The Secret of Smoking Swamp E-Book

T.C. Bridges

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Set against a Florida background, this story tells of the adventures of Bill Picton and his young companions who trail a gang of moonshiners through the steaming, sluggish swamp-lands. Fitzgordon had never in his life before been in a tropical swamp, and the very first thing he did was to get both feet tangled in a coil of tough bamboo vine, and come down flat on his face on the wet black „muck.” The stuff was like rotten sponge, and just as full of water as it would hold. When he gained his feet again he was soaked from his knees to his neck.

Leseprobe

Contents

I. THE NEW CHUM

II. THE START FOR THE SWAMP

III. NOT ALL HONEYNOT ALL HONEY

IV. BILL TAKES A HAND

V. THE PILOT AND THE RATTLER

VI. TROUBLE!

VII. A VISIT FROM THE SHERIFF

VIII. FITZ BUYS A HORSE

IX. BAD NEWS

X. JACKO AND BUD TAKE A HAND

XI. HUNG UP!

XII. FIRE!

XIII. BATTLE BEGINS

XIV. WHEN THE WIND CHANGED

XV. CHASED!

XVI. JOSH ROGERS TO THE RESCUE

XVII. THE BLOW FALLS

XVIII. PURSUIT

XIX. THE MESSAGE

XX. THE SECOND CHASE

XXI. THE SECOND DAY

XXII. UNDER THE SMOKE PALL

XXIII. TRAPPED!

XXIV. ANY SIGN OF SAUNDERS?

XXV. BUD OBEYS ORDERS

XXVI. THE STRANGE SCENT

XXVII. A DOUBLE DISAPPOINTMENT

XXVIII. THE STORM BREAKS

XXIX. THE SAVING OF MARY

I. THE NEW CHUM

BUD HARTER laid his hoe against an orange tree, and reaching up to the big bucket of water which hung from a branch, filled the tin dipper and took a long drink.

Another boy who was working close by, looked up with a smile. “Leave some for me, Bud,” he said.

“There’s plenty,” said Bud, filling the dipper again. “Say, Jacko, Pete’s got the dogs all right for to-night.”

“Good business!” declared Stan Jackson as he wiped the perspiration from his brown face. “Then we’ll start the minute after supper.”

“We’ll start as soon as we can get off,” replied Bud. “But I guess we’ll have to wait for the new chum.”

Stan whistled. “Phew, I’d forgotten the chap was coming this evening. I wonder what sort he is?”

Before the other could reply there was a loud crashing in the scrub which rimmed the orange grove.

“Stodge, I bet,” said Bud dryly.

Next moment a plump youth of about sixteen, with a round pink face and big baby-blue eyes, came plunging down upon them. In his hurry he never saw the bucket and banged right into it, with the natural result that it tipped and discharged its whole contents over his head and shoulders.

“Ugh! Ah!” he panted and pulled up short, looking reproachfully at the other two who roared with laughter. “Did you do that?”

“No, old son,” chuckled Bud. “You did it yourself, and now you can just go to the well, and bring us another bucketful.”

“All right, but not now,” answered the boy, mopping himself with a large red cotton handkerchief. “There isn’t time. He’s coming.”

“Who’s coming?”

“The new chap. There’s a buggy in sight down by the lake.”

Jacko dropped his hoe. “Come on, Bud,” he said.

Jacko and Bud made a dead heat of it down to the lake shore. Stodge panted a long way behind.

The grove faced upon a good-sized lake, and the road, a narrow sandy track, ran along the east side of it. Up this road was coming a double buggy drawn by a pair of fine Kentucky horses and driven by a negro.

“Some do, eh, Jacko?” said Bud as he watched the approaching vehicle.

Jacko grinned. “He’s certainly doing it in style. But Bill said he had cash.”

“Cash ain’t everything,” said Bud, a serious look crossing his keen face. “I’d a sight sooner he was a good sort.”

“You’re right, Bud. We’re very happy as we are,” answered Jacko. “But there’s Pete opening the gate. Let’s go and greet the newest addition to Picton’s Pups.”

