THE RALESTONES COME HOME

Once upon a time two brave princes and a beautiful prin-
cess set out to make their fortunes—" began the dark-
haired, dark-eyed boy by the convertible.

"Royalty is out of fashion," corrected Ricky Ralestone
somewhat indifferently. "Can't you do better than that?"
She gave her small, pert hat an exasperated tweak which
brought the unoffending bowl-shaped bit of white felt into
its proper position over her right eyebrow. "How long
does it take Rupert to ask a single simple question?"

Her brother Val watched the gas gage on the instrument
board of the convertible fluctuate wildly as the attendant of

Andr6 Norton

the station shook the hose to speed the flow of the last few
drops. Five gallons—did he have enough to pay for it? He
began to assemble various small hoards of change from

different pockets.
"Do you think we're going to like this?" Ricky waved

her hand vaguely in a gesture which included a dilapidated
hot-dog stand and a stretch of road white-hot under the

steady baking of the sun.

"Well, I think that Pirate's Haven is slightly different
from our present surroundings. Where's your proper pride?
Not everyone can be classed among the New Poor," Val

observed judiciously.

"Nobility in the bread line." His sister sniffed with

what she fondly believed was the air of a Van Astor

dowager.
"Nobility?"
"We never relinquished the title, did we? Rupert's still

the Marquess of Lome."

"After some two hundred years in America I am afraid

that we would find ourselves strangers in England. And

Lome crumbled to dust long ago."

"But he's still Marquess of Lome," she persisted.

"All right. And what does that make you?"

"Lady Richanda, of course, silly. Can't you remember

the wording of the old charter? And you're Viscount—"
"Wrong there," Val corrected her. "I'm only a lord, by

courtesy, unless we can bash Rupert on the head some

dark night and chuck him into the bayou."

"Lord Valerius." She rolled it upon her tongue.

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RALESTONELUCK

"Marquess, Lady, and Lord Val, out to seek their fortunes.
Pity we can't do it in the traditional family way."

"But we can't, you know," he protested laughingly. "I
believe that piracy is no longer looked upon with favor by
the more solid members of any community. Though plank-
walking is an idea to keep in mind when the bill collectors
start to draw in upon us."

"Here comes Rupert at last. Rupert," she raised her
voice as their eider brother opened the door by the driver's
seat, "shall we all go and be pirates? Val has some lovely
gory ideas."

"Not just yet anyway—we still have a roof over our
heads," he answered as he slid in behind the wheel. "We
should have taken the right turn a mile back."

"Bother!" Ricky surveyed as much of her face as she
could see in the postage-stamp mirror of her compact. "I
don't think I'm going to like Louisiana."

"Maybe Louisiana won't care for you either," Val
offered slyly. "After all, we dyed-in-the-wool Yanks com-
ing to live in the deep South—"

"Speak for yourself, Val Ralestone." She applied a
puff carefully to the tip of her upturned nose. "Since
we've got this barn of a place on our hands, we might as
well live in it. Too bad you couldn't have persuaded our
artist tenant to sign another lease, Rupert."

"He's gone to spend a year in Italy. The place is in
fairly good condition though. LeFleur said that as long as
we don't use the left wing and close off the state bedrooms,
we can manage nicely."

"State bedrooms—" Val drew a deep breath which was
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meant to be one of reverence but which turned into a
sneeze as the convertible's wheels raised the dust. "How
does it feel to own such magnificence, Rupert?"

"Not so good," he replied honestly. "A house as big as
Pirate's Haven is a burden if you don't have the cash to
keep it up properly. Though this artist chap did make a lot

of improvements on his own."
"But mink of the Long Hall—" began Ricky, rolling

her eyes heavenward.

"And just what do you know about the Long Hall?"

demanded Rupert.

"Why, that's where dear Great-great-uncle Rick's ghost

is supposed to walk, isn't it?" she asked innocently. "1
hope that our late tenant didn't scare him away. It gives
one such a blue-blooded feeling to think of having an
active ghost on the premises. A member of one's own

family, too!"

"Sure. Teach him—or it—some parlor tricks and we'll

show it—or him—off every afternoon between three and
four. We might even be able to charge admission and
recoup the family fortune," Val suggested brightly.
"Have you no reverence?" demanded his sister. "And

besides, ghosts only walk at night."

"Now that's something we'll have to investigate," Val

interrupted her. "Do ghosts have union rules? I mean, I
wouldn't want Great-great-uncle Rick to march up and
down the carriage drive with a sign reading, "The Ralestones

are unfair to ghosts,' or anything like that."

"We'll have to use the Long Hall, of course," cut in

Rupert, as usual ignoring their nonsense. "And the old
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RALESTONE LUCK

summer drawing-room. But we can shut up the dining-
room and the ball-room. We'll eat in the kitchen, and that
and a bedroom apiece—"

"I suppose there are bathrooms, or at least a bathroom,"
his brother interrupted. "Because I don't care to rush
down to the bayou for a good brisk plunge every time I get
my face dirty."

"Harrison put in a bathroom at his own expense last
falL"

"For which blessed be die name of Harrison. If he
hadn't gone to Italy, he would have rebuilt the house. How
soon do we get there? This touring is not what I nought it
might be—"

The crease which had appeared so recently between
Rupert's eyes deepened.

"Let hurt, Val?" he asked quietly, glancing at the slim
figure sharing his seat.

"No. I'm expressing curiosity this time, old man, not
just a whine. But if we're going to be this far off the main
highway—"

"Oh, it's not far from the city road. We ought to be
seing the gate-posts any moment now."

"Prophet!" Ricky leaned forward between them. "See
there!"

Two gray stone posts, as firmly planted by time as the
avenue of live-oaks they headed, showed clearly in the
afternoon light. And from the nearest, deep carven in the
stone, a jagged-toothed skull, crowned and grinning, stared
blankly at the three in the shabby car. Beneath it ran the

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insolent motto of an ancient and disreputable clan, "What

I want—I take!"

"This is the place all right—1 recognize Joe there/' Val
pointed to the crest. "Good old Joe, always laughing."

Ricky made a face. "Horrid old thing. I don't see why
we couldn't have had a swan or something nice to swank

about."

"But then the Lords of Lome were hardly a nice lot in

their prime," Val reminded her. "Well, Rupert, let's see

the rest."

The car followed a graveled drive between tall bushes
which would have been the better for a pruning. Then the
road made a sudden curve and they came out upon a
crescent of lawn bordering upon a stone-paved terrace
three steps above. And on the terrace stood the home a
Ralestone had not set foot in for over fifty years—Pirate's

Haven.

"It looks—" Ricky stared up, "why, it looks just like

the picture Mr. Hamson painted!"

"Which proves why he is now in Italy," Val returned.

"But he did capture it on canvas."

"Gray stone—and those diamond-paned windows—and
that squatty tower. But it isn't like a Southern home at all!
It's some old, old place out of England."

"Because it was built by an exile," said Rupert softly.
"An exile who loved his home so well that he labored five
years in the wilderness to build its duplicate. Those little
diamond-paned windows were once protected with shutters
an inch thick, and the place was a fort in Indian times. But

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RALESTONE LUCK

it is strange to this country. That's why it's one of the
show places. LeFleur asked me if we would be willing to
keep up the custom of throwing the state rooms open to the
public one day a month."
"And shall we?" asked Ricky.
"We'll see. Well, don't you want to see the inside as
well as the out?"

"Of course! Val, you lazy thing, get out!"
"Certainly, m'lady." He swung open the door and
climbed out stiffly. Although he wouldn't have confessed
it for any reason, his leg had been aching dully for hours.

"Do you know," Ricky hesitated on the first terrace
step, bending down to put aside a trail of morning-glory
vine which clutched at her ankle, "I've just remembered!"

"What?" Rupert looked up from the grid where he was
unstrapping their luggage.

"That We are the very first Ralestones to—to come
home since Grandfather Miles rode away in 1867."

"And why the sudden dip into ancient history?" Val
inquired as he limped around to help Rupert.

"I don't know," her eyes were fast upon moss-greened
wall and ponderous door hewn of a single slab of oak,
"except—well, we are coming home at last I wonder
if—if they know. All those others. Rick and Miles, the
first Rupert and Richard and—"

"That spitfire, the Lady Richanda?" Rupert smiled.
"Perhaps they do. No. leave the bags here, Val. Let's see
the house first."

Together the Ralestones crossed the terrace and came to
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stand by the front door which still bore faint scars left by
Indian hatchets. But Rupert stooped to insert a very mod-
em key into a very modern lock. There was a click and the

door swung inward before his push.

"The Long Hall!" They stood in something of a hesi-
tant huddle at the end of a long stone-floored room. Half-
way down its length a wooden staircase led up to the
second floor, and directly opposite that a great fireplace

yawned mightily, black and bare.
A leather-covered lounge was directly before mis, flanked

by two square chairs. And by me stairs was an oaken
marriage chest. Save for two skin rugs, these were all the

furnishings.
But Ricky had crossed hesitatingly to that cavernous

fireplace and was standing mere looking up as her brothers

joined her.

"There's where it was,'' she said softly and pointed to a

deep niche cut into the surface of the stone overmantel.
That niche was empty and had been so for more than a
hundred years—to their hurt. "That was where the Luck—"
"How hold ye Lome?" Rupert's softly spoken question

brought the well-remembered answer to Val's lips:

"By the oak leaf, by me sea wave, by the broad-sword

blade, thus hold we Lome!"

"The oak leaf is dust," murmured Ricky, "the sea

wave is gone, the broadsword is rust, how now hold ye

Lome?"
Her brothers answered her together:

"By our Luck, thus hold we Lomel"
8

RALESTONE LUCK

"And we've got to get it back," she said. "We've just
got to! When the Luck hangs there again, we—"

"Won't have anything left to worry about," Val fin-
ished for her. "But that's a very big order, m'lady. Short
of catching Rick's ghost and forcing him to disclose the
place where he hid it, I don't see how we're going to do

it."

"But we are going to," she answered confidently. "I

know we are!"

"A good thing," Rupert broke in, a hint of soberness
beneath the lightness of his tone as he looked about the
almost bare room and then at the strained pallor of Val's
thin face. "The Ralestones have been luckless too long.
And now suppose we take possession of this commodious
mansion. I suggest that we get settled as soon as possible.
I don't like the looks of the western sky. We're probably
going to have a storm."

"What about the car?" Val asked as his brother turned

to go.

"Harrison used the old carriage house as a garage. I'll
run it in there. You and Ricky better do a spot of exploring
and see about beds and rood. I don't know how you feel,"
he went on grimly, "but after last night I want something
softer than a dozen rocks to steep on."

"I told you not to stop at that tourist place," began
Ricky smugly. "I said—"

"You said that a house painted that shade of green made
you slightly ill. But you didn't say anything about beds,"
Val reminded her as he shed his coat and hung it on the

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newel-post. "And since the Ralestone family have defi-
nitely gone off the gold or any other monetary standard,

it's tourist rests or the poorhouse for us."

"Probably the poorhouse." Rupert sounded resigned.
"Now upstairs with you and get out some bedding. LeHeur
said in his letter that the place was all ready for occupancy.

And he stocked up with canned stuff."

"I know—beans! Just too, too divine. Well, let's know
the worst." Ricky started up the stairs. "I suppose there

are electric lights?"

"Got to throw the main switch first, and I haven't time

to do that now. Here, Val." Rupert tossed him his tiny

pocket torch as he turned to go. The door closed behind

him and Ricky looked over her shoulder.

"This—this is rather a darkish place, isn't it?"
"Not so bad." Val considered the hall below, which

seemed suddenly peopled by an Overabundance of oddly

shaped shadows.

"No," her voice grew stronger, "not so bad. We're

together anyway, Val. Last year 1 thought I'd die, shut up
in that awful school, and then coming home to hear—"

"About me making my first and last flight. Yes, not
exactly a rest cure for any of us, was it? But it's all over
now. The Ralestones may be down but they're not out,
yet, in spite of Mosile Oil and those coal-mines. D'you
know, we might use some of that nice gilt-edged stock for
wall-paper. There's enough to cover a closet at least. Here
we arc, Rupert from beating about the globe trying to be a
newspaper man, you straight from N'York's finest finishing-

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RALESTONE LUCK

school, and me—well, out of the plainest hospital bed I
ever saw. We've got this house and what Rupert managed
to clear from the wreck. Something will turn up. In the
meantime—"

"Yes?" she prompted.

"In the meantime," he went on, leaning against the
banister for a moment's rest, "we can be looking for the
Luck. As Rupert says, we need it badly enough. Here's
the upper hall. Which way now?"

"Over to the left wing. These in front are what Rupert
refers to as 'state bedrooms.' "

"Yes?" He opened the nearest door and whistled softly.
"Not so bad. About the size of a small union station and
provided with all the comforts of a tomb. Decidedly not
what we want."

"Wait, here's a plaque set in the wall. Look!" She ran
her finger over a glass-covered square.

"Regulations for guests, or a floor plan to show how to
reach the dining-room in the quickest way," her brother
suggested.

"No." She read aloud slowly:

" 'THIS ROOM WAS OCCUPIED BY GENERAL
ANDREW JACKSON,

THE VICTOR OF THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS,
UPON THE TENTH DAY AFTER THE BATTLE. ' "

"Whew! 'Old Hickory' here! But I thought that the
Ralestones were more or less under a cloud at that time,"
commented Val.

AndrS Norton

"History—"
"In the making. Quite so. Now may I suggest that we

find some slumber rooms slightly more modem? Rupert is
apt to become annoyed at undue delay in such matters."
They went down the hall and turned into a short cross
corridor. From a round window at the far end a ray of sun
still swept in, but it was a sickly, faded ray. The storm

Rupert had spoken of could not be far off.

"This is the right way. Mr. Harrison had these little
numbers put on the doors for his guests," Ricky pointed
out. "I'll take 'three'; that was marked on the plan he sent
us as a lady's room. You take that one across the hall and

let Rupert have the one next to you."
The rooms they explored were not as imposing as the

one which had sheltered Andrew Jackson for a night.
Furnished with chintz-covered chairs, solid mahogany bed-
steads and highboys, they were pleasant enough even if
they weren't chambers to make an antique dealer "Oh!"
and "Ah!" Val discovered with approval some stiff prints
of mathematically correct clippers hung an exact patterns
on his walls, while Ricky's room held one treasure, a

dainty dressing-table.
A small door near the end of the hall gave upon a linen

closet. And Ricky, throwing her short white jacket and hat
upon the chair in her room, set about making beds, having
given Val strict orders to return to the lower hall and sort

out the luggage before bringing it up.

As he reached the wide landing he stopped a moment.
Since that winter night, almost a year in the past, when a
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RALBSTONE LUCK

passenger plane had decided—in spite of its pilot—to make
a landing on a mountainside, he had learned to hobble
where he had once run. The accident having made his right
leg a rather accurate barometer, that crooked bone was
announcing the arrival of the coming storm with a sharp
pain or two which shot unexpectedly from knee to ankle.
One such caught him as he was about to take a step and
threw him suddenly off balance.

He clutched at a dim tapestry which hung across the
wall and tumbled through a slit in die fabric—which swelled
of dust and moth balls—into a tiny alcove flanking a
broad, well-cushioned window-seat under tall windows. Be-
low him in a riot of bushes and hedges run wild, lay the
garden. Somewhere beyond must lie Bayou Mercier lead-
ing directly to Lake Borgne and so to the sea, the thorough-
fare used by their pirate ancestors when they brought home
their spoil.

The green of the rank growth below, thought Val, seemed
intensified by the strange yellowish light. A moss-grown
path led straight into the heart of a jungle where sweet
olive, banana trees, and palms grew in a matted mass.
Harrison might have done wonders for the house but he
had allowed the garden to lapse into a wilderness.

"Val!"

"Coming!" he shouted and pushed back through the
curtain. He could hear Rupert moving about the lower
hall.

"Just made it in time," he said as the younger Ralestone
limped down to join him. "Hear that?"

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A steady pattering outside was growing into a wild dash
of wind-driven rain. It was dark and Rupert himself was
but a blur moving across the hall.

"Do you still have the flash? Might as well descend into
the lower regions and put on the lights."

They crossed the Long Hall, passing through another
large chamber where furniture huddled under dust covers,
and then into a small cupboard-lined passage. This gave
upon a dark cavern where Val's hand scraped a table top
only too painfully as he went. Then Rupert found the door
leading to the cellar, and they went down and down into
inky blackness upon which their thread of torchlight made
little impression.

The damp, unpleasant scent of mold and wet grew
stronger as they descended, and their fingers brushed slime-
touched walls.

"Phew! Not very comfy down here," Val protested as
Rupert threw the torch beam along the nearest wall. With a
grunt of relief he stepped forward to pull open the door of
a small black box. "That does it," he said as he threw the
switch. "Now for the topside again and some supper."

They negotiated the steps and found the button which
controlled the kitchen lights. The glare showed them a
room on the mammoth scale suggested by the Long Hall.
A giant fireplace still equipped with three-legged pots,
toasting irons, and spits was at one side, its brick oven
beside it. But a very modem range and sink faced it.

In the center of the room was a large table, while along
the far wall were closed cupboards. Save for its size and
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RALESTONE LUCK

the novelty of the fireplace, it was an ordinary kitchen,
complete to red-checked curtains at the windows. Pleasant
and homey, Val thought rather wistfully. But that was
before the coming of that night when Ricky walked in the
garden and he heard something stir in the Long Hall—
which should have been empty—

"Val! Rupert!" A cry which started valiantly became a
wail as it echoed through empty rooms. "Where are
yo-o-ou!"

"Here, in the kitchen," Val shouted back.
A moment later Ricky stood in the doorway, her face
flushed and her usually correct curls all on end.

"Mean, selfish, utterly selfish pigs!" she burst out.
"Leaving me all alone in the dark! And it's so dark!"
"We just went down to turn on the lights!" Val began.
"So I see." With a sniff she looked about her. "It took
two of you to do that. But it only required one of me to
make three beds. Well, this is a warning to me. Next
time—" shydid not finish her threat. "I suppose you want
some supper?"

Rupert was already at the cupboards. "That,'' he agreed,
"is the general idea."

"Beans or—" Ricky's hand closed upon Val's arm with
a nipper-like grip. "What," her voice was a thin thread of
sound, "was that?"

Above the steady beat of the rain they heard a noise
which was half scratch, half thud. Under Rupert's hand the
latch of the cupboard clicked.

"Back door," he said laconically.

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"Well. why don't you open it?" Ricky's fingers bit
tighter so that Val longed to twist out of her grip.
The key grated in the lock and then Rupert shot back the

accompanying bolt.

"Something's there," breathed Ricky.

"Probably nothing but a branch blown against the door
by the wind," Val assured her, remembering the tangled

state of the garden.
The door came back, letting in a douche of cold rain and

a black shadow which leaped for the security of the center

of die room.

"Look!" Ricky laughed unsteadily and released Val's

arm.
In the center of the neat kitchen, spitting angrily at the

wet, stood a ruffled and oversized black tom-cat.

16

2

THE LUCK OF THE LORDS
OF LORNE

"Nice of you to drop in, old man," commented Rupert
dryly as he shut the door. "But didn't anyone ever men-
tion to you that gentlemen wipe their feet before entering
strange houses?" He surveyed a line of wet paw prints
across the brick floor.

"Did he get all wet, the poor little—" Ricky was on her
knees, stretching out her hand and positively cooing. The
cat put down the paw he had been licking and regarded her
calmly out of round, yellow eyes. Then he relumed to his
washing. Val laughed.

"Evidently he is used to the strong, silent type of
human, Ricky. I wonder where he belongs."
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"He belongs to us now. Yes him does, doesn't him?"
She attempted to touch the visitor's head. His ears went
back and he showed sharp teeth in no uncertain manner.

"Better let him alone," advised Rupert. "He doesn't

seem to be the kind you can cuddle."

"So I see." Ricky arose to her feet with an offended

air. "One would think that I resembled the more repulsive

members of my race."

"In the meantime," Rupert again sought the cupboard,

"let's eat."
Half an hour later, fed and well content (even Satan, as

the Ralestones had named their visitor because of his
temperament, having condescended to accept some of the
better-done bits of bacon), they sat about the table staring
at the dishes. Now it is a very well-known fact that dishes
do not obligingly leap from a table into a pan of well-
soaped water, slosh themselves around a few times, and
jump out to do a spot of brisk rubbing down. But how nice

it would be if they did, thought Val.

"The dishes—" began Ricky in a faint sort of way.
"Must be done. We gather that. How utterly nasty
bacon grease looks when it's congealed." Her younger
brother surveyed the platter before him with mournful

interest.

"And the question before the house is, I presume,

who's going to wash them?" Rupert grinned. "This seems
to be as good a time as any to put some sort of a working
plan in force. There is a certain amount of so-called house-
work which has to be done. And there are three of us to do

18

RALESTONE LUCK

it. It's up to us to apportion it fairly. Shall we say, let
everyone care for his or her own room—"

"There are also die little matters of washing, and ironing,
and cleaning," Ricky broke in to remind him.

"And we're down to fifty a month in hard cash. But the
tenant fanner on me other side of the bayou is to supply us
with fresh fruit and vegetables. And our wardrobes are
fairly intact. So I think mat we can afford to hire the
washing done. We'll take turns cooking—"

"Who's elected to do the poisoning first?" Val inquired
with interest. "I trust we possess a good cook-book?"

"Well, I'll take breakfast tomorrow morning," Rupert
volunteered. "Anyone can boil coffee and toast bread. As
for dishes, we'll all pitch in together. And suppose we

start right now."

When the dishes were back again in their neat piles on
the cupboard shelves, Ricky vanished upstairs, to come
trailing down again in a house-coat which she fondly
imagined made her look like one of the better-known
screen sirens. The family gathered in an aimless way
before the empty fireplace of the Long Hall. Rupert was
filling a black pipe which allowed him to resemble—in
very slight degree, decided Val—an explorer in an English
tobacco advertisement. Val himself was stretched full length
on the couch with about ten pounds of cat attempting to
rest on his center section in spite of his firm refusal to

allow the same.

"Br-r-r!" Ricky shivered. "It's cold in here."
"Probably just Uncle Rick passing through—not the

weather. No, cat, you may not sit on that stomach. It's just

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AndrS Norton

as full of bacon as yours is and it wants a nice long rest."
Val swept Satan off to the floor and he resignedly went to
roost by die boy's feet in spite of the beguiling noises

Ricky made to attract his attention.

"These stone houses are cold." Rupert scratched a
match on the sole of his shoe. "We ought to have flooring
put down over this stone paving. I saw some wood stacked
up in an outhouse when 1 put me car away. We'll have it
in tomonow and see what we can do about a fire in the

evening."
"And I thought the South was always warm." Ricky

examined her hands.' 'Whoever,'' she remarked pleasantly,
"took my hand lotion better return it. The consequences

might not be very attractive."
"Are you sure you packed it this morning?" Val asked.

"But of—" Her fingers went to her mouth. "1 wonder
if I did? I've just got to have some. We'll drive to town

tomorrow and get a bottle."

"Thirty miles or so for one bottle of gooey stuff," Val

protested.

"Good idea." Rupert stood with his back to me fire-
place as if there really were a flame or two within its black
emptiness. "I've some papers mat LeReur wants to see.
Then there're our boxes at the freight station to arrange
transportation for, and we'll have to see about getting a

newspaper and—"

"Make a list," murmured his brother.

Rupert dropped down upon the wide arm of Ricky's
chair and with her only too willing aid set to work. Val
eyed them drowsily. Rupert and Ricky—or to give her her

20

RALESTONE LUCK

very formal name in full—Richanda Anne, were "Red"
Ralestones, possessing the thin, three-comered faces, the
dark mahogany hair, the sharply defined cheekbones which
had been the mark of the family as far back in history as
portraits or written descriptions existed. The "Red"
Ralestones were marked also by height and a suppleness of
body and movement. The men had been fine swordsmen,
the ladies noted beauties. But they were also cursed, Val
remembered vividly, with uncertain tempers.

Rupert had schooled himself to the point where his
emotions were mastered by his will. But Val had seen
Ricky enjoy full tantrums, and the last occasion was not so
long ago that the scene had become misty in his memory.
Generous to the point of self-beggary, loyal to a fault, and
incurably romantic, that was a "Red" Ralestone.

Val himself was a "Black" Ralestone, which was a
very different thing. They were a new growth on the
family tree. a growth which appeared after the Ralestones
had been exiled to colonial America. His black hair, his
long, dark face of no particular beauty marked with straight,
black brows set in a perpetual frown—that was the sign of
a "Black" Ralestone. They were as strong-willed as the
"Reds," but their anger could be controlled to icy rage.

"Now that you have spent the monthly income," Val
suggested as Rupert added up a long column of minute
figures scrawled across the first page of his pocket note-
book, "let's really get away from economics for one
evening. The surroundings suggest something more roman-
tic than dollars and cents. After all, when did a pirate ever
show a saving disposition? Would the first Roderick—"

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"The Roderick who brought home the Luck?" Ricky
laughed. "But he brought home a fortune, too, didn't he,

Rupert?"
Her brother relit his pipe. "Yes, but a great many lords

came home from the Crusades with their pockets filled. Sir
Roderick de la Stone thought the Luck worth his entire

estate even after he was made Baron Ralestone."
Ricky shivered delicately. "Not altogether nice people,

those ancestors of ours," she observed.

"No," Val grinned. "By rights this room should be full

of ghosts instead of the beat of just one. How many
Ralestones died violently? Seven or eight, wasn't it?"
"But the ones who died in England should haunt Lome,"

argued Ricky, half seriously.

"Well then, that sort of confines us to the crews of the

ships our great-great-great-grandfather scuttled," her brother

replied.

"Rupert," Ricky turned and asked impulsively, "do

you really believe in the Luck?"

Rupert looked up at the empty niche. "I don't know—
No, I don't. Not the way that Roderick and Richard and all
the rest did. But something that has seven hundred years of

history behind it—that means a lot."

" 'Then did he take up ye sword fashioned by ye devil-
ish art of ye East from two fine blades found in ye
tomb,' " Val quoted from the record of Brother Anselm,
the friar who had accompanied Sir Roderick on his
crusading. "Do you suppose that that part's true? Could
the Luck have been made from two other swords found in

an old tomb?"

22

RALESTONE LUCK

"Not impossible. The Saracens were master metal
workers. Look at the Damascus blades."

"It all sounds like a fairy-tale," commented Ricky. "A
sword with magic powers beaten out of two other swords
found in a tomb. And the whole thing done under the
direction of an Arab astrologer,"

"You've got to admit," broke in Val, "that Sir Roder-
ick had luck after it was given to him. He came home a
wealthy man and he died a Baron. And his descendants
even survived the Wars of the Roses when four-fifths of
the great English families were wiped out."

" 'And fortune continued to smile,' " Rupert took up
the story, " 'until a certain wild Miles Ralestone staked
the Luck of his house on the turn of a card—and lost.' "

"0-o-oh!" Ricky squirmed forward in her chair. "Now
comes the pirate. Tell us that, Rupert."

"You know the story by heart now," he objected.

"We never heard it here, where some of it really
happened. Tell it, please, Rupert!"

"In your second childhood?" he asked.

"Not out of my first yet," she answered promptly.
"Pretty please, Rupert.''

"Miles Ralestone, Marquess of Lome," he began, "rode
with Prince Rupert of the Rhine. He was a notorious
gambler, a loose liver, and a cynic. And he even threw the
family Luck across the gaming table."

" "The Luck went from him who did it no honor,' "
Val repeated slowly. "I read that in that old letter among
your papers, Rupert."

"Yes, the Luck went from him. He survived Marston

23




Andr€ Norton

Moor; he survived the death of his royal master, Charles
the First, on the scaffold. He lived long enough to witness
the return of the Stuarts to England. But the Luck was
gone, and with it the good fortune of his line. Rupert, his
son, was but a penniless hanger-on at the royal court; the

manor of Lome a fire-gutted wreckage.

"Rupert followed James Stuart from England when
that monarch became a fugitive to escape the wrath of his
subjects. And the Marquess of Lome sank to the role of
pot-house bully in the back lanes of Paris."

"And then?" prompted Val.

"And then a miracle occurred. Rupert was employed by
his master on a secret mission to London, and there the
Luck came again into his hands. Perhaps by murder. But
he died miserably enough of a heavy cold got by lying in a

ditch to escape Dutch William's soldiers,"

" 'So is this perilous Luck come again into our hands.
Then did I persevere to mend the fortunes of my house.'
That's what Rupert's son Richard wrote about the Luck,"

Ricky recalled. "Richard, me first pirate." -

"He did a good job of fortune mending," commented
Val dryly. "Married one of the wealthiest of the French
king's wards and sailed for the French West Indies all in a
fortnight. Turned pirate with die approval of the French
and took to lifting the cargoes of other pirates."

"I'll bet that most of his success was due to the Lady
Richanda," observed Ricky. "She sailed with him dressed
in man's clothes. Remember that miniature of her that we
saw in New York, the one in the museum? All me 'Black'
Ralestones are supposed to look like her. Hear that, Val?"

24

RALESTONE LUCK

"At least it was the Lady Richanda who persuaded her
husband to settle ashore," said Rupert. "She was person-
ally acquainted with Bienville and Iberville who were
proposing to rule the Mississippi valley for France by
building a city near the mouth of the river. And 'Black
Dick,' the pirate, obtained a grant of land lying along Lake
Borgne and this bayou. Although the city was not begun
until 1724, this house was started in 1710 by workmen
imported from England.

"The-house of an exile," Rupert continued slowly.
"Richard Ralestone was born in England, but he left there
in his tenth year. In spite of the price on his head, he crept
back to Devon in 1709 to see Lome for the last time. And
it was from the rude sketches he made of ruined Lome that
Pirate's Haven was planned."

"Why, we saw those sketches!" Ricky's eyes shone
with excitement. "Do you remember, Val?"

Her brother nodded. "Must have cost him plenty to do
it," he replied. "Richard had an immense personal fortune
of his own gained from piracy, and he spared no expense
in building. The larger part of the stone in these walls was
brought straight from Europe, just as they later brought
the paving blocks for the streets of New Orleans. When he
had done—and the place was five years a-building because
of Indian troubles and other disturbances—he settled down
to live in feudal state. Some of his former seamen rallied
around him as a guard, and he imported blacks from the
islands to work his indigo fields.

"The family continued to prosper through both French
and Spanish domination until the time of American rule."

25




Andre Norton

"Now for Uncle Rick." Ricky settled herself with a
wriggle. "This is even more exciting than Pirate Dick."

"In the year 1788, the time of the great fire which
destroyed over half of New Orleans, twin boys were bom
at Pirate's Haven. They came into their heritage early, for
their parents died of yellow fever when the twins were still

small children.

"Those were restless times. New Orleans was full of
refugees. From Haiti, where the revolting blacks were
holding a reign of terror, and from France, where to be a
noble was to be a dead one, came hundreds. Even mem-
bers of the royal house, the Due d'Orieans and his brother,
me Due de Montpensier, came for a space in 1798.

"The city had always been more or less lawless and
intolerant of control. Like the New Englanders of the
eighteenth century, many respected merchants were also

smugglers."

