The City of Fire

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The bees droned on and the lark grew fainter and fainter. Billy's eyes
drooped closer shut, his long curling lashes lay on his freckled cheeks
the way they lay sometimes when Aunt Saxon came to watch him. That
adorable sweep of lash that all mothers of boys know, that air of
dignity and innocence that makes you forget the day and its doings and
undoings and think only, this is a man child, a wonderful creature of
God, beloved and strong, a gift of heaven, a wonder in daytime, a
creature to be afraid of sometimes, but weak in sleep, _adorable!_

Billy slept.

The afternoon train lumbered in with two freight cars behind, and a lot
of crates and boxes to manipulate, but Billy slept. The five o'clock
train slid in and the evening express with its toll of guests for the
Lake Hotel who hustled off wearily, cheerily, and on to the little Lake
train that stood with an expectant insolent air like a necessary evil
waiting for a tip. The two trains champed and puffed and finally
scampered away, leaving echoes all along the valley, and a red stream
of sun down the track behind them from a sky aflame in the west
preparing for a brilliant sunset. The red fingers of the sun touched
the freckles on Billy's cheek lightly as if to warn him that the time
had come. The shutters slammed on at the little station. The agent
climbed the hill to his shack among the pines. Pat came out the door
and stood on the platform looking down the valley, waiting for the
agent to get out of sight.

And Billy slept on!

XXII

Three days later a pall hung over Sabbath Valley. The coroner's inquest
had brought in a verdict of murder, and the day of the hearing had been
set. Mark Carter was to be tried for murder--was _wanted_ for
murder as Elder Harricutt put it. It was out now and everybody knew it
but Mrs. Carter, who went serenely on her way getting her regular
letters from Mark postmarked New York and telling of little happenings
that were vague but pleasant and sounded so like Mark, so comforting
and son like. So strangely tender and comforting and more in detail
than Mark's letters had been wont to be. She thought to herself that he
was growing up at last. He spoke of a time when he and she would have a
nice home together somewhere, some new place where he would get into
business and make a lot of money. Would she like that? And once he told
her he was afraid he hadn't been a very good son to her, but sometime
he would try to make it up to her, and she cried over that letter for
sheer joy. But all the rest of the town knew that Mark was suspected of
murder, and most of them thought he had run away and nobody could find
him. The county papers hinted that there were to be strange revelations
when the time of the trial came, but nothing definite seemed to come
out from day to day more than had been said at first, and there was a
strange lack of any mention of Mark in connection with it after the
first day.

Lynn Severn went about the house quiet and white, her face looking like
an angel's prayer, one continual petition, but she was sweet and
patient, and ready to do anything for anybody. Work seemed to be her
only respite from the gnawing horror of her thoughts. To know that the
whole village believed that Mark, her life long playmate, had been
guilty of a crime so heinous was so appalling that sometimes she just
stood at the window and laughed out into the sunshine at the crazy idea
of it. It simply could not be. Mark, who had always been so gentle and
tender for every living thing, so chivalrous, so ready to help! To
think of Mark killing anyone! And yet, they might have needed killing.
At least, of course she didn't mean that, but there were circumstances
under which she could imagine almost anyone doing a deed--well what was
the use, there was no way to excuse or explain a thing she didn't
understand, and she could just do nothing but not believe any of it
until she knew. She would trust in God, and yes, she would trust in
Mark as she always had done, at least until she had his own word that
he was not trustable. That haughty withdrawing of himself on Sunday
night and his "I am not worthy" meant nothing to her now when it came
trailing across her consciousness. It only seemed one more proof of his
tender conscience, his care for her reputation. He had known then what
they were saying about him, he must have known the day before that
there was something that put him in a position so that he felt it was
not good for her reputation to be his friend. He had withdrawn to
protect her. That was the way she explained it to her heart, while yet
beneath it all was the deep down hurt that he had not trusted her, and
let her be his friend in trouble as well as when all was well.

She had written him a little note, not too intimate, just as a sister
might have written, expressing her deep trust, and her sincere desire
to stand by and help in any time of need. In it she begged him to think
her worthy of sharing his trouble as he used to share his happiness,
and to know always that she was his friend whatever came. She had read
it over and over to be sure she was not overstepping her womanly right
to say these things, and had prayed about it a great deal. But when it
came to sending it she did not know his New York address. He had been
strangely silent during the last few months and had not written her.
She did not want to ask his mother. So she planned to find it out
through Billy. But Billy did not come. It had been two days since Billy
had been around, or was it three? She was standing at the window
looking down the road toward the Saxon cottage and wondering if she
wanted to go down and hunt for Billy when she saw Miss Saxon coming up
the street and turning in at the gate, and her face looked wan and
crumpled like an old rose that had been crushed and left on the parlor
floor all night.

