flown away.

Then a harsh voice crashed into that silence.

“Reckon she are up thar, Lige?”

“’T’ain’t no ways possible,” drawled the second man. “Look at them thar hollyhocks. Narry a leaf broke. Reckon airy one’d pass through that door without a tramplin’ ’em down?”

“Reckon not.”

“Better be stirrin’ then, I reckon.”

“Reckon so.”

Again came the solid drum of feet. This grew fainter and fainter until it died away in the distance.

“Good old hollyhocks! Good little old sentries, how I could hug you for that!” A tear splashed down upon the girl’s hand, a tear for which none should be ashamed.

Even as the footsteps of the men died away in the distance, Florence felt the shadow of the mountain creeping over the cabin.

“Soon be dark,” she breathed, “and then—”

She was some time in deciding just what should be done. Her first impulse was to take the up-trail as soon as darkness had fallen and to make her way back to her friends.

“But that,” she told herself, “means the end of our hopes.”

At once there passed before her closed eyes pictures of brave, laughing little children of the mountain; ragged, barefooted, pleading children, walking miles over the frosts of November to attend their school, the first real school they would have known.

“No!” She set her teeth hard. “There is still a way. I will wait here for Marion’s signal. It will come. If she has news, good news, somehow I will find my way to Caleb Powers. Somehow the race must be won!”

CHAPTER III
A DARTING SHADOW

That same evening, just at dusk, Marion came upon a fresh and startling mystery. She had climbed the hill at the back of the ancient whipsawed cabin which was occupied by Mrs. McAlpin and her friends.

Beside the bubbling brook that sang so softly, she had found she could think calmly. There was reason enough for calm thinking, too. They had entered into this business of buying the Powell coal tract, expecting only mild adventure and possibly a large profit. Mysterious things were happening to Florence. She was sure of that. By the aid of the Silent Alarm she had received a message from her. The message had warned her to retreat, to return to the whipsawed cabin and wait. She had obeyed.

It was indeed very singular.

“What can have happened?” Marion now asked herself for the hundredth time. “Wherever she may be, she can hardly be out of reach of the Silent Alarm. Darkness will find me again on the trail that leads to the crest of Pine Mountain.

“She must succeed! Must! Must!” she told herself. “And I must let her know. I surely must!”

That very afternoon she had received information of tremendous importance.

In the whipsawed cabin was a small radio receiving set. The long twilight of the mountains often slipped away with a score of mountain people sitting on the hillside listening to the sweet strains of music that came from this radio and floated through the open windows. At times, even in the afternoon, they tuned in on Louisville that they might catch some news of the outside world. On this particular afternoon, wearied from her long hike of the previous night, Marion had been lolling half asleep on the couch when of a sudden she sat upright, wide awake. Her ear had caught the words, “M. and N. Railroad.”

Here might be important news. It was important, for the announcer, after a brief pause in which he had perhaps referred to his notes, had gone on:

“At a meeting to-day of the Board of Directors of the M. and N. Railroad, it was decided that a spur would be built along the south slope of Pine Mountain. This work, which is to be rushed to completion within a year, will tap vast tracks of valuable coal land.”

Marion had risen trembling from the couch. She had wanted to cry, to laugh, to shout. Here was great news indeed. Coming right in from the air, it had beyond doubt given them many hours of advantage over their rival, the agent of the Inland Coal and Coke Company.

But she had not shouted, nor had she cried nor laughed. She had climbed the hillside and had stretched out on the leafy slope by the murmuring brook to think.

She had decided to wait for darkness. Then she would hurry away over the four miles that led to the crest of the low mountain. Once there she would kindle a beacon fire.

Down deep in her heart she prayed that Florence might catch the gleam of that fire as she had the one of the night before, and that having caught her joyous message, she might be free to act.

“If only it would hurry and get dark!” she whispered to herself. “If only it would. Then I could slip up there and send the message.”

But what was this? Of a sudden this all important problem was driven from her mind. From out the clump of mountain ivy that skirted the hill above the whipsawed cabin there had darted a shadow.

Who could it be? No mysterious persons were known to be about, but she could not be sure. Men hid out in these hills—rough, dangerous men who were wanted by the law.

The cheery lamplight that suddenly burst forth through the small square window of the whipsawed cabin below reassured her. There were friends in that house, her friends Mrs. McAlpin and little Hallie.

Even as she settled back again to think of their great problems, she was given another start. Outside the window, into the square of light that poured forth from it, there had crept the face of a man. It was not a charming face to behold, but rather an alarming one. Beneath bushy eyebrows gleamed a pair of beady black eyes. The nose was hawk-like and the cheeks and chin were covered by a stubby beard.

It was a face to make one shudder, and Marion did shudder. She drew back as if to bury herself in the giant chestnut at her back. Even as she did so she saw the man start, saw an unuttered exclamation spring to his lips. What had he seen? What had he hoped to see? There was mystery enough about that whipsawed cabin. Once there had been gold in it—much gold. Preacher Gibson had hinted that it might still be there. It had been brought there many years before, just after the Civil War. Jeff Middleton, who with the help of a neighbor had built the cabin, had died suddenly in a feud. The gold had vanished. No one, so far as was known, had ever found it.

Who was this man at the window? Did he at last have a clue to the whereabouts of the gold, and had he come to search for it, only to find the cabin occupied?

Little Hallie, too, was quite as mysterious as the whipsawed cabin in which she lived. She had been brought to the cabin door on a stormy night—a beautiful eight year old child, unconscious from an ugly blow on her head. While she was being cared for, the man who brought her had vanished. He had not returned. That was three weeks ago. Efforts to discover the identity of the child—other than the name “Hallie,” which had come from her own lips—had been unavailing. Her memory appeared to have gone with the blow on her head.

Fortunately, Mrs. McAlpin had studied medicine in her younger days. Under her efficient care Hallie had become the cheery joy of the whipsawed house.

Did this mysterious man know something about little Hallie? Or was he just some wanderer looking for food and shelter? This last seemed the most probable.

Yet, as Marion came to this conclusion, she suddenly learned that this man knew