The buggy drove in and pulled up. As its occupant got out Bud and Jacko fairly gasped. The new-comer, a tall dark boy, was got up in beautiful clean white drill with a white silk collar and a pale blue tie. On his head was a snowy pith helmet, with a large puggaree hanging down his back. He wore beautifully polished brown boots–and gloves.

“Is this–ah–Mr. Picton’s place, my lad?” he demanded, addressing Bud.

Bud was an American, and it took a lot to upset him.

“This–ah–is Mr. Picton’s place, my lord,” he replied, with a perfect imitation of the other’s manner.

The latter looked at him sharply. Bud, of course, was in working kit, consisting of an ancient flannel shirt, an absolutely ragged pair of trousers and an old felt hat. The new arrival took him for one of the helps, and unable to believe that he would dare to chaff him, went on graciously: “Will you–er–tell him that Mr. Fitzgordon has arrived and will be glad to see him?”

Bud winked at Jacko. “Come right along. I’ll lead you to him,” he said.

Mr. Fitzgordon came. He was a tall, well-built fellow, rather older than either of the others. He had quite good features and would have been good-looking but for his abominably conceited air.

Bud led him up a path through the scrub. Jacko followed and Stodge, while Pete Russ, the quaint little negro, who was man-of- all-work on the place, came behind. Pete’s eyes were fairly bulging, and there was a look of intense expectancy on his shiny black face.

They passed the house, a big, one-storey wooden building. Behind it was a row of stabling and barns.

“Mr. Picton,” sang out Bud. “Mr. Fitzgordon is right here.”

A tall young man of about twenty-two, who was perched high on a rough scaffolding against the barn, looked round. He had a paint pot in one hand and a brush in the other. His clothes were no better than Bud’s or Jacko’s, and his sleeves were rolled back over his elbows, showing great, brown muscular arms.

When he saw the wonderful apparition in white drill, a flicker of amused surprise crossed his face. But he recovered in a moment.

“How d’ye do?” he said genially. “You’re early. Didn’t expect you before six. Wait a minute and I’ll come down.”

Fitzgordon made no answer. He merely stared. Bud and Jacko watching him were nearly bursting, yet their faces were as solemn as two mud turtles.

Bill Picton laid his paint pot on the scaffolding and came cautiously down the very dicky ladder.

“Had a good journey?” he asked, as he extended his hand.

Fitzgordon never moved. He looked as if he could not believe his eyes. “Are you Mr. Picton?” he asked at last.

“I am. What’s the matter?”

“I–er–thought you would be–er–older.”

Bill Picton’s eyes twinkled. “Time will remedy that. Anyhow I’m old enough to run this show. Ask Jackson there–or Harter.”

Fitz turned a vacant stare on Bud and Jacko. “Are they your pupils?” he asked blankly.

“Of course they are, and very good ones, too. You must remember we come here to work, and you can’t work in white drill. But never mind that for the present. Come to the house, and I’ll show you your room.”

“Fitz is a peach from Peachville,” whispered Bud to Jacko as they followed.

But Jacko shook his head. “I know his kind,” he said. “He’s going to be a poisonous nuisance.”

“Don’t you worry. We’ll break him,” was Bud’s confident answer. “And, say, Why shouldn’t we start right away? What price taking him out possum-hunting to-night?”

Jacko’s face relaxed a little. “It might be a good idea,” he allowed.

II. THE START FOR THE SWAMP

PICTON took Fitzgordon in by the front way. The two boys went up on to the back verandah, where they were met by a pretty fair-haired girl of fourteen. She was Mary Picton, Bill’s young sister, and as nice a kid as ever lived. Jacko, Bud, and poor fat Stodge all adored her.

“Have you seen him? What’s he like?” she asked eagerly.

“He’s the prettiest thing you ever saw outside a show, Mary,” answered Bud. “All dressed up and nowhere to go.”

“I’m afraid he’s a rotter,” growled Jacko.

“He puts on side enough for six,” added Stodge. Mary’s face fell. “What a pity!” she said sadly. “I’m afraid he’ll spoil everything.”

