“You were right,” said the captive, commencing his story and apparently noticing nothing wrong in Jim’s expression or behavior. “The law is after me. I’m wanted for killing a man.”
“A murderer,” said Jim involuntarily. He gulped. Matters were getting worse by the minute.
“I’m no murderer,” said the man with indignant sincerity. “But I’m sure in the worst mess that ever happened to any man. The police are after me, I’m starving, and I don’t have any place to go. All of it’s an accident too.”
The man’s tone was full of so much woe that Jim felt a wave of sympathy sweep over him. Somehow he couldn’t help liking the man and believing in him. He didn’t look like a murderer.
“How did it happen?” Jim asked.
“I’m a horse trainer—one of the best in the country,” said the other proudly. “I’ve handled all kinds of horses, from big work teams to race horses. The last few years I’ve been training race horses. I was working for Mr. Medway and we had his horses at Churchill Downs just outside Louisville. Last Monday—it seems like a year—I was walking along outside the stables when I saw a jockey named Willie Fry in one of the stalls. I don’t suppose you know much about the things people do to horses now and then at race tracks, but this jockey was doping a horse. You can dope a horse several ways—you can give him something to make him slow and dopey so he can’t run well or you can give him a shot to make him all hopped up.”
“What’s that?” asked Jim, so interested that he forgot about the unloaded rifle.
“It’s just like a man taking snow-cocaine, any kind of dope. It makes him think he can do anything. Well, the same thing happens to a horse. A horse that’s hopped up can run much better than he would normally. It’s bad on his heart, bad all over for that matter. He’s apt to strain himself and be ruined. Sometimes a horse can run so hard he may go blind.”
“Was he giving a horse that kind of dope?” asked Jim, full of indignation.
“No, this was the night before the race and he was doping a horse to make him sick and slow. Judges can usually tell a horse that’s hopped up, but it’s hard to tell when a horse has been given something to make him sick or is just naturally not up to form. Well, I hate to see a horse doped or mistreated in any way. What made me even madder was that Willie was doping my horse. Redwing was the horse, and she was a sure bet to win the next day. I had most of the money I’d saved all summer on that race.”
“Why didn’t he want her to win?” asked Jim, puzzled.
“Well, there could have been several reasons. One—he was riding a horse that was the second favorite, but he knew as well as I did that he didn’t have a chance against Redwing. Then he could have been paid by the bookies—they are the men that take bets on the race—to fix it so the favorite couldn’t win. That way they could clean up, not only on not having to pay off on any money on Redwing, but by putting money up themselves on Willie’s horse. Anyhow, I was really mad. I jumped on Willie and he started to fight. He pulled a knife on me and so I grabbed a bottle that was handy. I hit him over the head, and he dropped like a sack. Blood started running down his face. I was really scared. I felt his pulse and couldn’t feel a thing. So I lit out of there and I’ve been hiding ever since.”
“Why didn’t you go to the police and tell them what happened?” asked Jim.
“I was too scared to think straight and then there were a couple of things against me. No one saw Willie doping the horse, or the fight, so it would have been just my word about what happened. Then the worst thing was that Willie and I had been in a fight the day before over a girl. I warned him to stay away from the girl I was going to marry. The police would play that up big and I wouldn’t have a chance.”
“You sure are in a tough spot,” sympathized Jim. “It’s even worse that you ran away.”
“I know it is,” said the man mournfully. “That’s why I was so scared when I was on that train and when you came hunting for me. I figured that everyone had seen the newspapers and was searching for me.”
“What were you planning on doing, just staying here?” asked Jim.
“Well, when I first got here I thought that brush hut and fireplace had been built by some hunters. The place didn’t seem much used, and it wasn’t hunting season; so I thought I’d stay until things sort of quieted down. That is, if I could figure out some way to eat. Then about noon today I noticed those jumping bars for a horse. That and the way that little horse brought me here made me think that someone was using the place for something. So I decided I’d better move on. I turned the horse loose and figured I’d leave when it was night. I didn’t think whoever owned the horse would be back inside of an hour. I was wrong. You showed up and caught me asleep.”
“Haven’t you had anything to eat since I saw you jump off the train?” asked Jim solicitously.
“I had two sandwiches that I had in my pocket,” said the man. “I picked them up the night before in a diner near a freight yard. But that’s all. I sure am hungry.”
