Hackett's Pass was far behind and the moon was going low when the car
stopped for a moment and a hurried consultation took place inside.
Billy couldn't hear all that was said, but he gathered that time was
short and the conspirators must be back at a certain place before
morning. They seemed somehow to have missed a trail that was to have
cut the distance greatly. Billy clung breathlessly to his cramped
position and waited. He hoped they wouldn't get out and try to find the
way, for then some of them might see him, and he was so stiff he was
sure he would bungle getting out of the way. But after a breathless
moment the car started on more slowly, and finally turned down a steep
rough place, scarcely a trail, into the deeper woods. For a long time
they went along, slower and slower, into the blackness of night it
seemed. There was no moon, and the men had turned off the lights. There
was nothing but a pocket flash which one of them carried, and turned on
now and again to show them the way. The engine too was muffled and went
snuffing along through the night like a blind thing that had been
gagged. Billy began to wonder if he would ever find his legs useful
again. Sharp pains shot through his joints, and he became aware of
sleep dropping upon his straining eyes like a sickening cloud. Yet he
must keep awake.
He squirmed about and changed his position, staring into the darkness
and wondering if this journey was ever to end. Now they were bumping
down a bank, and slopping through water, not very deep, a small
mountain stream on one of the levels. He tried to think where it must
be, but was puzzled. They seemed to have traveled part of the way in
curves. Twice they stopped and backed up and seemed to be returning on
their tracks. They crossed and recrossed the little stream, and the
driver was cursing, and insisting on more light. At last they began
climbing again and the boy drew a breath of relief. He could tell
better where he was on the heights. He began to think of morning and
Sabbath Valley bathed in its Sabbath peace, with the bells chiming a
call to worship--and he not there! Aunt Saxon would be
crazy! She would bawl him out! He should worry! and she
would weep, pink weak tears from her old thin eyes, that seemed to have
never done much else but weep. The thought turned and twisted in his
soul like an ugly curved knife and made him angry. Tears always made
him angry. And Miss Lynn--she would watch for him--! He had promised to
be there! And she would not understand--and there would come that
grieved look in her eyes. She would think--Oh, she would think he did
not want to come, and did not mean to keep his promise,
and things like that--and she would have to think them! He couldn't
help it, could he? He had to come along, didn't he?