"And pirates," suggested Val.

"The king of smugglers was Jean Lafitte. His forge—
where his slaves shaped the wrought-iron which was one of
the wonders of the city—was a fashionable meeting-place
for the young bloods. He was the height of wit and fashion—
daring openly to placard the walls of the town with his

notices of smugglers' sales.

"And Roderick Ralestone, the younger of the twins,

became one of Lafitte's men. In spite of the remonstrances
of his brother Richard, young Rick withdrew to Barataria
with Dominique You and the rest of the outlawed captains.
"In the winter of 1814 matters came to a head. Richard
wanted to marry an American girl, the daughter of one of

26

RALESTONE LUCK

Governor Claiborne's friends. Her father told him very
pointedly that since the owners of Pirate's Haven seemed
to be indulging in law breaking, such a marriage was out
of the question. Aroused, Richard made a secret inspection
of certain underground storehouses which had been built by
his pirate great-grandfather and discovered that Rich had
put them in use again for the very same purpose for which
they had been first intended—the storing of loot.

"He waited there for his brother, determined to have it
decided once and for all. They quarreled bitterly. Both
were young, both had bad tampers, and each saw his side
as the right of the matter—"

"Regular Ralestones, weren't they?" commented Val
slyly.

"Undoubtedly," agreed Rupert. "Well, at last Richard
started for the house, his brother in pursuit.

"Then they fought, here in this very hall. And not with
words this time, but with the rapiers Richard had brought
back from France. A slave named Falesse, who had been
the twins' childhood nurse was the only witness to the end
of that duel. Richard lay face down across the hearthstone
as she came screaming down the stairs."

Ricky was studying the gray stone.

"By rights," Val agreed with her unspoken thought,
"there ought to be a stain there. Unfortunately for romance,
there isn't."

"Rick was standing by the door," Rupert continued.
"When Falesse reached his brother, he laughed unsteadily
and half raised his sword in a duelist's salute. Then he was

27

Andr6 Norton
gone. But there were two swords on the floor. And that

niche was empty.

"When he fled into the night storm with his brother's

blood staining his hands. Rich Ralestone took the Luck of

his house with him.

"After almost a year of invalidism, Richard recovered.

He never married his American beauty. But in 1819 he
took a wife, a young Creole lady widowed by the Battle of
New Orleans. Of Rick nothing was heard again, although
his brother searched diligently for more than thirty years."

"How," Val grinned at his brother, "did Richard ex-
plain the little matter of the ghost which is supposed to

walk at night?"

"I don't know. But when the Civil War broke out,

Richard's son Miles was the master of Pirate's Haven. The
once-great fortune of the family had shrunk. Business
losses in the city, floods, a disaster at sea, had emptied the

family purse—"
"The Luck getting in its dirty work by remote control,"

supplied the irrepressible Val.

"Perhaps. Young Miles had married in his teens, and
the call to the Confederate colors brought both his twin
sons under arms as well as their father.

"Miles, the father, fell in the First Battle of Bull Run.
But Miles, the son and elder of the twins, a lieutenant of
cavalry, came out of the war the only surviving male of his

family.

"His brother Richard had been wounded and was home

on sick leave when the Northerners occupied New Orleans.
Betrayed by one of his former slaves, a mulatto who bore

28

RALESTONE LUCK

a grudge against the family, he was murdered by a gang of
bullies and cutthroats who had followed the invading army.

"Richard had been warned of their raid and had man-
aged to hide the family valuables in a secret place—
somewhere within this very hall, according to tradition."

Val and Ricky sat up and looked about with wondering

interest.

"But Richard was shot down in cold blood when he
refused to reveal the hiding-place. His brother and some
scouts, operating south without orders, arrived just in time
to witness the last act. Miles Ralestone and his men sum-
marily shot the murderers. But where Richard had so
carefully concealed the last of me family treasure was
never discovered.

"The war beggared the Ralestones. Miles went north in
search of better luck, and this place was allowed to molder
until it was leased in 1879 to a sugar baron. In 1895 it was
turned over to a family distantly connected with ours. And
since then it has been leased. We have had in all four

tenants."

"But," Ricky broke in, "since the Luck went we have
not prospered. And until it returns—"

Rupert tapped out his pipe against one of the fire irons.
"It's nothing but a folk-tale," he told her.

"It isn't!" Ricky contradicted him vehemently. "And
we've made a good beginning anyway. We've come back."

"If Rick took the Luck with him, I don't see how we
have an earthly chance of finding it again," Val commented.

"It came back once before after it had gone from us,"

29

Andre Norton
reminded his sister. "And I think that it will again. At

least I'll hope so."

"Outside of the superstition, it would be well worth

having. The names of the heads and heirs of the house are
all engraved along the blade, from Sir Roderick on down.
Seven hundred years of history scratched on steel." Rupert
stretched and then glanced at his wrist-watch. "Ten to ten,
and we've had a long day. Who's for bed?"

"I am, for one." Val swung his feet down from the
couch, disturbing Satan who opened one yellow eye lazily.

Ricky stood by the fireplace fingering the wreath of stiff
flowers carved in the stone. Val took her by the arm.

"No use wondering which one you push to reveal the

treasure," he told her.

She looked up startled. "How did you know what I was

thinking about?" she demanded.

"My lady, your thoughts, like little white birds—"
"Oh, go to bed, Val. When you get poetical 1 know you

need sleep. Just the same," she hesitated with one foot on

the first tread of the stair, "I wonder."

3

THE RALESTONES ENTERTAIN
AN UNOBTRUSIVE VISITOR

Val lay trapped in an underground cavern, chained to the
floor. An unseen monster was creeping up his prostrate
body. He could feel its hot breath on his cheek. With a
mighty effort he broke his bonds and threw out his arms in
an attempt to fight off his tormentor.

The morning sun was warm across his pillow, making
him blink. On his chest stood Satan, kneading the bed-
clothes with his front paws and purring gently. From the
open window came a fresh, rain-washed breeze.

Having aroused the sleeper, Satan deserted his post to
hang half-way out the window, intent upon the housekeep-

31




AndrS Norton

ing arrangements of several birds who had built in the
hedges below. A moment later Val elbowed him aside to

look out upon the morning.
It was a fine one. Wisps of mist from die bayou still

hung about the lower garden, but the sun had already dried
the brick-paved paths. A bee blundered past Val's nose,
and he realized that it might be well to close the screen

hanging shutter-like outside.
From the direction of the hidden water came the faint

putt-putt of a motor-boat, but inside Pirate's Haven mere
was utter silence. As yet the rest of the family were not
abroad. Val dropped his pajamas in a huddle by the bed
and dressed leisurely, feeling very much at peace with this
new world. Perhaps that was the last time he was to feel so
for many days to come. He stole cautiously out of his
room and tiptoed down halls and dark stairs, wanting to be
alone while he discovered Pirate's Haven for himself.

The Long Hall looked chilly and bleak, even though
patches of sunlight were fighting the usual gloom. Oh the
hearthstone lay a scrap of white, doubtless Ricky's
handkerchief. Val flung open the front door and stepped
out on the terrace, drawing deep lungfuls of the morning
air. The blossoms on the moming-glory vines which
wreathed the edge of the terrace were open to the sun,
and the birds sang in the bushes below. Satan streaked by
and disappeared into the tangle. It was suddenly very good
to be alive. The boy stretched luxuriously and started to
explore, choosing the nearest of the crazy, wandering
paths which began at the circle of the old carriage drive.
Here was evidence of last night's storm. Wisps of Span-
32

RALESTONE LUCK

ish moss, torn from the great live-oaks of the avenue and
looking like tufts of coarse gray horsehair, lay in water-
logged mats here and there. And in the open places, the
grass, beaten flat, was just beginning to rise again.

A rabbit scuttled across the path as it went down four
steps of broken stone into a sort of glen. Here some early
owner of the plantation had made an irregular pool of
stone to be fed by the trickle of a tiny spring. Frogs the
size of postage-stamps leaped panic-stricken for the water
when Val's shadow fell across its rim. A leaden statue of
the boy Pan danced joyously on a pedestal above. Ricky
would love this, thought her brother as he dabbled his
fingers in the chill water trying to catch the stem of the

singk lily bud.

Out of nowhere came a turtle to slide into the depths of
the pool. .The sun was very warm across Val's bowed
shoulders. He liked the garden, liked the plantation, even
liked the circumstances which had brought them there.
Lazily he arose and turned.

By the steps down which he had come stood a slight
figure in a faded flannel shirt and mud-streaked overalls.
His bare brown feet gripped the stones as if to get purchase
for instant flight.

"Hello," Val said questioningly.

The new-comer eyed young Ralestone warily and then
his gaze shifted to the bushes beyond.

"I'm Val Ralestone." Val held out his hand. To his
astonishment the stranger's mobile lips twisted in a snarl
and he edged crabwise toward the bushes bordering the
glen.

33

AndrS Norton

"Who are you?" Val demanded sharply.
"Ah has got as much right heah as yo' all," the boy
answered angrily. And with that he turned and slipped into

a path at the far end of the glen.

Aroused, Val hurried after him to reach the bayou
levee. The quarry was already in midstream, wielding an
efficient canoe paddle. On impulse Val shouted after him,
but he never turned. A rifle lay across his knees and there
were some rusty traps in the bottom of the flimsy canoe.
Then Val remembered that Pirate's Haven lay upon the
fringe of the muskrat swamps where Cajun and American
squatters still carried on the fur trade of their ancestors.

But as Val stood speeding the departure of the uninvited
guest, another canoe put off from the opposite shore of the
bayou and came swinging across toward the rough wooden
landing which served the plantation. A round brown face
grinned up at Val as a powerful black clambered ashore.
"Yo' all up at de big house now?" he asked cheerily as

he came up.

"If you mean the Ralestones, why, we got here last

night," Val answered.

"You is Mistuh Ralestone, sun?" He took off his wide-
brimmed straw hat and twisted it in his oversized hands.

"I'm Valerius Ralestone. My brother Rupert is the

owner."

"Well, Mistuh Ralestone, suh, I'm de fahmah from

'cross water. Mistuh LeFleah, says yo'all is come to live
heah agin. So man woman, she says 1 should see if de
fambly be heah yet and does want anythin'. Lucy, she's
livin' heah, and her mammy and pappy, and her pappy's

34

RALESTONE LUCK

mammy and pappy, has bin heah since befo' old Massa
Ralestone gone 'way. So Lucy, she jest nachely oneasy
'bout yo'all not gettin' things comfo'ble."

"That is kind of her," Val answered heartily. "My
brother said something last night about wanting to see you
today, so if you'll come up to the house—"

"I be Sam, Mistuh Ralestone, suh. Work heah quite a
spell now."

"By the way," Val asked as they went up toward the
house, "did you see that boy in the canoe going down-
stream as you crossed? I found him in the garden and the
only answer he would, give to my questions was that he
had as much right there as I had. Who is he?"

The wide smile faded from Sam's face. "Mistuh
Ralestone, suh, effen any no-'count trash comes 'round
heah agin, you bettah jest call de police. Nothin' but poah
white trash livin' down in de swamp places come to steal
whatevah dey lay han' on. Was dis boy big like you wi'
black hair an' a thin face?"

"Yes."

"Dat's de Jeems boy. He ain't got no kinfolk, lives jest
like a wil' man with a li'l huntin' an' a big lot stealin'. He
talk big. Say he belongs in de big house, not with swamp
folks. But jest pay no 'tenshun to him nohow."

"Val! Val Ralestone! Where are you?" Ricky's voice
sounded clear through the morning air.

"Coming!" he shouted back.

"Well, make it snappy!" she shrilled. "The toast has
been burnt twice and—" But what further catastrophe had
occurred her brother could not hear.
35

AndrS Norton

"You wants to git to de back do', Mistuh Ralestone?
Dere's a sho't-cut 'cross here." Sam turned into a side

path and Val followed.
Ricky was at die stove gingerly shifting a coffee-pot as

her brother stepped into the kitchen. "Well," she snapped
as he entered, "it's about time you were showing up. I've
simply cracked my voice trying to call you, and Rupert's
been talking about having the bayou dragged or something

of the kind. Where have you been, anyway?"

"Getting acquainted with our neighbors. Ricky," he
called her attention to the smiling face just outside the
door, "this is Sam. He runs me home farm for us. And his
wife is a descendant of the Ralestone house folks."

"Yassuh, dat's right. We's Ralestone folks. Miss
'Chanda. Mah Lucy sen' me to fin' out what yo'all is
a-needin' done 'bout de place. She was in yisteday afo'

yo'all come to do dustin' an' sich—"

"So that's why everything was so clean! That was nice

other—"

"Yo'all is Ralestones, Miss 'Chanda. An' Lucy say dat

any Ralestones are a-goin' to fin' things jest ready when
dey come." He beamed upon them proudly. "Lucy, she
a-goin' be heah jest as soon as she gits de chillens set for
de day. I come fust so's I kin see what Mistuh Ralestone

done wan' done for rivah field."
"Where is Rupert?" Val broke in.
"Went out to see about the car. The storm last night

wrecked the door of me carriage house—"

"That so?" Sam's eyes went round. "Den I bettah be
a-gittin' out to see 'bout that. Scuse me, sub. 'Scuse me,
36

RALESTONE LUCK

Miss 'Chanda." With a jerk of his head he left them. Val

turned to Ricky.

"We seem to have fallen into good hands."
"It's my guess that his Lucy is a manager. He just does

what she tells him to. I wonder how he knew my name?"
"LeReur probably told them all about us."
"Isn't it odd—" she turned off the gas, " 'Ralestone

folks.' "

"Loyalty to the Big House," her brother answered slowly.
"I never thought that it really existed out of books."

"It makes me feel positively feudal. Val, I was bom
about a hundred years too late. I'd like to have been the
mistress here when I could have ridden out in a victoria
behind two matched bays, with a coachman and a footman
up in front and my maid on the little seat facing me."

"And with a Dalmatian coach-hound running behind
and at least three-fourths of the young bloods of the neigh-
borhood as a mounted escort. I know. But those days are
gone forever. Which leads me to another subject. What are
we going to do today?"

"The dishes, for one thing," Ricky began ticking the
items off on her fingers, "and then the beds. This after-
noon Rupert wants us—that is, you and me—to drive to
town and do some errands."

"Oh, yes, the list you two made out last night. Well,
now that that's all settled, suppose we have some breakfast.
Has Rupert been fed or is he thinking of going on a diet?"

"He'll be in—"

"Said she with perfect faith. All of which does not
satisfy the pangs of hunger."
37




Andre Norton

"Where's Lovey?"

"If you are using that sickening name to refer to Satan—
he's out—hunting, probably. The last I saw of him he was
shooting head first for a sort of bird apartment house over
to the left of the front door. Here's Rupert. Now maybe

we may eat."

"I've got something to tell you," hissed Ricky as the
missing member of the clan banged the screen door behind
him. Having so aroused Val's curiosity, she demurely
went around the table to pour the coffee.

"How's the carriage house?" Val asked.

"Sam thinks he can fix it with some of mat lumber piled
out back of the old smoke-house." Rupert reached for a
piece of toast. "What do you think of our family retainer?''

"Seems a good chap."

"LeFleur says one of the best. Possesses a spark of
ambition and is really trying to make a go of the farm,
which is more than most do around here. His wife, by all
accounts, is a wonder. Used to be the cook-housekeeper
here when the Rafaels had the place. LeFleur still talks
about the two meals he ate here then. Sam tells me that she
is plannii^ to take us in hand."

"But we can't afford—" began Ricky.

"I gathered that money does not come into the question.
The lady is rather strong-willed. So, Ricky," he laughed,
"we'll leave you two to fight it out. But Lucy may be able

to find us a laundress."

"Which reminds me," Ricky took a crumpled piece of
white cloth from her pocket, "if this is yours, Rupert, you

38

RALESTONE LUCK

deserve to do your own washing. I don't know what
you've got on it; looks like oil."

He took it from her and straightened out a handkerchief.

"Not guilty this time. Ask little brother here." He
passed over the dirty linen square. It was plain white—or
it had been white before three large black splotches had
colored it—without an initial or colored edge.

"I think he's prevaricating, Ricky," Val protested. "This
isn't mine. I'm down to one thin dozen and those are the
ones you gave me last Christmas. They have. my initials
on."

Ricky took back the disputed square. "That's funny. It
certainly isn't mine. I'm sure one of you must be mistaken."

"Why?" asked Rupert.

"Because I found it on the hearth-stone in the hall this
morning. It wasn't there last night or one of us would have
seen it and picked it lip, 'cause it was right there in plain
sight."

"Sure it isn't yours, Val?"

He shook his head. "Positive."

"Queer," murmured Rupert and .reached for it again.
"It's a good quality of linen and it's almost new." He
held it to his nose. "That's oil on it. But how—?"

"I wonder—" Val mused.

"What do you know?" asked Ricky.

"Well— Oh, it isn't possible. He wouldn't carry a
handkerchief," her brother said half to himself.

"Who wouldn't?" asked Rupert. Then Val told them of
his meeting with the boy Jeems and what Sam had had to
say of him.

39

Andr6 Norton

"Don't know whether I exactly like this." Rupert folded
the mysterious square of stained linen. "As you say, Val,
a boy like that would hardly carry a handkerchief. Also,

you met him in the garden, while—"
"The person who left that was in this house last night!"

finished Ricky. "And I don't like that!"
"The door was locked and bolted when I came down

this morning," Val observed.
Rupert nodded. "Yes, I distinctly remember doing that

before I went up to bed. But when I was going around the
house this morning I discovered that there are French
doors opening from the old ball-room to the terrace, and I
didn't inspect their fastening last night."

"But who would want to come in here? There are no
valuables left except furniture. And it would take three or
four men and a truck to collect that. I don't see what he

was after," puzzled Ricky.

Rupert arose from the table. "We have, it seems, a
mystery on our hands. If you want to amuse yourselves,
my children, here's the first clue. I've got to get back to
the carriage house and my labors there."

He dropped the handkerchief on the table and left.
Ricky reached for the "clue." "Awfully casual about it,
isn't he?" she said. "Just the same, I believe that this is a
clue and I know what our visitor was after, too," she

finished triumphantly.

"What?"
"The treasure Richard Ralestone hid when the Yankee

raiders came."

40

RALESTONE LUCK

"Well, if our unknown visitor has as little in the way of
clues as we have, he'll be a long time finding it."

"And we're going to beat him to it! It's somewhere in
the Hall, and the secret—"

"See here," Val interrupted her, "what were you about
to tell me when Rupert came in?"

She put the handkerchief in the breast pocket of her
sport dress, buttoning the flap over it.

"Rupert's got a secret."

"What kind?"

"It has to do with those two brief-cases of his. You
know, the ones he was so particular about all the way
down here?"

Val nodded. Those bulging brief-cases had apparently
contained the dearest of his roving brother's possessions,
judging from the way Rupert had fussed if they were a
second out of his sight.

"This morning when I came downstairs," Ricky con-
tinued, "he was sneaking them into that little side room
off the dining-room corridor, the one which used to be the
old plantation office. And when he came out and saw me
standing there, he deliberately turned around and locked
me door!"

"Whew!" Val commented.

"Yes, I felt mat way too. So I simply asked him what
he was doing and he made some silly remark about
Bluebeard's chamber. He means to keep his old secret,
too, 'cause he put the key on his keyring when he didn't
know I was watching him."

"This is not the place for a rest cure," her brother

41

Andre Norton

observed as he started to scrape and stack the dishes.
"First someone unknown leaves his handkerchief for a
calling card and then Rupert goes Fu Manchu on us. To
say nothing of the rugged and unfriendly son of the soil
whom I found bumping around the garden where he had

no business to be."

"What was he like anyway?" asked his sister as she
dipped soap flakes into the dish-water with a liberal hand.

"Oh, thin, and awfully brown. But not bad looking if it
weren't for his mouth and that scowl of his. And he very
distinctly doesn't like us. About my build, but quicker on
his feet, tough looking. I wouldn't care to try to stop him
doing anything he wanted to do."

"My dear, are you describing dark Gable or someone
you met in our garden this morning?" she demanded

sweetly.

"Very well," Val retorted huffily into the depths of the

oatmeal pan he was wiping, "you catch him next time."
"I will," was her serene answer as she wrung out the

dish-cloth.
They went on to the upstairs work and Val received his

first lesson in the art of bed-making under his sister's
extremely critical tuition. It seemed that corners must be
square and that dreadful things were likely to happen when
wrinkles were not smoothed out. This exercise led them
naturally to unpacking the remainder of the hand baggage
and putting things away. It was after ten before Val came
downstairs crab-fashion, wiping off each step behind him
as he came with one of Ricky's three dust-cloths.

He paused on the landing to pull back the tapestry

42

RALESTONE LUCK

curtain and open the windows above the alcove seat, let-
ting in the freshness of the morning to rout some of the
dank chill of the hall. Kneeling there, he watched Rupert
come around the house. His brother had shed his coat and
his sleeves were rolled up almost to his shoulders. There
was a streak of black across his cheek and a large rip
almost separated the collar from his shirt. Although he
looked hot, cross, and tired, more like a day-laborer than a
gentleman plantation owner whose ancestors had always
"planted from the saddle," his stride had a certain buoy-
ancy which it had lacked the day before.

With an idea of escaping Ricky by joining his brother,
Val hurried downstairs and headed kitchenward. But his
sister was there before him looking over a collection of
knives of various lengths.

"Preparing for a little murder or two?" Val asked
casually.

She jumped and dropped a paring knife.

"Val, don't do that! I wish you'd whistle or something
while you're walking around in those tennis shoes. 1 can't
hear you move. I'm looking for something to cut flowers
with. There don't seem to be any scissors except mine and
I'm not going to use those."

"Take that. Miss 'Chanda." A fat black hand motioned
toward the paring knife.

Just within the kitchen door stood a wide, a very wide,
black woman. Her neat print dress was stiff with starch
from a recent washing, and round gold hoops swung proudly
from her ears. Her black hair, straightened by main force
of arm, had been set again in stiff, corrugated waves of

43

Andr6 Norton
extreme fashion, but her broad placid face was both kind

and serene.

"I'm Lucy," she stated, thoroughly at her ease. "An'

this," she reached an arm behind her, pulling forth a girl
at least ten shades lighter and thirty-five shades thinner,
"is mah sistah's onliest gal-chil', Letty-Lou. Mak' yo'
mannahs, Letty. Does yo' wan' Miss 'Chanda to think yo'

is a know-nothin' from th' swamp?"

Thus sternly admonished, Letty-Lou ducked her head
shyly and murmured something in a die-away voice.

"Letty-Lou," announced her aunt, "has come to do fo'
yo'all, Miss 'Chanda. I learned her how to do fo' ladies.
She is good at scrubbin', cleanin' an such. I done train'd

hermahse'f."
Letty-Lou looked at the floor and twisted her thin hands

behind her back.

"But," protested Ricky, "we're not planning to have

anyone do for us, Lucy."

"That's all right. Miss 'Chanda. Yo's not gittin' a
know-nothin'. Letty-Lou, she knows her work. She kin

cook right good.'

"We can't take her," Val backed up Ricky. "You

must understand, Lucy, that we don't have much money

and we can't pay for—"

"Pay fo'!" Lucy's indignant sniff reduced him to his
extremely unimportant place. "We's not talkin' 'bout pay
workin', Mistuh Ralestone. Letty-Lou don' git no pay but
her eatments. 'Co'se, effen Miss 'Chanda wanna give her
some ole do's now an' den, she kin tak' dem. Letty-Lou,
she don' hav' to git a pay-work job, her pappy make's a
44

RALESTONE LUCK

good livin'. But Miss 'Chanda ain' a-goin' to tak' keer dis
big nous' all by herself! We's Ralestone folks. Letty-Lou,
git on youah ap'on an' git to work."
"But we can't let her," Ricky raised her last protest.
"Miss 'Chanda, we's Ralestone folks. Mah gran' pappy
Bob was own man to Massa Miles Ralestone. He fit in de
wan 'longside o' Massa Miles. When de wan was done
finish'd, the two of 'em come home togethah. Massa
Miles call mah gran'pappy in an' say, 'Bob, yo'all is free
an' I'se a ruinated man. Heah is fiv' dollahs gol' money,
which is all I got left. Yo' kin hav' youah hoss.' An' Bob,
he say, 'Cap'n Miles dese heah Yankees done said I'm free
but nobody says I ain't a Ralestone man. What time does
yo' wan' breakfas' in de mornin'?' Then when Massa
Miles wen' no'th to make his fo'tune, he told Bob, 'Bob,
I'se leavin' dis heah house in youah keer.' An', Miss
'Chanda, we done look aftah Pirate's Haven evah since,
me gran'pappy, me pappy, Sam an' me."

Ricky held out her hand. "I'm sorry, Lucy. You see,
we don't understand very well, we've been away so long."

4

PISTOLS FOR TWO—COFFEE
FOR ONE

Val braced himself against the back of the convertible's
seat and struggled to hold the car to a road which was
hardly more than a cart track. Twice since Ricky and he
had left Pirate's Haven they had narrowly escaped being
bogged in the mud which had worked up through the thin

crust of gravel on the surface.
To the south lay the old cypress swamps, dark glens of

rotting wood and sprawling vines. A spur of this unsavory
no-man's land ran close along the road, and looking into it
one could almost believe, fancied Val, in the legends told
by the early French explorers concerning the giant mon-

At-.

RALESTONE LUCK

stere who were supposed to haunt the swamps and wild
lands at the mouth of the Mississippi. He would not have
been surprised to see a brontosaurus peeking coyly down
at him from twenty feet or so of neck. It was just the sort
of place any self-respecting brontosaurus would have

wallowed in.

But at last they won free from that place of cold and
dank odors. Passing through Chalmette, they struck the
main highway. From then on it was simple enough. St.
Bernard Highway led into St. Claude Avenue and that
melted into North Rampart street, one of the boundaries of

the old French city.

"Can't we go slower?" complained Ricky. "I'd like to
see some of the city without getting a crick in my neck
from looking over my shoulder. Watch out for St. Anne
Street. That's one comer of Beauregarde Square, the old

Congo Square—"

"Where the slaves used to dance on Sundays before the
war. I know; I've read just as many guide-books as you
have. But there is such a thing as obstructing traffic. Also
we have about a million and one things to do mis afternoon.
We can explore later. Here we are; Bienville Avenue. No,
I will not stop so that you can see that antique store. Six
blocks to the right," Val reminded himself.

"Val, that was the Absinthe House we just passed!"
"Yes? Well, it would have been better for a certain
ancestor of ours if he had passed it, too. That was Jean
Lafitte's headquarters at one time. Exchange Street—the
next is ours."

47




Andr^ Norton

They turned into Chartres Street and pulled up in the
next block at the comer of Iberville. A four-story house
coated with grayish plaster, its windows framed with faded
green shutters and its door painted the same misty color,
confronted them. There was a tiny shop on the first floor.
A weathered sign over the door announced that Bonfils
et Cie. did business within, behind the streaked and bluish
glass of the small curved window-panes. But what busi-
ness Bonfils and Company conducted was left entirely to
the imagination of the passer-by. Val locked the roadster
and took from Ricky the long legal-looking envelope which

Rupert had given them to deliver to Mr. LeFteur.

Ricky was staring in a puzzled manner at me shop when
her brother took her by die arm. "Are you sure that you
have me right place? This doesn't look like an office to

me."

"We have to go around to the courtyard entrance. LeFteur

occupies the second floor."

A small wooden door, reinforced with hinges of hand-
wrought iron, opened before them, making mem free of a
courtyard paved with flagstones. In me center a tall tree
shaded the flower bed at its foot and threw shadows upon
the first of the steps leading to the upper floors. The
Ralestones frankly stared about them. This was the first
fcouse of the French Quarter they had seen, although their
name might have admitted them to several closely guarded
Creole strongholds. LeFleur's house followed a pattern
common to the old city. The lower floor fronting on the
street was in use only as a shop or store-room. In the early

48

RALESTONE LUCK

days each shopkeeper lived above his place of business
and rented the third and fourth floors to aristocrats in from
their plantations for the fashionable season.

A long, narrow ell ran back from the main part of the
house to form one side of the courtyard. The ground floor
of this contained the old slave quarters and kitchens, while
the second was cut into bedrooms which had housed the
young men of the family so that they could come and go at
will without disturbing the more sedate members of the
household. These small rooms were now in use as the
offices of Mr. LeFleur. From the balcony, running along
the ell, onto which each room opened, one could look
down into the courtyard. It was on this balcony that the
lawyer met them with outstretched hands after they had
given their names to his dark, languid young clerk.

"But this is good of you!" RenC LeFleur beamed on
them impartially. He was a small, plumpish. round-faced
man in his early forties, who spoke in perpetual italics. His
eyebrows, arched over-generously by Nature, gave him a
look of never-ending astonishment at the world and all its
works. But his genial smile was kindness itself. Unaccus-
tomed as Val was to sudden enthusiasms, he found himself
liking Rene LeFleur almost before his hand gripped Val's.

"Miss Ralestone, it is a pleasure, a very great pleasure,
to see you here! And this," he turned to Val, "this must
be that brother Valerius both you and Mr. Ralestone spoke
so much of during our meeting in New York. You have
safely recovered from that most unfortunate accident, Mr.
Ralestone? But of course, your presence here is my answer.

49




Andre Norton

And how do you like Louisiana, Miss Ralestone?" His
eyes behind his gold-rinuned eyeglasses sparkled as he
tilted his head a fraction toward Ricky as if to hear the
clearer.

"Well enough. Though we've seen very little of it yet,

Mr. LeFleur."

"When you have seen Pirate's Haven," he replied,
"you have seen much of Louisiana."

"But we're forgetting our manners!" exclaimed the
girl. "We want to thank you for everything you've done
for us. Rupert said to tell you that while he doesn't care
for beans as a rule, the beans we found in our cupboard
were very superior beans.''

Mr. LeFleur hooted with laughter like a small boy. "He
is droll, is that brother of yours. And has Sam been to
see you?"

"Sam and—Lucy," answered Ricky with emphasis.
"Lucy has decided to take us in hand. She has installed
Letty-Lou over our protests."

The little lawyer nodded complacently. "Yes, Lucy will
take care of you. She is a master housekeeper and
cook—ah!" His eyes rolled upward. "And Mr. Ralestone,
how is he?''

"All right. He's going over the farm with Sam this
afternoon. We were sent in his place to give you the
papers he spoke to you about."

At Ricky's answer, Val held out the envelope he had
carried. To their joint surprise, LeFleur pounced upon it
and withdrew to the window of the room into which he

50

RALESTONE LUCK

had conducted them. There he spread out the four sheets of
yellowed paper which the envelope had contained.

"What were we carrying?" whispered Ricky. "Part of
Rupert's deep, dark secret?"

"No," her brother hissed back, "those are the plans of
the Patagonian fort which were stolen from the Russian
Embassy last Thursday by the beautiful woman spy dis-
guised with a long green beard. You know, the proper first
chapter of an international espionage thriller. You are the
dumb but beautiful newspaper reporter on the scent, and
I—"

"The even dumber G-man who spends most of his time
running three steps ahead of Fu Chew Chow and his gang
of oriental demons. In the second chapter—"

But a glance at Mr. LeFleur's face as he turned away
from the window put an end to their nonsense. Gone was
his smile, his beaming good-will toward the world. He
seemed a little tired, a trifle stooped. "Not here then," he
said slowly to himself as he slipped the papers back into
the envelope.

