Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 277 - The Toll of Death

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TOLL OF DEATH
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I
? CHAPTER II
? CHAPTER III
? CHAPTER IV
? CHAPTER V
? CHAPTER VI
? CHAPTER VII
? CHAPTER VIII
? CHAPTER IX
? CHAPTER X
? CHAPTER XI
? CHAPTER XII
? CHAPTER XIII
? CHAPTER XIV
? CHAPTER XV
? CHAPTER XVI
? CHAPTER XVII
? CHAPTER XVIII
? CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER I
When the full view of Long Valley spread itself upon the screen, it came as a breath-taking spectacle.
Most of the guests in Rexford's penthouse were too entranced to realize that the stepped-up tints of
technicolor photography added magnificence to ordinary beauty; they forgot, too, that a late summer
scene carried extra charm when portrayed in the midst of winter.
For it was winter in New York, as the whining wind reminded when it rattled the windows of the cozy
penthouse. It was therefore smart psychology for Craig Rexford, real estate promoter extraordinary, to
be displaying Long Valley, site of his latest operations, as it had been four months ago.
Glancing about him, Lamont Cranston could discern enraptured faces in the gloom of the big living room.
Even Margo Lane was sufficiently thrilled to be crowding the edge of her chair, which was tribute to
Rexford's salesmanship. As for Rexford himself, his big moon face lay unmasked. Instead of beaming as
it usually did, the lines in that curved countenance were arching into a highly satisfied smirk.
Craig Rexford was putting his act across, and knew it. Confident that the film in his sixteen millimeter
projector was holding everyone enthralled, the promoter was finding opportunity to relax, at least facially.
His voice, however, still carried its smooth, convincing purr as he began to extol the virtues of Long
Valley.
"There lies nature's wonderland," praised Rexford. "An unspoiled fragment of the past, preserved to
serve as a monument of the future. Long Valley, rich in both soil and tradition, is the ideal spot for the
great social experiment in which I hope we shall all have a share."
Rexford must have timed that spiel, for the picture did not change until he had almost finished. Then, as
though geared to Rexford's words, the panorama began to enlarge, moving toward the onlookers.
Rexford obviously had taken this reel from the front of an automobile heading down the gentle slope
leading into the valley from the east. The foreground kept pouring batches of the boasted farmland along
both sides of the road, while he in the manner of a lecturer, identified the larger points of interest.
"To the south" - Rexford gestured toward the left of the screen - "you see Indian Ridge, a long, unbroken
hillside sloping up from the valley. The trail used by the early settlers is on the other side of the ridge, but
those who first arrived in this locality were prompt to settle in the valley itself."
Convinced that his audience had seen enough of Indian Ridge, Rexford swept his hand to the right, where
in the center of a higher range of hills, bulged a great mass of curving granite. In contrast to the Ridge,
which was a rise of bare, irregular stone, these hills to the north were wooded except for the granite
landmark.
"They call that cliff Half Dome," explained Rexford. "Those wooded hills are probably granite, but
fortunately they have never been quarried. Now if you will look straight to the west, to the very center of
the picture, you will observe the finest sight of all - Ragged Rock."
Jutting in the background was a giant crag that really dominated the scene. It was a rugged sentinel that
marked the end of the great oval bowl called Long Valley. The ground seemed to draw up toward
Ragged Rock and at first glance the peak seemed to represent the junction of Indian Ridge and the hills
that included Half Dome. But as the angles of the picture changed, it became apparent that Ragged Rock
was an independent phenomenon.
To the left, the ridge veered off to the south, leaving a high gap that chopped it clear of Ragged Rock.
From the right, the curving hills were broken by a notch, so that the next slope was actually part of
Ragged Rock itself. In all, Ragged Rock reared nearly a thousand feet above the valley, though a fair
portion of this altitude was furnished by the sloping ground leading up toward the towering crag.