She turned from the window and hurried down:

"Miss Marilyn," Aunt Saxon greeted her with a gush of tears, "I don't
know what to do. Billy's away! He hasn't been home for three days and
three nights! His bed ain't been touched. He never did that before
except that last time when he stayed out to help Mark Carter that time
on the mountain with that sick man, and I can't think what's the
matter. I went to Miz Carter's, but she ain't seen him, and she says
Mark's up to his business in New York, so Billy can't be with him, and
I just know he's kilt, Miss Marilyn. I just know he's kilt. I dreamt of
a shroud night before last and I can't help thinkin' he's _kilt!_"
and the tears poured down the tired little face pitifully.

Marilyn drew her tenderly into the house and made her sit down by the
cool window, brought a palm leaf fan and a footstool, and told Naomi to
make some iced orangeade. Then she called her mother and went and sat
down by the poor little creature who now that somebody else was going
to do something about it had subsided into her chair with relief born
of exhaustion. She had not slept for three nights and two of those days
she had washed all day.

"Now, Miss Saxon, dear, you're not to worry," said the girl taking the
fan and waving it gently back and forth, touching the work-worn hand
tenderly with her other hand, "Billy is not dead, I'm sure! Oh, I'm
quite sure! I think somehow it would be hard to kill Billy. He has ways
of keeping alive that most of us don't enjoy. He is strong and young
and sharp as a needle. No one can put anything over on Billy, and I
have somehow a feeling, Miss Saxon that Billy is off somewhere doing
something very important for somebody. He is that way you know. He does
nice unusual things that nobody else would think of doing, and I just
expect you'll find out some day that Billy has been doing one of those.
There's that man on the mountain, for instance. He might be still very
sick, and it would be just like Billy to stay and see to him. Maybe
there isn't anybody else around to do it, and now that Mark has gone he
would feel responsible about it. Of course he ought to have told you
before he went, but he wouldn't likely have expected to stay long, and
then boys don't think. They don't realize how hard it is not to
understand--!"

"Thas'so, Miss Marilyn," sniffed Miss Saxon, "He don't hardly ever
think. But he mighta phomed."

"Well, it isn't likely they have phones on the mountain, and you
haven't any, have you? How could he?"

"He mighta phomed to you."

"Yes, he might, but you know how boys are, he wouldn't want to bother
anybody. And if the man was in a lonely cabin somewhere he couldn't get
to a phone."

"Thas'so too. Oh, Miss Marilyn, you always do think up comfort. You're
just like your ma and pa. But Billy, he's been so kinda peaked lately,
so sorta gentle, and then again sorta crazy like, just like his mother
useta be 'fore her husband left her. I couldn't help worryin'."

"Well, now, Miss Saxon, I'll inquire around all I can without rousing
any suspicion. You know Billy would hate that."

"Oh, I know he would," flushed the little woman nervously.

"So I'll just ask the boys if they know where he is and where they saw
him last, and don't you worry. I'll tell them I have a message for him
you know, and you just stop crying and rest easy and don't tell a soul
yet till I look around. Here comes mother. She'll help you better than
I can."

Mrs. Severn in a cool white dimity came quietly into the room, bringing
a restful calm with her, and while Lynn was out on her errand of mercy
she slipped a strong arm around the other woman's waist and had her
down on her knees in the alcove behind the curtains, and had committed
the whole matter to a loving Heavenly Father, Billy and the tired
little Aunt, and all the little details of life that harrow so on a
burdened soul; and somehow when they rose the day was cooler, and life
looked more possible to poor Aunt Saxon.

Presently came Lynn, brightly. She had seen the boys. They had met
Billy in Economy day before yesterday. He had said he had a job, he
didn't know how long it would last, and he might not be able to come to
base ball practice. He told them who to put in his place till he got
back.