“I think maybe I could get you something to eat,” said Jim, considering.
“I knew you would believe the truth when you heard it,” said the stranger. “You’re not going to turn me over to the law?”
“I believe you. I don’t blame you a bit,” said Jim. “Since I’m going to trust you, I may as well put this gun down. I am pretty relieved anyhow, because I forgot to load it.”
The man stared at Jim in amazement. “Captured by a boy with an unloaded rifle! I’m certainly a desperate criminal.”
Jim grinned. “I think you better stay right here for a while,” he said, taking charge. “I can feed you here and you are better hidden than at any place I can think of.”
“You found me,” pointed out the late captive dubiously.
“Well naturally,” said Jim scornfully. “This is my secret headquarters. No one else knows about it though. Besides, you haven’t seen half of it yet. If you’ll promise never to tell, I’ll show you everything.”
“You have the sacred word of Timothy Dinwiddie,” said the man solemnly.
“Follow me.”
Jim led the way to the hidden cave. He paused just outside the entrance.
“Don’t let anybody ever see you enter here.” He pushed back the bush covering the cave mouth. “I keep a flash light hanging here just inside the door.”
Timothy followed the boy inside. He stood with mouth open as he followed the flash-light beam around the walls. There were several rows of cans—baked beans, vegetables, shoestring potatoes, chow mein, corned beef and everything possible to preserve.
“Food! Beautiful, beautiful food!” said Timothy in rapture. “This is the most wonderful sight I’ve seen since a horse I picked won the Kentucky Derby about ten years ago.”
“Pick out what you want,” said Jim, very proud of his stock of provisions. He was gratified that they were proving so handy.
In a few minutes the two had a fire going. Baked beans were warming in a pot while some weiners were simmering in a frying pan. The coffee began to boil while Jim was opening a can of peaches. Timothy sniffed the appetizing odors hungrily and put more wood in the fireplace. He finally decided everything was warm enough and dished out a huge portion. Jim wasn’t hungry, but the enjoyment he received from watching Timothy devour the food more than repaid him for all the trouble and expense he had undergone in collecting his stock. After finishing the first helping, Timothy filled his plate again. He ate everything down to the last bean. Then he and Jim had a cup of coffee together.
“That was certainly the finest banquet I ever ate,” said Timothy leaning back in satisfaction. “You really got a well-stocked kitchen here. And that cave is about the trickiest hiding place I ever laid eyes on.”
“It is pretty good,” said Jim glowing with pride. “I just laid in that food in case I might need it sometime.”
“I’m certainly glad you did. It saved me from starvation.”
“I get to town quite often,” observed Jim. “You look the stock over, and anything you need or that gets low I’ll pick up at the grocery store.”
“Look, Jim,” said Timothy, reaching in his pocket. “I got about thirty dollars. You better take twenty to buy groceries.”
“I don’t want your money,” protested Jim. When he decided to be friends with anyone he made no reservations. “You may need it.”
“You are the one that needs it. You can’t feed a hungry man like me for nothing.” Timothy shoved the twenty-dollar bill in Jim’s shirt pocket. “When you go to town, would you buy any Louisville paper you can find for the last week. I’d like to know what they are saying about me.”
“I know I can get the recent ones,” said Jim. “I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. Right now I better get home before my folks, because I left a note saying I was hunting for the man that stole Ticktock.”
Jim rode home bursting with excitement. He wished there was someone to whom he could tell his exciting tale, but such a course was out of the question. Others might not realize, as he did, that Timothy was the victim of a bad break. Anyone who would try to dope a horse deserved to be hit on the head, he decided. He had to guard the secret of Timothy very closely, because if the police found him they might hang him. He guessed that’s what they did with murderers.
The family had not returned when Jim arrived. He destroyed his note and then began grooming Ticktock. He was busily at work when the Meadows’ car drove in the lane. Feeling full of mystery and importance, he hailed his parents.
“Ticktock came back!”
“So I see,” said Mr. Meadows. “How’d it happen?”
“He just came trotting up the road. Got loose I guess.” The explanation seemed so tame compared to the story he could have told, but he held himself sternly in check.
