"Do you know," he exclaimed, leaping to his feet, "if you all had that gold right now you could do a power of good!"

"Sure we could," agreed Florence. "We could have the schoolhouse windows and doors put in."

"Yes," Uncle Billie said, with a scratch of his wooly head, "but 't'wouldn't be no use unless you come out on top in that ar school election. I'll tell you," he moved close and whispered in the girl's ear.

"There's some no 'count folks livin' up on Shader Branch that's mighty nigh got no sense. Them folks allus sells their vote to the one that pays 'em most. If'n we had that ar gold we'd put a piece whar they all could find it and they'd come down an' vote fer our trustee."

"Oh no, we wouldn't!" said Florence emphatically. "That's bribery. It's unlawful."

"Why, so it is," agreed Uncle Billie, "but so's a heap more of things."

"Anyway, we wouldn't buy a vote," said Florence. "Not if we had all the gold in the world. Our trustee will have to win fair and square, or not at all."

"Most likely hit'll be not at all," grumbled Uncle Billie as he went stamping away. It was plain enough that he did not understand that fine point of ethics.

Above the whipsawed cabin, a few hundred paces up the side of Little Black Mountain, a brook emerged from the dark shadows of its closely thatched roof of rhododendrons. Coming in shadows from ice cold springs above, the waters of this brook were always chilled. As they rushed downward toward the river they spread about them a refreshing coolness that defied the hottest summer sun.

Beside this brook, Marion loved to sit and think. The feel of the cool, damp air was like the touch of a calm personality, the murmur of the brook was like the voice of a calm, counselling friend.

On the evening of the day into which so much surprise and excitement had been crowded, she took little Hallie by the hand and together they scrambled up the steep mountain side until, flushed and quite out of breath, they threw themselves down on a bed of moss beside the cool stream.

Hallie did not remain long in repose. Restless as a bee, she was soon up and away. First she chased a chipmunk to his rocky lair, then she busied herself in the engrossing task of hunting the peculiar "sang" leaf which might mark the hiding place of a treasure of ginsing roots. Dressed as she was in a bright yellow dress, she reminded Marion of a yellow b.u.t.terfly flitting from leaf to leaf, from blossom to blossom.

All too soon she was quite forgotten, for as the shadows lengthened Marion thought of the problems and possibilities that lay before them.

They had decided to help elect a school trustee. Ransom Turner would run.

Many people believed in him. Were there enough to elect him? She hoped so, yet she doubted. Florence had said they would not buy votes, and they would not. But how about Black Blevens? He would force men to vote for him as trustee. He would use every means, fair or foul, to win. "And what of the free school we are teaching now?" she thought. "Will he try to interfere with that?" She decided it would be well to be on guard.

"Surely," she thought to herself, "there are thrills and adventures enough to be had down here in the c.u.mberlands. Yes, and mystery as well-even the mystery of Confederate gold."

She was thinking of Uncle Billie Gibson and what he had said about the gold that haunted the whipsawed house. She found it hard to believe that the Confederate States had coined gold, and harder still to think that there might be a quant.i.ty of it hidden away in the old house.

"But if there should be," she caught her breath, "if we should find it!

Each coin would be worth a fabulous sum. Every museum in the country would want one, and every private collector. If it were only true," she whispered low, and the brook seemed to murmur, "true, true, true."

Then of a sudden, rudely awakened from her dreams, she sprang to her feet. A piercing scream had struck her ears. This was followed by another and yet another.

"Hallie!" she exclaimed, too frightened to move. "Hallie! What can have happened to her?"

At that instant there flashed before her mind a picture of a face in a square of light, an ugly face with bushy eyebrows, unshaven cheeks and beady eyes-the face of the strange man she had seen at the cabin window.

CHAPTER VII MYSTERIOUS FOOTSTEPS

Scarcely a moment had elapsed after Hallie's last scream when she sprang sobbing into Marion's arms. Without a question regarding the cause of her fright, the older girl gathered her up and went racing down the mountain.

It was a headlong flight. Now they were in danger of a plunge down the steep slope, and now, having stepped upon a round pebble, Marion rolled twice her length to land against a stout sapling that saved them from dashing over a cliff. Yet, somehow, at last they found themselves safe in Marion's room, seated by the fire, with the door securely bolted behind them. Then, and only then, did Hallie cease her sobbing to sit staring round-eyed at the fire.

"What frightened you?" Marion asked.

"A man," the little girl shuddered.

"Did he try to catch you?" Marion was eager now. She was sure she could describe that man.

"No. He only stood and stared at me."

"Then why were you afraid?"

"He was a very ugly man, and-and it seemed like I had seen him before in-in-" she hesitated, "maybe in a bad dream."

"Oh!" Marion was excited. Perhaps here was a clue to the little girl's lost ident.i.ty. Perhaps she had seen the man before in that other life lived before the blow on her head.

"If only I could find that man, perhaps he could tell me," she told herself. Yet she knew right well that nothing could induce her to return to the mountain that night to search for him.

"Did he say anything?" she asked after a moment's silence.

"Yes," the little girl spoke quickly. "He said: 'Hit's her. Hit sh.o.r.ely are'!"

Marion started. What further proof did she need that this was the man she had seen peering in at their window? One more thing was certain, too; it had been the little lost girl he had thought of when he said, "Hit's her."

At the fireside council that night all the events of the day were discussed. Mrs. McAlpin approved to the fullest extent the girls' resolve to make a stand in the interest of the mountain children and to do all in their power to elect a school trustee who had the children's interest at heart. She would do all within her power to help win the election.

In regard to the mysterious man and little Hallie, it was decided that should the man be seen again, every effort would be made to obtain information from him regarding the ident.i.ty of the child.

"In the meantime," said Mrs. McAlpin, "we must keep an eye on the child every moment. It is one thing to find her parents, quite another to have her spirited away by one who may have no claim whatever upon her. At school, at home, at work, at play, she must be carefully guarded."

With this the council broke up and a few moments later Marion found herself beneath the homespun coverlids, staring up at the brown beams and dreaming that they were being slowly transformed into shining trenches filled with Confederate gold.

Black Blevens was not long in carrying his election war into every quarter. The summer school at once became a center of fire. At this time the free summer school was more than half over and, though neither Florence nor Marion had taught in day school before, they had met with singular success. They had found these young feud fighters regular storehouses of explosives, but once the children came to know that their teacher meant to deal justly with them and that they had a deep and abiding love for them, they had settled down to hard study in a way quite remarkable.

Now, on the Monday after the election struggle had been determined upon, there came a new pupil to the school. With two battered books and a half of a tablet under his arm, he marched to the teacher's desk and announced his intentions of going to school.

His manner was meek enough to disarm the most wary of teachers. He was sixteen. He was not badly dressed and an attempt had been made to comb his unruly locks. Only in his restless blue eyes did there lurk a warning signal of danger.

Florence's lips trembled ever so slightly as she asked his name.

"Bud," was the answer.

"Bud for Buddington, I suppose?"

"No'm, jest Bud."

"All right, Bud," Florence's smile was a doubtful one. She was beginning to suspect the truth.

"Bud Wax," the boy added reluctantly.

Florence started. She had feared this. Bud Wax, known as the most troublesome boy on Laurel Branch, a boy who had been known to ride through the settlement at midnight shouting like a wild Indian and firing his pistol in air. And worst of all, he was a distant relative of Black Blevens and lived at his cabin.