"There, now, Miss Saxon, you go home and lie down and take a good
sleep. You've put this whole thing in the hands of the Lord, now don't
take it out again. Just trust Him. Billy'll come back safe and sound,
and there'll be some good reason for it," said Mrs. Severn. And Aunt
Saxon, smiling wistfully, shyly apologetic for her foolishness, greatly
cheered and comforted, went. But Lynn went up to her little white room
and prayed earnestly, adding Billy to her prayer for Mark. Where was
Billy Gaston?

When Miss Saxon went home she found a letter in the letter box out by
the gate addressed to Billy. This set her heart to palpitating again
and she almost lost her faith in prayer and took to her own worries
once more. But she carried the letter in and held it up to the window,
trying her best to make out anything written therein. She justified
this to her conscience by saying that it might give a clue to Billy's
whereabouts. Billy never got letters. Maybe, it might be from his long
lost father, though they had all reason to believe him dead. Or maybe--
Oh, what if Albert Gaston had come back and kidnapped Billy! The
thought was too awful. She dropped right down in the kitchen where she
stood by the old patchwork rocking chair that always stood handy in the
window when she wanted to peel potatoes, and prayed: "Oh, God, don't
let it be! Don't bring that bad man back to this world again! Take care
of my Billy and bring him back to me, Amen!" Over and over again she
prayed, and it seemed to comfort her. Then she rose, and put the tea
kettle on and carefully steamed open the letter. She had not lost all
hope when she took time to steam it open in place of tearing it, for
she was still worse afraid that Billy might return and scold her for
meddling with his precious letter, then she was afraid he would not
return. While the steam was gathering she tried to justify herself in
Billy's eyes for opening it at all. After her prayer it seemed a sort
of desecration. So the kettle had almost boiled away before she
mustered courage to hold the envelope over the steam, and while she did
this she noticed for the first time significantly that the postmark was
New York. Perhaps it was from Mark. Then Billy was not with Mark! But
perhaps the letter would tell.

So she opened the flap very carefully, and pulled out the single sheet
of paper, stepping nearer the window to read it in the late afternoon
light. It read: "Dear Kid, shut your mouth and saw wood. Buddy." That
was all.

Aunt Saxon lifted frightened eyes and stared at the lilac bush outside
the window, the water spout where Billy often shinned up and down, the
old apple tree that he would climb before he was large enough to be
trusted, and then she read the letter again. But it meant nothing to
her. It seemed a horrible riddle. She took a pencil and a scrap of
paper and quickly transcribed the mysterious words, omitting not even
the punctuation, and then hurriedly returned the letter to its
envelope, clapped the flap down and held it tight. When it was dry she
put the letter up in plain sight on the top of the old secretary where
Billy could find it at once when he came in. She was taking no chances
on Billy finding her opening his mail. It never had happened before,
because Billy never had had a letter before, except notices about base
ball and athletic association, but she meant it never should happen.
She knew instinctively that if it ever did she would lose Billy, if not
immediately, then surely eventually, for Billy resented above all
things interference. Then Aunt Saxon sat down to study the
transcription. But after a long and thorough perusal she folded it
carefully and pinned it in her bosom. But she went more cheerily down
to the market to get something for supper. Billy might come any time
now. His letter was here, and he would surely come home to get his
letter.

Down at the store she met Marilyn, who told her she looked better
already, and the poor soul, never able to hold her tongue, had to tell
the girl about the letter.

"He's had a letter," she said brightening, "about a job I guess. It was
there when I got back. It's sawing wood. The letter doesn't have any
head. It just says about sawing wood. I 'spose that's where he is, but
he ought to have let me know. He was afraid I'd make a fuss about it, I
always do. I'm afraid of those big saws they use. He's so careless. But
he was set on a grown-up job. I couldn't get him to paste labels on
cans at the factory, he said it was too much of a kid game."

"Oh," said Marilyn, wondering, "Sawing wood. Well, that's where he is
of course, and it's good healthy work. I wouldn't worry. Billy is
pretty careful I think. He'll take care of himself."

But to herself on the way home she said: "How queer for Billy to go off
sawing wood just now! It doesn't seem like him. They can't be so hard
up. There must be something behind it all. I hope I didn't start
anything asking him to stick by Mark! Oh, _where_ is Mark?"

That afternoon Marilyn took a horseback ride, and touched all the
points she knew where there might be likely to be woodsawing going on,
but no Billy was on the job anywhere.

As she rode home through Economy she saw Mrs. Fenner scuttling down a
side street from the jail, and hurrying into her own side gate like a
little frightened lizard.

