A day or two later, Allan fancied he saw something which proved the truth of Jack’s theory. It was one morning as he was returning from his regular trip that he reached the embankment along the river and glanced over at the willows on the farther side, as he always did when he passed the place, for it was there that he and Jack had first seen Reddy in Nolan’s company. His heart gave a leap as he saw two men there. He stopped and looked at them, but the early morning mist rising from the river hid them so that he could discern nothing beyond the mere outline of their forms. He stared long and earnestly, until they passed behind the clump of willows and disappeared from sight. Something told him that it was Reddy and Nolan again, but he could not be sure, and at last he went slowly on his way. Perhaps they had a place of concealment somewhere in the woods that stretched eastward from the river-bank.
He mentioned his suspicion to Jack, as soon as he reached home, and the latter was all on fire in a minute.
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” he said. “Next Sunday we’ll take a walk through th’ woods over there, an’ it’s jest possible we’ll run on to ’em. Mebbe we kin save Reddy from that rascal yet!”
So, bright and early the next Sunday morning, they started out, taking with them a lunch, for they did not expect to return until evening. They crossed the river by the bridge which they had used on the night when they had tried to capture Nolan, and struck at once into the woods.
“It’s like huntin’ a needle in a haystack,” said Jack, “but my idea is that they’ve got a hut somewheres back in th’ hollers behind this first range o’ hills. They’s mighty few houses back there,—nothin’ but woods. So mebbe we’ll run on to ’em, if we have good luck.”
They scrambled up the first low range of hills which looked down upon the broad river, and paused for a moment on the summit for a look about them. Beyond the river lay the level valley which, twelve decades before, had been one of the favourite dwelling-places of the red man. The woods abounded with game of every sort, and the river with fish, while in the fertile bottom his corn would grow to ripe luxuriance with little cultivation. More than one fierce battle for the possession of this smiling valley had been fought with the hardy bands of pioneers, who had pushed their way up from the Ohio, but at last the advancing tide of civilization swept the Indian aside, and the modern town of Wadsworth began to rise where formerly there had been no building more substantial than the hide wigwam.
Jack and Allan could see the town nestling among its trees in the wide valley, but, when they turned about, a different view met them. To the eastward were no plains, no bottoms, no city, but, far as the eye could see, one hill rose behind another, all of them heavily wooded to the very summit, so steep and with a soil so gravelly that no one had ever attempted to cultivate them. Nor did any one dwell among them, save a few poverty-stricken families, who lived in summer by picking blackberries and in winter by digging sassafras-root,—a class of people so shiftless and mean and dirty that no respectable farmer would permit them on his place.
It was the rude cabin of one of these families which Jack and Allan saw in the valley before them, and they determined to descend to it and make inquiries. There was a rough path leading downwards through the woods, and this they followed until they came to the edge of the little clearing which surrounded the house. They went forward to the door and knocked, but there was no response, and, after a moment, Jack pushed the door open cautiously and looked inside. As he did so, a shot rang out behind him, and Allan felt a sudden sting of pain across his cheek as a bullet sang past and embedded itself in the jamb of the door.
“What’s that?” cried Jack, springing around, and then he saw Allan wiping the blood from his cheek. “What is it, lad?” he asked, his face paling. “You’re not hurted?”
“Only a scratch,” said Allan, smiling. “Just took a little of the skin off.”