The gray light of early morning crept into Shelter No. 6 through the open shutters. It brought to view two forms rolled in blankets, sleeping soundly before the dying embers of last night’s woodfire. In the back room, Dorothy was curled up on the fragrant bed of evergreens, deep in a dreamless slumber. The storm of the evening was gone, leaving in its place a fine, steady drizzle. The air was chill and damp. It bade fair to be another unpleasant day.

The hands of a battered alarm clock that stood on the chimney shelf marked quarter to eight, but the sleepers were motionless. Then suddenly Uncle Abe sat up and knuckled the sleep from his eyes.

“Lordy, Lordy!” he grumbled, catching sight of the clock. “Dose chillun wuz ter git ’way early an’ dis hye’r nigger sleepin’ lak de daid. I speck de young Missy an’ Marse Bill need der sleep—an’ we’ll fool Marse Joyce jus’ de same.”

He got stiffly to his feet, stretched his ancient arms above his head and set about building up the fire.

Presently Bill opened his eyes and yawned. Then he threw off his blanket, sat up and sniffed.

“Bacon—eggs—coffee,” he murmured. “Good morning, Uncle, you sure are an A1. up to the minute chef!”

Hovering over a sizzling frying pan, the old man turned his head and smiled at Bill.

“Mornin’, Marse Bill. Yaas, suh, I ’low dat eatin’ brekfus’ an’ gettin’ it, too, is de bes’ fashion what is.”

“You said it,” grinned Bill. “Say, I guess we all overslept! Well, no use crossing our bridges ’til we come to ’em. Any place in this hotel where I can wash and slick up a bit, Uncle?”

“Sho’ is, suh. De soap an’ de towel an’ de bucket an’ de basin is over yonder by de do’. When yo’alls done wid dem, p’raps yo’ll wake de young missy, an’ carry de bucket in yonder?”

“Sure will,” returned Bill, “but I’ll wake her up first.”

He went to the door in the partition and banged his fist on the panels.

“First call for breakfast in the dining car ahead—”

“Ummm—” responded a sleepy voice from the back room.

“Time to get up, Dorothy. Hop to it, kid!”

“I’m awake!” called back that young lady.

“O.K. When you’re ready, there’ll be a pail of water outside your door.”

“Thanks. Be with you in a jiffy.”

Bill crossed the room, sloshed water into the tin basin and carried the pail back. While he was immersed in his morning ablutions Dorothy’s door opened and her hand withdrew the pail.

Bill had no more than taken a seat at the table, when she put in her appearance. Dressed in the overalls, flannel shirt and heavy wool socks of the night before, she looked particularly bright and cheerful.

“Morning, everybody!” she smiled. “That bed of yours, Uncle Abe, is the most comfortable one I ever slept on. Too bad I had to turn you out of it.”

“Reckon neither Marse Bill ner me knowed what we wuz a-sleepin’ on, Missy. I sho’ wuz daid ter ebbryt’ing all night long. De flo’ ain’t discomfertubble, when yo’ knows how ter lay on it.”

“I’m kind of stiff,” admitted Bill. “But I feel fifty million per cent better. Bet I never moved from the time I turned in until the smell of breakfast woke me up.”

“My!” exclaimed Dorothy, peeking into the frying pan. “Where did all these swell eggs come from, Uncle?”

The old darky chuckled.

“Dat’s one o’ de two things a white pusson mus’nt never ask no color’d pusson, Missy.”

“And what’s the other?” Dorothy inquired with twinkling eyes.

“Where a nigger gits his chickens.”

All three of them laughed this time and sat down to breakfast.

During the meal there was little conversation. Both Dorothy and Bill were frankly hungry and each was silently puzzling a way out of their predicament. Uncle Abe, always affable, nevertheless, rarely if ever volunteered advice unless called upon. In his mind, to do otherwise would have been a breach of good manners.

Bill drained his second cup of coffee and met Dorothy’s look.

“Got any ideas?” he asked her.

She shook her head and pushed her chair back from the table. “No, I haven’t,” she confessed gravely. “But if I’m any judge of bad character, Mr. John J. Joyce will keep his promise. Too bad we slept so long.”

“Maybe,” said Bill. “But without that good rest, we’d have been dead ones today. The tough part of it is that Joyce’s men will be posted at all the reservation entrances now—”

“And on the trails around this shelter.”