Focusing itself upon the lower ground in the center of the valley, the moving picture revealed a small town
among the trees. Soon the picture was in the town itself and Rexford was pointing out the principal
buildings: the red brick courthouse, the gray stone library, the white wooden general store and a
combination structure of red brick fronted by white colonial pillars, which proved to be the "Valley
House," the town's only hotel. The movie took a detour to the railroad station, located on a one-track
line that followed the ridge on the valley side, to climb off through the gap at the left of Ragged Rock. The
station bore the appropriate name of "Valley Center" which stood for the town as well.
Then the picture was back in town again and the audience was getting close-ups of the various citizenry
including the sheriff, the store-keeper and an old librarian. It centered finally upon a tall, thin man who
tilted his head to gaze across the top of his glasses while he shook hands with a brawny man of a
distinctly farmer type whose heavy face was coarse, thick-featured and decidedly unpleasant.
Rexford introduced the pair while one beamed and the other glowered.
"Old Henley Grantham." Rexford was referring to the thin-faced man. "His family were early settlers and
he's the last of such people in the Valley. The pessimistic gentleman with the big face is Anson Venner.
He owns more farm land than anyone else in the Valley - and most of the best."
The movie flickered to a sudden finish. Rexford turned on the lights and by the time his guests had rubbed
their tired eyes, his face had resumed its usual complacent smile. Of the dozen men and women present,
nearly all were vocally enthusiastic about Long Valley and Rexford received their comments with a polite
bow, as he spread a large map on a long table in the center of the living room.
"Our plan is as simple as it is practical," stated Rexford. "We propose to buy up the farm land in Long
Valley and divide it into tracts of one acre each, which will be apportioned to individuals who wish to join
our post-war project."
Looking about the group, Rexford picked Cranston as his most logical questioner. Not only was
Cranston reputed to be the wealthiest person present; there was something impressive in the calmness of
his immobile face. Always the shrewd salesman, Rexford knew that if he could convince Cranston, others
would follow.
Meeting Rexford's steadying gaze, Cranston responded with a natural question:
"What is the acreage of Long Valley?"
"Enough for at least twenty thousand project partners, as we term them," replied Rexford. "With their
families, the total population should exceed fifty thousand."
"What about the present land owners?"
"You mean will they sell?" Rexford curved his smile to its limit. "I think so, at the prices we are prepared
to offer. Of course there is one man who doesn't like it: Anson Venner."
Cranston gave an understanding nod. The Venner that the movie had portrayed was definitely a man who
wouldn't be in keeping with a decentralized world of tomorrow. The question was, how strong Venner
stood with the Valley folk, but before Cranston could ask it, Rexford covered the subject.
"Henley Grantham rates right well in the Valley," said Rexford. "You could probably tell from his picture
that he is an amiable sort. We've done our best to reach Venner through Grantham, who wants
everybody to be happy. In fact, we've offered to make Grantham an important figure in our project.
Tradition counts heavily in that district."
"How heavily?"
"More heavily than you would suppose, Cranston." Taking a pencil, Rexford drew a long curve on the
map, forming an oval that stretched from the sides of Ragged Rock half way to Valley Center. "Though
Venner has induced the natives to hold on to their farms, we are beginning to buy up the land in this
area."
Cranston raised his eyebrows. This was a large scale topographical map that included such details as
houses and contour markings of the hills. In the oval marked by Rexford, there was only one house, near
the fringe, while the ground leading back to Ragged Rock was increasingly steep.
"Don't let the map fool you," chuckled Rexford. "That's good land in back of Grantham's house. I've
looked at maps a hundred and fifty years old, and that's where the big land barons lived in those days.
They owned everything and kept the best for themselves. They let the poor trash rent the land way down
in the valley. Then Black Arthur came along -"
Rexford paused, noting that the name had struck home to Cranston. Looking up from the map, Cranston
gave a recollective nod.
"I've heard of Black Arthur," he said. "Wasn't he an American Robin Hood, who flourished shortly after
the Revolution?"
"Right here in this valley," declared Rexford, tapping the map. "He robbed the rich people who lived up
here" - Rexford swept his hand eastward on the map - "and gave the profits to the poor, down below.
