BEFORE THEY REACHED the outlet below the barn, Dard brought them
to a halt. There was no use emerging into the arms of some snooping
Peaceman. It was better to stay in hiding until they could see
whether or not the enemy had been fooled by the burning house.
The passage in which the three crouched was walled with rough
stone and so narrow that the shoulders of the two adults brushed
both sides. It was cold, icy with a chill which crept up from the
bare earth underneath through their ill-covered feet to their knees
and then into their shivering bodies. How long they could stay
there without succumbing to that cold Dard did not know. He bit his
lip anxiously as he strained to hear the sound from above.
He was answered by an explosion, the sound and shock of which
came to them down the passage from the house. And then there was a
slightly hysterical chuckle from Lars.
"What happened?" began Dard, and then answered his own question,
"The laboratory!"
"Yes, the laboratory," Lars said, leaning against the wall.
There was relaxation in both his pose and voice. "They'll have a
mess to comb through now."
"All the better!" snapped Dard. "Will it feed the fire?"
"Feed the fire! It might blow up the whole building. There won't
be enough pieces left for them to discover what was inside before
the blast."
"Or who might have been there!" For the first time Dard saw a
ray of real hope. The Peacemen could not have known of this
passage, they probably believed that the dwellers in the farmhouse
had been blown up in that explosion. The escape of the Nordis
family was covered—they now had a better than even chance.
But still he waited, or rather made Lars and Dessie wait in
hiding while he crept on into the barn hole and climbed up the
ladder he had placed there for such a use as this. Then, making a
worm's progress crawling, he crossed the rotting floor to peer out
through the doorless entrance.
The outline of the farmhouse walls was gone, and tongues of
blue-white flame ate up the dark to make the scene day-bright. Two
men in the black and white Peace uniforms were dragging a third
away from the holocaust. And there was a lot of confused shouting.
Dard listened and gathered that the raiders were convinced that
their prey had gone up with the house, taking with them two
officers who had just beaten in the back door before the explosion.
And there had been three others injured. The roundup gang was
hurrying away, apprehensive of other explosions. Peacemen, who
prided themselves on their lack of scientific knowledge, were apt
to harbor such suspicions.
Dard got to his feet. The last man, trailing a stun rifle, was
going around the fire now, keeping a careful distance from the
chemically fed flames, such a distance that he plunged waist deep
through snow drifts. And a few moments later Dard saw the 'copter
rise, circle the farm once, and head west. He sighed with relief
and went back to get the others.
"All clear," he reported to Lars as he supported the crippled
man up the ladder. "They think we went up in the explosion and they
were afraid there might be another so they left fast—"
Again Lars chuckled. "They won't be back in a hurry then."
"Dard," Dessie was a small shadow moving through the gloom, "if
our house is gone where are we going to live now?
"My practical daughter," Lars said. "We will find some—other
place . . . "
Dard remembered. "The messenger you were expecting! He might see
the blaze from the hills and not come at all!"
"And that's why you're going to leave him a sign that we're
still in the land of the living, Dard. As Dessie points out we
haven't a roof over us now, and the sooner we're on our way the
better. Since our late callers believe us to be dead there's no
danger in Dessie and I staying right where we are now, while you do
what's necessary to bring help. Follow the wall in the top pasture
to the corner where the old woods road begins. About a quarter of a
mile beyond is a big tree with a hollow in it. Put this inside."
Lars pulled a piece of rag out of his wrappings. "Then come back
here. That'll bring our man on down even if he sees an eruption
going on. It tells him that we've escaped and are hiding out
waiting to make contact. If he doesn't come by morning— we'll try
moving up closer to the tree."
Dard understood. His brother daren't attempt the journey through
the snow and brush at night. But tomorrow they could rig some kind
of a board sled from the debris and drags Lars into the safety of
the woods. In the meantime it was very necessary to leave the sign.
With a word of caution to them both, Dard left the barn.
By instinct he kept to the shadows east by the trees and brush
which encroached on the once-fertile fields. Near the farm
buildings was a maze of tracks left by the Peacemen, and he used
them to hide the pattern of his own steps. Just why he took such
precautions he could not tell, but the wariness which had guided
every move of his life for years had now become an ingrown part of
him. On the other hand, now that the raid he had feared for so long
had come, and he and his were still alive and free, he felt eased
of some of the almost intolerable burden.
As he tramped away from the dying fire the night was very still
and cold. Once a snowy owl slipped across the sky, and deep in the
forest a wolf, or one of the predatory wild dogs, howled. Dard did
not find it difficult to locate Lars' tree and made sure that the
rag was safe in the black hollow of its trunk.