“Very likely. If we could ditch those guys and hike over to a road, we might get a lift out in somebody’s car. Lots of people drive in here on Sundays.”

“Not in weather like this, Bill. No, even if we did persuade someone to give us a lift, we’d be soon seen and stopped.”

Bill suddenly brought his fist down upon the table.

“We’re a pair of idiots,” he declared. “Joyce’s men won’t stop us. They’ll be looking for Stoker Conway and a girl. Keep those clothes on you’re wearing, and with my old hat, all they’ll see is a couple of fellows on a tramp. Nobody’d take me for George Conway. Why, we’ve got nothing to worry about!”

“That’s where I differ with you. We most certainly have plenty to worry us.”

“But how come, Dorothy?”

“How do we know that friend Joyce hasn’t got hold of Stoker and possibly Terry, too?”

“Then—if he has, he won’t want us.”

“Oh, yes, he will. You can bet your boots, Mr. Joyce isn’t letting anyone go whom he may think was mixed up in last night’s affair.”

Bill looked surprised. “But Joyce can’t go on kidnapping people,” he argued. “Or rather he can’t keep on trying to kidnap the whole bunch who were in Stoker’s house last night, and then hold them indefinitely. Even if he caught us all, he couldn’t hold us long.”

“Long enough to get what he thinks Stoker has got—and make his getaway, if necessary. At least that’s how I figure it. If he catches any of us we’re not likely to come in personal contact with him. He’s too smart to give himself away like that.”

“Possibly you’re right. But if he did catch any of us, he’d soon find out that Stoker and the rest of the bunch know less about this mysterious something he’s after than he does himself!”

Dorothy smiled. “Rather involved, but I think I fathom your meaning. You seem to forget, Bill, that when Betty and I butted into this thing up at the Conway house, a couple of strong-arm men were starting to heat a poker. I don’t think Mr. Joyce’s hospitality will prove a pleasant experience if we are caught by him or his men.”

“Well, we’ve got to get off this reservation—how are we going to do it?”

“Blest if I know,” she admitted candidly. “But we’ve just got to find a way. And look here, Bill—I know you think I’m all steamed up over a trifle—but I honestly believe that whatever Joyce is trying to steal from Stoker is so enormously valuable that he’s determined to risk pretty nearly everything short of murder to gain possession of it!”

“I wouldn’t put murder past him, either,” said Bill.

“His actions prove he’s in deadly earnest,” Dorothy went on, and then turned to Ol’ Man River, who was peacefully puffing his pipe. “You’ve heard what we were saying, Uncle Abe. Have you any suggestions to give us?”

That ancient colored gentleman removed the corncob from between his teeth and pursed his lips. “Waal, yaas, m’am. I reckon Marse Johnson is de answer to yo’ question,” he said thoughtfully.

“Oh, he’s the reservation superintendent—you’re right, Uncle Abe—he can do it if anyone can. Why didn’t we think of him before?”

“Dat am so, Missy. Der ain’t a-gwine nobody ter stop yo’all long wid Marse Johnson.”

“That’s a great idea, Uncle,” applauded Bill. “The super’s house is right across the reservation from here, if I recall rightly?”

“Yaas, suh, it am. Right down yonder where de Boutonville road come out far side ob de reservation t’ard Cross River.”

“Think you could pilot us down there and give those guys in the woods the miss?”

“I speck dese men ain’t gwine ter git familious wid us if yo’ foller Ol’ Man River. I’se boun’ we-all sho’ give ’em de bestes’ game er hide an’ seek dey ez ever had. It ain’t a-gwine be easy, Marse Bill. But I’ll git yo’all down yonder and den you kin carry de young Missy home in a kyar. Marse Johnson, he’s got three automerbiles.”

“I hope it’ll be as easy as you say,” grinned Bill, amused by the old man’s earnestness. “I’ll make a bundle of Miss Dorothy’s clothes and then the best thing we can do is to get started.”

“I’se got a pair er sneakers dat you kin wear, Missy,” Uncle Abe announced. “Dey ain’t no count nohow, but dey’s got sol’s an’ dat sho’ am better dan walkin’ in dose socks.”