He'd just about equalized matters when the law caught up with him. Black Arthur was killed up here on
Ragged Rock, his favorite lookout spot. From that day on, the shadow of the Rock laid its curse on all
who came within it."
At the word "shadow," Margo Lane gave a sudden start and looked at Lamont Cranston. To Margo, the
name "Shadow" represented Cranston's other identity, the self wherein he tracked down strange curses
and terminated their baleful influence.
Fortunately no one noticed Margo's sudden change of expression. They were leaning to look at the map,
where Rexford was tracing the curve that represented the extreme ground covered by the rock shadow.
"Some of the big land owners had gone," recounted Rexford. "Those who remained began to meet up
with accidents whenever they stayed at home and let the shadow fall on them. That wasn't all; whenever
a death occurred, a big bell clanged through the valley, from the woods above Half Dome.
"The farmers must have been doing it, of course, but there wasn't any way to prove it. They were in the
majority and in the saddle, too, considering all the cash that their friend Black Arthur had distributed
among them. Likely as not, they bought up all the constables and kept the legend safe, until it faded out,
because all the land barons were dead or gone."
Rolling up the map, Rexford tossed it in the corner and lighted a cigar, while he watched for reactions
from the group. He expected Cranston to be the spokesman and Rexford wasn't disappointed.
"I suppose that various farmers bought the slope land," remarked Cranston. "Probably after the county
took it over because of unpaid taxes."
"That's right," said Rexford. "Exactly right."
"But they couldn't sell it," continued Cranston, "because nobody wanted to live there, themselves
included."
Rexford nodded, his cigar twisting as he smiled.
"But now you're buying it." Cranston's eyes fixed steadily on Rexford. "Because it's the only land you can
get. You're going to use it as a wedge to defeat this chap Venner. Outsiders won't mind settling there and
when there are enough of them -"
Cranston interrupted himself, with Rexford scoring an assist. The basic reason was the enthusiastic slap
that Rexford planted in the middle of Cranston's back.
"You've caught the idea, Cranston!" Rexford turned triumphantly to the group. "Took the words right out
of my mouth, that's what Cranston did! We'll stock that slope land with enough newcomers to outvote
the local yokels if they try to side with Venner. And that's why we'll need cash" - Rexford became
emphatic - "to make sure of buying when the time is ripe. Everybody will be happy" - Rexford spread his
hands in a generous sweep. "The farmers will be paid good prices for their land; there will be a proper
profit for investors like yourselves; and the buyers - project partners, we call them - will benefit by
becoming pioneers in the world of the future!"
From the table drawer, Rexford whipped out a pad of application blanks that bore the title, "Long Valley
Development Association." While he was distributing them to the group, Margo Lane, quite fascinated by
Rexford's super-salesmanship, was suddenly disturbed by an interrupting clutch upon her elbow. Then
Cranston's low tone:
"Come on, Margo. Let's get out while Rexford is selling the medicine. I'm going to learn more about this
before I subscribe."
It wasn't until they were in the elevator that Margo had weighed Cranston's words sufficiently to
respond:
"You mean you're going to learn more about Rexford's project?"
"No," replied Cranston, calmly. "I mean I'm going to learn more about Long Valley."
And from that comment, Margo knew without asking that Cranston specifically intended to investigate
the facts that concerned the insidious shadow cast by Ragged Rock!
CHAPTER II
Project Partner Vincent wheeled his weather-beaten Model A into the town of Millwood that lay over
the hills from Long Valley. So far as the world was concerned, Harry Vincent was simply an enterprising
young man who wanted to be the first to buy one of the acre plots that Craig Rexford would soon be
offering to the deserving. Actually, Harry was working for The Shadow, a mysterious personage who not
only combated crime, but didn't like his title to be mistakenly identified with a century old curse involving
Ragged Rock.
Harry's car wasn't much to look at, but neither was the town of Millwood, so they merged very
promptly. Parking the relic in front of a dilapidated diner, Harry strolled across the pock-marked main
street to look at the mill dam where the Pleasant River swirled to a full stop. Though Harry had never
before seen the Pleasant River, he knew all about it. The river's source was Pleasant Lake, some ten
miles to the southwest of Long Valley. From there, the river flowed past the far side of Ragged Rock,
completely avoiding Long Valley. Behind that crag it passed through an unhealthy bog locally known as
sunken swamp, then, following the curve of the northern hills, it reached Millwood, which lay a few miles
beyond the far side of Half Dome.