The family gathered around to welcome the mustang back. Mrs. Meadows was very relieved, as she had worried over her son’s evident grief. Jean was overjoyed. She was becoming almost as fond of the pony as was Jim. In the general excitement, everyone talked at once and neither the father nor mother noticed anything unusual in Jim’s behavior. Jean, however, wasn’t to be deceived. She sensed that her brother was acting a little too mysterious and self-satisfied to know as little as he did. She said nothing, but watched him narrowly.
On Monday Jim made some excuse and went to town early. At the local store, which sold newspapers, he was able to get Louisville papers from the preceding Friday through Monday. He was very conscious of his exciting new rôle of helping a hunted man and played the part with all his usual intensity. Afraid that it might look suspicious to hunt through the papers while in town, he stuffed them in one of the saddlebags without even a glance. While walking down the street he met Constable Whittaker, to whom he gave a very cordial greeting. He grinned to himself. Constable Whittaker represented the only forces of law and order Jim had ever known. Being a conspirator who was outwitting Whittaker was rare fun.
After buying a few groceries at the store, Jim completed his errands by purchasing a quart of ice cream and some cigarettes. They were to be a surprise for Timothy. He didn’t know if the fugitive smoked, but he suspected that he did. He was rather nervous while buying the cigarettes, as he knew they were not supposed to be sold to anyone under twenty-one. However, he had occasionally purchased them for his father.
“They are for a client of mine,” he said casually to the druggist, who didn’t think of doubting Jim’s motives.
The ice cream was carefully packed so that it was still in good condition when Jim arrived at the hide-out.
“You certainly are the answer to a man’s prayer,” said Timothy, dividing the ice cream into two equal portions. “Ice cream and cigarettes! I really was craving a smoke. You put those ravens in the Bible to shame, Jim. Imagine a bird delivering a quart of ice cream! I prefer a boy with a horse. It’s not so fancy, but it’s a good deal more satisfying to the stomach.”
Jim produced the papers and together they went over each page of all four editions. They made a hasty search first and then examined each article thoroughly. Even the financial pages were searched. There was not a single mention of Timothy Dinwiddie or his victim, Willie Fry.
“That’s funny,” said Timothy, scratching his head. “It happened on Monday. You’d think there would still be some mention of the business on Thursday. I might not be so important as I thought, but Willie Fry was a well-known jockey.”
“Maybe they’re keeping quiet on purpose,” suggested Jim, who had read his share of mystery stories.
“What do you mean by that?” inquired Timothy nervously.
“Sometimes the police keep very quiet in order not to let a criminal know they are hot on his trail,” Jim said ominously.
“I hope that’s not what’s happened,” Timothy said fervently. He looked apprehensively around at the woods.
“Well, I’ll go to the newspaper office. The editor and I are pals. He may have the old papers. I’ll think up some story and get the missing ones from Monday on,” said Jim. “I can’t go tomorrow, as it might look suspicious to be going to town too often. But Wednesday I’ll get them. I’ll bring you some fresh eggs and milk too. Also, we got a lot of melons if you want one.”
“Boy, oh boy,” said Timothy, shaking his head. “You think of everything. I’m glad you’re not a cop.”
Chapter Twelve
Jean’s Ride
The rest of the week went by without further news. Jim was unable to get the Tuesday morning paper, the one most likely to contain news of the murder. They searched all the others, but with no success. Timothy and he were still completely in the dark as to what efforts the police were making. They could only make guesses.
Jim was enjoying himself however. He was playing an important part in a serious and exciting game. He kept Timothy well supplied with food, reveling in his mysterious errands. While at home, time hung very heavily on his hands. He felt that he should be doing something. He was bothered about Jean. He was not going to underestimate her again, and he knew she was watching him carefully. Also, her birthday was approaching. She mentioned the matter several times; so he knew she had not forgotten the promise he had made. While he supposed Timothy could hide elsewhere on that day, it would be difficult to remove all traces of his recent occupancy. Also, part of the safety of the hide-out would be destroyed once Jean knew the way.
Before it had been merely a matter of personal pride that kept Jim from telling Jean. Now it was a serious matter—a man’s life was involved.
To cover up his nervousness and unrest, Jim began teaching Ticktock a few new tricks. He had long since taught the mustang to stand quietly in one spot when his reins were dangling, not to crop grass while a rider was in the saddle, and various other accomplishments of a good riding horse. Now he tried a new idea. He enlisted the aid of his sister for the instruction.