“Thanks a lot, Uncle, you’re such a grand help to us—” She smiled at the old man and he fairly beamed. “I’ll love wearing them. But first of all, we’ll heat some water and wash dishes. Don’t look so annoyed, Bill. We’ve got plenty of time, now, and there’s nothing more slovenly than letting the dishes go after a meal. We did it because we had to last night, but I intend to leave Uncle Abe’s cabin just as spick and span as we found it. You fetch some water and heat it while Uncle Abe scrapes the plates. In the meantime I’ll straighten up the back room and sweep out the house.”

Dorothy was as good as her word. By the time the dish water was hot, her bed had been made, the cabin swept and generally put to rights. Then she brought out the dishpan and washed both the supper and breakfast dishes while Bill and Uncle Abe dried them.

“Some swell housekeeper,” said Bill to Uncle Abe with a grimace, “and she knows how to make the men folks work, too!”

“An’ dat am ez it should be,” declared the old darky solemnly. “De Good Book say, ‘what am food fo’ de goose am good eatin’ fo’ de gander’....”

“I don’t know whether that’s a compliment, or not, Uncle,” laughed Dorothy. “But you see, it didn’t take long, and I feel better knowing everything’s clean.”

“Is your ladyship ready to go now?” asked Bill.

“Quite ready—thank you so much.”

“Then let’s shove off. What you said about Stoker and Terry a while ago has got me worried, I must admit. I want to get to a telephone just as soon as possible.”

Uncle Abe left the cabin first. After scouting about in the cold drizzle for a few minutes, he came back and declared that the way was clear.

“I gen’rally goes ’long Overlook Trail an’ down de Cross River Road ter git er Marse Johnson’s house,” explained the old man, once they were outside the cabin.

“But dis mornin’ we ain’t gwine dat-away—t’aint safe. Yo’ all stick close behin’ Ol’ Man River, an’ sing out ef he’s a-travelin’ too fast. Dis ain’t no easy trail we’se takin’.”

He struck directly into the woods and for the next hour Dorothy never even sighted a path. She soon found out that when Uncle Abe described this as ‘no easy trail,’ he was telling the unvarnished truth. Dorothy was no Alice-sit-by-the-fire. She had been on some stiff hikes before this, but the ancient negro led them up hill and down dale, through the tangled undergrowth or virgin forest dripping wet with rain. And he led them through this wilderness of trees and rocks at a perfectly amazing rate of speed. Until Dorothy caught her second wind, she was hard put to keep up.

If Joyce had men out, they never saw them. In fact, except for an occasional bird or small forest animal scuttling away in their advance, they neither saw nor heard any living thing. Eventually they climbed the steep side of a wooded ridge and stopped.

Below them, through the trees Dorothy made out woodland meadows, stretching down to a road which ran along their side of the valley. Lower down and paralleling the highway, a winding river ran down the vale. Lying in broad fields near the river to their left was a large farm house and barns.

“Cross River Road, Cross River, and Marse Johnson’s house,” announced Uncle Abe, using a hand and forearm for a pointer. “Dat highway yonder what runs inter de Cross River Road near de house ez de Honey Holler Road. Right dar am de Cross River entrance, an’ right dar ez ’zackly de place whar ol’ man Joyce’s gang am hangin’ out.”

“It’s going to be a job to get down there without being seen,” remarked Bill.

“Der ain’t nobody gwine ter see us,” protested the old darky, “kaze soon ex we git ter der open, you an’ me an’ Missy am gwine ter ben’ down low an’ hug de far side er de stone fences. But we’alls stayed hyar confabbin’ long ’nuf. Got ter git goin’ ag’in.”

He moved off down the slope, the others following. By dint of doing exactly as he advised, fifteen minutes later found them ringing Mr. Johnson’s doorbell.

“Dese young people am fren’s er mine, Miz Johnson,” Uncle Abe told the motherly person who opened the door.

“Step right in,” she invited with a smile. “Lands sakes, you’re drippin’ wet. Come in by the kitchen range and get dried out. You must be perishin’—”

“Thanks. May I use your telephone?” inquired Bill as he spied a wall instrument in the hall.

“Of course you can,” beamed Mrs. Johnson. “There’s a book on the table there.”

“Thank you, I know the number.”

“Going to call up Stoker?” asked Dorothy in a low tone.

“Yes. You and Uncle Abe go into the kitchen and get warm. I’ll be with you in a minute or two.”

But it was not until a good five minutes later that Bill put in his appearance.

“Everything all right?” demanded Dorothy from her seat on a kitchen chair close to the coal range.

“I’m afraid not,” Bill looked worried. “They don’t answer the phone.”