. “If someone wasn’t going to ride you for a while,” said Jim musingly to his pony, “he would take off your saddle as well as your bridle. If he was going to ride you in a few minutes, he either wouldn’t take off the bridle at all or at most hang it on a tree limb or the saddle horn. But that bridle was carefully put away in the saddlebag. There’s something fishy here. I don’t believe that thief is so far from here.” The more Jim thought about the matter, the more puzzled he became. But no matter what the solution, he was very angry with whoever had stolen his horse. According to all the books he had read and movies he had seen, a horse thief was considered three degrees lower than a murderer. Jim agreed with the Western idea. Turning over such thoughts in his mind, he finally came to a decision. He saddled Ticktock, put on the bridle and then went into the house. He opened the closet to his father’s room and carefully got out a twenty-two rifle. He had been forbidden to touch his father’s firearms, but he felt this case was different. There was a heavy deer gun in the closet too, but that looked too forbidding. He found five twenty-two long shells in his father’s bureau, which he carefully stuck in his pocket. It was a single shot rifle, and he knew how to load it. Going back downstairs, he found a pencil and paper and wrote a short note that he left lying on the kitchen table.
Very grim-faced, Jim mounted and rode off in the direction from which Ticktock had come. He had no idea where he was going to hunt for the thief, but to hunt anywhere was a form of action. He jogged along, so overjoyed to be back on his horse once more that he paid little attention to where the pony was heading. Suddenly he realized that he was entering Briggs Wood. At the proper point Ticktock turned off the road toward the hideaway. “Well, we might as well go there as anywhere else,” said Jim cheerfully. He really didn’t have much hope of locating the thief anyhow. At the clearing, Jim dismounted to stretch his legs. He sat down contentedly on a big rock by his fireplace. “Well, here we are, back together again at the old hangout, Ticktock,” he observed happily to the pony. He tossed a rock into the ashes of the fireplace. Nothing could keep him and his mustang down. Then he noticed that the disturbed ashes were smoking slightly. Alarmed, he poked in the fireplace with a stick. There was no doubt that a fire had been built there recently. Clutching his gun, he looked around at the trees. “Someone has been here in our hide-out,” he confided softly to Ticktock. The pony was not grazing as usual but looking around inquiringly. Frowning fiercely, Jim tried to feel as brave as he looked. Cautiously he peered inside the brush hut. It was empty; so he began to make a slow circuit of the clearing, staying well back in the trees. He was approaching the lower end near the stream, trying to move silently over the rocky ground when he stumbled over something projecting from a low bush. He spun around with his rifle ready, completely forgetting that he had never loaded the gun. There was a stir in the bush and then a man’s face peered out. Two sleep-clouded eyes looked at Jim and his rifle. The eyes opened wide and lost their sleepiness. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! I give up,” said a frightened voice. |
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