Bill’s car sped into the sleeping town of Danbury. It splashed through the rain along streets where the lights ran together in golden pools. The swish of the water flying gutterwards was like the sound of the sea.

Bill spoke to Osceola: “There’s a dog wagon open,” and he pointed to a lighted sign. “Better eat. I had breakfast while I waited for the dope from Mr. Dixon.”

“If you had, no need of stopping then. Dorothy fed me before I left. I meant to ask you if you wanted anything, but this news from Mr. Dixon took it out of my head. There’s a sign that says Route 136—guess that’s our road.”
83

Five miles north of Danbury the rain slackened and finally stopped. The cool wind of early dawn sprang up and by the time they started to climb the winding turns of the Heartfield’s Valley, every cloud had been blown out of the sky. The east was painted a faint grayish pink as they roared into a straightaway between the wooded hills. Then the valley opened out, the road hugging the base of the hill on their left, while on the right wide meadows spread a carpet of high grasses that reached to the foot of the opposite hillside.

Half a mile further on, they came upon the old club house, set back from the highway in a group of fine elms. Here some attempt had been made to fashion a lawn, but as they swung up the rough drive, Bill noticed that the house was badly in need of paint and repair. He drew up at the side of the house, facing the red barn and an extensive apple orchard whose gnarled trees had not felt the pruning knife for many years. There appeared to be no bell, so Bill rapped sharply on the side door.
84

“Hello!” A man’s voice answered from behind a window screen just above. “What do you want down there?”

“Mr. Davis?” Bill stepped back a few paces so that he could get a better view of the window.

“That’s me,” said the owner of the voice, and yawned prodigiously.

“Mr. Dixon, the New Canaan banker, sent me up here to get some information from you, sir.”

“Wait a minute—I’ll come down.”

Osceola got out of the car and walked over to Bill. “How much are you going to tell him?” he asked in a low tone.

“Mr. Dixon said he was O.K.” Bill answered quietly. “Wait till he comes out. We’ll size him up for ourselves.”
85

The side door opened and a heavy set man with gray hair, arrayed in khaki trousers, a pajama jacket, and slippers, came out to meet them.

“Well, you are early callers,” he said jovially, “the New Canaan bank has a lien on this place, of course. I hope you haven’t come to turn me out?”

“Oh, nothing like that, sir,” smiled Bill. “We merely want some information, as I said before.”

Mr. Davis looked relieved. “You see,” he explained, “I’m a stockholder in the old club, so I have as much right to live here as anybody, I suppose. My business went pot last spring, so my sister and I are camping out here for the summer. I notified the receiver of the property, and as he said nothing about rent, I haven’t paid any.”

“We have nothing to do with the receivership, so set your mind at rest about that. My name is Bolton, and this is Chief Osceola of the Seminole Nation.”
86

“Why, this is an unexpected pleasure,” beamed Mr. Davis, as they shook hands. “You’re the two young fellows we’ve been reading about in the papers all summer. Don’t tell me you’re on the track of more slavers or pirates up here in this quiet spot?”

“Do you know a man named Kolinski, a Pole, I think he is?”

“Why, yes, I do, though not well. He’s rented the Landons’ cabin for the season. That’s the one right up the hill here, back of the barn.”

“Then he’s not a particular friend of yours?”
87

Mr. Davis’ eyes twinkled. “Well, hardly,” he returned with a shake of his head. “Kolinski is hardly what one would call a good mixer. He parks his car in the barn here—the hill is too steep and the path too narrow to drive up—and he seems to be a rather surly sort of chap. What he and the man who is his servant do with their time, I’m sure I can’t imagine. We have a nodding acquaintance, that’s about all. So I’m afraid that the little I know about him won’t help you much. But I don’t mind saying frankly that I don’t like the looks of him, nor of his man. He’s a shifty-eyed individual, and on the few occasions we’ve spoken I’ve caught him in a couple of lies about small matters that really didn’t amount to a hill of beans. If he’s trying to swing a loan from Mr. Dixon’s bank,—well, I’d want to be mighty sure of his collateral.” Mr. Davis pulled out a briar pipe and proceeded to tamp in tobacco from a pouch.

“Do you happen to know whether he is in his house now?” Osceola spoke for the first time.

“No, I don’t think so, because his car isn’t in the barn. The one you see there belongs to me.”
88

Osceola gave Bill a meaning look. “It is the car—or rather its license—that brought us up here,” he went on. “About two o’clock this morning, my fiancee, Deborah Lightfoot, was kidnapped from Mr. Dixon’s residence in New Canaan. The kidnappers were forced to leave their car behind, and we have learned that it belongs to your neighbor, Mr. Kolinski. There were evidently two groups, and the first got away with Deborah in one car, but we arrived in time to forestall the others, though we weren’t able to capture them and they got away on foot.”