The cold ate into him and he hurried on his back trail. Maybe
they might dare light a small fire in the cellar pit, just enough
to keep them from freezing until morning. How close was the dawn,
he wondered, as he stumbled and clutched at a snow-crowned wall to
steady himself. Bed—sleep—warmth—He was so tired—so very
tired—
Then a sound ripped through the night air. A shot! His face
twisted and his hand went to the haft of the knife. A shot! Lars
had no gun! The Peacemen—but they had gone!
Clumsily, slipping, fighting to keep his footing in the
treacherous snow drifts, Dard began to run. Within a matter of
minutes he came to his senses and dodged into cover, making his way
to the barn in such a manner as to provide no target for any
marksman lurking there. Dessie, Lars— there alone without any
means of defense!
Dard was close to the building when Dessie's scream came. And
that scream tore all the caution from him. Balancing the knife in
his hand, he threw himself across the churned snow of the yard for
the door. And his sacking covered feet made no sound as he ran.
"Got ya'—imp of Satan!"
Dard's arm came up, the knife was poised. And, as if for once
Fortune was on his side, there was a sharp tinkle of breaking glass
from the embers of the house and a following sweep of flame to
light the scene within the barn.
Dessie was fighting, silently now, with all the frenzy of a
small cornered animal, in the hands of Hew Folley. One of the man's
hard fists was aimed straight for her face as Dard threw the
knife.
The months he had practiced with that single weapon were now
rewarded. Dessie flew free as the man hurled her away. On hands and
feet she scuttled into the dark. Hew turned and bent over as if to
grope for the rifle which lay by his feet. Then he coughed, and
coughing, went down. Dard grabbed the rifle. Only when it was in
his hands did he come up to the still-coughing man. He pulled at
Folley's shoulder and rolled him over. Bitter hatred stared up at
Dard from the small dark eyes of the other.
"Got—dirty—stinkman—" Folley mouthed and then coughed. Blood
bubbled from his slack lips.
"Thought—he—was—hiding—right—Kill—kill—" The rest was lost in a
gush of blood. He tried to raise himself but the effort was beyond
him. Dard watched grimly until it was over and then, fighting down
a rising nausea, undertook the dirty business of retrieving his
knife.
The sun did not show when he came out of the barn with Dessie
after some hours which he did not want to remember. From a gray sky
whirled flakes of white. Dard regarded them blankly at first and
then with a dull relief. A snow storm would hide a lot. Not that
anyone would ever find Lars' poor twisted body, now safely walled up
in the passage. But Folley's people might be detained by a heavy
storm if they started a search. The landsman had been a tyrant and
the district bully—not beloved enough to arouse interest for a
sizable searching party.
"Where are we going, Dardie?" Dessie's voice was a monotone. She
had not cried, but she had shivered continually, and now she looked
at the outer world with a shadow of dread in her eyes. He drew her
closer as he shouldered their bag of supplies.
"Into the woods, Dessie. We'll have to live as the animals
do—for a while. Are you hungry?"
She did not meet his eyes as she shook her head. And she made no
effort to move until his hand on her shoulder drew her along. The
snow thickened in a wild dance, driven by gusts of wind to hide the
still smoldering cellar of the farmhouse. Pushing Dessie before him
Dard began the hike back along his path of the night before—toward
the hollow tree and the meeting place. To contact Lars' messenger
might now be their only chance.
Under the trees the fury of the storm was less, but the snow
packed against their bodies, clinging to their eyelashes and a wisp
of hair which hung across Dessie's forehead so that she brushed at
it mechanically. Food, heat, shelter, their needs made a pattern in
Dard's mind and he clung to it, shutting out memories of the past
night. Dessie could not stand this tramping for long. And he was
almost to the end of his own strength. He used the rifle as a
staff.
The rifle—and three shells—he had those. But he dared not use
the weapon except as a last resort. The sound of a shot carried too
far. There were only a few guns left and they were in the hands of
those whom the Peacemen had reason to trust. Anyone hunting for
Folley would be attracted by a shot. If their escape became
suspected . . . He shivered with something other than cold.
Herding Dessie at a steady pace he fought his way to the hollow
tree. There was no need to worry about the trail they had left, the
snow filled it in a matter of minutes. But they must stay near
here—for Lars' messenger to find them.
Dard set Dessie to treading back and forth in a space he marked
out for her. That not only kept her moving and so fighting the
insidious cold numbness, but it packed down a flooring for the
shelter he built. A fallen tree gave it backing and pine branches,
heaped up and covered with snow, provided a roof.