Marilyn came back home heart sick and sad, and took refuge in the
church and her bells. At least she could call to Billy across the hills
somewhere by playing the songs he loved the best. And perhaps their
echoes would somehow cross the miles to Mark too, by that strange
mysterious power that spirit can reach to spirit across space or years
or even estrangement, and draw the thoughts irresistibly. So she sat at
the organ and played her heart out, ringing all the old sweet songs
that Mark used to love when the bells first were new and she was
learning to play them; Highland Laddie, Bonnie Bonnie Warld,
Mavourneen, Kentucky Home, songs that she had kept fresh in her heart
and sometimes played for Billy now and then. And then the old hymns.
Did they echo far enough to reach him where he had gone, Mark sitting
alone in his inferno? Billy holding his breath and trying to find a way
out of his? Did they hear those bells calling?

"Oh, God our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come!
Our refuge from the stormy blast,
And our eternal home!"

The soul of the girl in the little dusky church went up in a prayer
with the bells.

"Before the hills in order stood,
Or earth received her frame,
From everlasting Thou art God!
A thousand years the same!"

Every mortal in the village knew the words, and in kitchens now,
preparing savory suppers, or down in the mills and factories, or out on
the street coming home, they were humming them, or repeating them over
in their hearts. The bells did not ring the melody alone. The message
was well known and came to every heart. Mark and Billy knew them too.
Perhaps by telepathy the tune would travel to their minds and bring
their words along:

"Under the shadow of Thy wings
Thy saints have dwelt secure,
Sufficient is Thine arm alone,
And Thy defense is sure!"

The bells ceased ringing and the vibration slowly died away, hill
answering to hill, in waves of softly fading sound, while the people
went to their suppers with a light of blessing and uplift on their
faces. But in the darkened church, Marilyn, with her fingers on the
keys and her face down upon her hands was praying, praying that God
would shelter Mark and Billy.

XXIII

High in the tree over Billy's head a little chipmunk whisked with a nut
in his mouth. He selected a comfortable rocking branch, unfurled his
tail for a wind shield at his back, and sat up to his supper table as
it were with the nut in his two hands. Something unusual caught his
attention as he was about to attack the nutshell, and he cocked his
little striped head around, up, and down, and took in Billy. Then a
squirrel smile overspread his furry face and a twinkle seemed to come
in his eye. With a wink down toward Billy he went to work. Crack,
crack, crack! The shell was open. Crack! And a large section fell,
whirling spinning down, straight down. The squirrel paused in his
nibbling and cocked an eye again with that mischievous twinkle as if he
enjoyed the joke, watching the light bit of shell in its swift descent,
plump on the end of Billy's nose. It couldn't have hit straighter if
Chippie had been pitcher for the Sabbath Valley base ball team.

Billy opened his eyes with a start and a scowl, and there before him,
glaring like a wild beast, thick lips agap showing gnarled yellow
teeth, wicked eyes, red glittering and murderous, was Pat, ugly,
formidable and threatening!

"Come outta there you little varmint you!" roared Pat. "Come out and
I'll skin the nasty yella hide off'n ya. I gotcha good and hard now
right where I wantcha an' ye won't--"

Bang! Click!--BANG!

Billy had been lying among the thick undergrowth, flat on his back, his
left arm flung above his head, but his right arm was thrust out from
his body under a thick clump of laurel, and his right hand held the gun
ready for any emergency when he inadvertently went to sleep. The gun
was pointed down the Valley along the ground and his fingers wrapped
knowingly, loving around the weapon,--he had so long wanted to own one
of his own. That gun was not included in the blood money and was not to
be returned. It was a perquisite of war.

Billy was all there always, and even awakening suddenly from much
needed sleep he was on the job. One glance at Pat's devilish face and
his fingers automatically pulled the trigger. The report roared out
along the Valley like a volley from a regiment.

Billy hardly felt the rebound of the weapon before he realized that
Patrick was no more between his vision and the sun's last rays. Patrick
was legging it down the Valley with all the strength he had left, and
taking no time to look back. Billy had presence of mind to let off
another volley before he rose to investigate; but there was nothing
left of Pat but a ruffled path in the undergrowth and a waving branch
or two he had turned aside in his going. So that was that! Doggone it,
why did he have to go to sleep? If he had only been ready he could have
managed this affair so much better for his own ends. He wanted a heart
to heart talk with Pat while he had him good and frightened, and now it
was too late. He must get back to the other job. He shinned up a tree
and observed the broad shoulders of Pat wallowing up the bank over by
the railroad. He was going back to the station. It was as well. He
might see him again tomorrow perhaps, for Pat he must have as evidence.
And besides, Pat might read the note and conclude to come back and
answer it.