“Don’t you fret, Mary,” said Bud. “We’ll break his lordship. We’ll teach him to plough and reap and hoe, and don’t you forget it.”

“But let’s hurry up with supper,” he added. “We’re going to begin to-night. We’re going to take him out possum-hunting, Mary.”

“Then bring in some more wood, Bud,” said Mary. “And Stan, you set the table. I’ve a cake in the oven, and I must watch it.”

“I’ll set the table,” volunteered Stodge.

“No, Simmy,” said Mary. “You broke two glasses last time. You can fill those kettles for me.”

Fitzgordon came down to supper in a dinner-jacket and a boiled shirt, thereby startling poor Mary so badly that she turned quite pink and nearly dropped the teapot. Her brother was very silent, but Jacko and Bud were all honey.

“‘Fraid you’ll have to change if you’re coming with us to- night,” said Jacko sweetly. “We’re going hunting.”

“What–in the dark?” exclaimed Fitzgordon in evident amazement.

“Yes. Possums and coons move only at night. It’s great sport. But perhaps you’d rather not come. It’s a bit rough, of course.”

“Oh, I’ll come,” answered the other quickly. “I ride a lot at home.”

“You can’t ride here at night,” explained Jacko quietly. “It’s more like beagles. We go afoot.”

“I’ve done a lot with beagles,” said Fitzgordon in a superior tone. “I daresay I can show you a tip or two.”

“I’m sure you can,” said Jacko sweetly.

Picton’s lips twitched, but he made no objection. He knew very well that he would have to depend on his pupils to handle this latest addition to his establishment.

“You’ll be back by twelve,” was all he said.

“We’ll try,” promised Jacko. “Ah, there’s Pete with the dogs. Put on something rough, Fitzgordon. We’ll wait for you.”

Fitzgordon went off to his own room, to return in a perfectly cut Norfolk coat and breeches, with pale grey stockings and brogue shoes. Bud and Jacko exchanged winks, but made no remark. Outside the house, Pete Russ was waiting with four great smooth- coated yellow hounds.

His eyes widened as they fell on Fitzgordon. “My land, boss,” he said to Jacko. “Yo’ tell dat boy he suah spoil dem pretty clothes down in dem woods.”

“Don’t you worry, Pete. He’s gots heaps more,” whispered Jacko. “And see here, we’re going down into the big Dismal to- night.”

Pete showed his brilliant teeth in a broad grin. “I got yo’, Marse Jacko,” he said, and started off.

“Good sport!” cried Picton from the door. “And I say, keep off Crudge’s land.”

“We’re going into the swamp,” shouted back Jacko. Then they were swallowed up in the darkness. Bill turned to his sister.

“They’ll learn him, as Pete says,” he said with a laugh.

“He certainly needs it,” said Mary, with decision. “Bill, he’s a pig–I’d love to sit up and see when he comes in.”

“Too late for little girls,” said her brother, pinching her arm. “Come and play to me a bit, my dear. Then you must go to bed.”

III. NOT ALL HONEYNOT ALL HONEY

THROUGH the intense blackness of the swamp came booming a deep hollow roar.

Maurice Fitzgordon caught Jacko sharply by the arm.

“I say, Jackson, what was that noise?” he asked in a voice which was not too steady.

“That. Oh, it’s only an alligator,” replied Jack carelessly.

“An alligator! But it’s awfully close.”

“It’s in the creek. Heaps of ’em there. They won’t bother you if you keep clear of the water.”

Just then the dogs gave tongue, their baying crashing out startlingly loud under the huge cypress trees.

“Dey’s treed one,” cried Pete in great excitement. “Dis way. Come on, you all.”

Jack and Bud rushed away after him, and Stodge, clumsy as he was, managed to keep close to their heels. But Fitzgordon had never in his life before been in a tropical swamp, and the very first thing he did was to get both feet tangled in a coil of tough bamboo vine, and come down flat on his face on the wet black “muck.” The stuff was like rotten sponge, and just as full of water as it would hold. When he gained his feet again he was soaked from his knees to his neck, and the rest were clean out of sight.

