Red Dynamite , livre ebook

RED DYNAMITE
A MYSTERY STORY FOR BOYS
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ROY J. SNELL
 
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Red Dynamite A Mystery Story for Boys First published in 1936 Epub ISBN 978-1-77658-213-6 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77658-214-3 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter I - Gold from the Sky Chapter II - The Bridge Falls Chapter III - With the Aid of Nicodemus Chapter IV - The Haunted Pool Chapter V - The Crimson Flood Chapter VI - Old Kentucky Chapter VII - Panther Eye's Return Chapter VIII - Ha! Ha! Big Joke! Chapter IX - The "Ghost" Walks Again Chapter X - Kentucky's Downfall Chapter XI - A Ride in the Night Chapter XII - Strange Wealth Chapter XIII - A Strange Bear Hunt Chapter XIV - Wild Men, Baboons, and Something Strange Chapter XV - Victory Chapter XVI - One Minute to Play Chapter XVII - Gliding Toward Fresh Adventure Chapter XVIII - Ten Gallons of Air Chapter XIX - With the Speed of a Whirlwind Chapter XX - In the Grip of a Giant Chapter XXI - Dynamite Takes it on the Chin
Chapter I - Gold from the Sky
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"You mean to say he takes those big, jug-like things down there empty andbrings them up full?" Johnny Thompson, the boy from Illinois who hadtravelled far and seen many strange things, stared at Ballard Ball, thered-headed boy of the Cumberland Mountains of Kentucky, with surprise. Ifthe truth were told, he found himself doubting the other boy's story.
Here he was standing in the grinding room of an old fashioned millwatching massive stone wheels grind the corn he had carted from hiscousin's store and at the same time discovering what promised to be afirst class mystery right down here in the slow old Cumberland mountainswhere, he had supposed, nothing unusual ever happened.
"But what's down there?" He was looking at the floor of the mill. At thesame time he was hearing a curious sound, a sucking and hissing thatmight, he thought, have been the working of a small steam engine. But ofcourse there was no steam engine, for there was no smoke stack and nosmoke.
"Nothing down there but water. Some machines he brought months ago.They're down there. The water wheel runs them," the other boy drawled."Of course he wouldn't bring water up in the jugs and cart them away. Whyshould he? There's water everywhere. This river runs for miles. Besides,"his voice dropped, "that stuff he brings up is queer. It's cold and itsmokes. Yes sir, a sort of white smoke comes off it all the time."
"White smoke," Johnny said slowly. "And it's cold. That's odd!"
"You'd have thought it was odd!" Ballard gave vent to a low chuckle. "Istood with my leg against one of those jugs—if that's what theyare—once and all of a sudden my leg tingled and went sort of dead. Ijumped away quick, but not quick enough. Three or four days after that,the skin all peeled off the side of my leg."
"Cooked your leg!" Johnny exclaimed.
"It must have!" Ballard amended.
"How—how long's he been doing it?" Johnny asked.
"Almost a year!"
"A year!" Johnny whistled. "And you never asked him what it was he wasbringing up nor how he got it?"
"No-o." The other boy smiled a queer smile. "He pays me for my work here,keeping the grinding mill going, pays me well and besides—" Hehesitated. "Well, you know, we mountain folks don't like for other peopleto ask us too many questions so, naturally, we don't ask too manyourselves.
"Not," he added hastily, "that there are not people round about here whoare burning up to know all about it. There are. But up to now nary a oneof 'em's learned anything worth telling."
"You're a good watchman," Johnny laughed.
"I sleep here at the mill," the mountain boy said simply. "And the lowerpart of the mill, down where he makes that—that stuff, whatever it is,is boarded up pretty tight, all two inch planks, spiked good and plenty.You see—" Ballard broke off. "Wait a little. There's Aunt Sally AnnSetser out there. She's got rheumatism, sort of stiff in her joints. I'lltake down her bag of corn to her."
Left to himself, Johnny allowed his eyes to roam about the place. Thiswas no ordinary grinding mill. It was much larger. Before the strangercame with his unusual hissing machinery or pumps, and his more unusualsomething that was produced apparently from water, or air, or justnothing at all, it had been used in other ways. He remembered hearingCousin Bill say it had been a sawmill, that logs had been floated down toit in the spring when the water was high. But now there were no more logsand no sawmill.