He could see the hollow in the tree from this lair and he
impressed upon Dessie the necessity of watching for anyone coming
along the path.
They ate handfuls of snow together with wooden bits of salted
meat. But the little girl complained of sleepiness and at last Dard
huddled in the shelter with Dessie in his arms, the rifle at hand,
fighting drowsiness to keep his grim vigil. At length he had to put
the rifle between his feet, the end of the barrel just under his
jaw, so that when he nodded, the touch of the cold metal nudged him
into wakefulness. How long they dared stay there was a question
which continued to trouble him. What if the messenger did not come
today or tomorrow? There was a cave back in the hills which he had
discovered during the past summer but—
The jab of the rifle barrel made his eyes water with pain. The
snow had stopped falling. Branches, heavily burdened, were bent to
the ground, but the air was free. He pulled back his top covering
and studied Dessie's pinched face. She was sleeping, but now and
again she twisted uneasily and once she whimpered. He changed
position to aid his cramped legs and she half roused.
But right on her inquiring "Dardie?" came another sound and his
hand clamped right across her lips. Someone was coming along the
woods trail, singing tunelessly.
The messenger?
Before Dard's hope was fully aroused it was dashed. He saw a
flash of red around a bush and then the wearer of that bright cap
came into full view. Dard's lips drew back in a half-snarl.
Lotta Folley!
Dessie struggled in his arms and he let her crawl to one side of
the tiny shelter. But, though he brought up the rifle, he found he
could not aim it. Hew Folley—betrayer and murderer—yes. His
daughter—though she might be of the same brutal breed—though he
might be throwing away freedom and life—he could not kill!
The girl, a sturdy stout figure in her warm homespuns and
knitted cap, halted panting beneath the very tree he must watch. If
she glanced up now—if her woodsight was as keen as his—and he had
no reason to doubt that it was.
Lotta Folley's head raised and across the open expanse of snow
her eyes found Dard's strained face. He made no move in a last
desperate attempt to escape notice. After all he was in the
half-shadow of the shelter, she might not see him— the protective
"playing dead" of an animal.
But her eyes widened, her full mouth shaped a soundless
expression of astonishment. With a kind of pain he waited for her
to cry out.
Only she made no sound at all. After the first moment of
surprise her face assumed its usual stupid, slightly sullen
solidity. She brushed some snow from the front of her jacket
without looking at it, and when she spoke in her hoarse common
voice, she might have been addressing the tree at her side.
"The Peacemen are huntin'."
Dard made no answer. She pouted her lips and added,
"They're huntin' you."
He still kept silent. She stopped brushing her jacket and her
eyes wavered around the flees and brush walling in the old
road.
"They say as how your brother's a stinkman—"
"Stinkman," the opprobious term for a scientist. Dard continued
to hold his tongue. But her next question surprised him.
"Dessie—Dessie all right?"
He was too slow to catch the little girl who slipped by him to
face the Folley girl gravely.
Lotta fumbled in the breast of her packet and brought out a
packet folded in a piece of grease-blotted cloth. She did not move
up to offer it to Dessie but set it down carefully on the end of
a tree stump.
"For you," she said to the little girl. Then she turned to Dard.
"You better not stick around. Pa tol' the Peacemen about you." She
hesitated. "Pa didn't come back las' night—"
Dard sucked in his breath. That glance she had shot at him, had
there been knowledge in it? But if she knew what lay in the
barn—why wasn't she heading the hue and cry to their refuge? Lotta
Folley, he had never regarded her with any pleasure. In the early
days, when they had first come to the farm, she had often visited
them, watching Kathia, Dessie, with a kind of lumpish interest. She
had talked little and what she said suggested that she was hardly
more than a moron. He had been contemptuous of her, though he had
never showed it.
"Pa didn't come back las' night," she repeated, and now he was
sure she knew—or suspected. What would she do? He couldn't use the
rifle—he couldn't
Then he realized that she must have seen that weapon, seen and
recognized it. He could offer no reasonable explanation for having
it with him. Folley's rifle was a treasure, it wouldn't be in the
hands of another—and surely not in the hands of Folley's enemy—as
long as Folley was alive.
Dard caught the past tense. So she did know! Now— what was she
going to do?
"Pa hated lotsa things," her eyes clipped away from his to
Dessie. "Pa liked t' hurt things."
The words were spoken without emotion, in her usual dull
tone.
"He wanted t' hurt Dessie. He wanted t' send her t' a work camp.