Billy parted the bushes to see if Pat had taken the money and note with
him, and lo, here was the rude mountain telephone box wide open with
the bunch of keys in the lock just as Pat must have left it when he
discovered the paper and money, or perhaps Pat had been going to report
to Sam what had happened, who knew? You see Billy knew nothing of his
little red and brown striped partner up in the tree who had dropped a
nut to warn him of danger, and did not realize that Chippie had also
startled Pat, and set him looking among the bushes for the sources of
the sound.

But Billy knew how to take advantage of a situation if he didn't know
what made it, and in a trice he was down on his knees with the crude
receiver in his hands. It was too late to ride down to the Blue Duck
and telephone, but here was a telephone come to him, and now was a
chance to try if it was a telephone at all, or only a private wire run
secretly. He waited breathless with the long hum of wires in his ears,
and then a quick click and "Number please." Billy could hardly command
his voice but he murmured "Economy 13" in a low growl, his hard young
hands shaking with excitement. "Your letter please!" Billy looked
wildly at the rough box but could see no sign of number. "Why, it's the
station, doncha know? What's thamatterwithya?" His spirits were rising.
"J" stated the operator patiently. "Well, jay then," said Billy,
"WhaddoIcare?" "Just-a-minute-please," and suddenly the Chief's voice
boomed out reassuringly. Billy cast a furtive eye back of him in the
dusk and fell to his business with relief.

"Say, Chief, that you? This's Bill! Say, Chief, I wantcha he'p right
away pretty quick! Got a line on those guys! You bring three men an'
ge'down on the Lone Valley Road below Stark mountain an' keep yer eye
peeled t'ward the hanted house. Savvy? Yes, old hanted house, you know.
You wait there till I signal. Yes, flash! Listen, one wink if you go to
right, two come up straight, and three to the left. If it's only one
repeated several times, you spread all round. Yep. I'm goin' up there
right now. No, Chief, I wouldn't call ye f'I didn't think t'was pretty
sure. Yep! I think they'll come out soon's it gets real dark. Yep, I
think they ben there all day. I ain't sure, but I think. You won't fail
me, will you Chief. No, sure! I'll stick by. Be sure to bring three
men, there's two of 'em, I ain't rightly sure but three. I jus' stirred
another up. Whatssay? No, I'm 'lone! Aw, I'm awright! Sure. I'll be
careful. Whatssay? Where? Oh' I'm at a hole in the ground. Yes, down
below Pleasant Valley station. Some telephone! I'll show it to you
t'morra! S'long, Chief, I gotta go! It's gettin' dark, goobbye!"

Billy gave hurried glances about and rustled under the branches like a
snake over to where old trusty lay. In ten minutes more he was worming
his way up the side of Stark mountain, while Pat was fortifying himself
well within the little station, behind tables and desks for the night,
and scanning the Valley from the dusty window panes.

Billy parked his wheel in its usual place and continued up the hill to
the opening at the back, then stood long listening. Once he thought he
heard something drop inside the kitchen door, but no sound followed it
and he concluded it had been a rat. Half way between himself and the
back door something gleamed faintly in the starlight. He didn't
remember to have seen anything there before. He stole cautiously over,
moving so slowly that he could not even hear himself. He paused beside
the gleam and examined. It was an empty flask still redolent. Ummm!
Booze! Billy wasn't surprised. Of course they would try to get
something to while away their seclusion until they dared venture forth
with their booty. He continued his cautious passage toward the house
and then began to encircle it, keeping close to the wall and feeling
his way along, for the moon would be late and small that night and he
must work entirely by starlight. It was his intention after going
around the house to enter and reconnoitre in his stocking feet. As he
neared the front of the house he dropped both hands to his sweater
pockets, the revolver in his right hand with its two precious
cartridges, the flash light which he had taken care to renew in Economy
in his left hand, fingers ready to use either instantly. He turned the
corner and stole on toward the front door, still noiseless as a mouse
would go, his rubber sneakers touching like velvet in the grass.

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