“Take dose clo’es by de fire yonder,” directed the sharp-eared old man, “an’ go in de back room an’ shin up de wall shelves to dese fo’-by fo’s oveh our heads. Tote de clo’es ’long wid yo’ an’ lay flat on dem boards. ’Times I trap somefin’ out er season—dis niggeh’s got ter eat—dat dere’s mah hidin’ place. Nobody can’t see yo’all, nobody can’t fin’ yo’ dere!”

While he talked and the others snatched their half dried things from before the fire, the old darky was clearing the table of dishes. He flung the remains of the meal onto the blazing logs and scooping up the cups and plates, stacked them, dirty as they were, on a shelf.

Dorothy and Bill ran into the back room and scrambled up to the crossbeams. As they crawled along the boards which were laid close together in threes, they saw Uncle Abe light an ancient corncob, then pick up a tattered newspaper and sit down by the fire. No more had they laid themselves flat on their airy perch with their bundles of damp clothing, than there came a pounding on the cabin door.

“Who dat?” called out Ol’ Man River without moving from his chair.

“Open up, do you hear, River? I want to speak to you,” barked a voice from out the night.

“Yaas, suh—comin’!”

Peering through the cracks between the boards, his guests saw him rise slowly and shuffle to the door. Stretched out over the little bed chamber, with their heads close to the partition, they had an unobstructed view of the lighted room beyond. As the boards were laid over the middle of both rooms and ran nearly the length of the cabin, they realized with satisfaction that unless someone stood close to the side wall, it would be impossible to spy them out. Uncle Abe’s oil lamp sent its gleams but a few feet, and the rest of the room and the crossbeams lay in deep shadow which was an added protection to the hidden two.

Ol’ Man River drew the bolt and swung open the door.

“Walk right in, Marse Joyce,” they heard him say. And without waiting for a reply, he hobbled painfully back to his chair before the hearth.

Three men stamped into the cabin and banged the door shut on the storm.

“You’re keeping late hours, River,” the leader of the party snapped out without preamble.

From the tones of his voice, Dorothy and Bill knew him to be the same man who had spoken to them in the valley meadow, and who Bill had downed with the gasoline tin. He was a short, stocky person with a bulldog face and a scrubby toothbrush moustache. He and his companions looked tired and angry. They were also very wet.

The speaker walked over to the fire, leaving a track of little pools across the floor. Putting his hands over the blaze, he scowled down at Uncle Abe.

“Well,” he contended disagreeably, “I said you were up late. Answer me, can’t you?”

“So yo’ say, Marse Joyce. So yo’ say.”

Uncle Abe continued to gaze unconcernedly into the fire as though he had no idea the heavy set man was becoming angrier by the minute.

“You black whelp!” he thundered, “What do you mean by bandying words with me?”

Uncle Abe remained silent.

“Are you deaf?” cried Joyce. “Tell me what you’re sitting up for!”

“I’se takin’ a warm, suh.”

“Taking a—warm?”

“Yaas, suh. I’se a mis’ry in der feet—rhumytizzem. Can’t sleep nohow. So I sets an’ reads de paper by de fire—an’ takes a warm.”

“Oh, you do, do you?”

“Yaas, suh, I sho’ do.”

“Don’t answer me back that way, do you hear?”

The old darky continued to puff calmly on his corncob.

Mr. Joyce thrust his hands in his pockets and glowered at him. His companions stood silently by, watching Uncle Abe.

“Where are your visitors?” he asked suddenly.

Bill released the safety-catch on his automatic.

Uncle Abe puffed steadily on his pipe, but said nothing.

“Answer me! Where are they?” snarled John J. Joyce.

“Yaas, suh!” The old darky removed the corncob from his mouth and looked up at his late employer.

“Well, why don’t you speak?”

“Kase yo’ done tell me not ter answer a while back.”

“I tell you to answer me now.” Mr. Joyce glared threateningly into his face. “Are you just stubborn, or in your dotage? Where are your visitors?”

The old man spat with great precision on to a glowing cinder. “Dey right hyar, Marse Joyce,” he said.

“Right here? Where?”

“Hyar in dis room, suh. All three o’ yo’.”

“Say, are you crazy, or am I?” Joyce flung at him.

“No, suh, I ain’ crazy,” returned the old man, and Joyce’s companions broke into a roar of laughter at this none too subtle gibe.

John J. Joyce turned on them furiously.

“Shut up, you two! Go into that back room and pull them out!”