"Mr. Valerius," he looked up at the boy very seriously,
"the LeFleurs have served the Ralestones, acting as their
men of business, for over a hundred years. We owe your
family a great debt. When young Denys LeFleur was
shipped over here to New Orleans under false accusation
of his enemies, the first Richard Ralestone became his
patron. He helped the boy salvage something from the
wreck of the LeFleur fortunes in France to start anew in a
decent profession under tolerable surroundings, when oth-

51

Andre Norton

ers of his kind died miserably as beggars on the mud flats.
Twice before have we been forced to be the bearers of ill
news, but—" he shrugged, "that was in the past. This lies

in the future."

"What does?" asked Ricky.
"It is such a tangle," he said, running his hand through

his short, gray-streaked hair. "A tangle such as lawyers
are supposed to delight in. But they don't, I assure you
that they don't. Miss Ralestone. Not if they have then-
client's interest at heart. You know, of course, of the

missing Ralestone—Roderick?"
Ricky and Val both nodded. Mr. LeFleur spread out his

plump hands in a queer little gesture as if he were pushing
something away. "This whole unfortunate business begins
with him. As far as we know today, he and his brother
were co-owners of Pirate's Haven. When young Roderick
disappeared, he was still part owner. Although he was
presumed dead, he was never lawfully declared so. Pirate's
Haven was simply assumed to be the property of your

branch of the family."

"Our branch of the family?" Val echoed him. "Do you

mean that some descendant of Roderick has appeared to

put in a claim?"

"That is the problem. Three days ago a man came to

my office. He said that he is the direct descendant of
Roderick Ralestone and that he can produce proof of that

fact."

"And he wants his share of the estate?" asked Ricky

shrewdly.

"Yes.'

52

RALESTONE LUCK

"He can keep on wanting," Val said shortly. "We've

nothing to give."

"There's Pirate's Haven," pointed out Mr. LeHeur.
"But he can't—'' Ricky's hand closed about her brother's

wrist.

"Naturally he can't take it," Val assured her hotly.
"Pirate's Haven is ours. This looks to me like blackmail.
He'll threaten to stir up a lot of trouble unless we buy him

off."

Mr. LeFleur nodded. "That is perhaps the motive be-
hind it all."

"Well," Val forced a laugh, "then he loses. We haven't
the money to buy him off."

"Neither have you the money to fight a case through the
courts, Mr. Valerius," answered the lawyer soberly.

"But there is some chance, there must be!" urged

Ricky.

"I submitted the full case to Mr. John Stanton yester-
day—Mr. Stanton is our local authority on cases of this
type. He has informed me that there is a single ray of
hope. Frankly, I find this claimant a dubious person, but a
shrewd one. He knows that he has the advantage now, but
should we gain the upper hand, we could, I believe, rid
ourselves of him. Our chance lies in the past. This was
first a French and then a Spanish colony. Under both rules
the law of primogeniture sometimes held force. That is, an
estate passed to the eldest son of a family. Your estate was
such a one. In fact, we possess in this very office old
charters and papers which state that the property was
entailed after the European custom. If that were so, the

53




Andr6 Norton

courts might declare that the elder of the twins born in
1788 was the sole owner of Pirate's Haven.

"But which of the twin brothers was the elder? You will
say at once, Richard. But your rival will say Roderick.
And there is no proof. For in the spring, two months after
the birth of the boys, most of the family papers were
destroyed in the great fire which almost wiped out the city
and burned the Ralestone town house. There is no birth
record in existence. I appealed to your brother to return to
me these papers which Miles Ralestone took north with
him after the war. You returned them today but there was
nothing in them of any value to this case.

"However, if you can find such proof, that Richard
Ralestone was the elder and thus the legal heir under the
laws of Spain, then we shall have a solid fact upon which

to base our fight."

"There is such a proof," began Ricky slowly.

"What? Where?" demanded Mr. LeFleur.
"Don't you remember, Val," she turned to him, "what
Rupert said about the Luck last night—that the names of
the heirs were engraved upon its blade? We'll have to find

the Luck! We'll just have to!"

"But Roderick took the Luck with him. And if it's still
in existence, this rival will have it now," her brother

reminded her.

"Yes, of course, 1 was forgetting—" her voice trailed

off into silence and Val stared at her with a dropped jaw.
Such a quick change of manner was totally unlike Ricky.
"Yes," she repeated slowly and distinctly, "1 guess we're

the losers—"

54

RALESTONE LUCK

"For Pete's sake—" he began hotly and men he saw
her hand making furious motions in his direction from
behind the screen of her large purse. "Well, 1 suppose we
are in a hole." He managed to mend his tone a fraction.
"Rupert will probably be in to see you tomorrow, Mr.
LeFleur."

"It would be well for him to become acquainted with
the whole matter as quickly as possible," agreed the un-
happy Creole. "You may tell Mr. Ralestone that I am, of
course, having this claimant thoroughly investigated. We
shall have to wait and see. Time is a big factor," he
murmured as if to himself.

Ricky smiled brightly. There was a sort of eagerness
about her, as if she were wild to be off. "Then we'll say
good-bye for the present, Mr. LeFieur. And may I mention
again how much we have appreciated your thoughtfulness?"

Ren6 LeFleur aroused himself. "But it was a pleasure, a
very great pleasure, Miss Ralestone. You are returning to
Pirate's Haven now?''

"Well—" she hesitated. Mystified at what lay behind
her unexplainable actions, Val could only stand and listen.
"We did have some errands. Of course, this news—"

LeFleur gestured widely. "But it will come all right. It
must. There are papers somewhere."

Firmly Ricky broke away from more protracted farewells.
As me Ralestones turned out of the courtyard into which
their host had conducted them, Val matched his step with
hers.

"Well? What's the matter?" he demanded.

' 'We had an eavesdropper.''

55

Andr6 Norton

Val stopped short. "What do you mean?"

"I was facing the door to the balcony. There was the
shadow of a head on the floor. When you spoke about
Rick having the sword, it went away—the shadow, I
mean. But someone had been listening and now he knows
about the Luck and what it means to us."

Aiming a kick at the nearest tire of the convertible, Val
regarded the mud-stained rubber moodily. "Fine mess!"

"Yes, isn't it? And there seems to be no loose end to
the thing," Ricky protested. "It's like holding a big tangle
of wool and being told to have it all straightened out
before night—the plot of a fairy-tale. We have so many
odd sections but no ends. There's that boy in the garden
this morning who said that he has as much right at Pirate's
Haven as we have, and then there's that handkerchief, and
now this man who claims half me estate—"

"And our mysterious listener," finished her brother.

"What shall we do now? Go home?"
"No. We might as well do me errands." She seated

herself in the car. "Val—"

"Yes?"

"I know one thing." She leaned toward him and her
eyes shone green as they did when she was excited or
greatly troubled. "We aren't going to let go of our tangle
until we do find an end. We are the Ralestones of Pirate's
Haven and we are going to continue to be me Ralestones

of Pirate's Haven."

"In spite of the enemy? 1 agree." Val stepped on the
starter. "You know, a hundred years ago mere would have
been a very simple remedy for this rival-claimant business."

56

T

RALESTONE LUCK

"What?"

"Pistols for two—coffee for one. Rupert or I would
have met him out at me dueling oaks and mat would have
been the end of him."

"Or you. But dueling—here!"

"Very common. The finest fencing masters on the North
American continent plied their trade here. Why, one, Pepe
LJula, the most famous duelist of his time, became the
guardian of a cemetery just so, as gossip rumored, he
could have some place to bury his opponents.

"Then on the other hand, if dueling were too risky, we
might have had him voodooed, had we lived back in me
good old days. Paid that voodoo queen—what was her
name? Marie something or other—to put a curse on him so
he'd juat wither away."

"And serve him right, too." Ricky stared straight be-
fore her. "I don't know how you feel about it, but I'm not
going to give up Pirate's Haven without a fight. It's—it's
the first real home we've ever had. Rupert's older; he's
spent his time traveling and seeing the world; it may not
' mean so much to him. But you and I, Val— You know
what it's been like! Schools, and spending the holidays
with aunts or in those frightful camps, never getting a
chance to be together. We can't—we just can't have this
only to lose it again. We can't!" her voice broke.

"So we won't."

"Val, when you say things like that, I can almost
believe mem. If—if we do lose, let's stick together this
time. Promise?" her voice lifted in an effort toward
lightness.

57

Andre Norton

"I promise. After this it will be the two of us together.
Do you know, I've never really had a chance to get
acquainted with my very good-looking sister."

She laughed. "I can't very well curtsy while sitting
down in here, but 'thank yuh for them purty words,
stranger.' And now for the express station. Then you are
to stop at the Southeastern News Association headquarters

for something of Rupert's and—"

The afternoon went quickly enough. They despatched
the rest of their possessions from the express station to
Pirate's Haven, went on a round of miscellaneous shopping,
picked up a weighty box at the News Association, and
ended up at five o'clock by visiting that institution of New
Orleans, a coffee-house. Ricky was earnestly peeking into
one of her ten or so small bags. They had parked the car
and Val complained that he had become a sort of packhorse,

and anything but patient one.

"What if your feet do hurt," his sister said wearily as

she closed the bag and reached for another. "So do mine.
These sidewalks feel like red-hot iron. I'll bet I could do
one of those fakir tricks where you're supposed to walk

over red-hot plowshares."

"Not only my feet but also my backbone is protesting.

Whether you have reached the end of that Anthony Adverse
of a shopping list or not, we're going home! And what are
you looking for? You've opened ail those bags at least
twice and dropped no less than three on the floor each

time," he snapped irritably.

"My pralines. I'm sure 1 gave them to you to carry. I've

58

RALESTONE LUCK

heard of New Orleans pralines all my life, so I got some
today and now they've disappeared.

"They were probably included in that last armload of
parcels I stowed in the car. Are you through?"

Ricky looked into her coffee-cup. "It's empty, so I
guess I am. Where is the car? I'm so lost I don't know
where we are now."

"We left it about three blocks away on the sunny side of
the street," Val informed her with the relish of one who is
thoroughly tired of his present existence. "If this is your
usual behavior on a shopping trip, Rupert may bring you
in the next time. Half an hour to choose a toothbrush-mug
in the ten-cent store!"

"For a person who spends a good fifteen minutes match-
ing a tie and a handkerchief," sniffed Ricky as she rose,
"you're in a hurry to criticize others."

"Come on!" her brother almost howled as he scooped
up the packages.

"Anyway, we won't have to get supper or wash the
dishes or anything." She pulled off her hat as she settled
herself in the car. "It's so beastly hot, but it'll be cooler at
home. Do you suppose we could go swimming in the
bayou?"

"I don't see why not." Val guided the roadster into a
side street. "Where's that map of the city? We've got to
see how to get back on to North Rampart from here."

"I'll look." Ricky bent her head and so she did not see
the two figures walking close together and so rapt in
conversation that the one on the curb side brushed against
a lamp-post.

59

Andre Norton

Now just what, considered Val, was the sHm young
clerk from Mr. LeFleur's office telling that red-faced man
in the too-snug suit? He would have liked to have overheard
a word or two. Perhaps he had become unduly suspicious

but—-he had his doubts.

"We turn left at the next corner," said Ricky.
Val changed gears and drove on.

THHR TENANT DISCOVERS THE
RALESTONES

Val stood on the small ornamental bridge pitching twigs
down into the tiny garden brook. A moody frown creased
his forehead. Under his feet lay a pair of priming-shears he
had borrowed from Sam with die intention of doing some-
thing about the jungle which surrounded Pirate's Haven on
three sides. That is, he had intended doing something, but
now—

"Penny for your thoughts."

"Lady," he answered dismally without turning around,
"you can have a bushel of them for less than that."

"There is a neat expression which describes you beauti-




61

Andre Norton

fully at this moment," commented Ricky as she came up
beside her brother. "Have you ever heard of a 'sour

puss'?"

"Several times. Oh, what's the use!" Val kicked at a

long twig. A warm wind brought in its hold the heavy
scent of flowering bushes and trees. His shirt clung to his
shoulders damply. It was hot even in the shade of the
oaks. Rupert had gone to town to see LeFleur and hear the
worst, so that Pirate's Haven, save for themselves and

Letty-Lou, was deserted.

"Come on." Ricky's arm slid through his, "let's explore.

Think of it—we've been here two whole days and we
don't know yet what our back yard looks like. Rupert says
that our land runs clear down into the swamp. Let's go

see."

"But I was going to—" He made a feeble beginning

toward stooping for the priming-shears.

"Val Ralestone, nobody can work outdoors in this heat,
and you know it. Now come on. Bring those with you and
we'll leave them in the carriage house as we pass it. You
know," she continued as they went along the path, "the
trouble with us is that we haven't enough to do. What we

need is a good old-fashioned job."

"I thought we were going to be treasure hunters," he

protested laughingly.
"That's merely a side-line. I'm talking about the real

thing, something which will pay us cash money on Satur-
day nights or thereabout."
"Well, we can both use a typewriter fairly satisfactorily,"

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Val offered. "But as you are the world's worst speller and
I am apt to become entangled in my commas, I can't see
us the shining lights of any efficient office. And while
we've had expensive educations, we haven't had practical
ones. So what do we do now?"

"We sit down and think of one thing we're really good
at doing and then— Val, what is that?" She pointed
dramatically at a mound of brick overgrown with vines. To
their right and left stretched a row of tumble-down cabins,
some with the roofs totally gone and the doors fallen from
me hinges.

"The old plantation bake oven, I should say. This must
be what's left of the slave quarters. But where's the car-
riage house?"

"It must be around the other side of the big house. Let's
try that direction anyway. But I think you'd better go first
and do some chopping. This dress may be a poor thing but
it's my own and likely to be for some time to come. And
short of doing a sort of snake act, I don't see how we're
going to get through there."

Val applied the shears ruthlessly to vine and bush alike,
glad to find something to attack. The weight of his depres-
sion was still upon him. It was all very well for Ricky to
talk so lightly of getting a job, but talk would never put
butter on their bread—if they could afford bread.

"You certainly have done a fine job of ruining that!"

Val surpassed Ricky's jump by a good inch. By the old
bake oven stood a woman. A disreputable straw hat with a
raveled brim was pulled down over her untidy honey-

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colored hair and she was rolling up the sleeves of a stained

smock to bare round brown arms.

"It's very plain to the eye that you're no gardener," she
continued pleasantly. "And may I ask who you are and
what you are doing here? This place is not open to

trespassers, you know."
"We did think we would explore," answered Ricky

meekly. "You see, this all belongs to my brother." She
swept her hand about in a wide circle.

"And just who is he?"

"Rupert Ralestone of Pirate's Haven."

"Good—'." Their questioner's hand flew to cover her
mouth, and at the comic look of dismay which appeared
on her face, Ricky's laugh sounded. A moment later the

stranger joined in her mirth.
"And here 1 thought that I was being oh so helpful to an

absent landlord," she chuckled. "And mis brother of yours

is my landlord!"

"How—? Why, we didn't know that."

"I've rented your old overseer's house and am using it
for my studio. By the way, introductions are in order, 1
believe. I am Charity Biglow, from Boston as you might
guess. Only beans and the Bunker Hill Monument are

more Boston than the Biglows."

"I'm Richanda Ralestone and this is my brother

Valerius."

Miss Biglow grinned cheerfully at Val. "That won't do,

you know; too romantic by far. I once read a sword-and-
cloak romance in which the hero answered to the name of

Valerius."

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RALESTONE LUCK

"I haven't a cloak nor a sword and my friends generally
call me Val, so I hope I'm acceptable," he grinned back at
her.

"Indeed you are—both of you. And what are you doing

now?"

"Trying to find a building known as the carriage house.
I'm beginning to believe that its existence is wholly
mythical," Val replied.

"It's over there, simply yards from the direction in
which you're heading. But suppose you come and visit me
instead. Really, as part landlords, you should be looking
into the condition of your rentable property."

She turned briskly to the left down the lane on which
were located the slave cabins and guided the Ralestones
along a brick-paved path into a clearing where stood a
small house of typical plantation style. The lower story
was of stone with steep steps leading to a balcony which
ran completely around the second floor of the house.

As they reached the balcony she pulled off her hat and
threw it in the general direction of a cane settee. Without
that wreck of a hat, with the curls of her long bob flowing
free, she looked years younger.

"Make yourselves thoroughly at home. After all, this is
your house, you know."

"But we didn't," protested Ricky. "Mr. LeFIeur didn't
tell us a thing about you."

"Perhaps he didn't know." Charity Biglow was pinning
back her curls. "I rented from Harrison."

"Like the bathroom," Val murmured and looked up to

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find them staring at him. "Oh, I just meant that you were
another improvement that he had installed," he stammered.
Miss Biglow nodded in a satisfied sort of way. "Spoken
like a true southern gentleman, though I don't think in die
old days that bathrooms would have crept into a compli-
ment paid to a lady. Now I did have some lemonade—if
you will excuse me," and she was gone into the house.
Ricky smiled. "I like our tenant," she said softly.
"You don't expect me to disagree with that, do you?"
her brother had just time enough to ask before their hostess
appeared again complete with tray, glasses, and a filled
pitcher which gave forth the refreshing sound of clinking
ice. And after her paraded an old friend of theirs, tail
proudly erect. "There's our cat!" cried Ricky.
Val snapped his fingers. "Here, Satan."
After staring round-eyed at both of them, the cat crossed
casually to the settee and proceeded to sharpen his claws.

"Well, I like that! After I shared my bed with the brute,
even though I didn't know it until the next morning," Val

exploded.

"Why, where did you meet Cinders?" asked Miss Biglow

as she put down the tray.

"He came to us the first night we were at Pirate's

Haven," explained Ricky. "I thought he was a ghost or     »
something when he scratched at the back door."              !

"So that's where he was. He used to go over to the
Hamsons' for meals a lot. When I'm working I don't keep
very regular hours and he doesn't like to be neglected,     r
Come here. Cinders, and make your manners."              I

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RALESTONE LUCK

Replying to her invitation with an insolent flirt of his
tail. Cinders, whom Val continued obstinately to regard as
"Satan," disappeared around me comer of the balcony-
Charity Biglow looked at them solemnly. "So obedient,"
she observed; "just like a child."

"Are you an artist, too?" Ricky asked as she put down
her glass.

Miss Biglow's face wrinkled into a grimace. "My crit-
ics say not. I manage to provide daily bread and some-
times a slice of cake by doing illustrations for action
stories. And then once in a while I labor for the good of
my soul and try to produce something my more charitable
friends advise me to send to a show."

"May—may we see some of them—the pictures, I
mean?" inquired Ricky timidly.

"If you can bear it. I use the side balcony for a work-
shop in this kind of weather. I'm working on a picture
now, something more ambitious than I usually attempt in
heat of this sort. But my model didn't show up this morning
so I'm at a loose end."

She led them around the comer where Satan had disap-
peared and pointed to a table with a sketching board at one
end, several canvases leaning face against the house, and
an easel covered with a clean strip of linen. "My workshop.
A trifle untidy, but then I am an untidy person. I'm
expecting an order so I'm just whiling away my time
working on an idea of my own until it comes."

Ricky touched the strip of covering across the canvas on
the easel. "May I?" she asked.

-       67

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"Yes. It might be a help, getting some other person's
reaction to the thing. I had a clear idea of what I wanted to
do when I started but I don't think it's turning out to be

what I planned."
Ricky lifted off me cover. Val stared at the canvas.

"But that is he!" he exclaimed.
Charity Biglow turned to the boy. "And what do you

mean—"

"That's the boy I saw in the garden, Ricky!"

"Is it?" She stared, fascinated, at the lean brown face,
the untidy black hair, the bitter mouth, which their hostess
had so skilfully caught in her unfinished drawing.

"So you've met Jeems." Miss Biglow looked at Val
thoughtfully. "And what did you think of him?"

"It's rather—what did he think of me. He seemed to
hate me. 1 don't know why. All I ever said to him was

'Hello.' "

"Jeems is a queer person—"

"Sam says that he is none too honest," observed Ricky,
her attention still held by the picture.

Miss Biglow shook her bead. "There is a sort of feud
between the swamp people and the fanners around here.
And neither side is wholly to be believed in their estima-
tion of the other. Jeems isn't dishonest, and neither arc a
great many of the muskrat hunters. In the early days all
kinds of outlaws and wanted men fled into the swamps and
lived there with the hunters. One or two desperate men
gave the whole of the swamp people a bad name and it has
stuck. They are a strange folk back there in the fur country.

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"Some are Cajuns, descendants of exiles fmm Evan-
geline's country; some are Creoles who took to dial way of
life after the Civil War ruined them. There's many a
barefooted boy or giri of the swamps who bears a name
that was once honored at the Court of France or Spain. And
there are Americans of the old frontier stock who came
down river with Andrew Jackson's army from the wilds of
Tennessee and die Indian country. It's a strange mixture,
and once in a while you find a person like Jeems. He
speaks the uneducated jargon of his people but he reads
and writes French and English perfectly. He has studied
under Pere Armand until he has a classical education such
as was popular for Creole boys of good family some fifty
years ago. Pere Armand is an old man now, but he is as
good an instructor as he is a priest.

"Jeems wants to make something of himself. He argues
logically that the swamp has undeveloped resources which
might save its inhabitants from the grinding poverty which
is slowly destroying them. And it is Jeems' hope that he
can discover some of the swamp secrets when he is fitted
by training to do so."

"Who is he?" Val asked. "Is Jeems his first or last
name?"

"His last. I have never heard his given name. He is very
reticent about his past, though I do know that he is an
orphan. But he is of Creole descent and he does have
breeding as well as ambition. Unfortunately he had quite
an unpleasant experience with a boy who was visiting the
Hamsons last summer. The visitor accused Jeems of tak-

69

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AndrS Norton

ing a fine rifle which was later discovered right where the
boy had left it in his own canoe. Jeems has a certain pride
and he was turned against all the plantation people. His
attitude is unfortunate because he longs so for a different
sort of life and yet has no contact with young people
except those of the swamp. I think he is beginning to trust
me, for he will come in the mornings to pose for my
picture of the swamp hunter. Do you know," she hesitated,
"I think that you would find a real friend in Jeems if you
could overcome his hatred of plantation people. You would
gain as much as he from such an association. He can tell
you things about the swamp—stories which go back to the
old pirate days. Perhaps—"

Ricky looked up from the uncompleted picture. "I think
he'd be nice to know. But why does he look so—so sort of

starved?"

"Probably because the bill of fare in a swamp cabin is
not as varied as it might be," answered Charity Biglow.
"But you can't offer him anything, of course. I don't even
know where he lives. And now, tell me about yourselves.
Are you planning to live here?"

Her frank interest seemed perfectly natural. One simply

couldn't resent Charity Biglow.

"Well," Ricky laughed ruefully, "we can't very well
live anywhere else. I think Rupert still has ten dollars—"       -A.,

"After his expedition this morning, 1 would have my      J
doubts of that," Val cut in. "You see, Miss Biglow, we

are back to the soil now."

"Charity is the name," she corrected him. "So you're

down—''

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RALESTONE LUCK

"But not out!" Ricky hastened to assure her. "But we
might be that." And then and there she told their tenant of
the rival claimant.

Charity listened closely, absent-mindedly sucking the
wooden shaft of one of her brushes. When Ricky had
done, she nodded.

"Nice mess you've dropped into. But 1 think that your
lawyer has the right idea. This is a neat piece of blackmail
and your claimant will disappear into thin air if you have a
few concrete facts to face him down v/ith. Are you sure
you've looked through all me family papers? No hiding-
places or safes—"

"One," said Ricky calmly, "but we don't know where
that is. In the Civil War days, after General Butler took
over New Orleans, some family possessions were hidden
somewhere in the Long Hall, but we don't know where.
The secret was lost when Richard Ratestone was shot by
Yankee raiders."

"Is he the ghost?" asked Charity.

"No. You ask that as if you know something," Val
observed.

"Nothing but talk. There have been lights seen, white
ones. And a while back my maid Rose left because she
saw something in die garden one night."

"Jeems, probably," the boy commented. "He seems to
like the place."

"No, not Jeems. He was sitting right on that railing
when we both heard Rose scream."

"Val, the handkerchief!" Rick's hand arose to her but-

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toned pocket. "Then there was someone inside the house
that night. But why—unless they were after the treasure!"

"The quickest way to find out," her brother got up
from the edge of the table where he had perched, "is to go
and do a little probing of our own. We have a good two
hours until lunch. Will you join us?" he asked Charity.         '

"You tempt me, but I've got to get in as much work on       [
this as I can," she indicated her canvas. "And Jeems may       j
show up even if it is late. So my conscience says 'No.'       i
Unfortunately 1 do possess a regular rock-ribbed New       ,

England conscience."                                      |
"Rupert will be back by four," said Ricky. "Will your      ;

conscience let you come over for coffee with us then? You       i
see how quickly we have adopted the native customs—      _.

coffee at four."                                           f
"Ricky," her brother explained, "desires to become      |

thatfigureof Romance—the southern belle."                 ,

"Then we must do what we can to help her create the     •^->
proper atmosphere," urged Charity solemnly.                .

"Even to die victoria and the coach-hound?" Val de-
manded in dismay.

"Well, perhaps not that far," she laughed. "Anyway, I

accept your kind invitation with pleasure. I shall be there
at four—if 1 can find a presentable dress. Now clear out,
you two. and see what secrets of the past you can uncover

before lunch time."
But their explorations resulted in nothing except slightly

frayed tempers. Val had sounded what paneling there was,
but as he had no idea what a hollow panel should sound

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like if rapped, he inwardly decided that he was not exactly
fitted for such investigations.

Ricky broke two fingernails pressing the carving about
the fireplace and sat down on the couch to state in no
uncertain terms what she thought of me house, and of their
ancestor who had been so misguided as to get himself shot
after hiding the stuff. She ended with a brilliant but short
description of Val's present habits and vices—which she
added because he happened to have said, meekly enough,
that if she would only trim her nails to a reasonable length,
such accidents could be avoided.

When she had done, her brother sat back on the lowest
step of the stairs and wiped his hands on his handkerchief.

"Seeing that I have been crawling about on my hands
and knees inspecting cracks in the floor, I mink I have as
much right to lose my temper as you have. Short of tearing
the house down, I don't see how we are going to find
anything without directions. And I am not in favor of
taking such a drastic step as yet."

"It's around here somewhere, I know it!" She kicked
petulantly at the hearth-stone.

"That statement is certainly a big help," Val commented.
"Several yards across and I don't know how many up and
down—and you just know it's there somewhere. Well, you
can keep on pressing until you wear your fingers out, but
I'm calling it a day right now."

She did not answer, and he got stiffly to his feet. He
was hot and more tired than he had been since he had left
me hospital. Because he was just as sure as Ricky that the

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key to their riddle must be directly before them at that
moment, he was thoroughly disgusted.

A strange sound from his sister brought him around.
Ricky was not pretty when she cried. No pearly drops
slipped down white cheeks. Her nose shone red and she
sniffed. But Ricky did not cry often. Only when she was
discouraged, or when she was really hurt.

"Why, Ricky—" Val began uncertainly.

"Go 'way," she hiccupped. "You don't care—you don't
care 'bout anything. If we have to lose this—"

"We won't! We'll find a way!" he assured her hurriedly.
"I'm sorry I snapped at you. I'm just tired and hot, and so
are you. Let's go upstairs and freshen up. Lunch will be

ready—"

"I kno-o-ow—" her sob deepened into a wail. "Then

Rupert will laugh at us and—"

"Ricky! For goodness sake, pull yourself together!"
She looked up at him, round-mouthed in surprise at his
sharpness. And then to his amazement she began to giggle,
her giggles mixed with her sobs. "You do look so funny,"
she gasped, "like the stem father of a family. Why don't
you fight back always when I get mean, Val?"
He grinned back at her. "1 don't know. Shall I, next

time?"

She nibbed her face with a businesslike air and tucked

her handkerchief away. "There isn't going 10 be any next
time," she announced briskly. "If there is—well—"

"Yes?" Val prompted.
"Then you can just spank me or something drastic.

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Come on, I must look a sight. And goodness knows,
you're no beauty with that black mark across your chin
and your slacks all grimy at the knees. We've got to clean
up before lunch or Letty-Lou will think we're some sort of
heathen."

With that she turned and led the way upstairs, totally
recovered and herself again in spite of a red nose and
suspiciously moist eyelashes.

75




6

SATAN GOES A-HUNTING AND
FINDS WORK FOR IDLE HANDS

"Val, did that cat go upstate?" Ricky stood at the foot of

the hall staircase frowning crossly. "If he did, you 11 just
have to go up and get him. I will not have him waBong on

the beds with muddy feet. There's enough to do here
without cleaning up after a lazy cat. Where s Rupert?

Her brother put aside his note-book and got up from the
couch with a lazy stretch. Ricky's early-moming energy
was apt to be a little irksome and Val had not had a good
night. When one lies and stares up at a ceiling, one
sometimes hears strange noises which cannot be accounted
for by wind or creaking boards.
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RALESTONE LUCK

"He retired into Bluebeard's den right after breakfast
and he hasn't appeared since."

"I should think that after what he heard yesterday he'd
be doing something," she protested.

"And what is there for him to do? You know just how
far we got with our investigations yesterday. Go rap on his
door if you like and stir him up. But I don't think his
welcome will be a cordial one."

Ricky sat down on the bottom step and pushed the hair
back from her forehead. Suddenly she looked very small
and faintly forlorn with all that expanse of age-blackened
wood behind her.

"I can't understand you two at all. One would think you
would be just as well pleased if our rival walked off with
this place. You aren't even trying to fight!"

"Listen, Ricky, how can we fight when we have noth-
ing solid to fight with? LeFleur is doing all he can, we
have explored every possibility here—"

"Val, don't you want to stay here?" she interrupted
him.

He looked around at stone and wood. Did he really want
to? His instant hot anger at the thought of another owner
there was his answer. Why, this house was a part of them,
as much as if they had laid its foundation stones with their
own hands. They had been brought up on its blood-stained
legends, and on the one or two happier tales which had
been lived within its walls. If they had to leave, they
would regret it all their lives. And yet—Rupert seemed to
take no interest in the claims of the rival, and only Ricky
wanted to fight.

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Ricky got up from the stairs.

"We might as well go up and catch that cat," she said.

At the top of the stairs Satan sat, his eyes upon the
landing windows. Val reached out his hands for him, but
in that single instant Satan was gone. A black tail disap-
peared around the door of the Jackson room.

"Oh, dear, I hope he isn't going to get on that bed."
Ricky opened the door" wider. "No, there he goes under

instead of on it. Can you see him, Val?"

Her brother crouched and lifted the edge of the brocaded
cover which swept to the floor. To Val's surprise a thin
line of light showed along the wall at the head of the bed.

"Ricky, look behind the head of the bed! Is it fast

against the wall?"

She started to the tall canopied head and pulled the

faded fabrics away from the paneling. "No, there's about
two feet here at the bottom. It doesn't show because the
canopy covers it. And, Val, there's an opening here!

