Scott Burton in the Blue Ridge

by Edward G. Cheyney

These things did not worry Hopwood. A warning of the marshal’s approach would not do any harm. He had expected that. But when he saw two of the younger children scamper off on the trails which led to the cabins of other members of the family, and saw Foster run hurriedly to the barn to get his white horse, he began to get excited.

If this were Sewall, he would know that he was assembling the clan to resist the marshal. But he knew that they would not protect Foster, and Foster knew it himself.

“There is only one way,” Hopwood thought, “that Foster could get the support of the others, and that would be to start a fight with the Morgans.” If that were the plan he did not have much time to do it. No wonder he was in a hurry, with the marshal probably already on his way over the mountain.

So firmly did this idea take hold of Hopwood that he could stand it no longer. Foster galloped away furiously in the direction of the village, and Hopwood, breaking cover like a rabbit, darted across the road and straight through the woods on a bee line for the opposite mountain.

A little farther down he came into a trail and ducked out of it again just in time to miss another Wait who was hurrying toward the village. As soon as the rider was out of sight he broke into the trail again and ran panting on his way.

He crossed the railroad track below the village and ran gasping up the steep slope with his eyes glued on a little clearing far up on the mountainside. Every instant he dreaded that he would see Foster’s white horse flash across that clearing. Would he be in time?

It was this thought that drove him on and urged him to almost superhuman efforts, while every breath he drew tore at his lungs like a rusty knife. Stumbling like a drunken man he tottered out into the road in front of Jarred’s cabin.

The white horse was nowhere in sight. He had won the race. No matter how fast they came now Jarred would have his warning. He did not have the breath to shout at the gate. He ran across the yard and into the cabin without ceremony.

The minutes dragged slowly by and Hopwood did not come out. An unnatural silence seemed to surround the place. Not a single bird note broke the weird stillness, and even the little brook which usually tinkled so musically over the stones by the house seemed to be gliding softly now. Only the ticking of the old cuckoo clock within the cabin boomed out like the blows of a hammer.

The slow minutes passed: ten, fifteen, twenty, and Hopwood came slowly out. He looked weary and disheartened. Even the sound of a rifle shot from the valley below did not arouse him. He stood with his arms folded on top of the fence and looked listlessly across at the opposite mountain. There was another shot fired in the valley and a scattering volley answered it, but he did not seem to hear them.