He said he was gonna. You better give me that there gun, Dard. If
they find it with Pa they ain't gonna look around for anybody that
ran away."
"But why?" he was shocked almost out of his suspicion.
"Nobody's gonna send Dessie t' no work camp," she stated flatly.
"Dessie—she's special! Her ma was special, too. Once she made me a
play baby. Pa—he found it an' burned it up. You—you can take care
of Dessie—you gotta take care of Dessie!" Her eyes met his again
compellingly. "You gotta git away from here an' take Dessie where
none of them Peacemen are gonna find her. Give me Pa's rifle an'
I'll cover up."
Driven to the last rags of his endurance Dard met that with the
real truth.
"We can't leave here yet—"
She cut him off. "Someone comin' for you? Then Pa was
right—your brother was a stinkman?"
Dard found himself nodding.
"All right," she shrugged. "I can let you know if they come
again. But you see to Dessie—mind that!"
"I'll see to Dessie." He held out the rifle and she took it from
him before she pointed again to the packet.
"Give her that. I'll try to git you some more—maybe tonight. If
they think you got away they'll bring dogs out from town. If they
do—" She shuffled her feet in the snow.
Then she stood the rifle against the hollow tree and unbuttoned
the front of her jacket. Her hands, clumsy in mittens, unwound a
heavy knitted scarf and tossed it to the child.
"You put that on you," she ordered with some of the authority of
a mother, or at least of an elder sister. "I'd leave you my coat,
only they'd notice." She picked up the rifle again. "Now I'll put
this here where it belongs an' maybe they won't go on huntin'."
Speechless Dard watched her turn down trail, still at a loss to
understand her actions. Was she really going to return that rifle
to the barn—how could she, knowing the truth? And why?
He knelt to wind the scarf around Dessie's head and shoulders.
For some reason Folley's daughter wanted to help them and he was
beginning to realize that he needed all the aid he could get.
The packet Lotta had left contained such food as he had not seen
in years—real bread, thick buttered slices of it, and a great hunk
of fat pork. Dessie would not eat unless he shared it with her, and
he took enough to flavor his own meal of the wretched fare they had
brought with them. When they had finished he asked one of the
questions which had been in his mind ever since Lotta's amazing
actions.
"Do you know Lotta well, Dessie?"
She ran her tongue around her greasy lips, collecting stray
crumbs.
"Lotta came over often."
"But I haven't seen her since—" he stopped before mentioning
Kathia's death.
"She comes and talks to me when I am in the fields. I think she
is afraid of you and—Daddy. She always brings me nice things to
eat. She said that some day she wanted to give me a dress—a pink
dress. I would very much like a pink dress, Dardie. I like
Lotta—she is always good—inside she is good."
Dessie smoothed down the ends of her new scarf.
"She is afraid of her Daddy. He is mean to her. Once he came
when she was with me and he was very, very mad. He cut a stick with
his knife and he hit her with it. She told me to run away quick and
I did. He was a very bad man, Dardie. I was afraid of him, too. He
won't come after us?"
"No!"
He persuaded Dessie to sleep again and when she awoke he knew
that he must have rest himself and soon. Impressing upon her how
much their lives depended on it, he told her to watch the tree and
awaken him if anyone came.
It was sunset when he aroused from an uneasy, nightmare-haunted
sleep. Dessie squatted quietly beside him, her small grave face
turned to the trail. As he shifted his weight she glanced up.
"There was just a bunny," she pointed to small betraying tracks.
"But no people, Dard. Is—is there any bread left? I'm hungry."
"Sure you are!" He crawled out of the shelter and stretched
cramped limbs before unwrapping the remains of Lotta's bounty.
In spite of her vaunted hunger Dessie ate slowly, as if savoring
each crumb. The light was fading fast, although there were still
red streaks in the sky. Tonight they must remain here—but
tomorrow? If Lotta's return of the rifle to the barn did not stop
the search—then tomorrow the fugitives would have to take to the
trail again.
"Is it going to snow again, Dardie?"
He studied the sky. "I don't think so. I wish it would."
"Why? When the snow is so deep, it's hard to walk."
He tried to explain. "Because when it snows, it is really
warmer. Too cold a night . . ." he didn't finish that sentence, but
encircled Dessie with a long arm and drew her back under the
shelter with him. She wriggled about, settling herself more
comfortably, then she jerked upright again.
"Someone's coming!" her whisper was warm on his cheek.
He had heard that too, the faint creak of a foot on the icy-coated snow. And his hand closed about the haft of his knife.