Satan's trying to get through!"
"We need a flashlight."
"I'll get Rupert's. Val, promise not to go in—if it is a

door—until I come back!"

"Of course; but hurry."

The flashlight revealed a wide panel which slid upward.
Time and damp had warped the wood so that it no longer
fitted snugly to the floor as the builder had intended. But
the same warping made the door defy their efforts to raise
it any higher. At last, by prying and pounding, they got it
up perhaps a yard from the floor. Satan slipped through
and they followed on hands and knees.
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They crawled into a small room lighted by two round
windows set like eyes in the wide wall. More than three-
quarters of die space was filled with furniture and boxes
wrapped in tarred canvas. The choking dust and general
mustiness of the long-closed apartment drove Val to inves-
tigate the window fastenings and throw them open to the
morning air.

"There must be another door somewhere," he said,
calling Ricky away from a box where she was picking at
the knotted rope which bound it. "All these things couldn't
have been brought through that hole behind the bed."

"Here it is," she said a moment later, pointing to an
oblong set flush with the wall. "It's bolted on this side."

"Let me open it and see where we are." Val fumbled at
the rusty latch, but he had to use an iron poker from a
discarded fire stand in me comer before he could hammer
it back. Again the door resisted their efforts to push it open
until Val flung his full weight against it. With a snapping
report it swung open and he sprawled forward into the
short hall which had once led into the garden wing, an ell
of the house destroyed by roving British raiders during the
days of 1815. The only wholly wooden portion of die
house, it bad been burnt and never rebuilt.

"Come on," Ricky pulled at Val's sleeve, "let's
explore."

He looked at his black hands. "I would suggest some
soap and water, several brooms, and some dusting cloths if
we're going to do it right. Better make a regular house-
cleaning party of it."

"Goodness, what have I strayed into?" Charity Biglow
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stood in the lower hall staring at die younger Ralestones as
they came through from the kitchen. They had both changed
into their oldest and least respectable clothes. Ricky, in
fact, was wearing a pair of Val's slacks and one of Rupert's
shirts, and they were burdened with a broom which was
long past its youth, several smaller brushes, and a great

bundle of floor-cloths.

"We've found a secret room—" began Ricky.
"As one door has been-in plain sight since the building

of this house, it could hardly be called a secret room," Val

objected.

"Well, we didn't know it was there until Satan found

die back entrance for us. And now we're going to clean it
out. It's full of furniture and boxes and things."

"Don't!" Charity held up a paint-streaked hand. "You
will have me drooling in a moment. I don't suppose you
could use another assistant? After all, it was my cat who
found it for you. If you can provide me with a set of those
weird coverings which seem to be your house-cleaning
uniforms, I would just love to wield a broom in your

company."

"The more the merrier," laughed Ricky. "I think Val

has another pair of slacks—"

"That's right, dispose of my wardrobe before my face,"
he commented, balancing his load more carefully in prepa-
ration for climbing the stairs. "Only spare my white flannels,
please. I'm saving those for the occasion when 1 can play

the country gentleman in style."

Upstairs he braced open the hall door of the storage-
room. The open windows had cleared the air within but

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they were too high and too small to admit enough light to
reach the far comers. It would be best, they decided, to
carry each box and piece of furniture to the hall for
examination. With the zeal of treasure hunters they set to
work.

Some time later, when Val was coaxing the second box
through the door, they were interrupted.

"And just what is going on here?" Rupert stood at the
end of the hall.

"Oh," Ricky smiled sweetly, "did we really disturb
you?"

"Well, I did think that there was a troop of elephants
doing tap dancing up here. But that isn't the point—just
what aie you doing?"

"Cleaning house." Ricky flicked a gray rag in his
direction freeing a cloud of dust. "Don't you think it needs
it?"

Rupert sneezed. "It seems so. But why—? Miss Biglow!"

Charity, extremely dirty—she had apparently run dusty
hands across her forehead several times—had come to the
door of the storage-room. At the sight of Rupert she
flushed and made a hurried attempt at smoothing her hair.

"I—" she began, when Ricky interrupted her.

"Charity is helping us, which is more than we can say
of you. Go back to your old den and hibernate. And then
you can't look down that long nose of yours when we turn
up the papers that'll save us from the poorhouse."

"That's telling him," Val murmured approvingly as he
fanned himself with one of the cleaner cloths. "But per-
haps we had better explain. You see, Satan went hunting

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and found work for idle hands," and he told the tale of the

sliding panel behind the bed.
When he had finished, Rupert laughed. "So you are still

determined on treasure hunting, are you? Well, if it will

keep you out of mischief, go to it."

"Rupert," Ricky faced him squarely, "don't be utterly
insufferable. If you had one drop of hot blood in you,
you'd be just as thrilled as we are. Just because you've
been around and around the world until you got dizzy or
something, you needn't stand there with that 'See-the-little-
children-play' smirk on your face. You don't really care
whether we lose Pirate's Haven or not, do you?"

Rupert straightened and the color crept up across his
high cheek-bones. His mouth opened and then he closed it
again without speaking the words he had intended, closed
with a firmness which tightened his lips into a straight

line.

"Don't stand there and glower at me," Ricky went on.

"Why don't you say what you were going to? I'm just
about tired of this world-weary attitude—"

"Ricky!" Val clapped his black hand over her mouth
and turned to Charity. "Please excuse the fireworks. They

are not usual, I assure you."

"Let me go!" Ricky twisted out of his grip. "I don't
care if Charity does hear. She ought to know what we're

really like!"

"Speak for yourself, my pet." The red had faded from

Rupert's face. "You do have a nice little habit of speaking
your mind, don't you? But on this occasion I believe
you're at least eight-tenths right. I have been neglecting

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my opportunities. Suppose you let me get at that box, Val.
And look here, if you are going to unpack these, why not
move them down to the end of the hall and turn them out
on a sheet?"

Charity and Ricky suddenly disappeared back into the
room and were very busy whenever Rupert crossed their
line of vision, but Val was heartily glad of his brother's
help in lifting and pulling.

"Better not try to take this bedstead and stuff out,"
Rupert advised when they had the three boxes out in the
hall. "We have no need for it now, anyway."

"I believe—yes, it is! A real Sergnoret piece!" Charity
was industriously rubbing away at the head of the bed.
Rupert knelt down beside her.

"And just what is a Sergnoret piece?"

"A collector's item nowadays. Francois Sergnoret was
one of the greatest cabinet-makers of New Orleans. See
that'S'—that's the way he always signed his work."

"Treasure trove!" cried Ricky. "I wonder how much
it's worth?"

"Exactly nothing to us." Rupert was running his hands
across the mahogany. "We couldn't sell anything from
mis house until the title is cleared."

As Val moved around to the opposite side to see better,
his foot struck against something on the floor. He stooped
and picked up a box with a slanting cover, the whole black
and smooth with age and the rubbing of countless hands.

"What's this?" He had crossed to the door and was
examining his find in the light-
Rupert's hand fell upon his shoulder. "Val, be careful

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of that. Charity, he's got something here!" He pulled
her up beside him, not noting in his excitement that he had
broken out of the formal shell which seemed to wall him in

whenever she was around.
"A Bible box! And an authentic one, too!" She drew

her lingers down the slope of the lid.
"And just what is it?" Val asked for the second time.
"These boxes were used in the seventeenth century for
writing-desks and later to keep the large family Bibles in.
But this is me first one I've ever seen outside of a museum.
What's this on me lid?" She traced a worn outline. Val

studied the design.
"Why, it's Joe! You know, that grinning skull we have

stuck up all over the place to bolster up our superiority
complex. That proves that this is ours, all right."

"Perhaps—" Ricky's eyes were round with excitement,
'' perhaps it belonged to Pirate Dick himself!''

"Perhaps it did," her younger brother agreed.

"Lift the lid." She was almost hopping on one foot in
her impatience. "Let's see what's inside."

"No gold or jewels, I'll wager. How do you get the

thing undone?"

"Here, let me try." Rupert took it from Val's hands and
put it down on one of the chests, squatting on the floor
before it. With the smallest blade of his penknife he deli-
cately probed me fastening sunken in the wood.

"I could do a faster job," he remarked, "if you didn't
all breathe down the back of my neck." They retreated
two inches or so and waited impatiently. With a satisfied
grunt he dropped his knife and pulled the lid up.
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"Why, there's nothing it it!" Ricky's cry of disappoint-
ment was almost a wail.

"Nothing but that old torn lining." Val was as dis-
gusted as She.

Rupert closed it again. "I'll rub this up some and put in
another lining. This is too good a piece to hide away up
here," and he put it carefully aside at the end of the hall.

Their investigations yielded nothing more except great
quantities of dust, a mummified rat which even Satan
refused to sniff at, and a large collection of spider webs.
Having swept out the room, they went to wash their hands
before unpacking the well-wrapped boxes.

When their swathing canvas and sacking was thrown
aside, the boxes stood revealed as stout chests banded with
iron. Charity paused before one. "This is a marriage
chest, late seventeenth century, I would judge. Look there,
under that carved leaf—isn't that a date?"

"Sixteen hundred ninety-three," Rupert deciphered. "That
crest above it looks familiar. I know, it belonged to that
French lady who married our pirate ancestor."

"The first Lady Richanda!" Ricky touched the chest
lovingly. "Then this is mine, Rupert. Can't it be mine?"
she coaxed.

"Of course. But it's locked, and as we don't have any
keys which would fit the lock, you'll have to wait until we
can get a locksmith out to work on it before you will know
what's inside."

"I don't care. No," she corrected herself, "that's wrong;

I do care But anyway its mine!" She caressed the stiff
carving with her fingers.

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"What's this one?" Val turned to the second box. It,
too, was fashioned of wood, but it was plain where the
other was carved, and the iron bands across it were pitted

with rust.

"A sea chest, I would say." Rupert touched the top

gingerly. "By the feel, it's locked too. And I don't care to
play around with it. The men who made things like these
were too fond of having little poisoned fangs run into your
hand when you tried to force the chest without knowing
the trick. We'll have to leave this for an expert, too."

"What about the third?"

Charity laughed. "After your two treasures I'm afraid
that this will be a disappointment." She indicated a small
humpbacked trunk covered with moth-eaten horsehair. "No
romance here. But the key is tied to the clasp beside the

lock."

"Then open it before I expire of pure unsatisfied

curiosity," Ricky begged. "Go on, Rupert. Hurry."
"Oh." she said a moment later, "it's full of nothing but

a lot of books."

"What did you expect," Val asked her, "a skeleton?
Do you know, I think that Rick's ghost, or whatever
influence presides over this house, has a sense of humor.
You find a room, or a trunk, or something which makes
you feel that you are on the verge of getting what you
want, and then it all fades into just nothing again. Now, by
rights, that writing-desk should have contained the secret
message which would have told us where to find a hidden
passage or something. But what is in it? A couple of
pieces of lining almost completely torn from the bottom.

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I'll wager that when you open those chests you'll find
nothing but a brick or 'April Fool' scrawled across the
inside. This isn't true to any fiction I ever read," he ended
plaintively.

"Good Heavens!" Charity was staring down at what lay
within a portfolio she had opened.

"Don't tell me you have really found something!" Val
exclaimed.

"It can't be true!" She still stared at what she held.

Ricky looked over her shoulder. "Why, it's nothing but
a picture of a bird," she observed.

"It's a genuine Audubon," Charity corrected her.

"What!'' With little regard for manners, Rupert snatched
the portfolio from her hands. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. But you must take it in to the museum and get an
expert opinion. It's wonderful!"

"Here's another." Reverently Rupert raised the first
sketch and then the second. "Three, four, five, six," he
counted.

"Was Audubon ever here?" Charity looked about the
hall, a sort of awe coloring her voice.

"He might easily have been when he lived in New
Orleans. Though we have no record of it," answered
Rupert. "But these," he closed the portfolio carefully and
knotted its strings, "speak for themselves. I'll take them to
LeHeur tomorrow. We can't allow them to lie about here."

"I should hope not!" Charity eyed the portfolio wistfully.
"Imagine actually owning six of those—"

"They won't pay our bills." said Ricky, practical for
once in her life. Treasure to Ricky was not half a dozen

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sketches on yellowed paper but good old-fashioned gold
with a few jewels thrown in for her own private satisfaction.
The portfolio and its contents left her unmoved. Val admit-
ted to himself that he, too, was disappointed. After all—

well, treasure should be treasure.

Rupert carried the portfolio into his bedroom and locked
it in one of his mysterious brief-cases which had somehow

found its way upstairs.
The two chests they moved out farmer into the hall and

the trunk was placed back against the wall, ready for

further investigation.
"Mistuh Ralestone," Letty-Lou, standing half-way up

the back stairs, addressed Rupert, "lunch on de table.
Effen yo.'all doan come now, eatments will be spoiled."

"All right," he answered.
"Letty-Lou," called Ricky, "put on another plate. Miss

Charity is staying to lunch."
"Miss 'Chanda, I done done it already. Yo'all comin'

now?"
"You see how we are bullied," Ricky appealed to

Charity. "Of course you're going to stay," she swept
aside the other's protests. "What's food for, if not to feed
your friends? Val, go wash up; your hands are frightful. I

don't care if you did wash once; go and—"

"This is her little-mother-of-the-family mood,'' her young-
er brother explained to Charity. "It wears off after a
while if you just don't notice it. But I will wash though,"
he looked at his hands, "I seem to need it."

"And don't use the guest towels," Ricky called after
him. "You know that they're only to look at."
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When Val emerged from the bathroom he found the hall
deserted. Sounds from below suggested that his family had
basely left him for food. He started along the passage. Not
far from the stairs was the writing-desk where Rupert had
left it. Val picked it up, thinking that he might as well take
it along down with him.

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7

BY OUR LUCK!

Depositing the desk on thejeat of one of the hall chairs,
Val started toward the dining-room, a grim hole which
Lucy had calmly forced the family to use but which they
all cordially disliked. Its paneled walls, crystal-hung
chandelier, marble-fronted fireplace, and inlaid floor gave
it the appearance of one of the less cozy rooms in a small
palace There were also two tasteful portraits of dead
ducks which had been added as a finishing touch by some
tenant during the eighties and which still remained upon the

walls to Ricky's unholy joy.
But the long table, the high-backed chairs, the side

RALESTONE LUCK

serving-table, and the two tall cabinets of china were fine
enough pieces if one cared for the massive. Ricky's table-
cloth of violent-hued peasant linen was not in keeping with
the china and glassware Letty-Lou had set out upon it.
Charity was commenting upon this ensemble as Val entered.

"Doesn't this red and green plaid seem a bit—well,
bright?" The comers of her mouth twitched betrayingly.

"No," Ricky returned firmly. "This cloth matches the
ducks."

"Oh, yes, the ducks," Charity eyed them. "So you
consider that the ducks are the note you wish to emphasize?''

"Certainly." Ricky surveyed die picture hanging oppo-
site her. "I consider them unique. Not everyone can have
ducks in the dining-room nowadays."

"For which they should be eternally thankful," ob-
served Rupert. "They are rather gaudy, aren't they?"

"Oh, but I like the expression in this one's glassy eye,"
Ricky pointed out. "You might call this study 'Gone But
Not Forgotten.' "

"Corn-bread, please," Val asked, thus attempting to
put an end to the art-appreciation class.

"I think," continued Ricky, undisturbed as she passed
him the plate heaped with golden squares, "that they are
slightly surrealist. They distinctly resemble the sort of
things one is often pursued by in one's brighter nightmares."

"Do you have any really good pictures?" asked Charity,
resolutely averting her gaze from the ducks.

"Three, but they've been loaned to the museum," an-
swered Rupert, "Not by well-known painters, but they're
historically interesting. There's one of the first Lady

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Richanda, and one of the missing Rick. That's the best of
the lot, according to LeFleur. I saw a photograph of it
once. Come to think about it, Val looks a lot like die boy
in the picture. He might have sat for it."

They all turned to eye Val. He arose and bowed. "I find
these compliments too overwhelming," he murmured.

Rupert grinned. "And how do you know that that re-
mark was intended as a compliment?"

"Naturally I assumed so," his brother retorted with a
dignity which disappeared as the piece of corn-bread in his
hand broke in two, the larger and more liberally buttered
portion falling butter side down on the table. Ricky smiled
in a pained sort of way as she attempted to judge from her
side of the table just how much damage Val's awkward-
ness had done.

"If you were the graceful hostess," he informed her
severely, "you would now throw your piece in the middle
to show that anyone could suffer a like mishap."

Ricky changed the subject hurriedly by passing beans to
Charity.

"So Val looks like the ghost," Charity said a moment
later. "Now I will have to go to town and see mat portrait.
Just where is it?"

Rupert shook his head. "I don't know. But it's listed in
the catalogue as 'Portrait of Roderick Ralestone, Aged
Eighteen.' "

"Just Val's age, men." Ricky spooned some water-
melon pickles onto her plate. "But he was older man that
when he left here."

"Let's see. He was born in February, 1788, which   |.

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would make him fourteen when his parents died in 1802.
Then he disappeared in 1814, twelve years later. Just
twenty-six when he went," computed Rupert.
"A year younger than you are now," observed Ricky.
"And nine years older than yourself at this present
date," Val added pleasantly. "Why this sudden interest in
mathematics?"

"Oh, I don't know. Only somehow I always thought
Rick was younger when he went away. I've always felt
sorry for him. Wonder what happened to him afterwards?"

"According to our rival," Rupert pulled his coffee-cup
before him as Letty-Lou took away their plates, "he just
went quietly away, married, lived soberly, and brought up
a son, who in turn fathered a son, and so on to the present
day. A tame enough ending for our wild privateersman."

"I'll bet it isn't true. Rick wouldn't end like that. He
probably went off down south and got mixed up in some
of the revolutions they were having at me time," sug-
gested Ricky. "He couldn't just settle down and die in
bed. I could imagine him scuttling a ship but not being a
quiet business man."

"He was one of Lafitte's men, wasn't he?" asked Charity.
At their answering nods, she went on: "Lafitte was a
business man, you know. Oh, I don't mean that forge he
ran in town, but his establishment at Grande Terre. He was
more smuggler than pirate, that's why he lasted so long.
Even the most respected tradesmen had dealings with him.
Why, he used to post notices right in town when he held
auctions at Barataria, listing what he had to sell, mostly
smuggled blacks and a few cargoes of luxuries from

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Europe. He was a privateer under the rules of war, but he
was never a real pirate. At least, that's the belief held

nowadays."

"We can't turn up our noses at pirates," laughed Ricky.

"This house was built by pirate gold. We only wish—"

From the hall came a dull thump. Ricky's napkin dropped
from her hand into her coffee-cup. Rupert laid down his
spoon deliberately enough, but there was a certain tension
in his movements. Val felt a sudden chill. For Letty-Lou
was in the kitchen, the family were in the dining-room.

There should be no one in the hall.

Rupert pushed back his chair. But Val was already
half-way to 'the door when his brother joined him. And
Ricky, suddenly sober, was at their heels.

Zzzzzrupp! The slitting sound was clear as they burst
into the hall. On the fur rug by the couch lay the writing-
desk. Its lid was thrown back and by it crouched Satan
industriously ripping the remnants of lining from its interior.
As Rupert came up, the cat drew back, his ears flattened

and his lips a-snarl.

"Cinders! What has he done?" demanded Charity, swoop-
ing down upon her pet. At her coming, he fled under the

couch out of reach.

Rupert picked up the desk, "Nothing much," he laughed.

"Just torn all that lining loose, as I had planned to do."
"What is this?" Ricky disentangled a small slip of
white from the torn and musty velvet. "Why, it's a piece
of paper," she answered her own question. "It must have
been under the lining and Satan pulled it out with the

cloth."

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RALESTONE LUCK

"Here," Rupert took it from her, "let me see it."
He scanned die faded lines of writing. "Val! Ricky!"
He looked up, his face flushed with excitement. "Listen!"

"Gatty has returned from the city. The raiders calling
themselves die 'Buck Boys' are headed this way. Gatty tells
me that Alexander is with them, having deserted the planta-
tion a week ago. Since his malice towards us is well
known, it is easy to believe that he means us open harm. I
am making my preparations accordingly. The valuables
now under this roof, together with the proceeds from the
last voyage of the blockade runner. Red Bird, I am putting
in that safe place discovered by me in childhood, of which
I have sometimes spoken. Remember the hint I once gave
you—By Our Luck. Having written this in haste, I shall
intrust it to Gatty—"

"That's me end; the rest is gone." Rupert stared down
at the scrap of paper in his hand as if he simply could not
believe in its reality.

"Richard wrote that." Ricky touched the note in awe.
"But why didn't Gatty give it to Miles when he came?"

"Gatty was probably a slave who ran when the raiders
appeared," suggested Rupert. "He or.she must have hid-
den this in here before leaving. We'll never know."

"But we've got our clue!" cried Ricky. "We knew that
the hiding-place was in this hall, and now we have the
clue."

" 'By our Luck.' " Rupert looked about him thoughtfully.
"That's not the most helpful—"

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"Rupert!" Ricky seized him by the arm. "There's only
one thing in this room that will answer that. Can't you
see? The niche of the Luck!"

Their gaze followed her pointing finger to the mantel

above their heads.

"I believe she's right! Wait until I get the stepladder
from the kitchen." Rupert was gone almost before he had

finished speaking.

"Oh, if it's only true!" Ricky stared up like one

hypnotized. "Then we'll be rich and—"

"Don't count your chickens before they're hatched,"
Val reminded her, but he didn't think that she heard him.

Then Rupert was back with the ladder. He climbed up,
leaving the three of them clustered about its foot.

"Nothing here but two stone studs to hold the Luck in

place," he said a moment later.

"Why not try pressing those?" suggested Charity.
"All right, here goes." He placed his thumbs in the

comers of the niche and threw his weight upon them.
"Nothing happened." Ricky's voice was deep with

disappointment.

"Look!" Val pointed over her shoulder.

To the left of the fireplace were five panels of oak, to
balance those on the other side about the door of the
unused drawing-room. The center one of these now gaped
open, showing a dark cavity.

"It worked!" Ricky was already heading for the opening.

There behind the paneling was a shallow closet which
ran the full length of the five panels, it was filled with a
collection of bags and small chests, a collection which

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appeared much larger when it lay in the gloom within than
when they dragged it out. Then, when they had time to
examine it carefully, they discovered that their booty con-
sisted of two small wooden boxes or chests, one fancifully
carved and evidently intended for jewels, the other plain
but locked; a felt bag and another of canvas, and a package
hurriedly done up in cloth. Rupert spread it all out on the
floor.

"Well," he hesitated, "where shall we begin?"

"Charity thought about how to open it, and it was her
cat that found us the clue—let her choose," Val suggested.

"Good," agreed Rupert. "And what's your choice,
m'lady?"

"What woman could resist this?" She laid her hand
upon the jewel box.

"Then that it is." He reached for it.

It opened readily enough to show a shallow tray divided
into compartments, all of them empty.

"Sold again," Val commented dryly.

Carefully Rupert lifted out the top tray to disclose another
on which rested three small leather bags. He loosened the
draw-string of the nearest and shook out into his palm a pair
of earrings of a quaint pattern in twisted gold set with dull
red stones. Charity pronounced them garnets. Though they
were not of great value, they were precious in Ricky's
eyes, and even Charity exclaimed over them.

The second bag yielded a carnelian seal on a wide chain
of gold mesh, the sort of ornament a dandy wore dangling
from his watch pocket in the days of the Regency. And the
third bag contained a cross of silver, blackened by time,

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set with amethysts. This was accompanied by a chain of

the same dull metal.

Putting these into the girls' hands, Rupert lifted the
second tray to lay bare the bottom of the chest. Here again
were several small bags. There was another cross, this
time of jet inlaid with gold and attached to a short necklace
of jet beads; a wide bracelet of coral and turquoise which
was crudely made and might have been native work of
some sort. Then there was a tiny jewel-set bottle, about
which, Ricky declared, there still lingered some faint trace
of the fragrance it had once held. And most interesting to
Charity was a fan, the sticks carved of ivory so intricately
that they resembled lacework stiffened into slender ribs.
The covering between them was fashioned of layers of silk
painted with a scene of the bayou country, with the moss-
grown oaks and encroaching swamp all carefully depicted.

Charity declared that she had never seen its equal and
mat some great artist must have decorated the dainty trifle.
She closed it carefully and slipped it back into its covering,
and Rupert took out the last of the bags. From its depths

rolled a ring.

It was plain enough, a simple band of gold so deep in
shade as to be almost red. Nearly an inch in width, there
was no ornamentation of any sort on its broad, smooth

surface.

"Do you know what this is?" Rupert turned the circlet

around in his fingers.

"No." Ricky was still dangling the earrings before her

eyes.

"It is the wedding-ring of the Bride of the Luck."

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RALESTONE LUCK

"What!" Val leaned forward to look down at the plain
circle of gold.

Even Ricky gave her brother her full attention now.
Rupert turned to Charity.

"You probably know the story of our Luck?" he asked.

She nodded.

"When the Luck was brought from Palestine, it was
decided that it must be given into the hands of a guardian
who would be responsible for it with his or her life.
Because the men of the house were always at war during
those troublesome times, the guardianship went to the
eldest daughter if she were a maiden. By high and solemn
ceremony she was married to the Luck in the chapel of
Lome. And she was the Bride of the Luck until death or,a
unanimous consent from the family released her. Nor could
she marry a mortal husband during the time she wore
this." He touched the ring he held.

"This must be very old. It's the red gold which was
found in Ireland and England before the Romans con-
quered the land. Perhaps this was found in some old
barrow on Lome lands. But it no longer means anything
without the Luck."

He held it out to Ricky. "By tradition this is yours."

She shook her head. "I don't think I want that, Rupert.
It's too old—too strange. Now these," she held up the
earrings, "you can understand. The girls who wore them
were like me, and they wore them because they were
pretty. But that—"she looked at the Bride's ring with
distaste—"that must have been a burden to its wearer.
Didn't you tell us once of the Lady Iseult, who killed

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lerself when diey would not release her from her vows to
the Luck? I don't want to wear that, ever."

"Very well." He dropped it back into its bag. "We'll
send it to LeFleur for safe-keeping. Any scruples about the
rest of this stuff?"

"Of course not! And none of it is worth much. May I
keep it?"

"If you wish. Now let's see what is in here." He drew
the second box toward him and forced it open.

"Money!" Charity was staring at it with wide eyes.

Within, in neat bundles, lay packages of paper notes. Even
Rupert was shaken from his calm as he reached for one.
Outside of a bank none of diem had ever seen such a
display of wealth. But after he studied the top note, the
master of Pirate's Haven laughed thinly.

"This may be worth ten cents to some collector if we're
lucky—"

"Rupert! That's real money," began Ricky.

But Val, too, had seen the print. "Confederate money,
child. As useless now as our pretty oil stock. I told you
that things always turn out wrong in this house. If we do
find treasure, it's worthless. How much is there, anyway?"

Rupert picked up a slip of paper tucked under the tape
fastening the first bundle. "This says thirty-five thousand—
profit from a blockade runner's .trip."

"Thirty-five thousand! Well, I drink dial dial is just too
much," Ricky said defiantly. "Why didn't drey get paid
in real money?"

"Being loyal to die South, die Ralestones probably

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RALESTONE LUCK

would not take what you call 'real money,' " replied
Charity.

"It's nice to know how wealdly we once were,'' Val
observed. "What are you going to do widi mat wall-paper,
Rupert?"

"Oh, chuck it in my desk. I'll get someone to look it
over; diere might be a collector's item among these bills.
Now let's have die joker out of this bundle." He plucked
at the fastenings of die felt bag.

When he had pulled off its wrappings, a silver tray widi
coffee- and chocolate-pot, cream pitcher and sugar bowl
stood, tarnished and dingy, on die floor.

"That's more like it." Ricky picked up the chocolate-
pot. "Do you supoose it will ever be possible to get these
clean again?"

"With a lot of will power and some good hard rubbing
it can be done," Val assured her.

"Well, I'll supply die will power and you may do the
rubbing," she announced pleasantly.

Rupert had opened die remaining packages to display a
set of twelve silver goblets, one with a dented edge, and a
queerly shaped vessel not unlike an old-fashioned gravy-
boat. Charity picked this up and examined it gravely.

"I'm afraid diat this is pirate loot." She tapped die lip
of the piece she held. The metal gave off a clear ringing
sound. "If I'm not mistaken, mis was stolen from a church.
Yes, I'm right; see mis cross under the leaves?" She
pointed out die bit of engraving.

"Black Dick's work," agreed Ricky complacendy. "But
after almost three hundred years I'm afraid we can't return

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it. Especially since we don't know where it came from in

the first place."

Val looked about at what they had uncovered. "If you

are going to take all of this in to LeFleur, you'll have to
get a truck. D'you know, I think this place might turn out
to be a gold-mine if one knew just where to dig."
"We haven't found the Luck yet," reminded Ricky.
Val got clumsily to his feet and then gave Charity a
hand up, beating Rupert to it by about three seconds. "As
we don't even know whether it is still in existence, there's
no use in hunting for it," Val retorted.

Ricky smiled, that set little smile which usually meant
that she neither agreed with nor approved of the speaker.
She got up from the floor and shook out her skirt

purposefully.

"I'll remind you of that some day," she promised.

"I suppose," Rupert glanced at the silver, "this ought
to be taken to town as soon as possible. This house is too
isolated to harbor both us and the silverware at the same
time. What do you think?" Ignoring both Ricky and Val,

he turned to Charity.

"You are right. But it seems a pity to send it all away
before we have a chance to rub it up and see what it really

looks like!"

"By all means, take it at once!" Val urged promptly.

"We can always clean it later."

Rupert grinned. "Now that might be a protest against
the suggestion Ricky made a few minutes ago. But I'll
save you some honest labor this time, Val; I'll take it to

town this afternoon."

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RALESTONE LUCK

Ricky laughed softly.

"And why the merriment?" her younger brother in-
quired suspiciously.

"I was just thinking what a surprise the visitor who
dropped his handkerchief here is going to get when he
finds the cupboard bare," she explained.

Rupert rubbed his palm across his chin. "Of course. I
had almost forgotten that."

"Well, I haven't! And I wonder if we have found what
he—or they—were hunting," Val mused as he helped
Rupert wrap up the spoil again.

103

8

GREAT-UNCLE RICK WALKS
THE HALL

Sam had produced a horse complete with saddle and a
reputed skittishness. That horse was the pride of Sam's
big heart. It had once won a small purse at some country
fair or something of the sort, and since then it had
been kept only to wear the saddle at rare intervals. Not
that Sam ever rode. He drove a spring-board behind a
thin, sorrowful mule called "Suggah." But the saddle
horse was rented at times to folks of whom Sam approved.

Soon after the arrival of the Ralestones at Pirate's Haven,
Sam had brought this four-footed prodigy to their attention.
But claiming that the family were his "folks," he indig-
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RALESTONE LUCK

nantly refused to accept hire and was hurt if one of them
did not ride at least once a day. Ricky had developed an
interest in the garden and had accepted die loan of Sam's
eldest son, a boy about as tall as the spade, to help her mess
about. Rupert spent the largest part of his days shut up in
Bluebeard's chamber. Which of course left the horse to
Val.

