CHAPTER XIII

There may have been worse nights in history than the one Tad spent in that garret, but in all his experience he never was to know a longer or more nerve-racking one.

Rats scampered everywhere, in the walls and up and down the floor. He could hear them gnawing, squealing, fighting all about him.

Once or twice, when he drowsed off for a moment, their furry bodies brushed against his skin, waking him with a start. He had heard of rats attacking men in places like this. What if one of them should bite him there in the dark? He sat, tense and waiting, for hours on end, and shook his chain and thumped his hands on the floor to keep them away.

The lesser vermin in the rags about him were not so easily frightened off. He had discovered, almost as soon as he was put in the room, that Murrell’s mention of fleas was more than idle chatter. Now, under cover of the darkness, they came in swarms to feast upon him. In a way, perhaps, they were a blessing, for they gave him little time to dwell on his graver troubles.

Nevertheless he was haunted all night by the thought of Abe’s distress. What had the big flatboatman thought of him when he failed to return at noon? Allen, doubtless, had stayed ashore drinking and enjoying himself, and Abe must have felt that Tad had betrayed his trust. At least so the boy pictured it to himself. Then he realized that the long-shanked Hoosier would be far more concerned with finding him than with blaming him. Just what would Abe do, he wondered. For he was positive that he would do something. Murrell and all his gang went armed to the teeth. If Abe should run afoul of some of them he would almost certainly be killed. Tad thought of the strong, homely, kindly face of his big friend and came near sobbing.

At last, toward dawn, he was too weary to fight the fleas, and hardly cared whether the rats bit him or not. Tumbled in a heap on the floor, he slept the sleep of sheer exhaustion.

The reflected light of a bright morning sun was in the room when he awoke. A clatter of pots and pans and an odor of cooking came up from below. Presently he heard boots thumping and the scrape of chairs and knew that the outlaws were sitting down to breakfast.

Rubbing his eyes, he looked about the dirty room and saw that there was a little heap of iron filings on the floor where he had worked. Hastily he lifted the loose board and swept the tell-tale gray dust into the hole. He was none too soon, for a moment later he heard the pad of bare feet outside, and the sliding of the bolt on his door. Congo entered bearing his breakfast.

The meal this time was an unappetizing kind of cornmeal mush without milk. Tad had hoped to get some more butter. He hid his disappointment, however, and ate as much of the stuff as he could, knowing that he would need all his strength if he was ever to escape. There was also a cup of water which he drank eagerly.

When he had finished, Congo took the bowl and cup and paused in the doorway as before to grimace at him. This time the huge negro changed his gesture. With one hand he made the sign of a noose about his neck, winding up behind his left ear with a horrible jerk of the head and more silent laughter.

Tad, with a sick feeling at the pit of his stomach, wondered what other varieties of sudden death he would see illustrated before he left that filthy place.

The morning was well along--it must have been after ten o’clock, Tad thought--when there was a sound of heavy hoofs galloping up the road, and several riders dismounted in the yard. The boy could hear them swearing at the horses and then greeting Murrell and his companions as they approached the door.

These newcomers seemed to be members of the outlaw gang, for they spoke freely of Tad’s capture and asked the chief what he planned to do with his prize. As they came into the room below, one of them was roaring with laughter. Tad took up the board in order to hear better and found he could make out nearly everything that was said.

“But the blankety-blankedest thing I ever saw, suh,” one of the new men was remarking, “was this big Hoosier broadhorn steerer comin’ up the Main Street. Seven foot if he was an inch--yes, suh, I’m not exaggeratin’ a particle--seven foot tall! He marches up to the first saloon he sees and asks the bar-keep if he knows anything about a boy that’s missin’. The man gives him some sort of a sassy answer, and next thing he knows this long-legged river hand has grabbed him by the neck and flung him out in the middle of the road.

“Fight? No, there was no fight. The Hoosier just goes along and leaves him there. At the next place the same thing happens, only the bartender saves his skin by apologizin’ mighty quick when he sees that long arm comin’. So it goes all the way up the street.

“Finally he gets to Nolan’s place. By this time there’s quite a crowd of flatboat and keel-boat men followin’ along to see the fun. An’ drinkin’ at Nolan’s bar is some ark hand that pipes up and says yes, indeed, he saw the boy. He was bein’ carried off by three men on horseback, ridin’ hell-for-leather up the South Bluff road.

“‘What did they look like?’ asks Longshanks, and the fellow tells him that the one holdin’ the boy was tall and rode a big sorrel horse with three white stockin’s.

“At that, half the river-men in the crowd shout ‘Jack Murrell,’ and there’s a grand howdy-do. The big Hoosier tries to find out where you’d be likely to take the boy, but of course no one knows a thing.

“I understand he’s gone up to Natchez-on-the-Hill this mornin’, to try to raise a posse.”

Tad heard Murrell’s lazy laugh. “Huh,” said the leader, “he won’t get far there. What say, Carson, want to have a look at the youngster?”

There was a sound of boots that warned Tad to put the board back in position. He crawled back into the corner where the shadows were deepest and turned the filed place in the fetter carefully under his ankle.

When the door opened he sat there sullen-faced, picking at the ragged edges of his shirt sleeve with listless fingers.

Murrell was accompanied by a big, florid young man in the dapper dress of a planter, who slapped the dust from his boots with a riding-whip as he stared down at the boy.

“Haw, haw! Fifty thousand--for that?” he laughed. “Here, step up, boy, and let’s have a look at you!” And he flicked the stinging lash of his whip into the lad’s neck. A sudden flush spread over Tad’s face, but he sat perfectly still. Angrily, Carson threw up his arm for a full stroke, but Murrell detained him with a sharp word.