Jim would go a few feet away from his sister and the horse, then Jean would say, “Ticktock, go to Jim.” When the mustang did as he was told, he would receive a piece of sugar or apple as a reward. The process would then be reversed and the pony told to go to Jean. They gradually lengthened the distance until finally Jean was some distance down the road. Ticktock caught on rapidly, trotting back and forth between the two carrying out his orders. In a few days he was thoroughly schooled.
Jim then began instructing Jean in riding. Much of his information had been picked up only recently from Timothy, who had a vast store of knowledge about horses and riding in general. The horse trainer had once worked in a riding academy and had given riding lessons. Jim was an apt pupil and followed his new teacher’s advice religiously. He seldom had to be told twice. He learned the proper way to sit in the saddle, how to hold the reins correctly and various do’s and don’ts of riding. For the first time he heard of the art of posting.
All this information was passed on to Jean. Jim spoke in such an authoritative manner that Jean knew he was not inventing his technical terms or making up his riding lore. There had been a noticeable improvement in his riding lately which she hadn’t failed to see. As a detective, Jean put her brother to shame. She missed nothing. Aware that Jim had not been visiting anyone she knew who was a riding expert, she said nothing but continued to observe. She hadn’t missed the frequent trips to town and other rides in the direction of Briggs Woods. As for the milk and eggs that disappeared, she had noted that bit of information down too. When Jim slipped away with a watermelon, she definitely decided something very mysterious was taking place.
Jean considered the theory that someone was giving her brother riding instruction and information for which he was paying in food. But why was he so mysterious about it all. If he was openly taking lessons from someone, he would be certain to talk about it, even boast somewhat. No, there was more to the matter than was covered by such a simple explanation. She was just as decisive as her brother and even though only ten, when she made up her mind, she acted. So she devised a plan.
Jean had long since gotten over her timidity concerning Ticktock and had ridden him occasionally before. Now she applied herself and obediently followed Jim’s instructions. She began riding Ticktock daily around the farm. Mr. Meadows was somewhat opposed to the idea, as he thought his daughter was too young to be riding Ticktock. Although small for a mustang and called a ranch pony, Ticktock was far from being any Shetland pony. Any fall from his back would be a long distance for such a small girl. Although he no longer had any worries about Jim and Ticktock, Mr. Meadows still considered the mustang to be rather high-spirited and apt to be vicious with anyone who didn’t know him too well. In spite of the parental disapproval, Jean spent more time each day learning to ride on the little horse.
Friday Jim had to help his father all day. At noon Jean asked to ride Ticktock; so Jim saddled the horse and then went back to the field with his father. After several hours of intermittent riding around the yard, Jean decided that the time had come for action. Casually she went into the house to find her mother.
“I think I’ll ride down the road a way,” she announced.
“Be careful,” warned her mother, who did not share her husband’s fears about Ticktock.
“Sure. I may be gone a little while so don’t worry.”
As soon as she was out of sight of the house, Jean urged the mustang to a faster pace and headed toward the woods. She knew the trail to the hide-out began somewhere near the middle of the forest. It was very gloomy in the heavy shade, but that just added to the excitement for her. Resolutely she rode on.
Had Jean allowed Ticktock to have his head once they were in the forest, he would have undoubtedly taken her straight to the hideaway, as he had Timothy. The way was old and familiar to him now. But Jean insisted on directing the little horse. While she had taken quite a few peeks on her blindfolded trip to the hide-out, she hadn’t seen quite enough. Jim had circled and doubled back, which misled her too. The woods were confusing, one trail or stream looking like another. She knew they had roughly followed a stream for a distance, so she chose one and boldly plunged into the woods.
It was difficult riding, trying to duck branches or push them out of the way. Jean couldn’t tell too well where she was going, and after some distance she began to be discouraged and tired. She was determined, however. Any trouble was acceptable if she could only show up her brother and find the hideaway. She was certain that if she found the place she would also solve the mystery of why he was now taking away perishable food.
