"We're in for a storm!" she exclaimed, dashing toward the door.

They were in for a storm indeed; such a storm as had not been known on Laurel Branch in years. For an hour Marion sat by the doorway watching the play of lightning as it flashed from peak to peak on Big Black Mountain. The deafening peals of thunder, like the roar of gigantic cannons in some endless battle, came rumbling down from the hills to shake the very cabin floor. Through all this one thought was uppermost in Marion's mind, one question repeated itself again and again:

"Where is Florence and little Hallie?"

CHAPTER XI THE GUARD OF THE STONE GATEWAY

At the very moment when Marion was wondering and worrying about her pal, Florence was learning how truly one might trust the providence of G.o.d.

Being cornered, with the grizzled giant before her accusing her of "might nigh killing" little Hallie, and with the beady-eyed individual, whom she feared most of all, blocking the door before her, and with Bud Wax, whom she had always thought of as a member of the enemy's clan, groaning with pain in the corner, she had reached the point of utter distraction when of a sudden the man in the doorway spoke.

He had just been told that little Hallie had returned home, "might nigh killed."

"T'ain't so!" he exclaimed, looking first at the one-armed giant and then at Florence. "Hain't narry a word of truth in what you just been saying, Job Creech. Them thar folks never hurt Hallie. They never teched one hair on her head. They was plumb kind an' gentle with her. I been watchin'. I knowed whar she was. She was so pert and contented hit were a shame to tote her away."

Nothing could have more surprised Florence than this speech; nothing could have more quickly released her pent-up powers and set her brain working on the needs of the moment.

"Hain't n.o.body been totin' Hallie back," grumbled the giant. "This here fureign lady brung her back."

Florence did not hear this speech. She was already bending over the silently sobbing child. After loosening her clothes, she chafed her cold hands and feet until a warm red glow returned to them; then, picking her up, she placed her on the bed and covered her in home woven blankets. In less than a minute Hallie fell into a peaceful sleep.

"She'll be all right when she wakens," Florence smiled rea.s.suringly at the younger woman, who she thought might be the little girl's mother.

"When she wakes up she may even recognize you all. I hope so."

The woman stared at her as if she had spoken to them in a foreign language.

Disregarding this, she turned to the man at the door. "This boy has broken his arm," she said, nodding at Bud. "It will have to be set. Have you anything that will do for splints?"

"I reckon thar's right smart of shakes outen the shed."

"Will you get me some?"

The man disappeared.

After a search she found in the corner an old, faded calico dress which was quite clean.

"This will do for binding," she said, looking at the women. "You don't mind if I use it?"

"'T'ain't no account noways."

"All right. Thanks."

She was obliged to hurt Bud severely while getting the bone in place and binding it, but the boy uttered never a groan.

By the time this task was completed, finding herself quite shaky and weak, Florence somehow made her way to a splint-bottomed chair by the fire. Fresh fuel had been put on. In spite of the deluge of water that now and again came dashing down the chimney, the fire burned brightly.

The thunder storm was now in full progress. Florence was surprised at noting this.

So preoccupied had she been with her errands of mercy that she had neither heard nor seen anything of it until this moment.

Strange indeed were her thoughts as she sat there staring at the fire. At times it was the fire itself that held her attention. Led on by the challenge of wind and storm, it went roaring and laughing up the chimney, for all the world as if it meant to dispel the damp and cold from every cabin in the mountains. A moment later, slapped squarely in the face by a deluge of rain, it shrunk down within itself until the whole cabin was in darkness.

"It-it's given up," Florence would whisper to herself with a half sob.

"But no! There it is rising from its own blackened ruins to roar with cheer again.

"It's like life," she told herself. And, indeed, how like her own life it was. Only a few days before she had been fired with hope and desire to be of service to these mountain people. Now, with hopes drowned and courage well nigh gone, she waited only to battle her way through the coming trial and the election that seemed certain defeat. A lump rose in her throat at the thought.

But again, as the fire battling its way once more up the chimney flung free its challenge to the elements, she was driven to believe that courage, hope and desire to serve would again burn brightly in her heart.

"Hope!" she whispered. "What hope can there be? The election is lost! The winter school a thing of the past. How can it be otherwise? And yet I do hope!"

These thoughts pa.s.sed. She had become suddenly conscious of her immediate surroundings. She was well within the natural stone gateway through which entrance had been forbidden heretofore. She was in the midst of a strange and mysterious people, in the very cabin of their leader. Of this last she felt sure.

She recalled with a sudden shock the weird tales she had heard told of these people, of the peddler with his rich pack of linens and box of jewelry, and of the one-armed fiddler who had pa.s.sed this way to be seen no more.

"And now I am here," she whispered, her limbs trembling with terror. "And on such a night!"

Even as she spoke there came such a rolling crash of thunder as set the dishes in the little wall cupboard rattling and brought a huge cross-log on the fire down with a thud and sputter that sent sparks flying everywhere. She caught the rush of water outside, not alone the constant beating of the rain, but louder and more terrifying than that, the mighty rush and roar of a cataract. Swollen to twenty times its natural size, Laurel Creek had become a mighty Niagara.

Turning about, she allowed her gaze to sweep the room. In one corner on a bed little Hallie slept peacefully. In the opposite corner the man with the hooked nose had thrown himself across the other bed. The two women had vanished, probably into the other room of the cabin. In the corner, with head pillowed on his uninjured arm, Bud Wax slept.

"He doesn't look to be such a bad fellow," Florence told herself. And so he didn't. On his face there was such an expression as one might expect to find upon the countenance of one who, having lived through a long and hard fought battle for self and self interests, had at last found peace in service for another.

Florence read the look pictured there, but she could not account for it.

She could not guess why the boy was there at all, nor why he had made the attack that had resulted in the broken arm. It was all very strange and puzzling.

Strangest of all was the thing the one-armed giant was engaged in at that particular moment. On a small chair that emphasized his hugeness, with head bent low and lips constantly moving, he sat whispering over an old Bible, spelling out the words one by one. As the fire regained courage to do its best, lighting up his aged face with a sort of halo, the girl thought she had never seen upon any face before a look so restful, benevolent and benign.

At that moment a hand touched her shoulder. She turned about and found herself looking into the wrinkled face of the old woman.

"Thought y' might like to lay down a spell," she said, jerking her thumb toward a door that led to the other room.

Without a word Florence followed her and, fifteen minutes later, buried beneath a pile of home woven coverlids, she lay lost in dreamless sleep.

Marion sat upon a bed of moss well up the side of Big Black Mountain.

Three days had pa.s.sed since the mysterious disappearance of Florence and little Hallie, three days of tormenting anxiety. Every creek and runway had been searched, but to no purpose. They had vanished as completely as they might had the earth swallowed them up.

Only one spot remained to be searched-the head of Laurel Creek, beyond the natural gateway.

"They can't have gone up there," Mrs. McAlpin had said in a tone of deep conviction. "Florence knew well enough the reputation of those strange people. Nothing could have induced her to pa.s.s that forbidden barrier."

Not satisfied with this, Marion had gone to Ransom Turner about it.

"Hit's past reason!" he said emphatically. "Them's the killingest folks in the mountains. That's a fact, though they've never been made to stand trial. She'd never dare to go up there. An' besides, if hit were best to go there to search, you'd have to git you up half the men in these here mountains, and there'd sure be a big fight right thar."