Still guffawing, the men disappeared through the doorway in the partition.

“Nobody in here!” a voice sang out after a moment.

Joyce looked bewildered. Then he picked up the lamp, walked to the open door and looked into the room.

“Yank that bed apart!” he ordered.

The two lying on the boards above his head heard the men dragging the evergreen boughs off the couch. Joyce said not a word when their search was ended, but turned on his heel and returned to the front room, followed by his henchmen.

“Didn’t think yo’d fin’ nobody,” remarked Uncle Abe mildly, “If yo’ had, I’d sho’ bin supprised!”

“So you’d been surprised, eh?”

John J. Joyce had an unpleasant way of repeating words. Now he stood over the old man belligerently.

“Yaas, suh,” replied Uncle Abe with an unconcern he probably did not feel. “I could o’ tol’ yo’ dat dey’s nobody in dere. Who yo’all a-lookin’ fo’?”

“What business is that of yours?”

The old man remained silent.

“If you must know,” snarled Joyce, “we’re looking for a young fellow and a girl.”

“What dey doin’ uphyar in de woods at dis time o’ night?”

“Tryin’ to get away from us, I guess,” said one of the men.

“You keep your trap shut, Featherstone,” barked Joyce. “I’m not paying you to talk. This is my show, not yours.”

“Well, if you talk that way, you can run it by yourself. I’m not your slave. Keep a civil tongue in your head, Joyce—or I’ll go back to the car—and go right now.”

“That goes with me, too,” broke in the second man gruffly. “What d’you take us for—a pair of fools? I wasn’t hired to do a marathon the length and breadth of the forest on a soakin’ wet night. Those kids ain’t here—let’s go!”

“Oh, is that so? Well now you’ve had your say, and you’ll go—when I get good and ready,” sneered Joyce in his disagreeable, domineering voice.

“But what’s the use of hangin’ round?” argued the first man. “I’m tired and I’m hungry and I’m soaked to the skin—”

“And if I say the word to certain parties, the two of you will be taking a longer journey,” snapped their employer, “—a little trip up the river that ends in a chair—a red hot one. Shut up, both of you.”

He turned to Uncle Abe again. “Come, River—out with it,” he commanded. “Where have that boy and girl gone to?”

“How should I know?” Uncle Abe knocked his pipe out on the hearth. “What fo’ yo’all chasin’ dese hyar chillun in de woods?”

“That’s my business. There are fresh tracks leading along the trail right up to your door.”

“Dat may be, suh. Day may be. I ain’t sayin’ dey isn’t, Marse Joyce.” He wagged his head solemnly. “I wuz out myse’f e’rlier in de evenin’.”

“Huh! You wouldn’t leave two sets of tracks!”

“Yaas, suh, Marse Joyce—goin’ an’ comin’.”

Dorothy, from her perch above, smiled at the old darky’s astuteness. Their tracks were on the trail, of course, for those who followed to read; but the rain had long ago blurred the outlines. Their pursuers could not know in which direction the footprints led.

“So you think it was your tracks we followed?”

John J. Joyce continued to speak in the harsh, bullying tone that made Dorothy want to kick him. She realized, nevertheless, that the old darky’s last statement was proving a serious facer to his inquisitor.

“I ain’t a-gwine ter say jes’ dat,” returned Uncle Abe. “All I knows is dat I made tracks on de trail. If dey’s more’n two pair, dey ain’t mine.”

“What trails were you on?” came the sudden question, and Dorothy tingled with excitement as Uncle Abe hesitated.

“Lemme see, suh—why, I wuz down de Spy Rock Trail, an’ de Cross Trail. And den I wuz ’long de Overlook and de Raven Rock Trails—”

“A nice long walk you had on a wet night,” sneered the white man.

Uncle Abe was imperturbable. “Yaas, suh.”

“I don’t believe a word of it.”

“Dat yo’ priv-lige, Marse Joyce.”

“Well, it doesn’t sound likely to me, especially when you say you’ve rheumatism in your feet.”

“I’se gotter eat, suh.”

“What’s that got to do with it? There are no stores on these trails. What do you pretend you were doing, anyway?”

Ol’ Man River chuckled gently. “Baitin’ traps.”

“Catch anything?” Joyce sneered. “I don’t suppose you did.”

“Den you’s a mighty bad ’sposer, suh. Kaze I done cotch dat der rabbit yonder!”

Following the direction of his pointed finger, Dorothy saw for the first time that a large jackrabbit hung from a crossbeam in a corner.