And Val was becoming slightly bored with Louisiana, at
least with that portion of it which immediately surrounded
them. Charity was hard at woric on her picture of the
swamp hunter, for Jeems had come back without warning
from his mysterious concerns in the swamp. There was no
one to talk to and nowhere to go.

LeFIeur had notified them that he believed he was on
the track of some discreditable incident in the past of their
rival which would banish him from their path. And no
more handkerchiefs had been found, ownerless, in their
hall. It was a serene morning.

But, Val thought long afterwards, he should have been
warned by that very serenity and remembered the old
saying, that it was always calmest before a storm. On the
contrary, he was riding Sam's horse along the edge of that
swamp, wondering what lay hidden back in that dark
jungle. Some day, he determined, he would do a little
exploring in that direction.

A heron arose from the bayou and streaked across the
metallic blue of the sky. Another was wading along, intent
upon its fishing. Sam's yellow dog, which had followed
horse and rider, set up a barking, annoyed at the haughty

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carriage of the bird. He scrambled down the steep bank,
drove it into flight after its fellow.

Val pulled his shirt away from his sticky skin and
wondered if he would ever feel really cool again. There
was something about this damp heat which seemed to
remove all ambition. He marveled how Ricky could even
think of trimming roses that morning.

Sam's dog began to bark deafeningly again, and Val
looked around for the heron which must have aroused his
displeasure. There was none. But across me swamp crawled

an ungainly monster.

Four great rubber-tired wheels, ten feet high, as he later
learned, supported a metal framework upon which squatted
two men and the driver of the monstrosity. With the
ponderous solemnity of a tank it came on to the bayou.

Val's mount snorted and his ears pricked back. He
began to have very definite ideas about what he saw. The
ming slipped down the marshy bank and took to the water
with ease, turning its square nose downstream and sending

waves shoreward.

"Ride 'em cowboy!" yelled one of the men derisively
as Sam's horse decided to stand on his hind legs and wave
at the strange apparition as it went by. Val brought him
down upon four feet again, and he stood sweating, his ears

still back.

"What do you call that?" the boy shouted back.
"Prospecting engine for swamp use," answered the

driver. "Don't you swampers ever get the news?"
The car, or whatever it was, moved on downstream and

so out of sight.

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"Now I wonder what that means," Val said aloud as his
mount sidled toward the center of the road. The hound-dog
came up and sat down to kick a patch of flea-invaded
territory which lay behind his left ear. Again the morning
was quiet.

But not for long. A mud-spattered car came around the
bend in the road and headed at Val, going a good pace for
the dirt surfacing. Before it quite reached him it stopped
and the driver stuck his head out of the window.

"Hey, you, move over! Whatya tryin' to do—break
somebody's neck?"

Val surveyed him with interest. The man was, perhaps,
Rupert's age, a small, thin fellow with thick black hair and
the white seam of an old scar beneath his left eye.
"This is," the boy replied, "a private road."
"Yeah," he snarled, "I know. And I'm the owner. So
get your hobby-horse going and beat it, kid."
Val shifted in the saddle and stared down at him.
"And what might your name be?" he asked softly.
"What d'yuh think it is? Hitler? I'm Ralestone, the
owner of this place. On your way, kid, on our way."
"So? Well, good morning, cousin." Val tightened rein.
The invader eyed him cautiously. "What d'yuh mean—
cousin?"

"I happen to be a Ralestone also," the boy answered
grimly.

"Huh? You the guy who thinks he owns this?" he
asked aggressively.

"My brother is the present master of Pirate's Haven—"
"That's what he thinks," replied the rival with a relish.

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"Well, he isn't. That is, not until he pays me for my half.
And if he wants to get tough, I'll take it all," he ended,
and withdrew into the car like a lizard into its rock den.

Val sat by me side of the road and watched the car slide   j
along toward the plantation. As it passed him he caught a
glimpse of a second passenger in the back seat. It was the
red-faced man he had seen with LeReur's clerk on the   I
street in New Orleans. Resolutely Val turned back and   |
started for the house in the wake of the rival.

By making use of a short-cut, he reached the front of
the house almost as soon as the car. Ricky had been
working with the morning-glory vines about the terrace
steps, young Sam standing attendance with a rusty trowel
and one of the kitchen forks.

At the sound of the car she stood up and tried to brush a
smear of sticky earth from the front of her checked-gingham   |
dress. When the rival got out she smiled at him.
"Hello, sister," he smirked.

She stood still for a moment and her smile faded. When
she answered, her voice was chill. "You wished to see
Mr. Ralestone?" she asked distantly.

"Sure. But not just yet, sister. You better be pleasant,
you know. I'm me new owner here—"

Val rode out of the bushes and swung out of the saddle,
coming up behind him. Although the boy was one of the
smaller "Black" Ralestones, he topped the invader by a
good two inches, and he noted this with delight as he came

up to him.
"Ricky," he said briefly, "go in. And send Sam for

Rupert."

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She nodded and was gone. The man turned to face Val.
"You again, huh?" he demanded.

"Yes. And Ralestone or no Ralestone, I would advise
you to keep a civil tongue in your head," he began hotly,
when Rupert appeared at the door.

"Well, Val," he asked, a frown creasing his forehead,
"what is it?"

The rival advanced a short step and looked up. "So
you're the guy who's trying to do me out of my rights?"

Rupert reached behind him and closed the screen before
coming to the head of the terrace steps. "I presume that
you are Mr, Ralestone?" he asked quietly.

" 'Course I'm Ralestone," asserted the other. "And
I'm part owner of mis place."

"That has not yet been decided," answered Rupert
calmly, "But suppose you tell me to what we owe the
honor of this visit?"

Now, however, the passenger took a hand in the game.
He crawled out of the car, taking off his soiled panama to
wipe his bald head with a gaudy silk handkerchief.

"Here, here, Mr. Ralestone," he addressed his com-
panion, "let us have no unpleasantness. We have merely
come here today, sir," he explained to Rupert, "to see if
matters could not be settled amicably without having to
take recourse to a court of law. Your Mr. LeFleur will
give us very little satisfaction, you see. I am a plain and
honest man, sir, and I believe an affair of mis kind may be
best agreed upon between principals. My client, Mr.
Ralestone, is a reasonable man; he will be moderate in his

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demands. It will be to your advantage to listen to our
proposal. After all, you cannot contest his rights—"

"But that is just what I am going to do." Rupert smiled
down at them, if a slight twist of the lips may be called a
smile. "Have you ever heard that old saying that 'possession
is nine points of the law'? I am the Ralestone in residence,
and I shall continue to be the Ralestone in residence until
after this case is heard. Now, as I am a busy man and this
is the middle of the morning, I shall have to say good-
bye-"

"So that's the way you're going to take it?" The visit-
ing Ralestone glared at Rupert. "All right. Play it that way
and you won't be here a month from now. Nor," he
turned on Val, "this kid brother of yours, either. You
can't pull this lord-of-the-land stuff on me and get away
with it. I'll—" But he did not finish his threat. Instead, his
jaws clamped shut on mid-word. In silence he turned and
got into the car to which his counselor had already

withdrawn.

The car leaped forward into a rose bush. With a savage
twist of the wheel the driver brought it back to the drive,
leaving deep prints in the front lawn. Then it was gone,
down the drive, as they stood staring after it.

"So that's that," Val commented. "Well, all I've got to
say is that Rick's branch of the family has sadly gone to

seed—"

"Being a southern gentleman has made you slightly
snobbish." Ricky came out from her lurking place behind
the door.

"Snobbish!" her brother choked at the injustice. "I

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suppose that that is your idea of a perfect gentleman, a
diamond in the rough—"
He pointed down the drive.

Ricky laughed. "It's so easy to tease you, Val. Of
course he is a—a wart of the first class. But Rupert will fix
him—won't you?"

Her older brother grinned. "After that example of your
trust in me, I'll have to. I agree, he is not the sort you
would care to introduce to your more particular friends.
But this visit seems to suggest something—"
"That he has the wind up?" Val asked.
"There are indications of that, I think. Something LeFleur
has done has stirred our friends into direct action. We shall
probably have more of it within the immediate future. So I
want you, Ricky, to go to town. Madame LeFleur has very
kindly offered to put you up—"

Each tiny curl on Ricky's head seemed to bristle with
indignation. "Oh, no you don't, Rupert Ralestone! You
don't get me away from here when there are exciting
things going on. I hardly think that our friend with the
slimy manner will use machine-guns to blast us out. And if
he does—well, it wouldn't be the first time that this house
was used as a fortress. I'm not going one step out of here
unless you two come with me."

Rupert shrugged. "As I can't very well hog-tie you to
get you to town, I suppose you will have to stay. But I am
going to send for Lucy." With that parting shot he turned
and went in.

Lucy arrived shortly before noon. She was accompanied
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by a portion of her large family—four, Val counted, includ-
ing that Sam who had become Ricky's faithful shadow.

"What's all this 'bout some man sayin' he is Ralestone?"
she demanded of Ricky. "Some policeman oughta lock
him up. Effen he comes botherin' 'roun' agin, let me tend
to him!"

With that she marched majestically into the kitchen, el-
bowed Letty-Lou out of her way, and proceeded to stir up
a batch of brown molasses cookies. " 'Cause dey is fillin'
fo' boys. An' Mistuh Val, heah, he needs some fat 'crost
his skinny ribs. Letty-Lou, yo' ain't feedin' dese men-
folks ri'. Now yo' chillens," she swooped down upon her
own family, "yo'all gits outa heah, don't fuss me."

"They can come with me," offered Ricky. "I'm trying
to find that maze which is marked on me garden plans."

"Miss 'Chanda, yo' ain't a'goin' 'way 'afore youah
brothah gits through workin'. He done tol' me to keep an
eye on yo'all. Why don't yo' go visit wi' Miss Charity?"

Ricky looked at her watch. "All right. She'll be through
her morning work by now. I'll take the children, Lucy."

To Val's open surprise, she obeyed Lucy, meekly mov-
ing off without a single protest. One of the boys remained
behind and offered shyly to take the horse back to Sam's
place. When Lucy agreed that it would be all right, Val
boosted him into the saddle where he clung like a jockey.

"An' wheah is yo' goin', Mistuh Val?" asked Lucy,
cutting out round cookies with a downward stroke of the
drinking glass she had pressed into service. The regular
cutter was, in her opinion, too small.

"Down toward the bayou. I'll be back before lunch,"

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he said, and hurried out before she could as definitely
dispose of him as she had of Ricky.

Val struck off into the bushes until he came to one of
me paths that crossed the wilderness. As it ran in the
direction of the bayou, he turned into it. Then for the
second time he came into the glen of the pool and passed
along the path Jeems had known. So somehow Val was
not surprised, when he came out upon me edge of the
bayou levee, to see Jeems sitting there.

"Hello!" The swamper looked up at Val's hail but this
time he did not leave.

-"Hullo," he answered sullenly.

Val stood there, ill at ease, while the swamper eyed him
composedly. What could he say now? Val's embarrass-
ment must have been very apparent, for after a long mo-
ment Jeems smiled derisively.

"Yo' goin' ridin' in them funny pants?" he asked,
pointing to the other's breeches.

"Well, that's what they are intended for," Val replied.

"Wheah's youah hoss?"

"I sent him back to Sam's." Val was beginning to feel
slightly warm. He decided that Jeems' manners were not
all that they might be.

"Sam!" the swamp boy spat into the water. "He's
a—"

But what Sam was, in the opinion of the swamper, Val
never learned, for at that moment Ricky burst from be-
tween two bushes.

"Well, at last," she panted, "I've gotten rid of my
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army. Val, do you think that Lucy is going to be like this

all the time—order us about, I mean?"
"Who's that?" Jeems was on his feet looking at Ricky.
"Ricky," her brother said, "this is Jeems. My sister

Richanda."

"Yo' one of the folks up at the big house?" he asked
her directly.

"Why, yes," she answered simply.

"Yo' don' act like yo' was." He stabbed his finger at
both of them. "Yo' don't walk with youah noses in the air
looking down at us—"

"Of course we don't!" interrupted Ricky. "Why should
we, when you know more about this place than we do?"

"What do yo' mean by that?" he flashed out at her, his
sullen face suddenly dark.

"Why— why—" Ricky faltered, "Chmity Biglow said
that you knew all about the swamp-—".

His tense position relaxed a fraction. "Oh, yo' know
Miss Charity?"

"Yes. She showed us the picture she is painting, the
one you are posing for," Ricky went on.

"Miss Charity is a fine lady," he returned with
conviction. He shifted from one bare foot to the other.
"Ah'll be goin' now." With no other farewell he slipped
over the side of the levee into his canoe and headed out
into midstream. Nor did he look back.

Lucy departed after dinner mat evening to bed down her
family before returning with Letty-Lou to occupy one of
the servant's rooms over the side wing. Rupert had gone
with her to interview Sam. Val gathered that Sam had

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some notion of trying to reintroduce the growing of indigo,
a crop which had been forsaken for sugar-cane at me
beginning of the nineteenth century when a pest had de-
stroyed the entire indigo crop of that year all over Louisiana.

"Let's go out in the garden," suggested Ricky.

"What for?" asked her brother. "To provide a free
banquet for mosquitoes? No, thank you, let's stay here."

"You're lazy," she countered.

"You may call it laziness; I call it prudence," he
answered.

"Well, I'm going anyway," she made a decision which
brought Val reluctantly to his feet. For mosquitoes or no
mosquitoes, he was not going to allow Ricky to be outside
alone.

They followed the path which led around the side of the
house until it neared the kitchen door. When they reached
that point Ricky halted.

"Listen!"

A plaintive miaow sounded from the kitchen.

"Oh, bother! Satan's been left inside. Go and let him
out."

"Will you stay right here?" Val asked.

"Of course. Though I don't see why you and Rupert
have taken to acting as if Fu Manchu were loose in our
yard. Now hurry up before he claws the screen to pieces.
Satan, I mean, not the sinister Chinese gentleman."

But Satan did not meet Val at the door. Apparently,
having received no immediate answer to his plea, he had
withdrawn into the bulk of the house. Speaking unkind

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things about him under his breath, Val started across the

dark kitchen.

Suddenly he stopped. He felt the solid edge of the table
against his thigh. When he put out his hand he touched the
reassuring everyday form of Lucy's stone cooky jar. He
was in their own pleasant everyday kitchen.
But-
He was not alone in that house!
There had been the faintest of sounds from the forepart
of the main section, a sound such as Satan might have
caused. But Val knew—knew positively—that Satan was
guiltless. Someone or something was in the Long Hall.

He crept by the table, hoping that he could find his way
without running into anything. His hand closed upon the
knob of the door opening upon the back stairs used by
Letty-Lou. If he could get up them and across the upper
hall, he could come down the front stairs and catch the

intruder.

It took Val perhaps two minutes to reach the head of the
front stairs, and each minute seemed a half-hour in length.
From below he could hear a regular pad, pad, as if from
stocking feet on the stone floor. He drew a deep breath
and started down.

When he reached ttie landing he looked over the rail.
Upright before the fire-place was a dim white blur. As he
watched, it moved forward. There was something uncanny
about that almost noiseless movement.

The blur became a thin figure clad in baggy white
breeches and loose shirt. Below the knees the legs seemed

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to fade into the darkness of the hall and there was some-
thing strange about the outlines of me head.

Again me thing resumed its padding and Val saw now
that it was pacing the hail in a regular pattern. Which
suggested mat it was human and was there with a very
definite purpose.

He edged farther down the stairs.

"And just what are you doing?"

If his voice quavered upon the last word, it was hardly
his fault. For when the thing turned, Val saw—

It had no face!

With a startled cry he lunged forward, clutching at the
banister to steady his blundering descent. The thing backed
away; already it was fading into the darkness beside the
stairs. As Val's feet touched the floor of the hall he caught
his last glimpse of it, a thin white patch against the solid
paneling of the stairway's broad side. Then it was gone.
When Rupert and Ricky came in a few minutes later and
turned on the lights, Val was still staring at that blank
wall, with Satan rubbing against his ankles.

117

9

PORTRAIT OF A LADY AND A
GENTLEMAN

Rupert had dismissed Val's story of what he had seen in
the hall in a very lofty manner. When his brother had
persisted in it, Rupert suggested that Val had better keep
out of the sun in the morning. For no trace of the thing

which had troubled the house remained.

Ricky hesitated between believing wholly in Val's tale
or just in his powers of imagination. And between them
his family drove him sulky to bed. He was still frowning,
or maybe it was a new frown, when he looked info the
bathroom mirror the next morning as he dressed. For Val
knew that he had seen something in the hall, something

monstrous which had no right to be there.
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What had their rival said before he left? "Play it that
way and you won't be here a month from now." It was
just possible— Vaj paused, half in, half out of, his shirt.
Could last night's adventure have had anything to do with
that threat? Two or three episodes of that sort might unset-
tle the strongest nerves and drive the occupants from a
house where such a shadow walked.

Something else nagged at the boy's memory. Slowly he
traced back over the events of the day before, from the
moment when he had watched that queer swamp car crawl
downstream. After the visit of the rival, Lucy had come to
stay. And then Ricky had started for Charity's while he
had gone down to the bayou where he met Jeems. That
was it. Jeems!

When Ricky had hinted that he knew more of the swamp
man the Ralestones did, why had he been so quick to
resent that remark? Could it be because he understood her
to mean that he knew more of Pirate's Haven than they
did?

And the thing in the Long Hall last night had known of
some exit in the wall mat the Ralestones did not know of.
It had faded into the base of the staircase. And yet, when
Val had gone over the paneling there inch by inch, he had
gained nothing but sore finger tips.

He tucked his ^shirt under his belt and looked down to
see if Sam Junior had polished his boots as Lucy had
ordered her son to do. Save for a trace of mud by the right
heel, they had the proper mirror-like surface.

"Mistuh Val," Lucy's penetrating voice made him start
guiltily, "is yo' or is yo' aot comin' to breakfas'?"

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"I am," he answered and started downstairs at his

swiftest pace.

The new ruler of their household was standing at the
foot of the stairs, her knuckles resting on her broad hips.
She eyed the boy sternly. Lucy eyed one, Val thought, much
as a Scotch nurse Ricky and he had once had. They had
never dared question any of Annie's decrees, and one look
from her had been enough to reduce them to instant order.
Lucy's eye had me same power. And now as she herded
Val into the dining-room he felt like a six-year-old with an

uneasy conscience.

Rupert and Ricky were already seated and eating. That
is, Ricky was eating, but Rupert was reading his morning

mail.

"Yo'all sits down, "said Lucy firmly, "an' yo'all eats

what's on the plate. Yo' ain' much fattah then a jay-bud."
"I don't see why she keeps comparing me to a living
skeleton all the time," Val complained as she departed

kitchenward.

"She told Letty-Lou yesterday," supplied Ricky through
a mouthful of popover, "mat you are 'peaked lookin'.' "

"Why doesn't she start in on Rupert? He needs another
ten pounds or so." Val reached for me butter. "And he
hasn't got a very good color, either." Val surveyed his
brother professionally. "Doesn't get outdoors enough."

"No," Ricky's voice sounded aggrieved, "he's too

busy having secrets—"

"Hmm," Rupert murmured, more interested in his let-
ter than in the conversation.

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"The trouble is that we are not Chinese bandits, Malay
pirates, or Arab freebooters. We don't possess color, life,
enough—enough—''

"Sugar," Rupert interrupted Val, pushing his coffee-cup
in me general direction of Ricky without raising his eyes
from the page in his hand. She giggled.

"So that's what we lack. Well, now we know. How
much sugar should we have, Rupert? Rupert—Mr. Rupert
Ralestone—Mr. Rupert Ralestone of Pirate's Haven!" Her
voice grew louder and shriller until he did lay down his
reading matter and really looked at them for the first time.

"What do you want?"

"A little attention," answered Ricky sweetly. "We arent
Chinese, Arabs, or Malays, but we are kind of nice to
know, aren't we, Val? If you'd only come out of your
subconscious, or wherever you are most of the time,
you'd find that out without being told."

Rupert laughed and pushed away his letters. "Sorry. I
picked up the bad habit of reading at breakfast when I
didn't have my table brightened by your presence. I know,"
he became serious, "that I haven't been much of a family
man. But there are reasons—"

"Which, of course, you can not tell us," flashed Ricky.

His face lengthened ruefully. He pulled at his tie with an
embarrassed frown. "Not yet, anyway. I—" He fumbled
with his napkin. "Oh, well, let me see how it comes out
first."

Ricky opened her eyes to their widest extent and leaned
forward, every inch of her expressing awe. "Rupert, don't
tell me that you are an inventor!" she cried.

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"Now I know that we'll end in the poorhouse," Val

observed.

Rupert had recovered his composure. " 'I yam what I

yam,' "he quoted.

"Very well. Keep it to yourself then," pouted Ricky.

"We can have secrets too."
"I don't doubt it." He glanced at Val. "Unfortunately

you always tell them. See any more bogies last night, Val?
Did a big, black, formless something reach out from under

the bed and clutch at you?"
But his brother refused to be drawn. "No, but when it

does I'll sic it onto you. A big, black, formless something

is just what you need. And I'll—"
, "Am I interrupting?" Charity stood in the door.

"Goodness! Haven't you finished breakfast yet? Do you

people know that it is almost ten?"

"Madam, we have banished time." Rupert drew out the

chair at his left. "Will you favor us with your company?"
"I thought you were going to be busy today," said
Ricky as she rang for Letty-Lou and a fresh cup of coffee

for their guest.

"So did I," sighed Charity. "And I should be. I've got

this order, you know, and now I can't get any models.
Why there should be a sudden dearth of them right now, I
can't imagine. 1 thought I could use Jeems again, but
somehow he isn't the type." She raised her cup to her lips.
"Are you doing story illustrations?" asked Rupert, more

ahve now than he had been all morning.

"Yes. A historical thriller for a magazine. They want a

RALESTONE LUCK

full-page cut for the first chapter and a half-page to illus-
trate the most exciting scene. Then there're innumerable
smaller ones. But die two large ones are what I'm worry-
ing about. I like to get the important stuff finished first,
and now I simply can't get models who are the right
types."

"What's the story about?" demanded Ricky.
"It's laid in Haiti during the French invasion led by
Napoleon's brother-in-law, the one who married Pauline.
. All voodoo and aristocratic young hero and beautiful maiden
pursued by an officer of the black rebels. And," she
almost wailed, "here 1 am with the clothes apread all over
my bed—the right costumes, you know—with no one to
wear them. I went over to the Corners this morning and
called Johnson—he runs a registration office for models—
but he couldn't promise me anyone." She bit absent-
mindedly into a round spiced roll Ricky had placed before
her.

"Wait!" She laid down the roll in a preoccupied-fashion

and stared across the table. "Val, stand up."
Wondering, he pushed back his chair and arose obediently.
"Turn your head a little more to the right," Charity

ordered. "There, that's it! Now try to look as if there were

something all ready to spring at you from that comer over

there."

For one angry moment he thought that she had been told
of what had happened the night before and was baiting
him, as the others had done. But a sidewise glance showed
him that her interest lay elsewhere. So he screwed up his

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features into what he Fondly hoped was a grim and deadly

smile.

"For goodness sake, don't look as if you had eaten
green apples," Ricky shot at him. "Just put on that face
you wear when I show you a new hat. No, not that
sneering one; the other."

Rupert threw back his head and laughed heartily. "Better
let him alone, Ricky. After all, it's his face."

"I'm glad that someone has pointed out that fact," Val
said stiffly, "because—"

"Oh, be quiet!" Charity leaned forward across the table.
"Yes," she nodded, "you'll do."

"For what?" Val asked, slightly apprehensive.

"For my hero. Of course your hair is too short and you
are rather too youthful, but I can disguise those points.
And," she turned upon Ricky, "you can be the lady in
distress. Which gives me another idea. Do you suppose
that I might use your terrace for a background and have
that big chair, the one with the high back?" she asked
Rupert.

"You may have anything you want within these walls,"
he answered lightly enough, but it was clear that he really
meant it.

"What am I supposed to do?" Val asked.

Charity considered. "I think I'll try the action one
first," she said half to herself. "That's going to be the
most difficult. Ricky, will you send one of Lucy's children
over with me to help cany back the costumes and my
material—" She was already at the door.
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"Val and 1 will go instead," Ricky replied.
Some twenty minutes later Val was handed a suitcase
and told to use the contents to cover his back. Having
doubts of the wisdom of the whole affair, he went reluc-
tantly upstairs to obey. But the result was not so bad. The
broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted coat did not fit him ill,
though the shiny boots were at least a size too large.
Timidly he went down. Ricky was the first to see him.

"Val! You look like something out of a Regency novel.
Rupert, look at Val. Doesn't he look wonderful?"

Having thus made public his embarrassment, she ran to
the mirror to finish her own prinking. The high-waisted
Empire gown of soft green voile made her appear taller
than usual. But she walked with a little shuffle which
suggested that her ribbon-strapped slippers fitted her no
better than Val's boots did him. Charity was coaxing
Ricky's tight fashionable curls into a looser arrangement
and tying a green ribbon about them. This done, she
turned to survey Val.

"I thought so," she said with satisfaction. "You are
just what I want. But," the tiny lines about her eyes
crinkled in amusement, "at present you are just a little too
perfect. Do you realize that you have just fought off an
attack, led by a witch doctor, in which you were wounded;

that you have struggled through a jungle for seven hours in
order to reach your betrothed; and that you are now facing
death by torture? I hardly think that you should look as if
you had just stepped out of the tailor's—"
"I've done all that?" Val demanded, somewhat staggered.
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Andre Norton

"Well, the author says you have, so you've got to look
it. We'd better muss you up a bit. Let's see." She tapped
her fingernails against her teeth as she looked him up and
down. "Off with that coat first."

He wriggled out of the coat and stood with the glories of
his ruffled shirt fully displayed. "Now what?" he asked.

"This," she reached forward and ripped his left sleeve
to the shoulder. "Untie that cravat and take it off. Roll up
your other sleeve above the elbow. That's right. Ricky,
you muss up his hair. Let a lock of it fall across his
forehead. No, not there—there. Good. Now he's ready for
the final touches." She went to the table where her paints
had been left. "Let's see—carmine, that ought to be right.
This is water-color, Val, it'll all wash off in a minute."

Across his smooth tanned cheek she dribbled a jagged
line of scarlet. Then instructing Ricky to bind the torn
edge of his sleeve above his elbow, she also stained the
bandage. "Well?" she turned to Rupert.

"He looks as though he had been through the wars all
right," he agreed. "But what about the costume?"

"Oh, we needn't worry about that. They knew I'd have
to do this, so they duplicated everything. Now for you,
Ricky. Pull your sleeve down off your shoulder and see if
you can tear the skirt up from the hem on that side—about
as far as your knee. Yes, that's fine. You're ready now."

Rupert picked up from the table a sword and a long-
barrelled dueling pistol and led the way out onto the terrace.
Charity pointed to the big chair in the sunlight.

"This will probably be hard for you two," she warned

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diem frankly. "If you get tired, don't hesitate to tell me.
I'll give you a rest every ten minutes. Val, you sit down in
the chair: Slump over toward that arm as if you were about
finished. No, more limp than that. Now look straight
ahead. You are on me terrace of Beauvallet. Beside you is
die girl you love. You are all that stands between her and
the black rebels. Now take this sword in your right hand
and the pistol in your left. Lean forward a little. There!
Now don't move; you've got just the pose I want. Ricky,
crouch down by the side of his chair with your arm up so
mat you can touch his hand. You're terrified. There's
death, horrible death, before you!"

Val could feel Ricky's hand quiver against his. Charity
had made them both see and feel what she wanted them to.
They weren't in the peaceful sunlight on the terrace of
Pirate's Haven; they were miles farther south in the dark
land of Haiti, the Haiti of more than a hundred years ago.
Before them was a semitropical forest from which at any
moment might crawl—death. Val's hand tightened on the
sword hilt; the pistol butt was clammy in his grip.

Rupert had put up the easel and laid out the paints. And
now, taking up her charcoal. Charity began to sketch with
clear, clean strokes.

Her models' unaccustomed muscles cramped so that
when they shifted during their rest periods they grimaced
with pain. Ricky whispered that she did not wonder mod-
els were hard to get. After a while Rupert went away
without Charity noticing his leaving. The sun burned Val's
cheek where the paint had dried and he felt a trickle of




127

Andre Norton

moisture edge down his spine. But Charity worked on,
thoroughly intent upon what was growing under her brushes.
It must have been close to noon when she was at last

interrupted.

"Hello there. Miss Biglow!"

Two men stood below the terrace on a garden path. One
of them waved his hat as Charity looked around. And

behind them stood Jeems.
"Go away," said the worker, "go away, Judson Holmes.

I haven't any time for you today."

"Not after I've come all the way from New York to see
you?" he asked reproachfully. "Why, Charity!" He had
the reddest hair Val had ever seen—and the homeliest
face—but his small-boy grin was friendliness itself.

"Go away," she repeated stubbornly.

"Nope!" He shook his head firmly. "I'm staying right
here until you forget that for at least a minute." He

motioned toward the picture.
With a sigh she put down her brush. "I suppose I'll

have to humor you."

"Miss Charity," Jeems had not taken his eyes from the
two models since he had arrived and he did not move them
now, "what're they all fixed up like that fur?"

"It's a picture for a story," she explained. "A story

about Haiti in the old days—"

"Ah reckon Ah know," he nodded eagerly, his face
suddenly alight. "That's wheah th' blacks kilt th' French
back in history times. Ah got me a book 'bout it. A book
in handwritin', not printin,. Pere Armand lamed me to

read it."

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RALESTONE LUCK

Judson Holmes' companion moved forward. "A book in
handwriting," he said slowly. "Could that possibly mean
a diary?"

Charity was wiping her hands on a paint rag. "It might.
New Orleans was a port of refuge for a great many of the
French who fled the island during the slave uprising. It is
not impossible."

"I've got to see it! Here, boy, what's your name?" He
pounced upon Jeems. "Can you get that book here this
afternoon?"

Jeems drew back. "Ah ain't gonna bring no book heah.
That's mine an' you ain't gonna set eye on it!" With that
parting shot he was gone.

"But—but—" protested the other, "I've got to see it.
Why, such a find might be priceless."

Mr. Holmes laughed. "Curb your hunting instincts for
once, Creighton. You can't handle a swamper that way.
Let's go and see Charity's masterpiece instead."
"I don't remember having asked you to," she observed.
"Oh, see here now, wasn't I the one who got you this
commission? And Creighton here is that strange animal
known as a publisher's scout. And publishers sometimes
desire the services of illustrators, so you had better impress
Creighton as soon as possible. Well," he looked at the
picture, "you have done it!"

Even Creighton, who had been inclined to stare back
over his shoulder at the point where Jeems disappeared,
now gave it more than half his attention.

"Is that for Drums of Doom?" he asked becoming
suddenly crisp and professional.

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"Yes."

"Might do for the jacket of the book. Have Mr. Rich-
ards see this. Marvelous types, where did you get them?"
he continued, looking from the canvas to Ricky and Val.