But the dogs baying in the distance gave him a guide and he went plunging on through the sour-smelling gloom. He was hot, wet, dirty, furiously angry but very badly frightened. The darkness around seemed peopled with all sorts of horrors, and he vowed to himself that once he got out of this place nothing would ever tempt him to put his foot inside it again.

Suddenly he saw a glare of crimson light. Pete had lit a torch, and was thrusting it up into the branches of a huge live oak at the foot of which the dogs were baying frantically.

“He’s up dah,” he cried, “but I suah doan’t know wedder he be a ‘possum or a ‘coon. And de tree’s too big to cut down. What do yo’ reckon we’d better do, Marse Harter?”

“One of us better climb up,” answered Bud. “Here, I’ll go.”

He swung himself into the tree and vanished among the thick foliage. The others heard him scrambling up, while bits of bark and moss rained down. All about, the bull frogs were croaking, the crickets chirping, while from the creek came every now and then the deep hoarse bellow of a great bull alligator.

As for the dogs, they were nearly mad with excitement.

“I see him,” came Bud’s voice from far up. “Great Caesar’s trousers, he’s a whacker! Here, one of you pass up a torch.”

A second torch was lit and Jacko took it up. Bud came back half-way for it. Its red glare lit the heart of the tree.

Suddenly from the heights came a terrifying sound. A deep, snarling growl.

Pete’s eyes goggled. He snatched up his gun. “Good land!” he cried. “It’s a painter!”

“A panther!” gasped Stodge.

“It’s a panther!” yelled Bud from above. “Look out for yourselves.”

There was a slight crackle from above, a thud on the ground close by. A tawny form flashed in the crimson torchlight. At the same instant the dogs, fairly yelling, hurled themselves in pursuit.

“He’s down. He’s gone!” shouted Jacko, and he and Bud together came sliding down almost as fast as the panther.

Jacko was the first to reach the bottom. “Come on!” he roared. “Come on, Stodge. Come on, Fitz.”

“B-but isn’t it dangerous?” began Fitz. No one heard him. They were all running. At that moment Bud dropped off a branch just above, and not seeing Fitz, came right on his shoulders and knocked him flat as a pancake.

“Sorry!” gasped Bud, springing to his feet. “Not hurt? That’s all right. Smart, now. We’ve got to get that brute.”

He was gone in a twinkling. Sore and savage, Fitzgordon staggered after. He would have gone straight home, but he didn’t know the way. He had no choice but to follow.

“The rotter!” he growled under his breath. “I believe he did it on purpose. I’ll fix him for this.”

The chase went roaring through the swamp, the dogs racing far ahead. Their baying woke wild echoes through the aisles of the forest. They were out of the swamp and smashing through rough saw palmetto which ripped their clothes and gashed their skin. Then through the open pine woods where the ground was firm sand, and the pace increased.

Fitz, in the rags of his smart sport suit, with the perspiration pouring off him in streams, stumbled in the rear. His throat was as dry as a board; his legs ached, one of his shoes was untied and the other full of mud. But he dared not stop, for he was scared stiff of being left alone in this great solitary forest.

Suddenly the baying broke out louder than ever, and he saw the torch light flare up. He found himself up against a barbed wire fence which, like an ass, he tried to climb instead of getting under it. Leaving a square foot of superfine cheviot on the barbs, he staggered into a ring of light.

“We’ve treed him. We done treed him,” yelled Pete.

“Steady, you idiot! Not so much row,” growled Bud. “We’re on Crudge’s land. Next thing you know, we’ll have the old son of a gun out on top of us.”

“Phew, and Bill warned us,” said Jacko. “I say, we’d best chuck it. We don’t want a row with the swab.”

“I’m blest if we chuck it,” retorted Bud. “We don’t get on to a panther every night. Here, Pete, give me the gun. I guess I can get him all right.”

“Who’s Crudge?” asked Fitz hoarsely of Pete.

“De meanest man in Florida, sah,” replied the negro. “He’s–” He broke off short. “Oh, great land, if dis ain’t he a-coming!”

As he spoke a man came stalking out of the shadow into the torch light. A huge man well over six feet, with a great head covered with a shock of red hair, and a face beneath it like that of a heathen idol.

