Osceola stepped forward. “Sorry I spoke abruptly, Mr. Davis. I must apologize—”
“Don’t mention it, my boy,” Mr. Davis cut in. “No hard feelings—I understand your anxiety. Run along now and I’ll take care of the police when they arrive.”
The boys hurried off down the rutty road toward Route 136. Half a mile along the highway they came to a bridge across a bubbling stream. Above the road on their left the ruins of the mill pointed broken rafters toward a cloudless sky. On the water side, bearded by the spray from the falls, was the ancient wheel that indicated the industry of bygone days, when the farmers brought their grain to be ground.
“There’s the trail!” Osceola pointed to an overgrown path that led up the mountainside just beyond the mill, and with Bill at his heels, he darted up and under the overhanging arch of trees.
The beauty of the deep gorge, the milky water churning down the steep background of jet black rocks and green ferns, the series of waterfalls, blown in the breeze like filmy veils,—all were lost upon Bill and Osceola. With the thought of pretty Deborah a prisoner in the hands of ruffians, they concentrated upon two things only: to reach the house beyond the falls as quickly as possible, and to do so without attracting attention of watchers who might be on the lookout.
Osceola stopped shortly before they reached the top, and motioning caution, darted into the woods away from the stream. Then he paralleled the path upwards again for a hundred yards or so with Bill directly behind him. All at once, he dropped to the ground, Bill followed suit, and the two crawled over to a fallen log and peered over it.
Slightly ahead, and perhaps fifty yards to their left, was the lake Mr. Davis had described, sending its overflow down the gulley in a silver sheet of sparkling water. Between them and the waterfall, the path was bisected by a high gate in a fence of heavy wire mesh, whose top was at least ten feet above the ground. This ran in both directions, blocking intrusion along the mountain top. They could see that it ran even along the dam at the mouth of the lake, while on their side of the path it disappeared in the thick growth of bushes and trees.
But their whole interest was centered upon the man who lay flat on the ground behind the gate. They could see him plainly. He was watching the path, hidden from it by a tree trunk, and at his side lay a long-barrelled rifle.
“Deborah,” said Osceola in his normal tones, for the noise of the falls was almost deafening, “is over in that house behind the lake. I’d stake my life on it. Shall I pot this guy?”
Bill shook his head. “Better not—they might hear the shot at the house, you know. The buzzard deserves death, if he’s a kidnapper, and I suppose he is—but we’ll let the police settle with him.”