The Millwood mill was doing business, thanks to the present demand for lumber. Masses of floating logs
were awaiting a longitudinal carving and the whine of circular saws vied with the tumult of the mill race.
Having satisfied himself that prosperity was present in these dilapidated surroundings, Harry returned to
the lunch wagon, to see how much information he could acquire over a few cups of coffee.
A brawny lumberman slid Harry the sugar bowl and accompanied it with the greeting:
"H'ya, fellow. Looking for a job?"
Harry shook his head and that brought stares from all along the counter. Why anybody would come to
Millwood except to work there, was a vital mystery that needed immediate clearing. So Harry supplied
the answer, along with testimonials in the form of identification cards that he had received upon
application at Rexford's New York office.
"I'm a project partner," boasted Harry. "On my way to Long Valley to buy a hunk of land there. I want
my own farm and my own cow. Maybe two. Cows I mean, not farms. They're only allowing one farm to
a customer. That's the rule."
Harry's declaration of future independence brought grins and guffaws from along the counter, with one
exception. The big man who had shoved the sugar bowl leaned Harry's way in a manner that was both
serious and challenging.
"You mean this Rexford guy is selling lots already?"
"Guess he must be," returned Harry. "He said they'd take my deposit in the office at Valley Center."
"Know anybody else that's buying land there?"
"Not yet, but I will be soon. The prospectus says there's room for twenty thousand partners in this
project."
To prove his argument, Harry produced the prospectus, a large folder that opened out four ways to
display a map of the valley surrounded by stills from Rexford's motion picture reels. The big man read
some details across Harry's shoulder, then turned to the rest of the Millwood throng.
"Maybe Anson Venner is right," declared the big man. "Give 'em an inch of Long Valley and they'll take
the whole twelve miles of it. It ain't our valley, you understand" - the speaker had turned again to Harry -
"so we don't hold no grudge agin' fellows like you, who want a place to settle, which is anybody's right.
But too much of anything is bad - and that goes for people."
"You don't have to worry about the project," assured Harry. "It will be confined strictly to Long Valley."
"It don't matter where you keep a horse," argued the Millwood spokesman, "if it's you that's got to feed
him. That's what Venner said, the last time he was over here in Millwood. It's us that will have to keep
that Valley going when it gets filled up with partners on that project."
"But we'll be self-supporting," insisted Harry. "Growing our own crops -"
"With what?" interjected the big man. "The water that supplies the Valley like it is at present? Not much!
A population of twenty thousand is going to need a reservoir, and it will have to be a big one." Pointing
his finger to Harry's map, the man tapped Pleasant Lake. "That's where they're going to try and get it.
Out of our lake!"
"Your lake?"
"And why not? It's in our county, ain't it? It's where the river comes from, that brings down the logs to
feed our mill, and the water we need to run it. What Long Valley needs, it will have to get for itself. Only
it hasn't got it."
The big man finished by telling the lunch counter clerk to set up another cup of coffee for Harry, just to
show there was no harm meant.
"Fellows like you are welcome. You'll be better neighbors than the Valley folk, if there ain't too many of
you, which there won't be, considering the water situation. What part of the Valley is your acre in.
Swallowing his coffee, Harry pointed to the section of the map that lay within the long oval shadow of
Ragged Rock. The mere action brought a chorus from the men about him.
"So that's where Rexford has been buying up land!"
"Ground that none of the Valley folk will farm!"
"Say, can you beat them skinflints? Peddling what they ain't got no use for?"
"Hoping the curse will hit poor guys that never even heard of it."
"Yeah, but suppose it doesn't hit 'em?"
"It will be tough for Venner if it don't. He's been arguing against letting any strangers into the Valley -"
"But Venner or nobody else can stop 'em from selling what they don't want to keep."