Seeing nothing that looked familiar, Jean stopped for a few minutes to rest and get her bearings. As she did so, she saw a tree loaded with persimmons on the opposite bank of the stream. She dismounted and picked a spot to cross. It was a tiny rivulet, but it had deep steep banks from the spring floods. She walked upstream until she found a spot where she could cross. Returning to the tree, she began climbing. She was reaching out for a particularly large persimmon when she lost her balance and fell. She landed on her back with a breath-taking thump and then tumbled on down the bank of the stream. Her right foot hit a rock at the bottom and doubled under her. There was a wrench and a horribly sharp pain. Her scream of anguish brought Ticktock to the bank. He peered down at the huddled heap at the bottom.
Jean lay moaning and crying for some minutes. The pain subsided a little, so she sat up and dried her tears. She wanted nothing now but to get back to Ticktock and go home. Cautiously she tried standing. The slightest weight on her foot brought a yell of pain. She got back on her knees and tried crawling up the bank. It was too steep, the soft ground caving in and letting her slide back down to the bottom. If she had had the use of both legs, she might have managed to scramble up to the top, but it was impossible in her crippled state. Discouraged and frightened, she gave up and began to cry.
No one could find her, she was certain. Ticktock couldn’t get down to where she was and she couldn’t climb to him. She was tired, dirty, and her ankle hurt. She looked at the injured member, which was swelling rapidly. It was nearly twice as large as her left ankle. The sight frightened her even more. Perhaps it was broken, and she would just have to stay there and slowly starve.
Ticktock looked down solicitously. He knew something was wrong but didn’t quite know what to do about it. He stepped closer to the bank to see better, but it began to crumble. He moved back out of danger and waited patiently. After Jean had cried herself out, she began to think calmly once more. At least it was comforting to have Ticktock standing by, even though she couldn’t use him.
Jean was a resourceful little girl who didn’t give up too easily. She considered all possible ways out of her predicament and finally had an idea. She would send Ticktock for help.
“Ticktock, go to Jim!” she ordered, sitting up. “Go on home to Jim!”
Ticktock hesitated. He didn’t want to leave Jean, as he knew she was in trouble. Also, he had been taught to stand still while his reins were dangling. He stirred indecisively.
“Go on, go home to Jim,” repeated Jean commandingly.
It was an order; so the mustang decided to obey. He started off. He went a few paces and then looked around mournfully over his shoulder, hoping his instructions would be changed. Jean simply repeated her words. Reluctantly he went back through the woods and headed for home. He began trotting down the road. Repeatedly he stepped on his reins and jerked his head down savagely. Finally one sharp jerk broke them and he went rapidly down the road with his broken reins trailing behind him on the ground.
Mrs. Meadows became alarmed about four-thirty at her daughter’s long absence. Finally she could stand the worry no longer. She went to the big dinner bell in the back yard and rang it vigorously. It was used to summon her husband from the fields, and she knew he would come running at once on hearing the bell ring at this unexpected hour of the day.
Mr. Meadows and Jim left their work and headed for the house immediately. Jim’s mother had just finished explaining when Ticktock appeared over the hill, riderless.
The little mustang was covered with sweat and dust. The farther he went from Jean the more the pony realized something was decidedly amiss. His only thought was to hurry home to Jim. Jim was his god and could solve all things. He dashed into the yard and obediently slid to a halt in front of the boy. He had carried out instructions.
Mr. Meadows looked at the lather-covered mustang with his broken reins.
“If that horse has thrown Jean and hurt her, I’ll kill him.”
Worried as he was, Jim did not fail to rise to the defense of his beloved horse. “He wouldn’t throw Jean. Maybe she fell off and he came back for me.”
“Well, I’m going to get the car and go back along the way he came,” announced Carl Meadows decisively.
Jim tied a hasty knot in the reins and climbed up on Ticktock’s back.
“Take me to Jean,” he said. “Go to Jean.”
Ticktock was not indecisive this time. He turned around and started back rapidly down the road. Mrs. Meadows and her husband got in the car and started slowly after him, scanning the ditches on both sides. They passed Jim and went on up the road. He shouted at them as they went by.
“You better wait at the corner and follow me. Ticktock will take us to her.”
It was soon evident where the pony was heading. When the woods appeared in view, Jim was certain of at least part of what had happened. Jean had tried to find the hide-out. He felt positive about that. A thousand ideas crowded into his mind. If she let Ticktock have his head, he would have taken her to the clearing too. And Timothy was hiding there. Hearing a horse approaching, he would naturally assume it to be Jim. And then suddenly, if Jean appeared, what would have happened? He was positive that Timothy would not have harmed his sister. Perhaps he might have detained her though, afraid that she would spread an alarm. In that case, what would he do? He would have to lead his parents to the hide-out and betray Timothy.