"Oh, I am sony. Miss Ralestone, may I present Mr.
Creighton, and Mr. Holmes, both of New York. And
this," she smiled at Val, "is Mr. Valerius Ralestone, the
brother of the owner of this plantation. The family, I
believe, has lived here for about two hundred and fifty

years."
Creighton's manner became a shade less brusque as he

took the hand Ricky held out to him. "I might have known
that no professional could get that look," he said.

"Then this isn't your place?" Mr. Holmes said to Char-
ity after he had greeted the Ralestones.

"Mine? Goodness no! I rent the old overseer's house.

Pirate's Haven is Ralestone property."
"Pirate's Haven." Judson Holmes' infectious grin

reappeared. "A rather suggestive name."

"The builder intended to name it 'King's Acres' be-
cause it was a royal grant," Val informed him. "But he
was a pirate, so the other name was given it by the country
folk and he adopted it. And he was right in doing so
because there were other freebooters in the family after his

time."

"Yes, we are even equipped with a pirate ghost,"

contributed Ricky with a mischievous glance in her brother's

direction.

Holmes fanned himself with his hat. "So romance isn't

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RALESTONE LUCK

dead after all. Well, Charity, shall we stay—in town I
mean?"

"Why?" a thin line appeared between her eyes as if she
had little liking for such a plan.

"Well, Creighton is here on die track of a mysterious
new writer who is threatening to produce a second Gone
with the Wind. And I—well, I like the climate."

"We'll see," muttered Charity.

131

10

INTO THE SWAMP

In spite of the fact that they received but lukewarm encour-
agement from Charity, both Holmes and Creighton lin-
gered on in New Orleans. Mr. Creighton made several
attempts to get in touch with Jeems, whom he seemed to
suspect of concealing vast literary treasures. And he spent
one hot morning going through the trunk of papers which
the Ralestones had found in the storage-room. Ricky com-
mented upon the fact that being a publisher's scout was

almost like being an antique buyer,

Holmes was a perfect foil for his laboring friend. He
lounged away his days draped across the settee on Charity's
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RALESTONE LUCK

gallery or sitting down on the bayou levee—after she had
chased him away—pitching pebbles into the water. He told
all of them that it was his vacation, the first one he had
had in five years, and that he was going to make the most
of it. Companioned by Creighton, he usually enlarged the
family circle in the evenings. And the tales he could tell
about the far comers of the earth were as wildly romantic
as Rupert's—though he did assure his listeners that even
Tibet was very tame and well behaved nowadays.

Charity had finished the first illustration and had started
another. This time. Ricky and Val appeared polished and
combed as if they had just stepped out of a ball-room of a
governor's palace—which they had, according to the story.
It was during her second morning's work upon this that
she threw down her brush with a snort of disgust.

"It's no use, "she told her models, "I simply can't
work on this now. All I can see is that scene where the
hero's mulatto half-brother watches the ball from the
underbrush. I've got to do that one first."

"Why don't you then?" Ricky stretched to relieve
cramped muscles.

"I would if I could get Jeems. He's my model for the
brother. He's enough like you, Val, for the resemblance,
and his darker tan is just right for color. But he won't
come back while Creighton's here. I could wring that
man's neck!"

"But Creighton left for Milneburg this morning," Val
reminded her. "Rupert told him about the old voodoo rites
which used to be celebrated there on June 24th, St. John's
Eve, and he wanted to see if there were any records—"

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Andre Norton

"Yes. But Jeems doesn't know he's gone. If we could
only get in touch with him—Jeems, I mean."

"Miss 'Chanda!"
Sam Two, as they had come to call Sam's eldest son

and heir, was standing on the lowest step of the terrace,
holding a small covered basket in his hands.

"Yes?"

"Letty-Lou say this am fo' yo'. Miss 'Chanda."
"For me?" Ricky looked at the offering in surprise.
"But what in the world—Bring it here, Sam."

"Yas'm."
He laid the basket in Ricky's outstretched hands.

"I've never seen anything like this before." She turned
it around. "It seems to be woven of some awfully fine

grass—"

"That's swamp work." Charity was peering over Ricky's

shoulder. "Open it."

Inside on a nest of raw wild cotton lay a bracelet of
polished wood carved with an odd design of curling lines
which reminded Val of Spanish moss. And with the circlet

was a small purse of scaled hide.

"Swamp oak and baby alligator," burst out Charity.

"Aren't they beauties?"

"But who—" began Ricky.

Val picked up a scrap of paper which had fluttered to
the floor. It was cheap stuff, ruled with faint blue lines,
but the writing was bold and clear: "Miss Richanda

Ralestone."

"It's yours all right." He handed her the paper.

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RALESTONE LUCK

"I know." She tucked the note away with the gifts. "It
was Jeems."

"Jeems? But why?" her brother protested.

"Well, yesterday when I was down by the levee he was
coming in and I knew that Mr. Creighton was here and I
told him. So," she colored faintly, "then he took me
across the bayou and I got some of those big swamp lilies
that I've always wanted. And we had a long talk. Val,
Jeems knows the most wonderful things about the swamps.
Do you know that they still have voodoo meetings
sometimes—way back in there, ".she swept her hand
southward. "And the fur trappers live on houseboats,
renting their hunting rights. But Jeems owns his own land.
Now some northerners are prospecting for oil. They have a
queer sort of .car which can travel either on land or water.
And Pere Armand has church records that date back to the
middle of the eighteenth century. And—"

"So that's where you were from four until almost six,"
Val laughed. "I don't know that I approve of this riotous
living. Will Jeems take me to pick the lilies too?"

"Maybe. He wanted to know why you always moved so
carefully. And I told him about the accident. Then he said
the oddest thing—" She was staring past Val at the oaks.
"He said that to fly was worth being smashed up for and
that he envied you."

"Then he's a fool!" her brother said promptly. "Nothing
is worth—" Val stopped abruptly. Five months before he
had made a bargain with himself; he was not going to
break it now.

"Do you know," Ricky said to Charity, "if you really

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need Jeems this morning, I think I can get him for you. He
told me yesterday how to find his cabin.

"But why—" The objection came almost at once from
Charity. Val thought she was more than a little surprised
that Jeems, who had steadfastly refused to give her the
same information, had supplied it so readily to Ricky
whom he hardly knew at all.

"I don't know," answered Ricky frankly. "He was
rather queer about it. Kept saying that the time might come
when I would need help, and things like that."

"Charity," Val was putting her brushes straight, "I
learned long ago that nothing can be kept from Ricky.
Sooner or later oae spills out his secrets."
"Except Rupert!" Ricky aired her old grievance.
"Perhaps Rupert," her brother agreed.
"Anyway, I do know where Jeems lives. Do you want
me to get him for you. Charity?"

"Certainly not, child! Do you think mat I'd let you go
into the swamp? Why, even men who know something of
woodcraft think twice before attempting such a trip with-
out a guide. Of course you're not going! I think," she put
her paint-stained hand to her head, "that I'm going to have
one of my sick headaches. I'll have to go home and lie

down for an hour or two."
"I'm sorry." Ricky's sympathy was quick and warm.

"Is there anything I can do?"

Charity shook her head with a rueful smile. "Time is
the only medicine for one of these. I'll see you later."

"Just the same," Ricky stood looking after her, "I'd

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RALESTONE LUCK

like to know just what is going on in the swamp right
now."

"Why?" Val asked lightly.

"Because—well, just because," was her provoking
answer. "Jeems was so odd yesterday. He talked as if—as
if there were some threat to us or him. I wonder if there is
something wrong." She frowned.

"Of course not!" her brother made prompt answer.
"He's merely gone off on one of those mysterious trips of
his."

"Just the same, what if there were something wrong?
We might go and see."

"Nonsense!" Val snapped. "You heard what Charity
said about going into the swamp alone. And there is
nothing to worry about anyway. Come on, let's change.
And then I have something to show you."

"What?" she demanded.

"Wait and see." His ruse had succeeded. She was no
longer looking swampward with that gleam of purpose in
her eye.

"Come on then," she said, prodding him into action.

Val changed slowly. If one didn't care about mucking
around in the garden, as Ricky seemed to delight in doing,
there was so little in the way of occupation. He thought of
the days as they spread before him. A little riding, a great
amount of casual reading and—what else? Was the South
"getting" him as the tropics are supposed to "get" the
Northerners?

That unlucky meeting with a mountaintop had effec-
tively despoiled him of his one ambition. Soldiers with

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Andre Norton

game legs are not wanted. He couldn't paint like Charity,
he couldn't spin yams like Rupert, he possessed a mind
too inaccurate to cope with the intricacies of any science.
And as a business man he would probably be a good street

cleaner.

What was left? Well, the surprise he had promised

Ricky might cover the problem. As he reached for a
certain black note-book, someone knocked on his door.
"Mistuh Val, wheah's Miss 'Chanda? She ain't here,

an' Ah wants to—"

Lucy stood in the hall. The light from the round win-
dow was reflected from every corrugated wave of her
painfully marcelled hair. Her vast flowered dress had been
thriftily covered with a dull-green bib-apron and she had
changed her smart slippers for the shapeless gray relics she
wore indoors. Just now she looked warm and tired. After
all, running two households was something of a task even

for Lucy.

"Why, she should be in her room. We came up to
change. Miss Chanty's gone home with a headache. What
was it you wanted her for?"

"Mistuh Val"—she thrust a mound of snowy and
beruffled white stuff at him—"These curtains has got to
be hung. An' does Miss 'Chanda want 'em in her room or

not?"

"Better put them up. I'll tell her about it. Here wait, let

me open that door."

Val looked into Ricky's room. As usual, it appeared as
though a whirlwind, a small whirlwind but a thorough one,
had passed through it. Her discarded costume lay tumbled
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RALESTONE LUCK

across the bed and her slippers lay on the floor, one upside
down. He stooped to set them straight.

"It do beat all," Lucky said frankly as she put her
burden down on a chair, "how dat chile make a mess.
Now yo', Mistuh Val, jest put everythin' jest so. But Miss
'Chanda leave hers which way afore Sunday! Looka dat
now." She pointed to the half-opened door of the closet.
A slip lay on the floor. Ricky must have been in a hurry;

that was a little too untidy even for her.

A sudden suspicion sent Val into the closet to investigate.
Ricky's wardrobe was not so extensive that he did not
know every dress and article in it very well. It did not take
him more than a moment to see what was missing.

"Did Ricky go riding?" Val asked. "Her habit is gone."

"She ain' gone 'cross de bayo' fo' de hoss," answered
Lucky, reaching for the curtain rod. "Anyway, Sam took
dat critter to be shoed."

"Then where—" But Val knew his Ricky only too
well.

She had a certain stubborn will of her own. Sometimes
opposition merely drove her into doing me forbidden thing.
And the swamp had been forbidden. But could even Ricky
be such a fool? Certain memories of the past testified, mat
she could. But how? Unless she had taken Sam's boat—

Without a word of explanation to Lucy, he dashed out
of the room and downstairs at his best pace. As he left the
house Val broke into a stumbling run. There was just a
chance that she had not yet left the plantation.

But the bayou levee was deserted. And the post where
Sam's boat was usually moored was bare of rope; the boat

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Andre Norton

was gone. Of course Sam Two might have taken it across

the stream to the farm.
That hope was extinguished as the small brown boy

came out of the bushes along the stream side.

"Sam, have you seen Miss 'Chanda?" Val demanded.

"Yessuh."
"Where?" Carrying on a conversation with Sam Two

was like prying diamonds out of a rock. He possessed a
rooted distaste for talking.

"Heah, suh."

"When?"

"Jest a li'l while ago."

"Where did she go?"

Sam pointed downstream.

"Did she take the boat?"

"Yessuh." And men for the first time since Val had
known him Sam volunteered a piece of information. "She

say she a-goin' in de swamp."

Val leaned back against the bole of one of the willows.
Then she had done it! And what could he do? If he had
any idea of her path, he could follow her while Sam
aroused Rupert and the house.

"If I only knew where—" he mused aloud.
"She a-goin' to see dat swamper Jeems," Sam continued.
"Heh, hen," a sudden cackle of laughter rippled across
his lips. "Dat ole swamper think he so sma't. Think no

one find his house—"

"Sam!" Val rounded upon him. "Do you know where

Jeems lives?"

"Yessuh." He twisted the one shoulder-strap of his

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RALESTONE LUCK

overalls and Val guessed that his knowledge was some-
thing he was either ashamed of or afraid to tell.

"Can you take me there?" -

He shook his head. "I ain' a-goin' in here, I ain'!"

"But, Sam, you've got to! Miss 'Chanda is in there. She
may be lost. We've got to find her!" Val insisted.

Sam's thin shoulders shook and he slid backward as if to
avoid the white boy's reach. "I ain't a-goin' in dere," he
repeated stubbornly. "Effen yo' wants to go in—Looky,
Mistuh Val, I tells yo' de way an' yo' goes." He brightented
at this solution. "Yo' kin take pappy's othah boat; it's
downstream, behin' dem willows. Den yo' goes down to
de secon' big pile o' willows. Behin' is a li'l bitty bayo,.
Yo' goes up dat 'til yo' comes to a fur rack. After dat
Jeems got a way marked on trees."

With that he turned and ran as if all the terrors of the
night were on his trail. There was nothing for Val to do
but to follow his directions. And the longer he lingered
before setting out the bigger lead Ricky was getting.

He found the canoe behind the willows as Sam had said.
Awkwardly he pushed off, hoping that Lucy would pry the
whole story out of her son and put Rupert on their track as
soon as possible.

The second clump of willows was something of a
landmark, a huge matted mass of sucker and branch, the
lower tips of the long, frond-like twigs sweeping the murky
water. A snake swimming with its head just above the
surface wriggled to the bank as Val cut into the small
hidden stream Sam had told him of.

Vines and water plants had almost choked this, but there

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Andre Norton

was a passage through the center. And one tough spike of
vegetation which snapped back into his face bore a deep
cut from which the sap was still oozing. The small stinging
flies and mosquitoes followed and hung over him like a
fog of discomfort. His skin was swollen and rough, irri-
tated and itching. And in this green-covered way the heat
seemed almost solid. Drops of moisture dripped from fore-
head and chin, and his hair was plastered tight to his skull.

Frogs leaped from the bank into the water at the sound
of his coming. In the shallows near the bank, crawfish
scuttled under water-logged leaves and stones at this distur-
bance of their world. Twice the bayou widened out into a
sort of pool where the trees grew out of the muddy water
and all sorts of lilies and bulb plants blossomed in riotous
confusion.

Once a muskrat waddled into the protection of the bushes.
And Val saw something like a small cat drinking. But that
faint shadow disappeared noislessly almost before the wa-
ter trickled from his upraised paddle.

Clumps of wild rice were the meeting grounds for flocks
of screaming birds. A snow-white egret waded solemnly
across ^a mud-rimmed pocket. And once a snake, more
dangerous than the swimmer Vai had first encountered,
betrayed its presence by the flicker of its tongue.

The smell of me steaming mud, the decaying vegetation,
and the nameless evils hidden deeper in this water-rotted
land was an added torment. The boy shook a large red ant
from its grip in the flesh of his hand and wiped the
streaming perspiration from his face.

It was then that the canoe floated almost of its own

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RALESTONELUCK

volition into a dead and distorted strip of country. Black
water which gave off an evil odor covered almost half an
acre of ground. From this arose die twisted, gaunt gray
skeletons of dead oaks. To complete the drear picture a
row of rusty-black vultures sat along die broad naked limb
of die nearest of these hulks, their red-raw heads upraised
as they croaked and sidled up and down.

But die bayou Val was following merely skirted this
region, and in a few moments he was again sheltered by
flower-grown banks. Then he came upon a structure which
must have been die fur rack Sam Two had alluded to, for
here was their other boat moored to a convenient willow.

Val fastened the canoe beside it. The turf seemed springy,
though here and there it gave way to patches of dark mud.
It was on one of these that Ricky had left her mark in die
clean-cut outline of die sole of her riding-boot.

With a last desperate slap at a mosquito Val headed
inland, following with ease mat trail of footprints. Ricky
was suffering, too, for her rashness he noted with satisfac-
tion when he discovered a long curly hair fast in die grip
of a thorny branch he scraped under.

But the path was not a bad one. And die farther he went
the more solid and me dryer it became. Once he passed
through a small clearing, man-made, where three or four
cotton bushes huddled together forlornly in company with
a luxuriant melon patch.

And die melon patch was separated by only a few feet
of underbrush from Jeems' domain. In me middle of a
clearing was a sturdy platform, reinforced with upright
posts and standing about four feet from me surface of die

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ground. On this was a small cabin constructed of slabs, of
baric-covered wood. As a dwelling it might be crude, but it
had an air of scrupulous neatness. A short distance to one
side of the platform was a well-built chicken-run, now
inhabited by five hens and a ragged-tailed cock.

The door of the cabin was shut and there were no signs
of life save the chickens. But as Val lowered himself
painfully onto the second step of the ladder-like stairs
leading up to the cabin, he thought he heard someone
moving around. Glancing up, he saw Ricky staring down

at him, open-mouthed.
"Hello," she called, for one of the few times in her life

really astounded.
"Hello," Val answered shortly and shifted his weight to

try to relieve the ache in his knee. "Nice day, isn't it?"

144

11

RALESTONES TO THE RESCUE!

Val! What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"Following you. Good grief, giri," he exploded, "haven't
you any better sense than to come into the swamp this
way?"

Ricky's mouth lost its laughing curve and her eyes

seemed to narrow. She was, by all the signs, distinctly

annoyed.

"It's perfectly safe. I knew what I was doing."
"Yes? Well, I will enjoy hearing Rupert's remarks on

that subject when he catches up with us," snapped her

brother.

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"Val!" She lost something of her defiant attitude. He
guessed that for all her boasted independence his sister was
slightly afraid of Mr. Rupert Ralestone. "Val, he isn't

coming, too, is he?"

"He is if he got my message." Val stretched his leg

cautiously. The cramp was slowly leaving the muscles and
he felt as if he could stand the remaining ache without
wincing. "I sent Sam Two back to tell Rupert where his
family had eloped to. Frankly, Ricky, mis wasn't such a
smart trick. You know what Charity said about the swamps.
Even the little I've seen of mem has given me ideas."

"But there was nothing to it at all," she protested. "Jeems
told me just how to get here and I only followed directions."

Val chose to ignore this, being hot, tired, and in no
mood for one of those long arguments such as Ricky
enjoyed. "By the way, where is Jeems?" He looked about
him as if he expected the swamper to materialize out of

thin air.
Ricky sat down on the edge of me platform and dangled

her booted feet. "Don't know. But he'll be here sooner or
later. And I don't feel like going back through the swamp
just yet. The flies are awful. And did you see those
dreadful vultures on that dead tree? What a place! But the
flowers are wonderful and I saw a real live alligator, even
if it was a small one." She rubbed her scarf across her
forehead. "Whew! It seems hotter here than it does at

home."

"This outing was all your idea," Val reminded her.

"And we'd better be getting back before Rupert calls out
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the Marines or the State Troopers or something to track us
down."

Ricky pouted. "Not going until I'm ready. And you
can't drag me if I dig my heels in."

"I have no desire to be embroiled in such an undignified
struggle as you suggest," he told her loftily. "But neither
do I yearn to spend the day here. I'm hungry. I wonder if
our absent host possesses a larder?"

"If he does, you can't raid it," Ricky answered. "The
door's locked, and mat lock," she pointed to the bright
disk of brass on the solid cabin door, "is a good one. I've
already tried a hairpin on it," she added shamelessly.

They sat awhile in silence. A wandering breeze had
found its way into the clearing, and with it came the
fragrance of flowers blossoming under the sun. The chicken
family were pursuing a worm with more energy than Val
decided he would have cared to expend in that heat, and a
heavily laden bee rested on the lip of a sunflower to brush
its legs. Val's eyelids drooped and he found himself think-
ing dreamily of a hammock under the trees, a pillow, and
long hours of lazy dozing. At the same time a comer of his
brain was sending forth nagging messages that they should
be up and off, back to their own proper world. But he
simply did not have the will power to get up and go.

"Nice place," he murmured, looking about with more
approbation than he would have granted the clearing some
ten minutes earlier.

"Yes," answered Ricky. "It would be nice to live
here."

Val was beginning to say something about "no bathtubs"

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when a sound aroused them from their lethargy. Someone
was coming down the path. Ricky's hand fell upon her

brother's shoulder.

"Quick! Up here and behind the house," she urged

him.
Not knowing just why he obeyed, Val scrambled up on

the tiny platform and scuttled around behind the cabin.
Why they should hide thus from Jeems who had given
Ricky directions for reaching the place and had asked her
to come, was more than he could understand. But he had a
faint, uneasy feeling of mistrust, as if they had been
caught off guard at a critical moment.

"This the place. Red?" The clipped words sounded
clear above the murmurs of life from swamp and woods.

"Yeah. Bum-lookin' joint, ain't it? These guys ain't got
no brains; they like to live like this." The contempt oflhe
second speaker was only surpassed by the stridency of his

voice.

"What about this boy?" asked the first.

"Dumb kid. Don't know yet who his friends is." There
was a satisfied grunt as the speaker sat down on the step
Val had so lately vacated. Ricky pressed closer to her

brother.

"What about the cabin?"

"He ain't here. And it's locked, see? You'd think he
kept the crown jewels there." The tickling scent of a
cigarette drifted back to the two in hiding. "Beats me how
he slipped away this morning without Pitts catching on.
For two cents I'd spring that lock of his—"

"Isn't worth the trouble," replied the other decisively.

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"These trappers have no money except at the end of the
fur season, and then most of them are in debt to the
storekeepers."

"Then why—"

"I sometimes wonder," the voice was coldly cutting,
"why I continue to employ you. Red. What profit would I
find in a cabin like this? I want what he knows, not what
he has."

Having thus reduced his henchman to silence, the speaker
went on smoothly, as if he were thinking aloud. "With
Simpson doing so well in town, we're close to the finish.
This swamper must tell us—" His voice trailed away.
Except for the creaking of wood when the sitter shifted his
position, there was no other sound.

Then Red must have grown restless, for someone stamped
up to the platform and rattled the chain on the cabin door
aggressively. Val flattened back against the wall. What if
the fellow took it into his head to walk around?

"Gonna wait here all day?" demanded Red.

"As it is necessary for me to have a word with him, we
will. This waste of time is the product of Pitts' stupidity. I
shall remember that. It is entirely needless to use force
except as a last resource. Now that this swamper's suspi-
cions are aroused, we may have trouble."

"Yeah? Well, we can handle that. But how do yuh
know that this guy has the stuff?"

"I can at least believe the evidence of my own eyes,"
the other replied with bored contempt. "I came down river
alone the night of the storm and saw him on the levee. He
has a way of getting into the house all right. I saw him in

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these. And he doesn't go through any of die doors, either.

I must know how he does it."
"All right. Boss. And what if you do get in? What are

we supposed to be lookin' for?"

"What those bright boys up there found a few days ago.
That clerk told us that they'd discovered whatever the girl
was talking about in the office that day. And we've got to
get that before Simpson comes into court with his suit. I'm
not going to lose fifty grand." The last sentence ended
abruptly as if the speaker had snapped his teeth shut upon

a word like a dog upon its quarry.

"What does this guy Jeems go to the house for?" asked

Red.

"Who knows? He seems to be hunting something too.

But that's not our worry. If it's necessary, we can play
ghost also. I've got to get into that house. If I can do it the
way this Jeems does, without having to break in—so much
the better. We don't want the police ambling around here

just now."

Val stiffened. It didn't require a Sherlock Holmes to get

the kernel of truth out of the conversation he had overheard.
"Night of the storm," "play ghost," were enough. So
Jeems had been the ghost. And me swamper knew a secret

way into the house!
"Wait," Ricky's lips formed the words by his ear as

Val stirred restlessly. "Someone else is coming."

"I don't like the set-up in town," Red was saying
peevishly. "That smooth mouthpiece is asking too darn
many questions. He's always asking Simpson about things

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in the past. If you hadn't got Sim that family history to
study, he'd been behind bars a dozen times by now."

"And he had better study it," commented the other
dryly, "because he is going to be word perfect before the
case comes to court, if it ever does. There are not going to
be any slip-ups in this deal."

" 'Mother thing I don't like," broke in the other, "is
this Waverly guy. 1 don't like his face."

"No? Well, doubtless he would change it if you asked
him to. And I do not think it is wise of you to be too
critical of plans which were made by deeper thinkers than
yourself. Sometimes, Red, you weary me."

There was no reply to that harsh judgment. And now
Val could hear what Ricky had heard earlier—a faint swish
as of a paddle through water. Again Ricky's lips shaped
words he could barely hear.

"Spur of bayou runs along here in back. Someone
coming up from there."

"Jeems?"

"Maybe."

"We'd better—" Val motioned toward the front of the
cabin. Ricky shook her head. Jeems was to be allowed to
meet the intruders unwarned.

"This swamper may be tough," ventured Red.

"We've met hard cases before," answered the other
significantly.

Red moved again, as if flexing his muscles.

"One boy, and a small one at that, shouldn't force you
to undergo all that preparation," goaded the Boss.

Ricky must get away at once, her brother decided.

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Stubbornness or no stubbornness, she must go this time.
Why he didn't think of going himself Val never afterwards
knew. Perhaps he possessed a spark of the family love of
danger, after all, but mostly he clung to his perch because
of that last threat. Whoever Jeems was or whatever he had
done, he was one and alone. And he might relish another
player on his side. But Ricky must go.

He said as much in a fierce whisper, only to have her
grin recklessly back at him. In pantomime she gestured
mat he might try to make her. Val decided that he should
have known the result of his efforts. Ricky was a Ralestone,
too. And short of throwing her off the platform and so
unmasking themselves completely, he could not move her

against her will.
"No," she whispered. "They're planning trouble for

Jeems. He'll probably need us."

"Well," Val cautioned her, "if it gets too tough, you've
got to promise to cut downstream for help. We'll be able

to use it."
She nodded. "It's a promise. But we've got to stand by

Jeems if he needs us."
"//he does—" Val was still suspicious. "He may fall

in with their suggestions."

Ricky shook her head. "He isn't that kind. I don't care if
he has been playing ghost."

Someone was walking along the path among the bushes
bordering the back of the clearing. Although they could
hear no sound, they could mark the passing of a body by
the swish of die foliage. Val lay, face down, on the
platform and reached for a stick of wood lying on the

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ground below. Somehow he did not like to think of being
caught empty-handed when the excitement began.

"Hello." It was Red, suddenly genial. The Ralestones
could almost feel the radiance of the smile which must
have split his face.

"Whatta yo' doin' heah?" That was Jeems, and his
demand was sharply hostile.

"Now, bub, don't get us wrong." That was Red, still
genial. "I know my pal sorta flew off his base this momin'.
But it was all in fun, see? So we kinda wanted yuh to stick
around till he came and not do the run-out on us. And now
the Boss has come down here so we can talk business all
friendly like."

"Shut up. Red!" Having so bottled his companion's
flow of words, the other spoke directly to Jeems. "My
men made a mistake. All right. That's over and done with;

they'll get theirs. Now let's get down to business. What do
you know about that big plantation up river, die one called
'Pirate's Haven'?"

"Nothin'." Jeems' answer was clear. The hostility was
gone from his voice; nothing remained but an even
tonelessness.

"Come now, I know you have reason to be hot. But this

is business. I'll make it worth your while—"
"Nothin'," answered Jeems as concisely as before.
"You can't expect us to believe that. I followed you one

night."

"Yo' did?" The challenge was unmistakable.
"I did. So you see I know something of you. Something

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which even the present owner does not. Say the ghost in
the hall, for example."

There was the sound of a deeply drawn breath.

"So you see it is to your advantage to listen to us,"
continued the Boss smoothly.

"What do yo' want?"

Val knew disappointment at that question. Would Jeems
surrender as easily as that?

"Just an explanation of how you get into the house

unseen."

"Yo'll nevah know!" The swamper's reply came swift
and clear.

"No? Well, I'd think twice before 1 held to that answer
if I were you," purred the other softly. "A word to the
Ralestones about those nightly waiks of yours—"

"Won't give yo' what yo' want," replied Jeems shrewdly.

"I see. Perhaps I have been using the wrong approach,"
observed the Boss composedly. "You work for a living,
don't you?"

"Yes."

"Then you know the value of money. What is your
price? Come on, we won't haggle."

The Boss' impatience colored his tone. "How much do
you want for this information?"

"Nothin'!"

"Nothing?"

"Ah ain't said nothin' an' Ah ain't a-goin' to say
nothin'. An' yo' bettah be a-gittin' often this heah land of
mine afo'—"

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"Before what, swamper?" Red was taking a hand in the
game.

"Yo' can't fright'n me with that gun," came calmly
enough from Jeems. "Yo' ain't a-goin' to risk shootin'—"

"There ain't no witnesses here, kid. And there ain't no
law back in these swamps. Yuh're gonna tell the Boss
what he wants to know an' yuh're gonna spill it quick,
see? I know some ways of making guys squeal—"

At that suggestion Val's fingers tightened on his club
and Ricky choked back a cry as her brother crept toward
the comer of the cabin. Their melodrama was fast taking
on the color of tragedy.

"So yuh better speak up." Red was still encouraging
Jeems.

There was no immediate answer from the swamper, but
Ricky touched Val's arm and nodded toward the bushes.
She had decided that it was time for her to leave. He
agreed eagerly. She dropped lightly to the ground and he
watched her crawl away unnoticed by those in front who
were so intent upon the baiting of their quarry.

"Three minutes, swamper'"

Ricky was gone, free from whatever might develop. Val
edged forward and for the first time peered around the
comer of the cabin. The two assailants were still only
voices, but he could see Jeems. The swamper's face was
bruised and there was a smear of dried blood across one
cheek as if he had already been roughly handled. But he
stood at ease, facing the cabin. His hands were hanging
loosely at his sides and he was seemingly unconcerned by
what confronted him. Suddenly his eyes flickered to the

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bushes at one side. Had Ricky betrayed herself, Val won-
dered breathlessly.
Clear now of the cabin, Val wriggled his way around

the platform. In a minute he would be able to see the Boss

and Red. He gripped the club.

Then Jeems stared straight into his face. But the swamper
gave no sign of seeing Val. And that, to the boy's mind,
was the greatest feat of all that afternoon. For Val knew
that if he had been in Jeems' place he would have betrayed

them both in his surprise.
The others were at last visible, their backs to Val.

Nervously he sized them up. The Boss was tall and thin,
but his movements suggested possession of wiry strength.
Red, his brick-colored hair making him easy to identify,
was shorter and thick across the shoulders, but his waist-
line was also thick and the boy thought that his wind was
bad. Of the two, the Boss was the more dangerous. Red
might lose his head in a sudden attack, but not the Boss.

Val decided to tackle the latter.
Slowly he got from his knees to his feet. After the first

quick glance, Jeems hadn't looked at him, but Val knew
that the swamper was ready and waiting to take advantage

of any diversion he might make.

"Three minutes are up, swamper. So yuh've decided to

be tough, eh?"

"Whatta yo' wanna know?" Jeems' question held their

attention.

"We have told you several times," answered the Boss,

his temper beginning to fray visibly. "What is the trick of
getting into that house?"