Harry was starting to fold his map, oblivious to the jargon around him. Pausing, he remarked innocently
that he intended to drive over through the notch to have a look at his land while riding into Valley Center.
That brought another outburst from the throng.
"Nobody uses that road no more, stranger."
"It ain't even been a road, since Black Arthur and his outlaws used to ride it."
"They used to call it the high road - and you can take it stranger -"
"And keep it. We'll take the low road, around to the east of Half Dome."
Ignoring the flood of comments, Harry thrust the map in his pocket, strolled out to his ancient car and
nonchalantly started for the old road leading through the notch. All this was in keeping with The
Shadow's orders, though outwardly it appeared that Harry was demonstrating that the incoming project
partners represented a hardy lot of pioneers.
At least Harry made a real impression.
Glancing back from the outskirts of Millwood, he saw a knot of men outside the lunch wagon surveying
his progress in a motionless fashion that indicated awe. Though this could mean that they were admiring
Harry's nerve in tackling an almost-forgotten road, he could sense a stronger reason.
It was already afternoon and unless Harry made the trip in fairly rapid time, he would be caught within the
spread of the shadow from Ragged Rock. That menace, rather than the hazard of the road itself, was the
reason why this old dirt highway was avoided, even by the natives of Millwood.
Such was Harry's conclusion and results supported it.
Despite arguments to the contrary, the road up through the notch was not half bad. True it showed signs
of long neglect, but if anything, that had improved it. Seasons of rain and snow had washed away all
vestiges of the road's dirt surface, but the result was bed-rock, which proved better than the average
country road. By avoiding the most conspicuous juts of rock, Harry had no trouble in making the grade,
though he was somewhat relieved when he reached the notch itself and saw the curving road slant
downward toward Long Valley.
Then, swinging a short bend, Harry gained his first view of the Valley itself and a few moments later he
was taxing the worn brake bands to gain an opportunity to drink in the remarkable sight.
A remarkable sight it was.
From this high outlet, the immensity of Long Valley rendered itself clear. The photographs, taken from the
gentle eastern slope, made the bowl appear compressed. This view, gained from an elevation just north
of Ragged Rock, magnified the scene as much as the pictures had dwindled it.
A straight twelve miles ahead, the eastern slope rose so gently that it appeared almost level. Less than
half way to that slope, in a position which somewhat belied its title, the town of Valley Center squatted in
red, white and gray, representing its brick, wood and stone construction.
This was winter and the scene was barren, etching the town clearly against the landscape. But the season
was mild in Long Valley and there were no traces of snow. Hence the ground was dried and brown,
while the trees gave the effect of blackened poles, except for the occasional relief of white birches.
Oddly, however, the blend did not destroy the glorious illusion created by Rexford's four-color
prospectus and its verdant summer scene.
Any eye that knew good country - and Harry's eye was one - could tell that this was fine land for raising
varied crops. The fact that farm houses were few and scattered in the distance, simply meant that the
natives had picked what they wanted and were letting the rest stay idle. Large clusters of trees
represented wood lots belonging to the various farms and the size of certain tracts was plainly
distinguishable from the stone walls that served as dividing lines.
To his left, Harry scanned the wooded curve of hills from which Half Dome bulged. Over to the right, he
saw the stony slope of Indian Ridge, with the one-track railway wending a serpentine course up through
its lower gullies. Water alone was lacking, as Harry had gathered in Millwood, for there wasn't a trace of
a stream or pond throughout the five mile breadth of Long Valley.
His survey complete, Harry released the brake and tightened it an instant later. His eyes training to the
road, he had become conscious of something so ominous that he shuddered with the brake bands.
Like a great apron, a curved stretch of blackness was spreading down through the valley, blotting the
rock-strewn slope that Harry's road flanked. There were patches of clear land within that monstrous
curve and amid them Harry could distinguish the weather-beaten foundations of long-ruined buildings.
These were the remnants of the manors that had once dominated Long Valley before Black Arthur's
curse had taken its effect upon them. The spread of gigantic darkness, its curve jagged with points like
fangs, was the fateful shadow of the mighty Ragged Rock!