BEFORE THEY REACHED the outlet below the barn, Dard brought them
to a halt. There was no use emerging into the arms of some snooping
Peaceman. It was better to stay in hiding until they could see
whether or not the enemy had been fooled by the burning house.
The passage in which the three crouched was walled with rough
stone and so narrow that the shoulders of the two adults brushed
both sides. It was cold, icy with a chill which crept up from the
bare earth underneath through their ill-covered feet to their knees
and then into their shivering bodies. How long they could stay
there without succumbing to that cold Dard did not know. He bit his
lip anxiously as he strained to hear the sound from above.
He was answered by an explosion, the sound and shock of which
came to them down the passage from the house. And then there was a
slightly hysterical chuckle from Lars.
"What happened?" began Dard, and then answered his own question,
"The laboratory!"
"Yes, the laboratory," Lars said, leaning against the wall.
There was relaxation in both his pose and voice. "They'll have a
mess to comb through now."
"All the better!" snapped Dard. "Will it feed the fire?"
"Feed the fire! It might blow up the whole building. There won't
be enough pieces left for them to discover what was inside before
the blast."
"Or who might have been there!" For the first time Dard saw a
ray of real hope. The Peacemen could not have known of this
passage, they probably believed that the dwellers in the farmhouse
had been blown up in that explosion. The escape of the Nordis
family was covered—they now had a better than even chance.
But still he waited, or rather made Lars and Dessie wait in
hiding while he crept on into the barn hole and climbed up the
ladder he had placed there for such a use as this. Then, making a
worm's progress crawling, he crossed the rotting floor to peer out
through the doorless entrance.
The outline of the farmhouse walls was gone, and tongues of
blue-white flame ate up the dark to make the scene day-bright. Two
men in the black and white Peace uniforms were dragging a third
away from the holocaust. And there was a lot of confused shouting.
Dard listened and gathered that the raiders were convinced that
their prey had gone up with the house, taking with them two
officers who had just beaten in the back door before the explosion.
And there had been three others injured. The roundup gang was
hurrying away, apprehensive of other explosions. Peacemen, who
prided themselves on their lack of scientific knowledge, were apt
to harbor such suspicions.
Dard got to his feet. The last man, trailing a stun rifle, was
going around the fire now, keeping a careful distance from the
chemically fed flames, such a distance that he plunged waist deep
through snow drifts. And a few moments later Dard saw the 'copter
rise, circle the farm once, and head west. He sighed with relief
and went back to get the others.
"All clear," he reported to Lars as he supported the crippled
man up the ladder. "They think we went up in the explosion and they
were afraid there might be another so they left fast—"
Again Lars chuckled. "They won't be back in a hurry then."
"Dard," Dessie was a small shadow moving through the gloom, "if
our house is gone where are we going to live now?
"My practical daughter," Lars said. "We will find some—other
place . . . "
Dard remembered. "The messenger you were expecting! He might see
the blaze from the hills and not come at all!"
"And that's why you're going to leave him a sign that we're
still in the land of the living, Dard. As Dessie points out we
haven't a roof over us now, and the sooner we're on our way the
better. Since our late callers believe us to be dead there's no
danger in Dessie and I staying right where we are now, while you do
what's necessary to bring help. Follow the wall in the top pasture
to the corner where the old woods road begins. About a quarter of a
mile beyond is a big tree with a hollow in it. Put this inside."
Lars pulled a piece of rag out of his wrappings. "Then come back
here. That'll bring our man on down even if he sees an eruption
going on. It tells him that we've escaped and are hiding out
waiting to make contact. If he doesn't come by morning— we'll try
moving up closer to the tree."
Dard understood. His brother daren't attempt the journey through
the snow and brush at night. But tomorrow they could rig some kind
of a board sled from the debris and drags Lars into the safety of
the woods. In the meantime it was very necessary to leave the sign.
With a word of caution to them both, Dard left the barn.
By instinct he kept to the shadows east by the trees and brush
which encroached on the once-fertile fields. Near the farm
buildings was a maze of tracks left by the Peacemen, and he used
them to hide the pattern of his own steps. Just why he took such
precautions he could not tell, but the wariness which had guided
every move of his life for years had now become an ingrown part of
him. On the other hand, now that the raid he had feared for so long
had come, and he and his were still alive and free, he felt eased
of some of the almost intolerable burden.
As he tramped away from the dying fire the night was very still
and cold. Once a snowy owl slipped across the sky, and deep in the
forest a wolf, or one of the predatory wild dogs, howled. Dard did
not find it difficult to locate Lars' tree and made sure that the
rag was safe in the black hollow of its trunk.
