CHAPTER XIII

Wherein the Angel Releases Freckles, and the Curse of Black Jack Falls upon Her

On the line, the Angel gave one backward glance at Black Jack, to see that he had returned to his work.  Then she gathered her skirts above her knees and leaped forward on the run.  In the first three yards she passed Freckles’ wheel.  Instantly she imagined that was why he had insisted on her coming by the trail.  She seized it and sprang on.  The saddle was too high, but she was an expert rider and could catch the pedals as they came up.  She stopped at Duncan’s cabin long enough to remedy this, telling Mrs. Duncan while working what was happening, and for her to follow the east trail until she found the Bird Woman, and told her that she had gone after McLean and for her to leave the swamp as quickly as possible.

Even with her fear for Freckles to spur her, Sarah Duncan blanched and began shivering at the idea of facing the Limberlost.  The Angel looked her in the eyes.

“No matter how afraid you are, you have to go,” she said.  “If you don’t the Bird Woman will go to Freckles’ room, hunting me, and they will have trouble with her.  If she isn’t told to leave at once, they may follow me, and, finding I’m gone, do some terrible thing to Freckles.  I can’t go—­that’s flat—­for if they caught me, then there’d be no one to go for help.  You don’t suppose they are going to take out the trees they’re after and then leave Freckles to run and tell?  They are going to murder the boy; that’s what they are going to do.  You run, and run for life!  For Freckles’ life!  You can ride back with the Bird Woman.”

The Angel saw Mrs. Duncan started; then began her race.

Those awful miles of corduroy!  Would they never end?  She did not dare use the wheel too roughly, for if it broke she never could arrive on time afoot.  Where her way was impassable for the wheel, she jumped off, and pushing it beside her or carrying it, she ran as fast as she could.  The day was fearfully warm.  The sun poured with the fierce baking heat of August.  The bushes claimed her hat, and she did not stop for it.

Where it was at all possible, the Angel mounted and pounded over the corduroy again.  She was panting for breath and almost worn out when she reached the level pike.  She had no idea how long she had been—­and only two miles covered.  She leaned over the bars, almost standing on the pedals, racing with all the strength in her body.  The blood surged in her ears while her head swam, but she kept a straight course, and rode and rode.  It seemed to her that she was standing still, while the trees and houses were racing past her.

Once a farmer’s big dog rushed angrily into the road and she swerved until she almost fell, but she regained her balance, and setting her muscles, pedaled as fast as she could.  At last she lifted her head.  Surely it could not be over a mile more.  She had covered two of corduroy and at least three of gravel, and it was only six in all.