Gripped with something akin to horror, Harry looked over his right shoulder and saw the towering crag
itself. From this angle it didn't fit the photographs that showed it serene in the distance. Instead it was a
misshapen monster that seemed alive, because of the fleecy clouds that were drifting beyond it, toward
the setting sun that the rock itself was consigning to an early rest.
One distorted knob that jutted from the crag could be likened to a mammoth paw, reaching to draw the
curtain of night. From the circling effect that the moving clouds gave it, that paw might well be planning to
include Harry and his car within the shrouding folds. It wasn't funny, that effect, not with the gathering
dusk below the crag itself. It was a deathly dusk, pushing its toothed fringes toward the road, as though
intending to be first with its pall of murderous gloom.
Like a whippet, Harry's over-aged car bounded down the road, the shriek of the passing wind drowning
the rattles of the timeworn chassis. Harry wasn't caring about the stones that scudded from the
smooth-worn tires to clatter the flapping fenders. He could hold that road as long as he saw sunlight on it;
of that alone, he was sure. Harry didn't realize that if blackness cut across his path, he personally might
contribute to disaster that the creeping shadow threatened, by going off the road because of sudden
gloom.
Stark fear, of a sort he couldn't believe he would experience, was spurring Harry Vincent to a spot that
stood for safety or destruction, a sharp dip in the time-wrecked road that seemed to invite the pronged
shadow into its very hollow.
The old car hit the drop with a force that shimmied the steering wheel. His hands shaking with it, Harry
yanked the wheel hard to the left and escaped a ditch by inches. Up and out of the pitfall, he saw what
had saved him from the crash that his own terror might have brought.
The saving factor was a thin slice of sunlight, streaking the very brink of the ditch, a beam of warning light
that formed a last-moment barrier before it was swallowed by the destroying shadow that gulped from
Ragged Rock!
CHAPTER III
Tossing like a danger signal, the girl's red hair appeared suddenly through a gate beside the road. If it
hadn't flagged Harry to a stop, the girl would have personally done so, for she sprang squarely to the
middle of the road and danced there, right and left, waving her arms madly. She seemed to be telling
Harry that if he tried to detour around her, she would hop in his direction and still supply a human
hazard.
Harry didn't take the chance. The menacing shadow lay at least a half mile behind him and he knew he
could outrace it. Besides, the road was level here, where it came into a V to meet another from the
general direction of Indian Ridge.
That was, the fork was visible a quarter mile ahead, and from there it would be a straight run into Valley
Center. It must have been the steep road, rather than the approaching blackness that had given Harry
that unprecedented scare. With the shadow of the rock behind him, Harry was chiding his own fear, but
at the same time feeling tolerant to anyone who might be having similar jitters. Taking that to be the girl's
status, Harry stopped and let her climb into the car.
Before Harry could shift into low, the girl grabbed his arm and pointed off beyond the gate, to the right.
Breathless, she gasped a fund of local information.
"I'm Shirley Grantham. I live in that house." Harry saw the house as the girl pointed. It was large, but
squatty, with a big, ugly bay window that occupied two stories of one corner.
"It's my uncle's house - maybe you've heard of him - he's Henley Grantham. He always goes down town
before the shadow of Ragged Rock arrives here and I'm not supposed to stay here either."
"Don't worry," said Harry. "You're as good as gone already." Sensing that his statement had an ominous
touch, he amended it. "Gone from the rock shadow, I mean."
"I'm leaving soon enough," agreed the girl. "I could walk to the fork before the shadow gets here. I've
timed it often. But I'm worrying about Fred Ferris - over there."
Changing the direction of her point, the girl indicated some tiny figures, far across the humpy ground with
its broken-down stone walls. They were perhaps a mile away, near the other road that forked toward
Indian Ridge.
They were surveyors, working up the slope toward Ragged Rock. Even at this distance Harry could
distinguish the rod and transit that two men were carrying. But from the way they hesitated, they were
calling it a day, except for one man who was gesturing to the others, beckoning them up the rise, where
the ever-increasing shadow was still spreading its blotting mass.