There were other explanations too. Jean might have suddenly seen Timothy and become alarmed. If she rode off rapidly through the trees, it would have been the easiest thing in the world to have been knocked off by a low branch. In that case she might be hurt badly. Everything looked black. Jean might be hurt; Timothy might be turned over to the police; he might be taken for aiding a criminal; and lastly Ticktock was once again in Mr. Meadows’ bad graces.
So certain was Jim that Jean had gone to the hide-out that he tried to pull Ticktock back onto the road when the little horse started off through the woods before reaching the usual trail. The mustang, who knew exactly what he was doing, was stubborn and insisted in turning off the road.
“O.K., Ticktock,” said Jim finally. “You usually know where you’re going.”
Jim waited for his parents to arrive in the car. They climbed out and rather dubiously followed Jim into the woods. Every few yards they would shout Jean’s name. When they had penetrated about half a mile into the forest, they heard a weak answer. Jean had heard them. Ticktock kept going forward confidently until he paused on top of the bank above the injured girl.
Jean was a sorry-looking little girl. Her face was streaked with tears and dirt while her clothes were torn, wet and muddy. But she was very happy to be at last out of her predicament. She had been lonely and frightened, waiting alone in the woods after Ticktock had gone.
“I tried to climb the persimmon tree and fell down here,” she explained. “I couldn’t get up; so I sent Ticktock for help.”
Jim listened to the vindication of his faith in Ticktock in silence. He was very relieved to find Jean and know that she wasn’t too badly hurt. They were still too close to his hide-out to suit him though, and he wouldn’t feel safe until they were clear of the woods. Also, this was scarcely the time to point out how intelligently Ticktock had acted. His parents were still too absorbed in Jean and the extent of her injuries.
Ticktock led the way back to the road while Mr. Meadows carried Jean in his arms. When the little party reached the car, the others drove off, leaving Jim to follow home alone.
Jim let the little pony take his time on the road back. He felt much relieved but still uneasy. He wondered what Jean would say if they asked her what she was doing in the woods. He felt rather guilty about her mishap. After all, it was mainly his fault.
If he had shown her the way that first day, she would never have gone off on her trip of exploration. It had been rather mean of him, considering that she had found the cave, which was the most valuable feature of the secret rendezvous. So if her leg were broken, he supposed that he was really responsible.
The doctor was at the house by the time Jim arrived. He was busy with Jean; so Jim rubbed Ticktock down and put him in the orchard.
“You’re a hero, old boy,” he said fondly. “You got me out of a pretty ticklish mess by being so smart.”
“Just sprained badly,” the doctor was saying as Jim entered the house. “She’d better stay in bed a day or two. That’s the only way I know of to keep active children from moving around.”
Jean had her dinner in bed, rather enjoying being in the limelight. After he had eaten, Jim got a chance to talk to his sister alone.
“I suppose you were looking for the hide-out,” he said hesitantly.
Jean nodded her head. “I haven’t told anybody though.”
“Good girl,” said Jim with a thankful sigh. “It was mean of me not to show you before. As soon as you can get around I’ll take you there, even if it isn’t your birthday.”
“I haven’t said anything about the milk and eggs you took either,” said Jean calmly. “What are you feeding?”
Jim looked at his sister with hesitation. She certainly had shown that she could keep a secret. She deserved to be in on the excitement, he decided. Perhaps that would make up in some part for his having indirectly caused her accident.
“Look, Jean,” he said, lowering his voice. “I’ll tell you the whole story....”
Chapter Thirteen
The Mystery Is Solved
The next morning Jim rode to Springdale for newspapers and supplies for Timothy. Purchases were becoming rather difficult of late. Perhaps it was merely his fancy, but he felt that the man in the store was beginning to look at him curiously when he made his daily purchase of several newspapers. As for cigarettes, Jim had bought what he felt was his limit without exciting suspicion. He would have to think of some new solution for Timothy’s tobacco problem. The last quart of milk purchased had brought forth a comment from the clerk.
“Haven’t you got any cows on that farm?”
