Into the happy, busy routine of Zeke’s life in New York, Uncle Dick’s telegram came with the crash of catastrophe. It was merely with innocent wondering that he opened the yellow envelope, which a messenger delivered in Sutton’s office on a pleasant summer afternoon. It was the first missive of the sort in Zeke’s experience, yet he felt no slightest chill of apprehension. His mood was too firmly joyous to be easily shaken. He merely wondered, and felt no fear whatever, as he pulled out the sheet of flimsy paper, and unfolded it, while his employer sat looking on curiously, himself already suspicious of trouble. Zeke read the typewritten words through stupidly, under the first shock uncomprehending. Then, he repeated the message aloud, as if challenging its meaning.
“Plutina been stolen,” ran the summons. “Dan Hodges done it. Need help.”
The name of Richard Siddon as the sender in itself told how desperate must be the situation, else Uncle Dick would not have summoned the suitor he had rejected. Zeke stared pitifully at Sutton. His eyes had the pathos of a stricken animal’s. For a little, he seemed dazed by the unexpectedness of this evil. Then, very soon, rage mounted blackly. 194 Sutton, listening, could not repress a shudder before the deadly hate in Zeke’s voice.
“I’ll kill Dan Hodges!” was the promise. The voice was low and even, but it roared in the ears of the listener. There was something terrifying in the stark savagery that showed in the mountaineer’s tones and in the drawn, pallid face.
But, after the one outburst, Zeke maintained an appearance of hypocritical calm. Only in the tremulousness of his voice when he thanked Sutton did he betray the depth of his feeling.
In truth, he had new reason for gratitude in this emergency to the man who already had so befriended him.
“You’ll want to start at once, of course,” Sutton said.
Zeke nodded assent.
“Well, I think I’ll go with you. Perhaps, I might help. It’ll be better for you with somebody along.”