The cold ate into him and he hurried on his back trail. Maybe
they might dare light a small fire in the cellar pit, just enough
to keep them from freezing until morning. How close was the dawn,
he wondered, as he stumbled and clutched at a snow-crowned wall to
steady himself. Bed—sleep—warmth—He was so tired—so very
tired—
Then a sound ripped through the night air. A shot! His face
twisted and his hand went to the haft of the knife. A shot! Lars
had no gun! The Peacemen—but they had gone!
Clumsily, slipping, fighting to keep his footing in the
treacherous snow drifts, Dard began to run. Within a matter of
minutes he came to his senses and dodged into cover, making his way
to the barn in such a manner as to provide no target for any
marksman lurking there. Dessie, Lars— there alone without any
means of defense!
Dard was close to the building when Dessie's scream came. And
that scream tore all the caution from him. Balancing the knife in
his hand, he threw himself across the churned snow of the yard for
the door. And his sacking covered feet made no sound as he ran.
"Got ya'—imp of Satan!"
Dard's arm came up, the knife was poised. And, as if for once
Fortune was on his side, there was a sharp tinkle of breaking glass
from the embers of the house and a following sweep of flame to
light the scene within the barn.
Dessie was fighting, silently now, with all the frenzy of a
small cornered animal, in the hands of Hew Folley. One of the man's
hard fists was aimed straight for her face as Dard threw the
knife.
The months he had practiced with that single weapon were now
rewarded. Dessie flew free as the man hurled her away. On hands and
feet she scuttled into the dark. Hew turned and bent over as if to
grope for the rifle which lay by his feet. Then he coughed, and
coughing, went down. Dard grabbed the rifle. Only when it was in
his hands did he come up to the still-coughing man. He pulled at
Folley's shoulder and rolled him over. Bitter hatred stared up at
Dard from the small dark eyes of the other.
"Got—dirty—stinkman—" Folley mouthed and then coughed. Blood
bubbled from his slack lips.
"Thought—he—was—hiding—right—Kill—kill—" The rest was lost in a
gush of blood. He tried to raise himself but the effort was beyond
him. Dard watched grimly until it was over and then, fighting down
a rising nausea, undertook the dirty business of retrieving his
knife.
The sun did not show when he came out of the barn with Dessie
after some hours which he did not want to remember. From a gray sky
whirled flakes of white. Dard regarded them blankly at first and
then with a dull relief. A snow storm would hide a lot. Not that
anyone would ever find Lars' poor twisted body, now safely walled up
in the passage. But Folley's people might be detained by a heavy
storm if they started a search. The landsman had been a tyrant and
the district bully—not beloved enough to arouse interest for a
sizable searching party.
"Where are we going, Dardie?" Dessie's voice was a monotone. She
had not cried, but she had shivered continually, and now she looked
at the outer world with a shadow of dread in her eyes. He drew her
closer as he shouldered their bag of supplies.
"Into the woods, Dessie. We'll have to live as the animals
do—for a while. Are you hungry?"
She did not meet his eyes as she shook her head. And she made no
effort to move until his hand on her shoulder drew her along. The
snow thickened in a wild dance, driven by gusts of wind to hide the
still smoldering cellar of the farmhouse. Pushing Dessie before him
Dard began the hike back along his path of the night before—toward
the hollow tree and the meeting place. To contact Lars' messenger
might now be their only chance.
Under the trees the fury of the storm was less, but the snow
packed against their bodies, clinging to their eyelashes and a wisp
of hair which hung across Dessie's forehead so that she brushed at
it mechanically. Food, heat, shelter, their needs made a pattern in
Dard's mind and he clung to it, shutting out memories of the past
night. Dessie could not stand this tramping for long. And he was
almost to the end of his own strength. He used the rifle as a
staff.
The rifle—and three shells—he had those. But he dared not use
the weapon except as a last resort. The sound of a shot carried too
far. There were only a few guns left and they were in the hands of
those whom the Peacemen had reason to trust. Anyone hunting for
Folley would be attracted by a shot. If their escape became
suspected . . . He shivered with something other than cold.
Herding Dessie at a steady pace he fought his way to the hollow
tree. There was no need to worry about the trail they had left, the
snow filled it in a matter of minutes. But they must stay near
here—for Lars' messenger to find them.
Dard set Dessie to treading back and forth in a space he marked
out for her. That not only kept her moving and so fighting the
insidious cold numbness, but it packed down a flooring for the
shelter he built. A fallen tree gave it backing and pine branches,
heaped up and covered with snow, provided a roof.