“Oh, sure,” replied Jim, with what he considered magnificent nonchalance. “This is for a customer. I run errands of all sorts you know. Don’t need a good rural delivery boy, do you?”
Feeling that he had allayed suspicion for the moment, Jim rode off toward the hide-out. While the intrigue he was carrying on with Timothy was the most exciting adventure in which he had ever taken part, he had to face facts. Avoiding questions was bound to become increasingly more difficult. Also, the end of summer vacation was not too far distant. Going to school, doing his chores at home, and continuing the operation of the Pony Express was going to make a very stiff schedule without the added labor of having to administer to the wants of Timothy. Cold weather would add further complications. How would Timothy heat the cave? Also, there was the matter of money. While he was still operating on the original twenty dollars that Timothy had given him, sooner or later the money would be exhausted. Jim didn’t begrudge using some of his own money to provide for his new friend, but if the proceeds of the Pony Express were all used up for food, in time it would grow irksome. He could see long years stretching ahead of him during which he would have to continue the responsibility which he had assumed. The law didn’t forget quickly; there was no way of knowing when Timothy would come out of hiding. Unquestionably what was now a thrilling escapade would develop into a burdensome chore as time passed.
Occupied with such worrisome thoughts, he arrived at the hide-out. Timothy met him and was so cheerful that Jim soon forgot his forebodings. He told the story of Jean’s mishap, and they both agreed that their secret had come perilously close to being discovered.
“I had to tell Jean everything,” explained Jim. “It was only fair, and she can be trusted.”
“You can’t keep a secret from a woman anyhow,” said Timothy sagely. “Once they suspect anything is being kept from them, you haven’t got a chance.”
Together the two began their usual search through the papers for news about Willie Fry or his assailant. There was nothing to be found; so Timothy turned to the sport section to read the racing news. Suddenly he let out a startled shout.
“What’s the matter?” asked Jim.
“Look here!” said Timothy excitedly. “Fireball won the fourth at Havre de Grace and was ridden by Willie Fry!”
Jim examined the paper. Timothy was correct; Willie Fry had ridden in the fourth race.
“There aren’t two jockeys named Willie Fry are there?” he asked.
“Never heard of any other except the rat I socked,” said Timothy. “I don’t get this.”
“Maybe you didn’t kill him after all. Maybe you just knocked him out. He probably came to and didn’t even notify the police. That’s why we haven’t noticed anything in the papers.”
“Well, he didn’t have any pulse when I felt his wrist,” said Timothy wonderingly.
“I think you need some lessons on how to feel pulses,” suggested Jim dryly. “You were probably so excited that you couldn’t find his.” He began to look casually over the remainder of the sporting news.
“Look! Here’s a little article about Willie Fry,” he said. “Listen! ‘Willie Fry, well-known jockey, was married yesterday to Miss Alvina Morgan, of Baltimore, Md. Miss Morgan is well known to racing circles, as she has accompanied the Roudcroft Stables string as cook to tracks throughout the country. In addition to serving delicious food to the Roudcroft personnel, Miss Morgan is famous for always having a welcome cup of coffee for any jockey, trainer or trackman. Track people will be happy to hear that the new Mrs. Fry will continue at her old post in the trailer which serves as her kitchen. Coffee will still be on tap.
“‘Willie celebrated his wedding day by winning the fourth race at Havre de Grace, riding Fireball. This was the first race ridden by Willie since he was struck down by an unknown assailant at Churchill Downs several weeks ago.’”
“See,” said Jim, as he finished reading. “You just knocked him out. He’s probably just as anxious as you are to forget the whole thing. If he told who hit him, you’d tell about his doping a horse.”
Timothy wasn’t listening, however, but was staring incredulously at Jim. “Let me see the paper,” he said finally in a strained voice.
“Alvina married to Willie! I’d never have believed it.” Timothy shook his head as if stunned. Slowly his disbelief turned to indignation. “Why two weeks ago she was engaged to me! I spent a month’s wages on a diamond ring for her. And now she marries Willie Fry!
“I guess I’m glad Willie Fry is all right,” went on Timothy calming down. “Just sort of shakes your faith in human nature, though, a thing like this does. Kind of a jolt to be sweet on a gal and have her turn around two weeks after you’re gone and marry your worst enemy. Well, they can have each other for my money. I wish them all the unhappiness in the world. ’Spose I’m lucky to find out about Alvina in time. Just doesn’t seem possible though that a woman who can bake an apple pie like Alvina does would turn out to be so fickle.”