His eyes were pale blue and had an ugly glare in them, and in his great hands he held a double-barrelled shot-gun. At his heels slouched a monstrous bandog, a cross between a mastiff and a Cuban bloodhound, a brute even uglier than his master, but hardly more dangerous.

“I thought I’d get ye, ef I waited long enough,” he said, and his voice was as bad as his looks.

There was a sinister smile on Crudge’s unpleasant face as he stalked up towards the party who were grouped under the big oak.

“Wal, I been waiting a mighty long time,” he remarked in a harsh dry voice that sounded like the creaking of an ungreased axle, “but I guess I got ye at last.”

Jacko stepped forward. “Be a sport, Mr. Crudge. I know we’re trespassing, but we haven’t done a bit of harm. Be a sport, and let’s finish our hunt.”

Crudge fixed him with a baleful eye. “A sport, you says. Oh, I’m a sport right enough. Only the end of this yer hunt’s a-going to be in my packing house. That’s where yer stays ternight, and termorrow I’ll fetch out the Sheriff and see what he’s got ter say.”

“What’s he mean?” gasped Fitz in terrified tones. “What does he mean, Pete?”

Pete paid no attention. His eyes were on Jacko.

Jacko kept his head. “What’s the use of fetching the Sheriff, Mr. Crudge? He’s got nothing to do with it.”

“Guess you won’t feel so sure about that this time to-morrow,” replied Crudge malevolently. “I got notices up a-warning folk off my land. It’s a fifty dollar fine by State law, and there’s five of you. Thet’ll be two hundred and fifty dollars. And everyone o’ you’ll stay in calaboose ontil the money’s paid, and don’t forgit it.”

Fitz suddenly stepped in front of Jacko. “Is it money you want, Mr. Crudge?” he enquired. “Because I’ll pay now if you’ll let me go.”

“Shut up, Fitz,” said Jacko sharply. But Crudge flung out his long arm and swept him aside.

“You bet it’s money. Be you a-gwine to pay fer the lot?”

“No–no, of course not. But I’ll pay my share if you’ll let me go now.”

“The dirty sneak!” growled Bud, who was standing right under the tree, with the gun in his hands. As for Jacko, his face expressed the most utter disgust, while Stodge Simmons was positively scowling.

“How much have ye got?” demanded Crudge with ill-suppressed eagerness.

Fitz pulled out a pocket-book which seemed to be bursting with notes. “You said twenty-five dollars. That’s five pounds in English money.”

Grudge’s eyes were gleaming with greed. “Ah, but there’s the costs. That’ll mean another twenty-five. You gimme two o’ them five pound notes and I’ll let you go free.”

But this was where Crudge struck a snag. “Twenty-five dollars was the bargain. I’ll pay that and no more,” retorted Fritz.

The two began wrangling like a pair of pawnbrokers, while the others looked on in utter disgust.

Pete edged quietly up to Bud, and whispered something in his ear. Bud nodded, and there was a quick gleam in his eyes. Quietly moving a little back so as to be out of Grudge’s sight, he raised his gun to his shoulder.

Next moment the two barrels crashed out with a roar that made Crudge jump a good two feet into the air.

“Gol dem ye!” he growled, swinging round furiously on Bud. “I’ll–”

But what threat he was going to utter no one ever knew, for with the report of the gun there came a savage snarl from up overhead, then with a series of thumps and crashes and amid a shower of twigs and bark a great beast came thudding down through the branches.

“Look out, you chaps!” yelled Bud as he hastily thrust fresh cartridges into the breech. “Look out! It’s the panther.”

Uttering a wild yell of terror, Fitz turned and ran like a streak. The panther landed on the ground with a shock that half dazed it. It was badly wounded and as savage as seventeen tom cats.

Before it could recover itself, Crudge’s great hound was on it. But the panther was not too far gone to put up a good scrap, and in an instant a furious fight was raging.

“You done it a purpose. I’ll hev it out o’ yew fer this,” bellowed Crudge, and pulling a pistol from his hip pocket, rushed forward.

“Now’s our chance,” hissed Bud. “Come on, Stodge.”