He could see the hollow in the tree from this lair and he
impressed upon Dessie the necessity of watching for anyone coming
along the path.
They ate handfuls of snow together with wooden bits of salted
meat. But the little girl complained of sleepiness and at last Dard
huddled in the shelter with Dessie in his arms, the rifle at hand,
fighting drowsiness to keep his grim vigil. At length he had to put
the rifle between his feet, the end of the barrel just under his
jaw, so that when he nodded, the touch of the cold metal nudged him
into wakefulness. How long they dared stay there was a question
which continued to trouble him. What if the messenger did not come
today or tomorrow? There was a cave back in the hills which he had
discovered during the past summer but—
The jab of the rifle barrel made his eyes water with pain. The
snow had stopped falling. Branches, heavily burdened, were bent to
the ground, but the air was free. He pulled back his top covering
and studied Dessie's pinched face. She was sleeping, but now and
again she twisted uneasily and once she whimpered. He changed
position to aid his cramped legs and she half roused.
But right on her inquiring "Dardie?" came another sound and his
hand clamped right across her lips. Someone was coming along the
woods trail, singing tunelessly.
The messenger?
Before Dard's hope was fully aroused it was dashed. He saw a
flash of red around a bush and then the wearer of that bright cap
came into full view. Dard's lips drew back in a half-snarl.
Lotta Folley!
Dessie struggled in his arms and he let her crawl to one side of
the tiny shelter. But, though he brought up the rifle, he found he
could not aim it. Hew Folley—betrayer and murderer—yes. His
daughter—though she might be of the same brutal breed—though he
might be throwing away freedom and life—he could not kill!
The girl, a sturdy stout figure in her warm homespuns and
knitted cap, halted panting beneath the very tree he must watch. If
she glanced up now—if her woodsight was as keen as his—and he had
no reason to doubt that it was.
Lotta Folley's head raised and across the open expanse of snow
her eyes found Dard's strained face. He made no move in a last
desperate attempt to escape notice. After all he was in the
half-shadow of the shelter, she might not see him— the protective
"playing dead" of an animal.
But her eyes widened, her full mouth shaped a soundless
expression of astonishment. With a kind of pain he waited for her
to cry out.
Only she made no sound at all. After the first moment of
surprise her face assumed its usual stupid, slightly sullen
solidity. She brushed some snow from the front of her jacket
without looking at it, and when she spoke in her hoarse common
voice, she might have been addressing the tree at her side.
"The Peacemen are huntin'."
Dard made no answer. She pouted her lips and added,
"They're huntin' you."
He still kept silent. She stopped brushing her jacket and her
eyes wavered around the flees and brush walling in the old
road.
"They say as how your brother's a stinkman—"
"Stinkman," the opprobious term for a scientist. Dard continued
to hold his tongue. But her next question surprised him.
"Dessie—Dessie all right?"
He was too slow to catch the little girl who slipped by him to
face the Folley girl gravely.
Lotta fumbled in the breast of her packet and brought out a
packet folded in a piece of grease-blotted cloth. She did not move
up to offer it to Dessie but set it down carefully on the end of
a tree stump.
"For you," she said to the little girl. Then she turned to Dard.
"You better not stick around. Pa tol' the Peacemen about you." She
hesitated. "Pa didn't come back las' night—"
Dard sucked in his breath. That glance she had shot at him, had
there been knowledge in it? But if she knew what lay in the
barn—why wasn't she heading the hue and cry to their refuge? Lotta
Folley, he had never regarded her with any pleasure. In the early
days, when they had first come to the farm, she had often visited
them, watching Kathia, Dessie, with a kind of lumpish interest. She
had talked little and what she said suggested that she was hardly
more than a moron. He had been contemptuous of her, though he had
never showed it.
"Pa didn't come back las' night," she repeated, and now he was
sure she knew—or suspected. What would she do? He couldn't use the
rifle—he couldn't
Then he realized that she must have seen that weapon, seen and
recognized it. He could offer no reasonable explanation for having
it with him. Folley's rifle was a treasure, it wouldn't be in the
hands of another—and surely not in the hands of Folley's enemy—as
long as Folley was alive.
Dard caught the past tense. So she did know! Now— what was she
going to do?
"Pa hated lotsa things," her eyes clipped away from his to
Dessie. "Pa liked t' hurt things."
The words were spoken without emotion, in her usual dull
tone.
"He wanted t' hurt Dessie. He wanted t' send her t' a work camp.