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"Well," Jeems. raised his hand to rub his ear, "yo' turn
to the left—"

So he agreed with the listener. Val was to take the Boss
on his left. He gathered his feet under him for the leap
which he hoped would land him full upon the invader.

"Yes?" prompted me man impatiently as Jeems hesitated.
At that moment Val sprang.

But his game leg betrayed him again. Instead of landing
cleanly upon the other, he came down draggingly across
the Boss's shoulders. The gun roared and then the attacked
man lashed back a vicious blow which split the skin over
Val's cheekbone.

For the next three minutes Val was more than occupied.
His opponent was a dirty fighter, and when he had recov-
ered from his surprise he was more than the boy could
handle. Val's club was twisted out of his hands, and he
found himself fighting wildly to keep the man's clawing
fingers from his eyes. They were both rolling on the
ground, flailing out at each other. Twice Val tasted his
own blood when one of the enemy's vicious jabs glanced
along his face. Either blow would have finished Val had it
landed clean.

Then in a sudden turn the Boss caught him in a deadly
body-lock which left him half-stunned and panting, at his
mercy. And there was no mercy in the man. When Val
looked up into that flushed, snarling face, he knew that he
was as hopeless as a trapped animal. The man could—and
would—finish him at his leisure.

"This way, Rupert! Sam!" the cry reached even Val's
dulled ears.

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Andre Norton

The man above him stirred. The boy saw the Mood-lust
fade from his eyes and apprehension take its place. He got
to his feet, launching a last bruising kick at Val's ribs
before he limped across the clearing. On his way he hauled
Red to his feet. They were going, not toward the path from
the bayou, but around the house on the trail that Jeems had
followed. Val struggled up and looked around. The turf
was torn and gouged. In the dust lay his club and Red's

revolver.
And by the steps lay something else, a slight brown

figure. Painfully the boy got to his feet and lurched across
to Jeems.

158




12

THERALESTONES BRING HOME
A RELUCTANT QUEST

The swamper was lying on his back, his eyes closed. From
a great purple welt across his forehead blood oozed
sluggishly. When Val touched him he moaned faintly,

"Val! Are you hurt? What's the matter?" Ricky was
upon them like a whirlwind out of the bush.
"Jeems stopped a nasty one," her brother panted.
"Is he—" She dropped down in the dust beside them.
"He's knocked out, and he'll have a bad headache for
some time, but I don't think it's any worse than that."

Ricky had pulled out a microscopic bit of handkerchief
and was dabbing at the blood in an amateurish way. Jeems

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moaned and turned his head as if to get away from her
ministrations.

"Where's Rupert—and Sam?" Val looked toward the
path. "They were with you, weren't they?"

Ricky shook her head. "No. That was just what you call
creating a diversion. For all I know, they're busy at home."

Her brother straightened. "Then we've got to get out of
here—fast. Those two left because they were rattled, but
when they have had a chance to cool off they'll be back."

"What about Jeems?"

"Take him with us, of course. We won't be able to
manage the canoe. But you brought the outboard, so we'll
go in that and tow me canoe. We ought to have something
to cover his head." Val regarded the bleeding wound
doubtfully.

Without answering, Ricky leaned forward and began
systematically going through Jeems' pockets. In the sec-
ond she found a key. Val took it from her and hobbled up
the cabin steps. For a wonder, he thought thankfully, me
key was the right one. The lock clicked and he went in.

Like the clearing, the interior of the one-room shack
was neat, a place for everything and everything in its
place. Under the window in the far wall was a small chest
of some dark polished wood. Save for its size, it was not
unlike the chests the Ralestones had found in their store-
room. Opposite it was a wooden cot, die covers smoothly
spread. A stool, a blackened cook stove, and a solid table
with an oil lamp were me extent of the furnishings. Lines
of traps hung on the walls, along with the wooden boards

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RALESTONE LUCK

for the stretching of drying skins, and there was a half-
finished grass basket lying on top of the chest.

Val hefted a stoneware jug. They had no time to hunt
for a spring. And if this contained water, they would need
it. At the resulting gurgle from within, he set it by the door
and returned to rob the cot of pillow and the single coarse
but clean sheet.

Ricky tore the sheet and made a creditable job of wash-
ing and bandaging the ugly bruise. Jeems drank greedily
when they offered him water but he did not seem to
recognize them. In answer to Ricky's question of how he
felt, he muttered something in the swamp French of the
Cajuns. But he was uneasy until Val locked the cabin door
and put the key in his hand.

"How are we going to get him to the boat?" asked
Ricky suddenly.

"Carry him."

"But, Val—" for the first time she looked at her brother
as if she really saw him— "Val, you're hurt!"

"Just a little stiff," he hastened to assure her. "Our late
visitors play rather rough. We'll manage all right. I'll take
his shoulders and you his feet."

They wavered drunkenly along the path. Twice Val
stumbled and regained his balance just in time. Ricky had
laid the pillow across their burden's feet, declaring that she
would need it when they got to the boat. Val passed the
point of aching misery—when he thought that he could not
shuffle forward another step—and now he came into what
he had heard called "second wind." By fixing his eyes on
a tree or a bush a step or two ahead and concentrating only
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upon passing that one, and then that, and that, he got
through without disgracing himself.

At the bayou at last, they wriggled Jeems awkwardly
into die boat. Val had no doubt that a woodsman might
have done the whole job better in much less time and
without a tenth of the effort they had expended. But all he
ever wondered afterward was how they ever did it at all.

ft was when Ricky had made their passenger as comfort-
able as she could in the bottom of the boat, steadying his
head across her knees, that her brother partially relaxed.

"Val, you run the engine," she said without looking

up.

He dragged himself toward the stern of the boat, remem-
bering too late, when he had cast off, that he had not taken
the canoe in tow. The engine coughed, sputtered, and then
settled down to a steady putt-putt. They were off.

"Val, do you—do you think he is badly hurt?"

He dared not look down; it required all his powers of
concentration on what lay before them to keep his hand
steady.

"No. We'll get a doctor when we get back. He'll come
around again in no time—Jeems, I mean."

But would he? Head injuries were sometimes more seri-
ous than they seemed, Val remembered dismally.

It was not until they came out into the main bayou that
Jeems roused again. He looked up at Ricky in a sort of
dull surprise, and then his gaze shifted to Val.

"What—"

"We won the war," Val tried to grin, an operation

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RALESTONE LUCK

which tore his mask of dried blood, "thanks to Ricky.

And now we're going home."
At that. Jeems made a violent effort to sit up.
"Nonf" his English deserted him and he broke into

impassioned French.

"Yes," Val replied firmly as Ricky pushed the swamper
down. "Of course you're coming with us. You've had a
nasty knock on the head that needs attention."

"Ah'm not a-goin' to no hospital!" His eyes burned
into Val's.

"Certainly not!" cried Ricky. "You're bound for our
guest-room. Now keep quiet. We'll be there soon."

"Ah ain't a-goin'," he declared mutinously.

"Don't be silly," Ricky scolded him; "we're taking
you. Does Val have to come and hold you down?"

"Ah can't!" His eyes flickered from Val's face to hers.
There was something more than independence behind that
firm refusal. "Ah ain't a-goin' theah."

"Why not?"

He seemed to shrink from her. "It ain't fitten," he
murmured.

"How perfectly silly," laughed Ricky. But Val thought
that he understood.

"Because of the secret you know?" he asked quietly.
The pallor beneath Jeems' heavy tan vanished in a flush

of slow-burning red. "Ah reckon so," he muttered, but he

met Val's eyes squarely.

"Let's leave all explanations until later," Val suggested.
"Ah played haunt!" the confession came out of the
swamper in a rush.

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Andre Norton

"Then you were my faceless ghost?"
Jeems tried to nod and the action printed a frown of pain

between his eyes.

"Why? Didn't you want us to live there?" asked Ricky

gently.

"Ah was huntin'—"

"What for?"

The frown became one of puzzlement. "Ah don't
know—" His voice trailed off into a thin whisper as his
eyes closed wearily. Val signaled Ricky to keep quiet.

"Ahoy there!" Along the bank toward tfiem came Ru-
pert and after him Sam. Beyond them lay the Ralestone

landing. Val headed inshore.

"Just what does this mean—Val! Has there been an
accident?" The irritation in Rupert's voice became hot

concern.

"An intended one," his brother replied. "We've got the

real victim here with us."

They tied up to the landing and Sam came down to hand
out Jeems who apparently had lapsed into unconsciousness

again.

"You'd better call a doctor," Val told Rupert. "Jeems

has a head wound."

But Rupert had already taken charge of affairs with an
efficiency which left Val humbly grateful. The boy didn't
even move to leave the boat. It was better just to sit and
watch other people scurry about. Sam had started for the
house, carrying Jeems as if the long-legged swamper was
the same age and size as his own small son. Ricky dashed
on ahead to warn Lucy. Rupert had Sam Two by the collar

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and was giving him instructions for catching Dr. LeFrode,
who was probably making his morning rounds and might
be found at the sugar-mill where one of the feeders had
injured his hand. Sam Two's sister had seen the doctor on
his way there a scant ten minutes earlier.

Val watched all this activity dreamily. Everything would
be all right now that Rupert was in charge. He could
relax—

"Now," his brother turned upon Val, "just what did—
What's the matter with you?"

"Tired, I guess," Val said ruefully. But Rupert was
already in the boat, getting the younger boy to his un-
steady feet.

"Can you make it to the house?" he asked anxiously.

"Sure. Just give me an arm till I get on the landing."

But when Val had crawled up on the levee he did not
feel at all like walking to the house. Then Rupert's arm
was about his thin shoulders and he thought that he could
make it if he really tried.

The garden path seemed miles long, and it was not until
Val had the soft cushions of the hall couch under him that
he felt able to tell his story. But at that moment the short,
stout doctor came through the door in a rush. Sam Two
had led him to believe that half the household had been
murdered. At first Dr. LeFrode started toward Val, until in
alarm the boy swung his feet to the floor and sat up,
waving the man to the stairway where Ricky hovered to
act as guide.

Then Val was alone, even Sam Two having edged
upstairs to share in the excitement. The boy sank back on

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his pillows and wondered where their late assailants were
now, and why they had been so determined to learn Jeems'
secret. As Ricky had said once before, the Ralestones seemed
to have been handed a gigantic tangle without ends, only
middle sections, and had been told to unravel it.

Boot heels clicked on the stone flooring. Val fumed his
head cautiously and tried not to wince. Rupert was coming
in with a bowl of water, from which steam still arose.
Across his arm lay a towel and in his other hand was their

small first-aid kit.

"Suppose we do a little patching," he suggested. "Your
face at present is not all it might be. What did you and
your swamp friend do—run into a mowing machine?'' He
swabbed delicately at the cut the Boss had opened across
Val's cheek-bone, and at another by his mouth.

"1 thought it might be that for a moment—a mowing
machine, I mean. No, we just met a couple of gentlemen—
enterprising fellows who wanted to see. more of this com-
modious mansion of ours—" Val's words faded into a
sharp hiss as Rupert applied iodine with a liberal hand.
"They seemed to think that Jeems knew a lot about Pirate's
Haven and they were going to persuade him to tell all.
Only it didn't turn out the way they had planned."

"Due to you?" Rupert eyed his brother intently. The
boy's face was swollen almost out of recognition and he
didn't like this sudden talkativeness.

"Due partly to me, but mostly to Ricky. She—ah—
created the necessary diversion. I had sort of lost interest
at the time. I know sti little about gouging and biting in
clinches."

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"Dirty fighters?"

"Well, soiled anyway. But if the Boss isn't nursing a
cracked wrist, it isn't my fault. I don't know what Jeems
did to Red, but he, too, departed in a damaged condition.
Do you have to do that?" Val demanded testily, squirming
as Rupert ran his hands lightly over the boy's shoulders
and down his ribs, touching every bruise to tingling life.

"Just seeing the extent of the damage," he explained.

"You don't have to see, I can feel!" Val snapped
pettishly.

Rupert got to his feet. "Come on."

"Where?"

"Oh, a hot bath and then bed. You'll be taking an
interest in life again about this time tomorrow. I think
LeFrode had better see you too."

"No," Val objected. "I'm not a child."

Rupert grinned. "If you'd rather I carried you—"

There was no opposing Rupert when he was in that
mood, as his brother well knew. Val got up slowly.

The program that Rupert had outlined was faithfully
carried out. Half an hour later Val found himself between
sheets, blinking at the ceiling drowsily. When two cracks
overhead wavered together of their own accord, his eyes
closed.

"—still sleeping?" whispered someone at his side much
later.
"Yes, best thing for him."
"Was he badly hurt?"

"No, just banged around more than was good for him."
Val opened his eyes. It must have been close to dusk,
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Andre Norton

for the sunlight was red across the bedclothes. Rupert
stood by the window and Ricky was in the doorway, a tray

of covered dishes in her hands.
"Hello!" Val sat up, grimacing at the twinge of pain

across his back. "What day is this?"
Rupert laughed. "Still Tuesday."

"How's Jeems?"
"Doing very well. I've had to have Rupert in to frighten

him into staying in bed," Ricky said. "The doctor thinks
he ought to be there a couple of days at least. But Jeems
doesn't agree with him. Between keeping Jeems in bed
and keeping Rupert out of the swamp I've had a full day."

Rupert sat down on the foot of the bed. "You'd know
this Boss and Red again, wouldn't you?"

"Of course."
"Then you'll probably have a chance to identify them."

There was a grim look about Rupert's jaw. "Ricky's told
me all that you overheard. I don't know what it means but
I've heard enough for me to get in touch with LeHeur.
He'll be out tomorrow morning. And once we get some-
thing to work on—"

"I'm beginning to feel sorry for our swamp visitors."

Val interrupted.
"They'll be sorry," hinted Rupert darkly. "How about

you, Val, beginning to feel hungry?"
"Now that you mention it, I am discovering a rather

hollow ache in my center section. Supper ready?"
"Half an hour. I'll bring you up a tray—" began Ricky.
But Val had thrown back the sheet and was sitting on

168

RALBSTONE LUCK

the side of the bed. "Oh, no, you don't! I'm not an invalid
yet."

Ricky glanced at Rupert and then left. Val reached for
his shirt defiantly. But his brother raised no objection. The
painful stiffness Val had felt at first wore off and he was
able to move without feeling as if each muscle were tied in
cramping knots.

"May I pay Jeems a visit?" he asked as they went out
into the hall. Rupert nodded toward a door across the
corridor.

"In there. He's a stubborn piece of goods. Reminds me
of you at times. If he'd ever get rid of that scowl of his,
he'd be even more like you. He warms to Ricky, but you'd
think I was a Chinese torturer the way he acts when I go
in." There was a shade of irritation in Rupert's voice.

"Maybe he's afraid of you."

"But what for?" Rupert stared at the boy in open
surprise.

"Well, you do have rather a commanding air at times,"
Val countered. If Ricky had told Rupert nothing of Jeems'
confession, he wasn't going to.

"So that's what you really think of me!" observed
Rupert. "Go reason with that wildcat if you want to. I'm
beginning to believe that you are two of a kind." He
turned abruptly down the hall.

Val opened the door of the bedroom. The sunlight was
fading fast and already the corners of the large room were
filled with the gray of dusk. But light from the windows
swept full across the bed and its occupant. Val hobbled
stiffly toward it.

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Andre Norton

"Hello." The brown face on the pillow did not change
expression as Val greeted the swamper. "How do you feel

now?"

"Bettah," Jeems answered shortly. "Ah'm good but

they won't Ie' me up."

"The Doc says you're in for a couple of days," Val told

him.

Somehow Jeems looked smaller, shrunken, as he lay in

that oversized bed. And he had lost that air of indolent
arrogance which had made him seem so independent in
their swamp and garden meetings. It was as if Val were
looking down upon a younger and less confident edition of

the swamper he had known.

"What does he think?" There was urgency in that

question.

"Who's he?"
"Yo' brothah."
"Rupert? Why, he's glad to have you here," Val

answered.

"Does he know 'bout—"

Val shook his head.

"Tell him!" ordered the swamper. "Ah ain't a-goin' to
say undah his roof lessen he knows. 'Tain't fitten."

At this clean-cut statement of the laws of hospitality,
Val nodded. "All right. I'll tell him. But what were you
after here, Jeems? I'll have to tell him that, too, you
know. Was it the Civil War treasure?"

Jeems turned his head slowly. "No." Again the puzzled
frown twisted his straight, finely marked brows. "What do
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KALES-TONE LUCK

Ah want wi' treasure? Ah don't know what Ah was lookin'
fo'. Man grandpappy—"

"Val, supper's ready," came Rupert's voice from the
hall.

Val half turned to go. "I've got to go now. But I'll be back
later," he promised.

"Yo'll tell him?" Jeems stabbed a finger at the door.

"Yes; after supper. I promise."

With a little sigh Jeems relaxed and burrowed down into
the softness of the pillow. "Ah'Il be awaitin'," he said.

171




13

ON SUCH A N1QHT AS THIS—

It had been one of those dull, weepy days when a sullen
drizzle clouded sky and earth. In consequence, the walls
and floors of Pirate's Haven seemed to exude chill. Rupert
built a fire in the hall fireplace, but none of the family
could say that it was a successful one. It made a nice show
of leaping flame accompanied by fancy lighting effects but
gave forth absolutely no heat.

"Val?"

The boy started guiltily and thrust his notebook under
the couch cushion as Charity came in. Tiny drops of rain
were strung along the hairs which had blown free of her
rain-cape hood like steel beads along a golden wire.
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RALESTONE LUCK

"Yes? Don't come here expecting to get warm," he
warned her bitterly. "We are very willing but the fire is
weak. Looks pretty, doesn't it?" He kicked at a charred
end on the hearth. "Well, that's all it's good for!"

"Val, what sort of a mess have you and Jeems jumped
into?" she asked as she handed him her dripping cape.

"Oh, just a general sort of mess," he answered lightly.
"Jeems had callers who forgot their manners. So Ricky
and I breezed in and brought the party to a sudden end—"

"As I .can see by your black eye," she commented.
"But what has Jeems been up to?"

Val was suddenly very busy holding her cape before that
mockery of a blaze.
"Why don't you ask him mat?"
"Because I'm asking you. Rupert came over last night
and sat on my gallery making very roundabout inquiries
concerning Jeems. I pried out of him the details of your
swamp battle. But I want to know now just what Jeems
has been doing. Your brother is so vague—"

"Rupert has the gift of being exasperatingly uncom-
municative," his brother told her. "The story, so far as I
know, is short and simple. Jeems knows a secret way into
this house. In addition, his grandfather told him that the
fortune of the house of Jeems is concealed here—having
been very hazy in his description of the nature of said
fortune. Consequently, grandson has been playing haunt
up and down our halls trying to find it.

"His story is as full of holes as a sieve but somehow
one can't help believing it. He has explained that he has
the secret of the outside entrance only, and not the one

173

Andre Norton

opening from the inside. In the meantime he is in bed—
guarded from intrusion by Ricky and Lucy with the same
care as if he were the crown jewels. So matters rest at

present."

"Neatly put." She dropped down on the couch. "By

the way, do you realize that you have ruined your face for

my uses?"
Val fingered the crisscrossing tape on his cheek. "This

is only temporary."

"i certainly hope so. That nust have been some battle."

"One of our better efforts." He coughed in mock
modesty. "Ricky saved the day with alarms and excur-
sions without. Rupert probably told you that."

"Yes, he can be persuaded to talk at times. Is he always

so silent?"

"Nowadays, yes," he answered slowly. "But when

we were younger—You know," Val turned toward her
suddenly, his brown face serious to a degree, "it isn't fair
to separate the members of a family. To put one here and one
there and the third somewhere else. I was twelve when
Father died, and Ricky was eleven. They sent her off to
Great-aunt Rogers because Uncle Fleming, who took me,
didn't care for a girl—"

"And Rupert?"

"Rupert—well, he was grown, he could arrange his

own life; so he just went away. We got a letter now and
then, or a post-card. There was money enough to send us
to expensive schools and dress us well. It was two years
before I really saw Ricky again. You can't call short visits
on Sunday afternoons seeing anyone.
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RALESTONE LUCK

"Then Uncle Fleming died and I was simply parked at
Great-aunt Rogers'. She"—Val was remembering things,
a bitter look about his mouth—"didn't care for boys. In
September I was sent to a military academy. I needed
discipline, it seemed. And Ricky was sent to Miss
Somebody's-on-the-Hudson. Rupert was in China then. I
got a letter from him that fall. He was about to join some
expedition heading into the Gobi.

"Ricky came down to the Christmas hop at the academy,
then Aunt Rogers took her abroad. She went to school in
Switzerland a year. I passed from school to summer camp
and then back to school. Ricky sent me some carvings for
Christmas—they arrived three days late."

He stared up at the stone mantel. "Kids feel things a lot
more than they're given credit for. Ricky sent me a letter
with some tear stains between the lines when Aunt Rogers
decided to stay another year. And that was the year I
earned the reputation of being a 'hard case.'

"Then Ricky cabled me that she was coming home. I
walked out of school the same morning. I didn't even tell
anyone where I was going. Because I had money enough,
I thought I would fly. And that, dear lady, is the end of
this very sad tale." He grinned one-sidedly down at her.

"It was then tha^-that—"

"I was smashed up? Yes. And Rupert came home with-
out warning to find things very messy. I was in the hospi-
tal when I should have been in some corrective institution,
as Aunt Rogers so often told me during those days. Ricky
was also in disgrace for speaking her mind, as she does
now and then. To make it even more interesting, our

175




Andre Norton

guardian had been amusing himself by buying oil stock
with our capital. Unfortunately, oil did not exist in the
wells we owned. Yes, Rupert had every right to be any-
thing but pleased with the affairs of the Ralestones.

"He swept us off here where we are still under
observation, I believe."

"Then you don't like it here?"

"Like it? Madam, 'like' is a very pallid word. What if
you were offered everything you ever wished for, all tied
up in pink ribbons and laid on your door-step? What would

your reaction be?"

"So," she was staring into the fire, "that's the way of

it?"

"Yes. Or it would be if—" He stooped to reach for
another piece of wood. The fire was threatening to die

again.

"What is the flaw in the masterpiece?" she asked quietly.

"Rupert. He's changed. In the old days he was one of
us; how he's a stranger. We're amusing to have around,
someone to look after, but I have a feeling that to him we
don't really exist. We aren't real—" Val floundered trying
to express that strange, walled-off emotion which so often
held him in this grown-up brother's presence. "Things like
this 'Bluebeard's Chamber' of his—that isn't like the

Rupert we knew."

"Did you ever think that he might be shy, too?" she
asked. "He left two children and came home to find two
distrustful adults. Give him his chance—"

"Charity!" Ricky ran lightly downstairs. "Why didn't

Val tell me you had come?"
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RALESTONE LUCK

"I just dropped in to inquire concerning your patient."
"He's better-tempered than Val," declared Ricky
shamelessly. "You'll stay to dinner of course. We're hav-
ing some sort of crab dish that Lucy seems to think her
best effort. Rupert will be back by then, I'm sure; he's out
somewhere with Sam. There's been some trouble about
trespassers on the swamp lands. Goodness, won't this rain
ever stop?"

As if in answer to her question, there came a great gust
of wind and rain against the door, a blast which shook the
oak, thick and solid as it was. And then came the thunder
of the knocker which Letty-Lou had polished into shining
life only die day before.

Val opened the door to find Mr. Creighton and Mr.
Holmes huddled on the mat. They came in with an eager-
ness which was only surpassed by Satan, wet and display-
ing cold anger towards his mistress, whom he passed with
a disdainful flirt of his tail as he headed for that deceptive
fire.

"You, again," observed Charity resignedly as Sam Two
was summoned and sent away again draped with wet coats
and drenched hats.

"Man"—Holmes argued with Satan for the possession
of the hearthstone—"when it rains in this country, it rains.
A branch of your creek down there is almost over the
road—"

"Bayou, not creek," corrected Charity acidly. Lately
she had shown a marked preference for Holmes' absence
rather than his company.

177

Andre Norton

"I stand corrected," he laughed; "a branch of your

bayou."

"If you found it so unpleasant, why did you—" began
Charity, and then she flushed as if she had suddenly
realized that that speech was too mde even for her recent

attitude.

"Why did we come?" Holmes' crooked eyebrow slid
upward as his face registered mock reproof. "My, my,
what a warm welcome, my dear." He shook his head and
Charity laughed in spite of herself.

"Don't mind my bearishness," she made half apology.
"You know what pleasant moods I fall into while working.

And this rain is depressing."

"But Miss Biglow is right." Creighton smiled his rare,
shy smile. Brusque and impatient as he was when on
business bent, he was awkwardly uncomfortable in ordi-
nary company. The man, Val sometimes thought privately,
lived, ate, slept books. Save when they were the subject of
conversation, he was as out of his element as a coal-miner
at die ballet. "We should explain the reason for this—this
rather abrupt call." He fingered his brief-case, which he
still clutched, nervously.

"Down to business already." Holmes seated himself on
the arm ofRicky's chair. "Very weU, out with it."

Creighton smiled again, laid the case across his knees,
and looked straight at Ricky. For some reason he talked to
her, as if she above all others must be firmly convinced of

the importance of his mission.

"It is a very queer story. Miss Ralestone, a very queer—"
"Said me mariner to the wedding guest." Holmes snapped

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RALESTONE LUCK

his fingers at Satan, who contemptuously ignored him.
"Or am I thinking of the Whiting who talked to the
Snail?"

"Perhaps I had better begin at the beginnin," contin-
ued Creighton, frowning at Holmes who refused to be so

suppressed.

"Why be so dramatic about it, old man? It's very
simple. Miss Ricky. Creighton has lost an author and he
wants you to help find him."

When Ricky's eyes involuntarily swept about the room,
Val joined in the laughter. "No, it isn't as easy as all that,
I'mafraid." Creighton had lost his nervous shyness. "But
what Holmes says is true. I have lost an author and do
hope mat you can help me locate the missing gentleman—or
lady. Two months ago an agent sent a manuscript to our
office for reading. It wasn't complete, but he thought it
was well worth our attention. It was.

"Although there were only five chapters finished, the
rest being but symopsis and elaborated scenes, we knew
that we had something—something big. We delayed report-
ing upon it until Mr. Brewster—our senior partner—returned
from Europe. Mr. Brewster has the final decision on all
manuscripts; he was as well pleased with this offering as
we were. Frankly, we saw possibilities of another great
success such as those other long historical novels which
have been so popular during the past few years.

"Queerly enough, the author's name was not upon the
papers sent us by the agent—that is, his proper name; there
was a pen-name. And when we applied to Mr. Lever, the
agent, we received a most unpleasant shock. The author's

179

Andre Norton

real name, which had been given in the covering letter
mailed with the manuscript to Mr. Lever, had most strangely
disappeared, due to some carelessness in his office.
"Now we have an extremely promising book and no

author—"
"What I can't understand," cut in Holmes, "is die

modesty of the author. Why hasn't he written to Lever?"

"That is the most unfortunate part of (he whole affair."
Mr. Creighton shook his head. "Lever recalled that the
chap had said in the letter that if Lever found the manu-
script unsalable he should destroy it, as the writer was
moving about and had no permanent address. The fellow
added that if he didn't hear from Lever he would assume
that it was not acceptable. Lever wrote to the address
given in the letter to acknowledge receipt, but that was

aU."
"Mysterious," Val commented, interested in spite of

himself.
"Just so. Lever deduced from the tone of the letter mat

the writer was very uncertain of his own powers and
hesitated to submit his manuscript. And yet, what we have
is a very fine piece of work, far beyond the ability of the
average beginner. The author must have written other

things.

"The novel is historical, with a New Orleans setting. Its

treatment is so detailed that only one who had lived here or
had close connections with this country could have pro-
duced it. Mr. Brewster, knowing that I was about to travel
south, asked me to see if I could discover our missing
author through his material. So far 1 have failed; our man

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RALESTONE LUCK

is unknown to any of the writers of the city or to any of
those interested in literary matters.

"Yet he knows New Orleans and its history as few do
today except those of old family who have been born and
bred here. Dr. Hanly Richardson of Tulane University has
assured me that much of the material used is authentic—
historically correct to the last detail. And it was Dr. Rich-
ardson who suggested that several of the scenes must have
actually occurred, becoming with the passing of time part
of the tradition of some aristocratic family.

"The period of the story is that time of transition when
Louisiana passed from Spain to France and then under the
control of the United States.. It covers the years immedi-
ately precediing the Battle of New Orleans. Unfortunately,
those were years of disturbance and change. Events which
might have been the talk of the town, and so have found
description in gossipy memoirs, were swallowed by hap-
penings of national importance. It is, I believe, in intimate
family records only that I can find the clue I seek."

"Which scenes"—Richy's eyes shone in me firelight—
"are those Dr. Richardson believes real?"

"Well, he was very certain that the duel of the twin
brothers must have occurred— Why, Mr. Ralestone," he
interrupted himself as the stick Val was about to place on
the fire fell from his hands and rolled across the floor.
"Mr. Ralestone, what is the matter?"

Across his shoulder Ricky signaled her brother. And
above her head Val saw Holmes' eyes narrow shrewdly.

"Nothing. I'm sorry I was so clumsy." Val stooped
hurriedly to hide his confusion.
181




Andre Norton

"A duel between twin brothers." Ricky twisted one of
the buttons which marched down the front of her sport

dress. "That sounds exciting."

"They fought at midnight"—Creighton was enthralled
by the story he was telling—"and one was left for dead.
The scene is handled with restraint and yet you'd think that
the writer had been an eye-witness. Now if such a thing
ever did happen, there would have been a certain amount

of talk afterwards—''
Charity nodded. "The slaves would have spread the

news," she agreed, "and the person who found me wounded

twin."

Val kept his eyes upon me hearthstone. There was no

stain there, but his vivid imagination painted the gray as
red as it had been that cold night when the slave woman
had come to find her master lying there, her brother's
sword across his body. Someone had used the story of the
missing Ralestone. But who today knew that the story
except themselves, Charity, LeFleur, and some of the

blacks.

"And you think that some mention of such an event

might be found in the papers of me family concerned?"
asked Ricky. She was leaning forward in her chair, her

lips parted eagerly.

"Or in those of some other family covering the same

period," Creighton added. "I realize that this is an imperti-
nence on my part, but I wonder if such mention might not
be found among the records of your own house. From
what 1 have seen and heard, your family was very promi-
nent in the city affairs of that time—"
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RALESTONE LUCK

Ricky stood up. "There is no need to ask, Mr. Creighton.
My brother and I will be most willing to help you.
Unfortunately, Rupert is very much immersed in a busi-
ness matter just now, but Val and I will go through the
papers we have."

Val choked down the protest that was on his lips just in
time to nod agreement. For some reason Ricky wanted to
keep the secret. Very well, he would play her game. At
least he would until he knew what lay behind her desire for
silence.

"That is most kind," Creighton was beaming upon both
of them. "I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your
cooperation in this matter—"

"Not at all," answered Ricky with that deceptive soft-
ness in her voice which masked her rising temper. "We
are only too grateful to be allowed to share a secret."