In a flash Pete had flung down the torch, and all four were off, as hard as ever they could rip, bolting into the thick palmetto scrub which edges the little open space.

Bud stopped short just outside the fence, and Jacko, Stodge and Pete joined him. “Quiet, all of you,” he whispered softly.

Jacko chuckled softly. “That was smart of you, Bud. Think we’ve cooked old Crudge’s goose this journey.”

“And dat awful great dog of his,” added Pete. “My golly, yo’ hear dat! I reckon dat panther’s jest about chewing him up small.”

At that moment came the sharp report of a pistol, then two more shots in rapid succession. Next, Crudge’s voice shouting something–they couldn’t hear what. After that–silence.

“Wait!” said Jacko breathlessly. “That finished it. Crudge has shot the panther. Now he’ll be after us. We’d best hook it, and get home.”

Bud caught him by the arm. “I guess not. We stay right here.”

“You’re crazy, Bud,” retorted Jacko.

“No, I ain’t. You listen again.”

Somewhere in the distance there was a pounding and a crashing.

“Fitz,” whispered Jacko.

“Fitz it is, and making row enough for six. Jacko, the lot of us stay right here, and let Crudge chase that swab.”

Jacko chuckled again. “I believe you’re right, Bud. Yes, by Jove, you are. There’s Crudge off again.”

“But s’pose dat big dawg ob his trails us?” suggested Pete, with a shiver.

“Take it from me, the dog’s after Fitz–that is, if he’s in shape to go after anyone,” replied Bud. “If we sit tight we’re safe enough.”

They sat tight and listened. The night was very still, and though Crudge was a good way off, they could plainly hear his heavy frame crashing through the palmetto scrub and long wire grass. They could also hear some of his remarks, but those are better left unprinted.

There was a twang of wire. “There, he’s through the fence,” said Bud softly. “And a good hundred yards from us.”

As he spoke he got up and started to climb back through the fence.

“What on earth are you up to?” demanded Jacko in amazement.

“What do you think? I’m going after that panther.”

“Yo’re sure crazy,” exclaimed Pete in dismay.

“Crazy–nothing! Do you think we’re going to leave that skin to Crudge?”

Jacko drew a quick breath. “You’re right, Bud. We can’t leave it to that swab. Why, he’ll boast all over the country how he treed and killed it. And then he’ll sell the skin for ten dollars.”

“It’s a mighty big risk,” murmured Pete unhappily. Like all negroes, he was desperately afraid of Crudge’s big dog. But he would not go back on the others, so followed them through the fence.

Bud led the way. The torch was still smouldering, and by its dim light they saw the tawny form of the panther lying under the tree. It was dead enough. But the dog was not there. Seemingly he had not been badly hurt.

Bud stood and listened. But all that could be heard was a chirring of crickets and the distant, mournful hooting of a little owl.

“Guess Crudge and Fitz have run clean out o’ the county,” he remarked dryly. “See here, boys. Best thing we can do is to carry the old catamount outside the fence.”

“That’s the tip,” agreed Jacko. “Here, Pete, you take one end, and I’ll take the other.”

It was a fine male panther, nearly six feet long, and weighing as much as a twelve-year-old boy.

“My land, I jest wish I could see Marse Crudge’s face when he finds dat dis here is gone,” grinned Pete.

“It’s your face will be worth seeing if you don’t hurry up,” retorted Jacko. “My goodness, the brute’s heavy.”

They got it to the fence, swung it over, and followed. Their own dogs, which they had tied outside the fence, strained at their leashes, but Pete managed to keep them quiet.

Bud looked at the panther. Then he glanced at his watch. “Say, boys, it’s mighty nigh half-past eleven, and we told Bill we’d be back at twelve. Guess we better sling this feller up in a tree and come around for him in the morning. What do you say?”

“That’s an idea,” agreed Bud. “Up with him into this black- jack.”

They slung the beast high and hid him well, then went off at the double for Lake Twinkle, and reached the house only a few minutes after twelve.

“Any luck, boys?” came Bill’s deep voice as he picked himself out of a long chair on the verandah.