He said he was gonna. You better give me that there gun, Dard. If
they find it with Pa they ain't gonna look around for anybody that
ran away."
"But why?" he was shocked almost out of his suspicion.
"Nobody's gonna send Dessie t' no work camp," she stated flatly.
"Dessie—she's special! Her ma was special, too. Once she made me a
play baby. Pa—he found it an' burned it up. You—you can take care
of Dessie—you gotta take care of Dessie!" Her eyes met his again
compellingly. "You gotta git away from here an' take Dessie where
none of them Peacemen are gonna find her. Give me Pa's rifle an'
I'll cover up."
Driven to the last rags of his endurance Dard met that with the
real truth.
"We can't leave here yet—"
She cut him off. "Someone comin' for you? Then Pa was
right—your brother was a stinkman?"
Dard found himself nodding.
"All right," she shrugged. "I can let you know if they come
again. But you see to Dessie—mind that!"
"I'll see to Dessie." He held out the rifle and she took it from
him before she pointed again to the packet.
"Give her that. I'll try to git you some more—maybe tonight. If
they think you got away they'll bring dogs out from town. If they
do—" She shuffled her feet in the snow.
Then she stood the rifle against the hollow tree and unbuttoned
the front of her jacket. Her hands, clumsy in mittens, unwound a
heavy knitted scarf and tossed it to the child.
"You put that on you," she ordered with some of the authority of
a mother, or at least of an elder sister. "I'd leave you my coat,
only they'd notice." She picked up the rifle again. "Now I'll put
this here where it belongs an' maybe they won't go on huntin'."
Speechless Dard watched her turn down trail, still at a loss to
understand her actions. Was she really going to return that rifle
to the barn—how could she, knowing the truth? And why?
He knelt to wind the scarf around Dessie's head and shoulders.
For some reason Folley's daughter wanted to help them and he was
beginning to realize that he needed all the aid he could get.
The packet Lotta had left contained such food as he had not seen
in years—real bread, thick buttered slices of it, and a great hunk
of fat pork. Dessie would not eat unless he shared it with her, and
he took enough to flavor his own meal of the wretched fare they had
brought with them. When they had finished he asked one of the
questions which had been in his mind ever since Lotta's amazing
actions.
"Do you know Lotta well, Dessie?"
She ran her tongue around her greasy lips, collecting stray
crumbs.
"Lotta came over often."
"But I haven't seen her since—" he stopped before mentioning
Kathia's death.
"She comes and talks to me when I am in the fields. I think she
is afraid of you and—Daddy. She always brings me nice things to
eat. She said that some day she wanted to give me a dress—a pink
dress. I would very much like a pink dress, Dardie. I like
Lotta—she is always good—inside she is good."
Dessie smoothed down the ends of her new scarf.
"She is afraid of her Daddy. He is mean to her. Once he came
when she was with me and he was very, very mad. He cut a stick with
his knife and he hit her with it. She told me to run away quick and
I did. He was a very bad man, Dardie. I was afraid of him, too. He
won't come after us?"
"No!"
He persuaded Dessie to sleep again and when she awoke he knew
that he must have rest himself and soon. Impressing upon her how
much their lives depended on it, he told her to watch the tree and
awaken him if anyone came.
It was sunset when he aroused from an uneasy, nightmare-haunted
sleep. Dessie squatted quietly beside him, her small grave face
turned to the trail. As he shifted his weight she glanced up.
"There was just a bunny," she pointed to small betraying tracks.
"But no people, Dard. Is—is there any bread left? I'm hungry."
"Sure you are!" He crawled out of the shelter and stretched
cramped limbs before unwrapping the remains of Lotta's bounty.
In spite of her vaunted hunger Dessie ate slowly, as if savoring
each crumb. The light was fading fast, although there were still
red streaks in the sky. Tonight they must remain here—but
tomorrow? If Lotta's return of the rifle to the barn did not stop
the search—then tomorrow the fugitives would have to take to the
trail again.
"Is it going to snow again, Dardie?"
He studied the sky. "I don't think so. I wish it would."
"Why? When the snow is so deep, it's hard to walk."
He tried to explain. "Because when it snows, it is really
warmer. Too cold a night . . ." he didn't finish that sentence, but
encircled Dessie with a long arm and drew her back under the
shelter with him. She wriggled about, settling herself more
comfortably, then she jerked upright again.
"Someone's coming!" her whisper was warm on his cheek.
He had heard that too, the faint creak of a foot on the icy-coated snow. And his hand closed about the haft of his knife.