“Careful,” he said. “He’s mine, you know.” For a moment Carson faced the cold gleam of the chief’s eyes. Then his own eyes dropped. He gave an uneasy laugh and turned toward the stairs, and after another glance at Tad, Murrell followed him.

The time dragged by interminably. Buzzing flies made the daylight hours seem as unbearably long as the night had been. Sometime in the afternoon the boy dozed off and was finally awakened by the arrival of his supper. To his joy there was bread and butter. He was so hungry that there was a real temptation to gobble all of it, but he saved the last piece, pretending to eat it, as before.

Just as Congo stooped to pick up the plate, there came that ear-splitting whistle that Tad had heard once before, and the big negro leaped as if he had been shot. Without even a backward look he slipped through the door, fastened it, and hurried down the stairs.

Other horsemen had arrived, it seemed. Tad heard strange voices below, and after removing the board caught Murrell’s answer.

“If they do come, it will be in daylight,” he was saying. “We’ll have to run him back to a safer place in the morning, and lie low for a few days.”

The boy’s heart sank. Tonight, it seemed, was his last chance. If he did not get away before morning he was to be taken off to some new stronghold where there would be even less hope of escape.

Quickly he took the file out of the hole and set to work. Before darkness had completely fallen he could see that another hour’s labor would sever the broad iron ring. He rested a few minutes and then went on, pushing the file steadily back and forth. This time he took no chances with his bread and butter, but kept it tucked away in the bosom of his shirt.

From the noise in the room below he judged that there must be five or six men at least gathered about the table. They seemed to be playing cards and drinking, for he heard frequent orders for rum punch shouted at a servant they called Juba.

What game they were playing he could not tell, but the stakes must have been high. A loud voice, made thick by many potations, reached the boy distinctly through the garret floor,

“You goin’ to stick along, Murrell?” the voice was saying. “You goin’ to stick? Gettin’ in pretty deep, ain’t you? That’s fifteen hundred you owe me now. All right, I’m raisin’ it two hundred more. What d’ye say--want to put the boy up? Eh? That gilt-edged prisoner o’ yours? I aim to back these cards all night; so you better unlimber some cash or else put up the boy.”

Tad bent harder to his work, and the sweat streamed from his face as he filed. If they were making him a stake in their game and the cards went against Murrell, his new owner might come up at any moment to claim him. The file was almost through. He gave it a last stroke or two, and the fetter fell open with a sudden clank of metal.

Holding his breath, the boy waited to see if they had heard, but it appeared that all in the lower room were too absorbed in what was going on there to notice any such trifling sound. With all possible care he lifted his ankle out of the broken clasp and stood up, feeling an exhilarating sense of freedom.

Cautiously, in the darkness, he moved across the room. The door was secured on the outside, as he had expected. He left it and turned toward the window, treading very softly and testing each board with his bare toes.

There had been a momentary lull in the voices downstairs. Now, with startling suddenness, some one ripped out an angry oath, and there was a commotion of chairs being pushed back. Two pistol shots rent the air, close together, and then all was quiet again except for a single low groan.

Tad stood still, trying to control the shaking of his knees.

“He’s dead,” came the heavy voice of Bull Whaley. “Well, we can’t leave him here. Come, give me a hand, some one.”

The house door opened and closed again, and then there was a short, ugly laugh, followed by a call for Juba and another round of drinks. Tad tiptoed forward to the window.

Where he had feared to find a complicated system of fastenings, there was only a big square nail driven part way into the frame above the lower sash. It was solidly imbedded in the wood, but by moving it up and down until it had a trifle of play, he was able at last to pull it out with his fingers.

To the boy’s relief, the sash was loose enough to raise without too much effort. He lifted it an inch at a time, easing it past the squeaks, and braced it open with a two-foot length of stick which had been lying on the sill.

A young moon, partly obscured by clouds, shed a faint light over the dooryard. Tad could see the ground, fifteen feet below, with a tangled mass of rank weeds growing against the house. A score of yards beyond was the road, and then woods, black and dense, stretching away to the west. A little night breeze came in the window with refreshing coolness.

Tad stood there for a while, wondering what time of night it was and how late it would be before the outlaws went to sleep. He was afraid they might stay a long time over their liquor. Climbing down past the window of the room in which they sat seemed a foolhardy plan, but Tad grew restless at the thought of a long wait.

At last he decided to go back to his hole in the floor and listen to their talk. Treading lightly but swiftly, he retraced his steps. The garret was as dark as pitch, but he believed he knew his way. He must be nearing the place now. And even as this thought crossed his mind he stepped directly into the opening. There was a crackle of breaking lath and a crash of plaster, and Tad’s foot went through the ceiling of the room beneath. He withdrew it instantly and stood there trembling, his heart pounding with terror and with fury at his own clumsiness.

A sound of startled swearing came from below, and through the aperture he caught a glimpse of flushed faces staring upward. For a long moment they stood so. Then the faces disappeared and there was a rush of feet through the hallway leading to the stairs.

Only one course lay open for Tad, and he took it. Darting across the garret, he scrambled through the window and let himself down, his hands gripping the sill, till his feet touched the ledge above the ground floor window. Would they see him? He had no way of telling how many had stayed in the room below. But he could already hear shouts at the top of the stairs, and some one was fumbling at the bolt.

With a deep intake of breath the boy let go one hand, swung outward and jumped.