“What a dastardly business!” exploded Mr. Davis. “And you say Kolinski’s car was left behind?”

“Yes, Mr. Dixon, who was in Hartford at the time, is on his way over here with a cordon of state police. They ought to arrive within an hour or so.”

“Have you fellows got guns?”

Bill patted the holster under his left arm. “We have—and there are a couple of rifles in my car.”
89

“Wait till I get mine and slip on a pair of boots—” Mr. Davis made for the house. “I’m going up the hill with you.”

“He’s a good hombre!” declared Osceola to Bill, as Davis disappeared.

“He is that! Let’s corral the rifles.”

In a very few minutes, Davis reappeared. The only visible change in his costume consisted of a pair of high trapper’s boots laced to the knee. He wore a cartridge belt slung over one shoulder, and in the hollow of his right arm he carried a repeating rifle.

“Come along—” he led them down a path which cut a narrow swath through the field behind the house. “Maybe our friends are up there in the cabin and maybe they’re not. My sister tells me she heard a car stop out on the road a couple of hours ago, but she didn’t get out of bed to see who it might be. It was raining hard then, and as you aviators say, the visibility was poor. She didn’t hear anybody walk up the drive past the house, though.”
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“They could have cut round the house and climbed the hill from a point farther up or down the valley—that is, if they were trying to establish an alibi—and if we find them at home, after all,” suggested Bill.

“Then,” said Osceola, who was bringing up the rear, “those guys had a good long way to hoof it.”

“How come?”

“Swamps. Down at the foot of this meadow, and as far as you can see along the valley.”

“That’s right,” agreed Mr. Davis. “Any other way but this would add at least three miles to their hike. That broad, sluggish stream ahead of us runs the full length of the swamp and only partly drains it. The bridge at the end of this path is the only way across.”

“Is that the house, half way up the hillside in that grove of trees and underbrush?” inquired Osceola.
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“You’ve got good eyes to spot it at this time o’ day,” said their guide. “No—that house belongs to a man named Kennedy, although it is empty at present. Kolinski’s cabin is higher up and over to the left.”

Still in single file they passed onto a corduroy trail through the swamp and over the bridge. On the farther side, the ground rose steeply. A few yards beyond they came to a fork in the path.

“Take the left to Kolinski’s—” announced Mr. Davis. He stopped and turned to the lads. “My plan is to take this right hand path to Kennedy’s and up through the woods. In that way we can make a half circle so as to come down on Kolinski’s place from above and be under cover the whole way. We’ll have broad daylight to contend with by the time we get there. If we go direct, anybody in the house can see us pretty well the whole distance up the hill. What do you say?”

“I think that’s a first rate idea,” said Bill.
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“The only thing to do,” agreed Osceola. “Surprise is half the battle on a job like this. If you two don’t mind, I’ll scout on ahead. Wait in the woods a hundred yards above Kolinski’s for me. I want to take a look-see, but you palefaces make too much noise going through underbrush!”

With a low chuckle, he darted up the path at a sharp trot and disappeared among the alders like a wraith in the half-light and quite as silently.

“That pace would kill me in fifty yards, going up hill,” admitted Mr. Davis, as they trudged in the direction Osceola had taken. “Is your friend really an Indian, Mr. Bolton? He looks no darker to me than a well tanned Spaniard or South American.”
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“Oh, he’s a real live redskin, all right. But a great many of them aren’t noticeably different in coloring from a lot of us so-called Americans, you know. Osceola was born to the chieftainship of his clan. Last year, although only twenty, he was unanimously elected the Great Sachem of the entire Seminole Nation. He is one of the finest fellows I’ve ever met. I only wish I had half his talents or knowledge. He’s a senior at Carlisle this year, although he’s not going back. His fiancee, the girl who’s been kidnapped, is Chieftainess of another clan of the Seminoles. She is a college graduate, by the way, and a most charming person.”

“Well, you certainly have interesting friends—and you yourself have done more interesting things than most men meet up with in a lifetime,” contended Mr. Davis. “How old are you, may I ask?”

“Seventeen on the second of this month.”

“You don’t say! Remarkable—my word, when I was your age, I was still tied to apron-strings, and stayed tied to them most of my life. Now, that house just ahead is Kennedy’s. The path ends here. We’ll take to the woods, and I’ll do my best not to disgrace myself in the underbrush!”
 
Bill soon realized that Mr. Davis was a trained woodsman. Not a twig cracked as they pushed their way up the steep hill through a thick growth of young trees and bushes that in places became a veritable jungle.

It was bright daylight when they swung round to the left and came down the hill again to a shallow ravine some distance above the Kolinski cabin. As the two dropped down on the short grass, hot and nearly winded, Osceola slid from behind a tree trunk.

“Any luck?” whispered Bill.

“No,” replied the Seminole gloomily. “We’ve had this hike for nothing. There’s nobody in the cabin.”