“It’s no go, Joyce,” broke in one of the henchmen. “This nigger doesn’t know where those kids are. Let’s beat it.”

Joyce, who had unbuttoned his coat, fastened it up again.

“For once you’re right,” he admitted truculently. “It’s time we got back to the car. That pair have holed in for the night somewhere else. We’ll watch the reservation entrances in the morning.”

“Good night, suh, and a pleasant walk!”

Dorothy had hard work to repress her laughter. She loved this spunky old negro.

Joyce turned angrily upon him. “You keep a civil tongue in your face, River!” he menaced. “In the first place, this is a state preserve, and poaching is severely punished; and secondly, you have no right to be squatting in this shelter, I—”

“Pick on someone your size, Joyce,” advised the man who had spoken before. “This old nigger ain’t doin’ you nor anyone else any harm. Leave him alone.”

“It’s two to one, Joyce. Come on!” said the other.

For a moment Dorothy thought there would be a row. Joyce looked as though he would burst with rage. But evidently thinking better of it, he turned his back to the fire and strode over to the door. Without another word, he opened it and disappeared into the black night.

He was followed immediately by the two men. The one who had spoken for Abe swung round in the doorway.

“I know you’re a good hearted old liar, Uncle,” he whispered. “And if you think a minute you’ll know why I know it! Don’t blame you. Joyce has a nasty temper and no matter where those kids are, we’ll round ’em up in the morning, anyway. Good night!”

“’Night,” returned Ol’ Man River. “Pleasant walk, suh!”

“Yep. The joke’s on us,” grinned the other and shut the door behind him.

Bill and Dorothy were about to move from their cramped positions when they saw the old man raise a finger to his lips in warning as apparently he studied the glowing embers of the fire.

The door suddenly opened and the same man stuck his head in.

“You’re a sly old fox,” he said. “I know you’ve got those kids hidden somewhere. Maybe they’re listening for all I know, and I can tell you, Uncle, they are getting a rotten deal. Joyce calls me Featherstone. Here’s my card. Give it to them. G’d-night.”

A bit of white pasteboard fluttered to the floor as the door slammed.

Uncle Abe got stiffly off his chair, shuffled over to the door and sent the bolt home. Then he picked up the card.

Bill pushed the pile of damp clothing off the boards, then swung himself down to the floor. Dorothy was beside him as he turned to catch her.

“Uncle Abe,” she said, taking the old man’s hand, “you are kind and you’re good, and you are very, very brave. Bill and I can never properly thank you for all you’ve done for us tonight.”

“Say no mo’ ’bout it,” protested Uncle Abe, when Bill put his hand on his shoulder.

“Look here, Uncle Abe,” he broke in, “you’re one of the grandest guys I know. Some day perhaps we can even up things a bit. You ran a big risk for us, you know.”

The old man smiled and blinked at them for a moment. “Then, yo’all must be sleepy—I sho’ is. You kin take the back room if you will, Missy. Marse Bill an’ me’s gwine ter hit de hay in here.”

“Who was that man, Uncle Abe?” asked Dorothy, stifling a yawn with the palm of her hand. “What did his card say, I mean?”

“Spec’ he’s a deteckative, Missy. De card say ‘Michael Michaels, Private Inquiry Agent’.”

“Evidently he’s got his eye on Joyce,” summed up Bill. “Wonder who he’s working for?”

“What interests me more just now,” said Dorothy, “is how Mister Michael Michaels knew we were hidden here.”

The old man chuckled.

“He’s sho’ ’nuf a smart man, Missy. It wuz de tracks on de trail. He know’d I done never make dem tracks. He know’d dey wan’t nobody else’s but yourn.”

“How come, uncle?” asked Bill.

“Dat jackrabbit a-hangin’ yonder done it, suh.”

“But what’s that rabbit got to do with our tracks?”

“Marse Michaels, he must o’ touched dat bunny. Den he know’d it wan’t never trapped today. Dat bunny’s stiff ez er hick’ry log!”

Dorothy and Bill burst into laughter.

“Bet you were scared silly for fear Joyce might examine it and realize that you hadn’t been out tonight!” said Bill.

“Dat’s right, sho’ nuf, Marse Bill.”

“You know, Mr. Michaels may be a big help to us,” remarked Dorothy, yawning unashamedly in their faces this time. “Well, I just can’t hold my head up any longer. Good night, both of you.”

“Good night,” returned Bill and Uncle Abe in unison.

Dorothy took herself off to the back room and bed.