Mystery of the Sassafras Chair Read Free

and started grimly up the cabin steps.
    â€œWait a moment,” the deputy purred. “I think you’d better let me go in first.”

2
    Gift
    T IMOR followed his uncle up to the porch, and peered about him with troubled eyes while the deputy tested the door and inserted the key in the lock.
    The sprawling cabin looked very different, with Wiley not here to greet them. They had made several trips up here last year, and each time they had found the grounds tended, the floors swept, the rooms aired, the refrigerator working, and the water from the spring higher on the mountain turned on. And Wiley had never failed to have a fire laid in the fireplace, and a bouquet of wild flowers on the table. Neglect showed everywhere now. In the creeping mist the place even seemed haunted.
    The heavy door creaked open, but Rance Gatlin did not enter immediately. Timor saw him place another match between his teeth, and begin chewing it thoughtfully while he studied the dim interior. Finally he took a few steps inside, then beckoned to the colonel.
    â€œSee anything different in here?” he asked.
    â€œSo far as I can tell,” the colonel answered, “nothing’s been touched. The only things of value we leave here are a few guns and fishing rods—but they are in that corner cabinet yonder, and it’s still locked.”
    â€œSomeone was in here last night,” Rance Gatlin said. He pointed to vague muddy footprints outlined in the dust on the cabin floor. “He came in after the dew had fallen, and he must have used Wiley’s key.”
    Odessa, peering over Timor’s shoulder, said curiously, “If nothing’s been stolen, why would anyone want to come in here?”
    The deputy shrugged. “I can think of one good reason. Please stay outside until I’ve taken a few shots of these footprints. I’d like to have them on file.”
    He went back to his car and returned quickly with a small camera and some flashbulbs. When he had snapped several of the clearer prints, the colonel asked, “Wasn’t Wiley mixed up in moonshining?”
    â€œHe’s been caught with illegal liquor,” the deputy admitted. “And can you think of a better place than this to hide the stuff?”
    The colonel made an angry sound deep in his throat. “That explains it! Some rascal’s been storing liquor in here, and he came in last night to get it. He’s probably taken it all out, but we’d better search the place.”
    They searched the cabin carefully, looking in closets and even under the beds. They found nothing that did not belong there. And nothing, it seemed, had been disturbed. Yet Timor could not get over the feeling that there was something about the place that wasn’t quite as it had been.
    â€œConfound it,” muttered the colonel. “I’d like to know who was in here last night.”
    â€œSo would I,” murmured the deputy, his pale eyes still roving about, curious and secretive. “Do you know anyone Wiley might have lent his key to?”
    The colonel shook his head. “The old fellow was pretty sly. He must have had friends, but he never talked about them—unless it was to Tim here. Tim, did Wiley ever mention the name of anyone he might have had any dealings with?”
    â€œNo, sir,” Timor answered truthfully. He could have enlarged on this statement and given an exact description of at least one person he had glimpsed at Wiley’s shack. But something warned him to silence. As Wiley had once said, “Ain’t always wise to tell everything you know. It’s like usin’ up all your ammunition before you track down your b’ar.”
    Timor, by now, was convinced that he had a very sizable bar to track down, and that he had better proceed cautiously. He had learned little enough at the courthouse, but at least his visit had started something—and he had met Rance Gatlin.
    He was relieved when the