Johnny's eyes strayed through the open door and up to the crest of therocky ridge known as Stone Mountain. "Worth exploring," he told himself."Caves up there I've heard,—and bears. Sometimes the natives hunt them.Boy! Fellow'd have to watch out!" Johnny heaved a sigh of contentment. Heloved these slow-going mountain people, loved the mountains as well. Inthe spring when all the little streams, and the big ones too, wentrushing and roaring by, when the birds sang to the tune of those rushingwaters and white dogwood blossoms lay like snow banks against the hills,that was wonderful!
In the autumn when leaves turned to red and gold, when chestnut burs wereopening and the coon hunter's dogs bayed from the hills, that was grandtoo.
Yes, Johnny liked it all. But this mystery of the old mill promised tomake his stay doubly interesting. "Just think of an old man coming downinto these hills and setting up a mill for creating something of realvalue out of water and air," he murmured. "Gold from the sky, almost. ButI'm going to find out about it."
Once again his thoughts swung back to mountain scenes. His cousin Bill,who was a young man with a family, had moved down here and set up a smallstore. Bill was doing very well. Johnny was always welcome. He clerked inthe store, made trips like this to the mill and helped in every way hecould.
"Somebody told me there was a cave up there along the ridge," he said toBallard, as the boy came shuffling back into the mill room.
"Yep. There is. Regular good one!" he answered. "Lot of these whiteicicles in it. Look like icicles but not really icicles you know."
"Stalactites and stalagmites," Johnny suggested.
"That what you call 'em?" Ballard stared. "Looks like there might be aneasier name to say. But they're there anyway. Want to go up there? Don'thave to go back right away do you? I'll be through in less than an hour.Then we'll go up."
"We—ll," Johnny reflected for a moment. "Just so I get back by earlycandle light. I guess it will be all right." Just at that moment hadthere been any mountain imps about, and if there were such creatures asimps, we might imagine one whispering to Johnny: "As if you'd ever getback by early candle light!" But there are no imps, so there was nowhisper.
As Johnny stood there a feeling of uneasiness, not to say of guilt, creptover him. At first he was at a loss to know what it was all about. Then,like a sudden bang from a squirrel hunter's gun, it came to him.
"Ran away!" he exclaimed in an undertone. "Ran away. That's what I did."
Yes, that was just what he had done. The call of the Cumberlands had beentoo much for him. The whisper of breezes among the hilltops, the chatterof squirrels in the chestnut trees, the gleam of water in deep poolswhere sly old black bass lurk, had been too strong for him. He had runaway.
Run away from what? The strangest thing! Not from his home. Johnny had nohome except the home of his grandfather at old Hillcrest. There he wasfree to come and go as he chose. He had not run away from his job either,at present he had no job. He had run away from a promise.
In Hillcrest, the little home city of his grandfather, there was acollege, not a large college, but a very fine one. The students were asturdy hard-working lot, the professors wise and friendly.
No, Johnny had not promised to attend college. "College is fine for somepeople," Johnny had said. "Fine for a lot of fellows, but not for me.Imagine me sitting still for a whole hour listening to a lecture on Platoor the fifth nerve of a frog. Some people are born for action. That's me.I can't sit still."
Action. Yes, that was the word, and it was action Johnny had promised. Hehad told Coach Dizney that he would get out and scout around among thenearby small cities for good football material. The coach had a goodteam—almost. He was short two or three good players. More than all elsehe needed a left half-back. Johnny had promised to find him thatparticular player.
"And I failed!" Johnny groaned.
So he had. Johnny did not play football. He was handicapped by a bad kneethat doubled up under him as soon as he ran fifty yards. But Johnny knewa good player when he saw one. Johnny was a lightweight boxer of no meanreputation. He could put a man through a series of action that told himvery quickly what he would be worth behind the line of scrimmage. EvenCoach Dizney admitted that it was uncanny the way Johnny picked them. Hehad sent Johnny out to scout, then had hurried away for a vacation in thenorth woods. Johnny had scouted faithfully for two weeks with no resultsworthy of mention. Then the call of the mountains had got him.
"I failed him," he groaned. "Failed the good old coach."
He was full of self reproach but the lure of the hills held him. Oh well,there were still two full weeks before college opened. He'd have abreathing spell here in the Cumberlands. Then he'd go back and pick 'em.Oh! Wouldn't he though?
A half hour later all guilty thoughts wer