“Well, it sure makes things simpler,” said Jim happily. He could not be bothered by such trivial matters as a broken heart. “Now I suppose you’ll go get your old job back as trainer?”
“Not on your life!” said Timothy with great feeling. “I may not be hunted by the law anymore, but my career at the tracks is ruined.”
“Why?” asked Jim, completely baffled.
“Why I’d be the laughingstock of every track in the country. Willie has probably concocted some story about how he scared me away and now he’s stolen my girl. Everyone in the racing business knew I was engaged to Alvina. No siree, I can’t go back to the tracks now.”
“What’ll you do then?” asked Jim solicitously.
“Well, maybe I can get a job taking care of horses at some riding stable or breeding farm,” said Timothy. “Somebody ought to need a good horse handler.”
“I know where I can get you a job right around here,” said Jim, as a sudden thought struck him. “It would be handling big Percherons though. Do you know anything about them?”
“Sure. I once handled a whole stable of them. One of the big trucking firms in Milwaukee used to have some beautiful teams. They used them for some of their deliveries as sort of advertising. You get six big prancing Percherons pulling a wagon and it’s a beautiful sight.”
“Mr. Hernstadt raises Percherons, and he’s looking for a good man,” said Jim. “I found one of his horses that had strayed; so I’m in good with him. We’ll go see him and I’ll recommend you.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” said Timothy. “I look pretty ragged, though, to be applying for a job.”
“I’ll ride in town and buy you a new shirt and overalls,” volunteered Jim. “Then we’ll go see Mr. Hernstadt.”
Jim was back with the new clothes in slightly over an hour. After Timothy had changed, they both mounted Ticktock and rode into town, where Timothy had his hair cut. After eating lunch they set out for the Hernstadt farm.
“I certainly owe you a lot,” said Timothy as they approached their destination. “Whether I get the job or not, you certainly have gone to a lot of trouble for me. A guy that helps you when you’re in trouble is a real friend.”
“I knew you weren’t a real crook,” said Jim, embarrassed by Timothy’s gratitude. “The minute Ticktock liked you, I figured you could be trusted.”
“I owe this little horse plenty too,” said Timothy. “After he has carried double for so far, I’m not sure he’s going to like me anymore though.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hernstadt,” said Jim when they arrived. “This is Timothy Dinwiddie, a friend of mine. He’s a very good horse trainer. I remembered that you asked me to find you a good man to handle horses; so I brought him over to see you. The Pony Express always gets its man.”
“Glad to meet you,” said Mr. Hernstadt, shaking hands with Timothy. “What experience have you had?”
In a few minutes the two men were deep in horse talk, much of it far too technical for Jim. It was apparent to the horse breeder, after a short conversation, that Timothy definitely knew horses. The three of them made a tour of the stables, Mr. Hernstadt explaining the various duties of the job. Jim walked through the immaculate barns with their modern equipment, his eyes wide with interest. Every convenience he saw he wanted for Ticktock’s stall. They finally ended their tour at a small shed that contained a forge, an anvil and complete blacksmithing equipment.
“It’s rather difficult to find a good blacksmith these days,” explained Mr. Hernstadt. “Everyone uses tractors, and there isn’t enough business to keep a good blacksmith going. I had so much trouble finding a man who really knew how to shoe a horse that I bought this equipment to do it myself. Ever shoe a horse?”
“Many a time,” said Timothy confidently. “You haven’t shown me anything yet, Mr. Hernstadt, that I can’t handle.”
“I believe you. If you want to try the job for a month, I’ll be glad to have you. There are nice quarters over that harness shed where you can live. Come on and I’ll show you.”
The details of salary and duties were settled and Timothy declared his intention of going to work immediately. He was very enthusiastic about his new job, liking his employer, and admiring the horses and all the modern equipment. Feeling very satisfied at the way matters had turned out, Jim prepared to leave.
“What do I owe the Pony Express for finding me a good man to handle horses?” Mr. Hernstadt asked Jim.
“Nothing at all,” answered Jim. “This comes under the heading of good will. Employment service is a little out of our line. I was just doing this as a favor to a friend.”
“Well, thank you very much,” said the farmer laughing.