"We'll have to warn him!" insisted Shirley. "I'd never be able to run across those fields in time. I'd have to
go around it anyway, and you have a car -"
Harry didn't wait for a further plea. He jolted into a rapid start that flounced the girl back against the seat.
Legend or fact, the menace from the rock was fearsome and whoever this chap Ferris was, Harry felt he
deserved a warning. As for furthering his acquaintance with the attractive girl who had so suddenly
invaded his car, Harry wasn't adverse to that either. Shirley Grantham wanted to warn Fred Ferris, so
warn him she could, and Harry Vincent would be around to accept thanks for the favor.
Shirley was explaining matters as Harry made the V-turn that swung them up the left from the forks.
"Fred Ferris is new here," the girl said, her tone anxious as she stared ahead. "He came to Valley Center
to survey some ground that Mr. Rexford bought. My uncle told Ferris about the legend, but he only
laughed. I was afraid he would defy it."
"And what if he does?" inquired Harry, indifferently.
Shirley's eyes turned from the road to give Harry a searching look. For the first time she seemed to
recognize that he must be a total stranger to this locality, but in accepting him as such, she was promptly
puzzled regarding his frantic and almost precipitous arrival from the hill road. Sharply the girl demanded:
"You've heard about the curse of Ragged Rock, haven't you?"
"Heard of it is about all," rejoined Harry. "I thought they laughed it off a hundred years ago."
"They stopped defying it," argued Shirley. "That's why nobody has suffered from it. Look at those men
with Ferris! He'll never persuade them to go up there. They belong here in the Valley and they told him
they wouldn't work after the shadow fell."
The figures were much larger now, for Harry had driven well along the rough road that wangled off
toward Indian Ridge. From this angle, the irregular slope to Ragged Rock produced new perspectives,
giving the great crag a much different aspect; though it was quite as grim as ever.
Here the contours undulated upward to the right, like swells from the ocean, except that they heaped
themselves. This rolling ground had been good farmland once, for it was clear of rocks, but where the
slope began a sharper rise, stones were both numerous and large. Ferris was on the fringe of that higher
ground, shouting epithets that suited his beefy build, but he wasn't directing his talk to Ragged Rock.
Between beckons, Ferris was shaking his fist down the rolling slope to where the local surveyors were
hurriedly packing their instruments in a truck that practically blocked the road. Harry noted that the truck
was turned toward town, so that no time would be lost in getting started.
The reason of course was the monstrous shadow. It was coming faster than before, that horror from the
crag, as though the sun had sped its setting process expressly to please the spirit of Black Arthur, the
guardian of Ragged Rock. Harry didn't take time to calculate the fact that as the sun neared the horizon
beyond the great rock, its added declination would account for the stepped-up phenomenon. He was
getting another taste of horror that had hurried him down from the notch and with Shirley as a companion
it was difficult to shake off the renewed effect.
She was an intelligent girl, this Shirley Grantham, too keen to be dyed by the local color of Long Valley.
Yet the fear in her tone, as she urged Harry to hurry, was all the more genuine because it was felt for
someone else, that foolhardy man on the slope. And to Harry Vincent, it seemed that Fred Ferris, beefy
though he was, had become reduced to the puny proportions of an insect, against his present setting.
It wasn't necessary to look up at Ragged Rock.
Even the mere stones imbedded in the turf were huge when compared to Ferris. They bulged above him
in an irregular procession, like the monoliths of Druid mounds. Hulking forward, like Ragged Rock itself,
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TOLLOFDEATHMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI?CHAPTERII?CHAPTERIII?CHAPTERIV?CHAPTERV?CHAPTERVI?CHAPTERVII?CHAPTERVIII?CHAPTERIX?CHAPTERX?CHAPTERXI?CHAPTERXII?CHAPTERXIII?CHAPTERXIV?CHAPTERXV?CHAPTERXVI?CHAPTERXVII?CHAPTERXVIII?CHAPTERXIXCHAPTERIWhent...

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