And then her brother guessed that she did not mean
Creighton's secret but some other. She crossed the room
and rang the bell for Letty-Lou to bring coffee. Something
triumphant in her step added to Val's suspicion. Like the
Englishman of Kipling's poem, Ricky was most to be
feared when she grew polite. He turned in time to see her
wink at Charity.

Rupert came in just then, wet and thoroughly out of
sorts, full of the evidences he had discovered on Ralestone
lands bordering the swamp that strangers had been camping
there. Their guests all stayed to supper, lingering long
about the table to discuss Rupert's find, so that Val did not
get a chance to be alone with Ricky to demand an
explanation. And for some reason she seemed to be adroitly

183

Andre Norton

avoiding him. He did have her almost cornered in the
upper hall when Letty-Lou came up behind him and plucked

at his sleeve.
"Mistuh Val," she said, "that Jeems boy wants to see

yo'all."

"Brother Jeems!" Val exploded, his eyes on Ricky's

back. But he stepped into the bedroom where the swamper

was still imprisoned by Lucy's orders.

The boy was propped up on his pillows, looking out of
the window. His body was tense. At the sound of Val's
step he turned his bandaged head.

"Can't yo' git me outa heah?" he demanded.

"Why?"
"The watah's up!" His eyes were upon me Water-filled

darkness of the garden.

"But that's all right," the other assured him. "Sam
says that it won't reach the top of the levee. At the worst,
only the lower part of die garden will be flooded."

Jeems glanced at Val over his shoulder and then without
a word he edged toward the side of the bed and tried to
stand. But with a muffled gasp he sank back again, pak
and weak. Awkwardly Val forced him back against his

pillows.

"It's all right," he assured him again.
But in answer me swamper shook his head violently, "It

ain't all right in the swamp."

In a flash Val caught his meaning. Swampers lived on
house-boats for me most part, and the boats will outride all
but unusual floods. But Jeems' cabin was built on land,

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RALESTONE LUCK

land none too stable even in dry weather. The swamp boy
touched Val's hand.

"It ain't safe. Two of them piles is rotted. If the watah
gits that far, they'll go."

"You mean the piles holding up your cabin platform?',
Val asked.

He nodded. For a second Val caught a glimpse of
forlorn loneliness beneath the sullen mask Jeems habitually
wore.

"But there's nothing you can do now—"

"It ain't the cabin. Ah gotta git the chest—"

"The one in the cabin?"

His black eyes were fixed upon Val's, and then they
swerved and rested upon the wall behind the young
Ralestone.

"Ah gotta git the chest," he repeated simply.

And Val knew that he would. He would get out of bed
and go into the swamp after that treasure of his. Which left
only one thing for Val to do.

"I'll get the chest, Jeems. Let me have your key to the
cabin. I'll take the outboard motor and be back before I'm
missed."

"Yo' don't know the swamp—"
"I know how to find the cabin. Where's the key?"
"In theah," he pointed to the highboy.
Val's fingers closed about the bit of metal.
"Mistuh," Jeems straightened, "Ah won't forgit this."
Val glanced toward the downpour without.
"Neither will I, in all probability," he said dryly as he
went out.




Andre Norton

It had been on just such a night as this that the missing
Ralestone had gone out into the gloom. But he was coming
back again, Val reminded himself hurriedly. Of course he
was. With a shake he pulled on his trench-coat and Slipped
out the front door unseen.

14

PIRATE WAYS
ARE HIDDEN WAYS

The rain, fme and needlelike, stung Val's face. There was
ominous pools of water gathering in the garden depressions.
Even the small stream which bisected their land had grown
from a shallow trickle into a thick, mud-streaked roll
crowned with foam.

But the bayou was the worst. It had put off its everyday
sleepiness with a, roar. A chicken coop wallowed by as the
boy struggled with the knot of the painter which held the
outboard. And after the coop traveled a dead tree, its
topmost branches bringing up against the plantation land-
ing with a crack. Val waited for it to whirl on before he
got on board his craft.

Andre Norton

The adventure was more serious than he had thought. It
might not be a case of merely going downstream and into
the swamp to the cabin; it might be a case of fighting the
rising water in grim battle. Why he did not turn back to the
house then and there he never knew. What would have
happened if he had? he sometimes speculated afterward. If
Ricky had not come into the garden to hunt him? If

together they had not—
While Val went with the current, his voyage was ease

itself. But when he strove to cut across and so reach the
mouth of the hidden swampstream, he narrowly escaped
upsetting. As it was, he fended off some dark blot bobbing
through he water, his palm meeting it with a force that

jarred his bones.

But he did make the mouth of the swampstream. Switch-
ing on the strong search-light in the bow, he.headed on.
And because he was moving now against the current, it
seemed that he lost two feet for every one that he advanced.

The muddy water was whipped into foam where h tore
around shrub and willow. There were no longer any confin-
ing banks, only a waste of water glittering through the
dark foliage. The drear habitat of the vultures was being
swept bare by the scouring of the incoming streams, but its
moldy stench still arose stronger than ever, as if some
foulness were being stirred up from its ancient bed.

It was only by chance that Val found the drying rack
which marked the boundary of Jeems' property. Here fee
land was higher than the flood, which had not yet spread
inland. He tied the boat to a willow and splashed ashore.
In the lower portions of the path his feet sank into patches

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RALESTONE LUCK

of wet. Something which might have been—and probably
was—a snake oozed away from the beam of his pocket
torch.

The clearing was much as it had been, save that the door
of the chicken-run stood ajar and its feathered population
was gone. But under the cabin Val saw the betraying
sparkle of water. The bayou in the rear must have topped
flood level.

Someone had been there before him. The lock was
battered and there had been an attempt to pry loose its
staples, an attempt which had left betraying gouges on the
door frame. But misused as it had been, the lock yielded to
the key and Val went in. Warned by a lapping sound from
beneath it did not take him long to get the chest, relock
the door, and head back to the boat.

He was none too soon. Already, in the few moments of
his absence, there were rills cutting across the mud, rills
which were growing in strength and size. And the flood
around the drying rack was up a good three inches. Val
dumped the chest into the bow with little ceremony and
climbed in after it, his wet trousers clinging damply to his
legs. Something plate-armored and possessing wicked yel-
low eyes swam effortlessly through the light beam—a
'gator bound for the Gulf, whether he would or no.

The return as far as the bayou was easy enough, for
again the boat was borne on the current. But when Val
faced the torn waters of the river he experienced a certain
tightness of throat and chill of blood. What might have
been the roof of a small shed was passing lumpily as he
hesitated. Then came a tree burdened with a small 'coon

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which stared at the boy piteously, its eyes green in the
Sight. An eddy sent its ship close to the boat; the top
branches clung a moment to the bow. And to Val's surprise,
the 'coon roused itself to a mighty effort and crossed into
the egg-shell safety the boat offered. Once in the outboard,
it retreated to the bow where it crouched beside the chest
and kept a wary eye on Val's every movement.

But he could not rescue the wildcat which swept by
spitting at the water from a log, nor the shivering doe
which awaited the coming of death, marooned on an islet
which was fast being cut away by the hungry waters. And
all the time the stinging rain fed the flood.

Val gripped the rudder until the bar was printed deep
across his palm. Soon it would be too late. He must cross
now, heading diagonally downstream to escape the full
fury of the current. With a deep breath he turned out into

the bayou.

It was like fighting some vast animated featherbed. His

greatest efforts were as nothing against the overpowering
sweep seaward. And there was constant danger from the
floating booty of the storm. The muddy spray lashed his
body, filling the bottom of his craft as if it were a tea-cup.
And once the boat was whirled almost around.

Val was beginning to wonder just how long a swimmer
might last in that black fog of rain, wind, and water when
his bow eased into comparatively quiet water. He had
crossed the main current; now was the time to head
upstream. Grimly he did, to begin a struggle which was to
take on all the more horrible properties of a nightmare. For

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this was many times worse than his fight against the
swampstream.

Twice the engine sputtered protestingly and Val thought
of trying to leap ashore. But stubbornly the outboard fought
on. If there ever were a sturdy ship, fit to be named with
Columbus' gallant craft or Hudson's vessel, it was that
frail outboard which buffeted the rising waters of a Louisi-
ana bayou gone flood mad.

It achieved the impossible; it crept upstream inch by
inch, escaping disaster after disaster by the thinness of a
dime. Since he had apparently not been born to drown,
Val thought as he saw his headlight touch the tip of the
landing, he would doubtless depart this life by hanging.

Then his light picked out something else which lay
between him and the landing. The sleek, knife-bowed
cruiser certainly did not belong to Pirate's Haven. And
what neighbor would come calling by water on such a
night? It was moored by two thick ropes to a sunken post,
and already the mooring was dragging the bow down. Val
headed in toward it, running the outboard between the
stranger and the landing.

Out of die blackness ashore a shadow arose and waved
at him frenziedly. Then he saw Ricky's white face above
her long oil-silk cape. Her hair was plastered tight to her
skull and she was protecting her eyes from the fury of the
rain with her hands.

Val sent the boat inshore until it bit into the crumbling
surface of the levee with a shock which threatened Ms
balance. Ricky snatched at the painter and held steady
while he jumped. They made the boat fast and Val landed

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the chest. The passenger did his own disembarking, mak-
ing his way into the garden without a backward-look. Then

Val demanded an explanation.
"What are you doing here?" he tried to outscreech the

wind.
In answer she clapped her wet, muddy hand across his

mouth and pulled him back from the levee.

They reached the semi-shelter of a rotting summer-
house where he put down the chest. Ricky pushed her wet
hair out of her eyes. It was impossible for them to hear
each other without screaming madly.

"Jeems told me—after you left—Val! How could you

be so mad!"

"I made it." He touched the chest with his toe. "After
we had practically kidnapped him, we couldn't let his
belongings just float away. But why are you out here? And

where did that boat come from?"

"I came out here after Jeems told me. I'm all right."
She laughed shakily. "I've got my oldest clothes on—and
this," she touched her cape. "1 couldn't stay in there-
waiting—after I knew. And I didn't want Rupert to ask
questions. So I said that I was going to bed with a headache.
Then I slipped out here to the levee. And I hadn't been
here two minutes before that boat came downstream. There
were four men in it and they got out and went into the
bushes over there. And, Val, Rupert is down at the other
end of the garden where they are having trouble with the
levee. Holmes and Creighton went down to see if they
could help, too, just after you left. There's nobody but

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Charity up at the house with Lucy and Letty-Lou. Val,
what are we going to do?" she appealed to him.

"First I'll investigate these visitors," he said easily,
though he felt far from easy within.

"Me too," she said firmly if ungrammatically, and
since Val could not wait to argue, she went along.

They took the route she had watched the invaders follow,
wriggling through wet bushes and around trees.

"Val, look out!" She grabbed his arm and so saved him
from tumbling headlong into a black hole in the ground.
Vines and a small shrub or two had been ruthlessly torn
out to bare the opening. It was here that the visitors must
have gone to earth. And then Val had a glimmering of the'
truth; the "Boss" and his friends had at last found Jeems'
private door.

Prudence urged that they return to the house and send
Sam Two or some other messenger down to the cross-
roads store to summon the police by phone. Prudence
however had never successfully advised any Ralestone.
They had a decided taste for righting their own battles. So,
torch in hand, Val dropped into the hole. And a moment
later Ricky slid do to join him.

They stood in a rough passage. Stout timbers banked its
sides and guarded the roof. There was a damp under-
ground smell such as Val had noted in the cellar of the
house, but the air was fresh enough. After the first hasty
survey, the boy held his fingers over the bulb of the
flash-Sight so that only the faintest glimmer escaped to
light their path.

The passage was short, ending abruptly in a low bricked
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room. Save for themselves, a tangle of rotting rope in a far
corner, and two lively black beetles, it was empty.

"Val," Ricky's throaty whisper reached him, "can't
you guess what this is? The first pirate Ralestone's

storage-house!"

It was a likely enough explanation—though nothing could
have been stored there very long; the place was too damp.
Beads of slimy moisture from the walls dripped slowly
down, shining like silver in the light.

At the other side of the room was a corridor branching
away. But this they barely glanced into, little knowing how
that neglect was to prove disastrous in the end. It was the
main door to their right which interested them most, for
that led, so far as Val could determine, toward the house.
And that must have been the one the mysterious visitors

had followed.
Thus they came into the second of their pirate ancestor's

store-rooms. This one was long and narrow. Three wooden
casks eaten with decay and spotted with fungus stood
against the wall, testifying to the use to which this cham-
ber had been put, though the all-pervading damp could not

have been good for the wine.

Again a dark archway tempted them on, and the third
room into which they came had a more grim reminder of
the scarlet past of the house. For Ricky stumbled over
something which clinked dully. And when Val used the
flash they looked down upon a telltale length of chain
ending in an iron ring, its other end soldered into the wall.

"Val," Ricky's voice quavered, "did—did they keep

people here?''

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"Slaves, perhaps," her brother answered soberly and
shoved the rusting metal aside with his foot. But there
were two other chains hanging frcm the wall, speaking of
past horrors of which he did not care to think.

And then as their light picked out these damning
testimonials, Val thought that the Ralestones, for all their
pride and fine, brave airs, had been only pirates after all,
akin to those whom they were now hunting through the
dark.

There was a low arched doorway of brick on the right
side of the room, and this they passed through. Beyond
were three broad stone steps, worn a little on the treads,
one cracked clear across. These led to a wide landing
paved with brick. Here the walls were brick as" well.
Ricky touched one involuntarily and drew back her hand
with a little exclamation of disgust. She wiped her palm
vigorously on the wet surface of her cape.

Everywhere was the smell of rot and slow, vile decay.
In spite of its historical associations, decided Val, this
vault should be sealed forever from the daylight and left to
the sole occupancy of those nameless things .which creep
in its dark. The very air, in spite of its freshness, seemed
tainted.

Another flight of stairs was before them, the treads
fashioned of stone but equipped with a rotted wooden
hand-rail. And above was the faint reflection of light and
the sound of voices. Val hesitated and realized for the first
time how foolhardy their expedition was.

Those above would be prepared to handle interruptions.
Val was determined to keep Ricky out of trouble, and to

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go on alone was the rankest folly. But, as he hesitated, the
decision was taken out of his hands, for the light above
suddenly became brighter. Grabbing at Ricky's arm, he
stumbled back into the shelter of the archway, pulling her

after him.
A round circle of light shone plainly at the top of die

stairs. Someone was coming down. Ricky's breath was
warm on Val's cheek and she moved with a faint crackling
of her cape which sounded as loud as a thunderclap in his

ears.

"How're we gonna do it without bustin' the wall down?"

demanded an aggrieved voice from the top of the stairs.
"There ain't no knob, no handle, no nothin' to work it
from this side. And these guys what stored their stuff here
in the boot-leggin' days never got into the house."

"The boy got through, didn't he?" Val knew that voice,
the Boss of the swamp meeting. "Well, if he did, we

can."

"Lissen, Boss, it's a secret, ain't it? An' we gotta know

how it works before we can work it. An' lissen here, you
swamp bum, you keep outta my way—see? I don't care if
you were one of Mike Flannigan's boys; that don't cut no
ice with me." This truculent warning must have been
addressed to an unseen companion on the same stair level.
The listeners below heard a faint sound which might have
marked a collision and then the hiss of swamp French
spoken hurriedly and angrily.

"What're you gonna do now. Boss?"

The light half-way down the stairs paused. "There is

some way of opening that panel—"
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RALESTONE LUCK

"An' we gotta find it. All right, all right. But tell me
how."

"I don't know whether it will be necessary to open
it—from this side."

"What d'ya mean?"

"Use that thick skull of yours. Red. Doors swing two
ways, don't they? They can be used either to go in or to
go out."

"Got it!" The thick voice was oily with flattering
approval. "We can get out this way—"

"Smart work. Red. Did you think that out all by
yourself?" asked the other contemptuously. "Yes, we can
come out this way when"—his voice was sharp with
purpose—"we are finished. Send one of these swampers
down to the levee where the men are working. As long as
this flood keeps rising we're safe. Then the other three of
us will go for the house. We may be seen that way, but
there's no use spending any more time here playing tick-
tack-toe on that wood up there. We locate what we want,
and if we're cornered we can come out through here to the
bayou. Slick enough."

"Great stuff, Boss—" Red began. But the rest was
muffled, for Ricky and Val drew back into the room of the
chains. There was only one thing to do now—reach Rupert
and the others and prepare to meet these skulkers in the
open. But before they had quite crossed the room Ricky
came to grief. She caught her foot in one of those grue-
some chains and stumbled forward, falling on her hands
and knee. The noise of her fall echoed around the low
chamber with betraying clamor.

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A white light beat upon them as Val stooped to aid

Ricky.

"Stop!" came the shout, but Val had only one thought,
to dim that light. He swung back his arm and flung his
own flash straight at the other. There was a grunt of pain
and the light fell to the floor. With the tinkle of breaking
glass it went out. Val pulled Ricky to her feet and threw
her toward the door, forgetting everything but the wild
panic which urged him out of that place of foul darkness.
They bruised their hands against the brick as they felt for
the opening, and then they were out in the other chamber.

"Val," Ricky clung to him, "I've got that little flash I
keep under my pillow at night. Wait a minute until I get it
out of my pocket. We can't find our way out of here

without a light."

Muffled sounds from behind them suggested that their
pursuers were on the trail even without light. After all,
given time enough, it would be easy for them to feel their
way out of the vaults. Val hustled Ricky on, taking his
direction from one of the wine-casks he had bumped- into.
And before he-allowed her to hunt for her torch they stood

in the first of the chambers.

The light she produced was poor and it flickered
wamingly. But it was good enough for them to see the
dark opening which led to the outer world. They ducked
into this just as the first of the other party came cursing
into the open. At Val's orders, Ricky switched off the light
and they crept along by the wall, one hand on its guiding

surface.

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RALESTONE LUCK

But the way seemed longer than it had upon their entering.
Surely they should have reached the garden entrance by
now. And the surface underfoot remained level instead of
slanting upward. Suddenly Ricky gave a little cry.

"We've taken the wrong passage! There's only a blank
wall in front of us!"

She was right. The torch showed a brick surface across
their path, and Val remembered too late the second pas-
sage out of the first chamber. They must go back and hope
to elude the others in the dark.

"They may have all gone out, thinking we were still
ahead of them," he mused aloud.

"Well, it's got to be done," Ricky observed, "so we
might as well do it."

Back they went along the unknown passage. This appeared
to run straight out from the first chamber. But why it had
been fashioned and then walled up they had no way of
knowing. Ricky's torch picked out the entrance at last.

"Wait," Val cautioned her, "we had better see how the
land lies before we go out in the open."

They stood listening. Save for the constant drip, drip of
water, there was no sound.
"I guess it's clear," he said.

"Wonder where all the water is coming from?" Ricky
shivered.

"Down from the garden. Come on, I think it's safe to
have a light now."

Ricky must have been holding the torch upward when
She pressed the button, for the round circle of light ap-
peared on the supporting timbers above the door. They

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both looked up, fascinated for a moment. The old oak had
been laid in a crisscross pattern, the best support possible
in the days when the vaults had been made.

"How wet—" began Ricky.

Val cried out suddenly and struck at her. The blow sent
her sprawling some three or four feet back in the passage.
There might be time yet to cover her body with his own,

he planned desperately, before—

The sound of slipping earth was all about them as Val
flung himself toward Ricky. As he thrust blindly at her
body, rolling her back farther into the tunnel, he felt the
first clod strike full upon his shoulder. Ricky's complain-
ing whimper was the last thing he heard clearly. For out of
the dark came the crash of breaking timber.

He was felled by a stroke across the upper arm, and then
followed a chill darkness in which he was utterly swallowed

up.

15

PIECES OF EIGHT—
RALESTONES' FATE!

200

Through the dull roaring which filled his ears Val heard a
sharp call:

"Val! Val, where are you? Val!"

He stared up into utter blackness.

"Val!"

"Here, Ricky!" But that thin thread of a whisper surely
didn't belong to him. He tried again and achieved a sort of
croak. Something moved behind him and there was an
answering rattle of falling clods.

"Val, I'm afraid to move," her voice wavered unsteadily.
"It seems to be falling yet. Where are you?"

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The boy tried to investigate, only to find himself more
securely fastened than if he had been scientifically bound.
And now that the mists had cleared from him, his spine
and back felt a sharp pain to which he was no stranger.
From his breast-bone down he was held as if in a vise.

"Are you hurt, Ricky?" He formed the words slowly.
Every breath he drew thrust a red-hot knife between his
ribs. He turned his head toward her, pillowing his cheek
on the gritty clay.

"No. But where are you, Val? Can't you come to me?"

"Sorry. L)n—unavoidably detained," he gasped. "Don't
try any crawling or the rest may come down on us."

"Val! What's the matter? Are you hurt?" Her questions
cut sharply through the darkness.
. "Banged up a little. No"—he heard the rustle which
betrayed her movements—"don't try to come to me—Please,

Ricky!"

But with infinite caution she came, until her brother felt
the edge of her cape against his face. Then her questing
hand touched his throat and slid downward to his shoulders.

"Val!" He knew what horror colored that cry as she
came upon what imprisoned him.

"It's all right, Ricky. I'm just pinned in. If I don't try to
move I'm safe." Quickly he tried to reassure her.

"Val, don't lie to me now—you're hurt!"

"It's not bad, really, Ricky—"

"Oh!" There was a single small cry and a moment of
litter silence and then a hurried rustling.

"Here." Her hand groped for his head. "I've wadded
up my cape. Can I slip it under your head?"
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RALESTONE LUCK

"Better not try just yet. Anything might send off the
landslide again. Just—just give me a minute or two to—to
sort of catch my breath." Catch his breath, when every
sobbing gasp he drew was a stab!

"Can't we—can't I lift some of the stuff off?" she
asked.

"No. Too risky."

"But—but we can't stay here—,' Her voice trailed off
and it was then that she must have realized for the first
time just what had happened to them.

"I'm afraid we'll have to, Ricky," said her brother
quietly.

"But, Val—Val, what if—if—"

"If we aren't found?" he put her fear into words. "But
we will be. Rupert is doubtless moving a large amount of
earth right now to accomplish that."

"Rupert doesn't know where we are." She had regained
control of both voice and spirit. "We—we may never be
found, Val."

"I was a fool," he stated plainly a fact which he now
knew to be only too true.

"I would have come even if you hadn't, Val," she
answered generously and untruthfully. It was perhaps the
kindest thing she had ever said.

Now that the noise of the catastrophe had died away
they could hear again the drip of water. And that sound
tortured Val's dry throat. A glass of cool water—He turned
his head restlessly.

"If we only had a light," came Ricky's wish.

"The flash is probably buried."

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"Val, will—will it be fun?"
"What?" he demanded, suddenly alert at her tone. Had

the dark and their trouble made her light-headed?

"Being a ghost. We—we could walk the hall with
Great-uncle Rick; he wouldn't begrudge us that,"

"Ricky! Stop it!"

Her answering laugh, though shaky, was sane enough.

"I do pick the wrong times to display my sense of
humor, don't I? Val, is it so very bad?"

Something within him crumbled at that question.

"Not so good. Lady," he replied in spite of the resolu-
tions he had made.

She brushed back the hair glued by perspiration to his
forehead. Ricky was not gold, he thought, for gold is a
rather dirty thing. But she was all steel, as clean and
shining as a blade fresh from the hands of a master armorer.
He made a great effort and found that he could move his
right arm an inch or two. Concentrating all his strength
there, he wriggled it back and forth until he could draw it
free from the wreckage. But his left, shoulder and side
were numb save for the pain which came and went.

"Got my arm free," Val told her exultantly and reached
up to feel for her in the dark. His fingers closed upon
coarse cloth. He pulled feebly and something rolled toward

him.

"What's this?"
Ricky's hands slid along his arm to the thing he had

found. He could hear her exploring movements.

"It's some sort of a bundle. I wonder "where it came

from."

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RALESTONE LUCK

"Some more remains of die jolly pirate days, I suppose."
"Here's something else. A bag, 1 think. Ugh! It smells
nasty! There's a hole in it— Oh, here's a piece of money.
At least it feels like money. There's more in the bag." She
pressed a disk about as large as a half-dollar into Val's
palm.

"Pirate loot—" he began. Anything that would keep
them from thinking of where they were and what had
happened was to be welcomed.

"Val"—he could hear her move uneasily—"remember
that old saying: "Pieces of eight—Ralestones' fate?"
"All good families have curses," he reminded her.
"And good families can have—can have accidents, too."
There could be no answer to that. Nor did Val feel like
answering. The savage pain in his legs and back had given
way to a kind of numbness. A chill not caused by the dank
air crawled up his body. What—what if his injuries were
worse than he had thought? What if—if—-
The dripping of the water seemed louder, and it no
longer fell with the same rhythm. Ricky must be counting
money from the bag. He could hear the clink of metal
against stone as she dropped a piece.
"Don't lose it," he muttered foggily.
"Lose what?"
"Your pieces of eight."
"What do you mean?"

"I haven't touched— Val, do—do you feel worse?"
But he had no thought now for his body. If Ricky had
not dropped the money, then what had caused the clink?
He ground his cheek against the clay. Thud. thud, clink,

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thud. That was not water dripping nor coin rattling. That
was the sound of digging. And digging meant—
"Ricky! They're digging! I can hear them!"
Her fingers closed about his free hand until the nails dug

into the flesh. "Where?"

"I don't know. Listen!"

The sound had grown in strength until now, though
muffled, it sounded through that part of the passage still

remaining open.

"It comes from this end. From behind that wall. But

why should it come from there?"

"Does it matter? Val, do you suppose they could hear

me if I pounded on the wall at mis side?"

"You haven't anything heavy enough to pound with."

"Yes, I have. This package thing that you found. It's
quite heavy. Val, we've got to let them know we're here!"

She crawled away, moving with caution lest she bring
on another slide. That reassuring thud, thud still sounded.
Then, after long minutes, Val heard the answering blow
from their side. Three times Ricky struck before the rhythm
of the digging was broken. Then there was silence fol-
lowed by three sharp blows. They had heard!

Ricky beat a perfect tattoo in joy and was quickly
answered. Then the thud, thud began again, but this time

the pace was quickened.

"They've heard! They're coming!" Ricky's voice shrilled

until it became a scream. "Val, we're found!"

A clod was loosened somewhere above them and crashed
upon the wreckage. Would the efforts of their rescuers
bring on another slide?

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RALESTONE LUCK

"Be quiet, Ricky," Val croaked a warning, "it's still
moving."

Then there came the sharp clink of metal against stone.
"Val," called Ricky, "they're right against the wall now!"

"Come back here, away from it. We—we don't want
you caught, too," he answered her.

Obediently she crawled back to him and again he felt
her hand close about his. The sound of metal grating
against stubborn brick filled their pocket of safety. But as
an ominous accompaniment came the soft hiss of earth
sliding onto the wreckage. Which would win to them first,
the rescuers or the second slide?

There was a vicious grinding noise from the walled end
of the passage. A moment later a blinding ray of light
swung in, to focus upon them.

"Ricky! Val!"

Val was blinking stupidly at the light, but Ricky had
presence of mind enough to answer.

"Here we are!"

"Look out," Val roused enough to warn, "the walls are
unsafe!"

"We're coming through," rang the answer out of the
dark. "Stand away!"

Now that they could see, Val realized for me first time
the danger of their position. A jagged, water-rotten beam
half covered with clay and sand lay across him, and beyond
mat was a mass of splintered wood and wet earth. A little
sick, he looked up at Ricky. She was staring at the wreckage.
Her eyes were black in a white, mud-smeared face.

"Vai—Val!" His name came as the thinnest of whispers.

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"It isn't as bad as it looks," he said hurriedly.
"Something underneath must be supporting most of the
weight or—or I wouldn't be here at all."

"Val," she repeated, and then, paying no heed to his
frantic injunctions to keep away, she dug at earth and
rotten wood with her hands. Using the long bundle clum-
sily wrapped in stained canvas, she levered a piece of
beam out of the way so that she might get down on her
knees and scoop up the sand and clay.

"Ricky! Val!" The light swung ahead as someone scram-
bled through the hole in the barrier wall. Then, when the
ray held firm upon them, the headlong rush was checked

for a long instant. "Val!"

"Get her—away," he begged. "Another—slip—"
But before he had done, a long arm gathered Ricky up
as if she had been a child. "Right," came the firm answer.
"Sam, take Miss 'Chanda back. Then—"

Val was watching the reflection of the flash on the
broken roof above him. Sand slid in tiny streams down the
wall, mingling with die greenish trickles of water. There
were queer blue and green arcs painted on the brick which
had something to do with the hot pain behnid his eyes. The
blue turned to orange—to scarlet—
"Careful! Right here in the hall, Holmes—"
The broken earth above him had somehow been changed
to a high celing, die chill darkness to blazing light and

warmth.

"Ricky?" he asked.

"Here, Val." Her face was very close to his.
"You—are—all—right?"

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" 'Course!" But she was crying. "Don't try to talk,
Val. Yo.u must be quiet."

He heard someone moving toward them but he kept his
eyes on Ricky's face. "We did it!"

"Yes," she answered slowly, "we did it."

"Val, don't try to talk." Rupert's face showed above
Ricky's hunched shoulder. There was an odd, strained
look about his mouth, a smear of mud across his cheek.
But the harsh tone of his voice struck his brother as dumb
as if he had slapped him.

"Sorry," Val shaped the words stiffly, "all my fault."

"Nothing's your fault," Ricky's indignant answer cut
in. "But—but just be quiet, Val, until the doctor comes."

He turned his head slowly. On the hearth-stone stood
Charity talking quietly to Holmes. Just within the circle of
the firelight lay a bundle which he had seen before. But of
course, that was the thing they had found in the passage,
which Ricky had used to pound out their answer to Rupert.

"Ricky—" Val always believed that it was some in-
stinct out of the past which forced that whisper out of
him—"Ricky, open that package."

"Why—" she began, but then she got to her feet and
went to the bundle, twisting the tarred rope that fastened it
in a vain attempt to undo the intricate knots. It was Holmes
who produced a knife and sawed through the tough cord.
And it was Holmes who unrolled the strips of canvas,
oil-silk, and greasy skins. But it was Ricky who took up
what lay within and held it out so that it reflected both red
firelight and golden room light.

Her brother's sigh was one of satisfaction.

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Andr6 Norton

For Ricky held aloft by its ponderous hilt a great war
sword. There could be no doubt in any of them—the Luck
of Lome had returned.

"We found it!" breathed Ricky.

"Put it in its place," Val ordered.

Without a word, Rupert drew out a chair and scrambled
up. Taking from Ricky's hands the ancient weapon, he
slipped it into the niche their pirate ancestor had made for
it. In spite of me years underground, the metal of hilt and
blade was clear. Seven hundred years of history—their

Luck!

"Everything will come right again,', Val repeated as
Ricky came back to him. "You'll see. Everything—will—

be—all—right."

His eyes closed in spite of his efforts. He was back in
the darkness where he could only feel the warmth of
Ricky's hands clasped about his.

210

16

RALESTONES STAND TOGETHER

"1 like Louisiana," drawled Holmes lazily from his perch
on the window-seat. ' "The most improbable things happen
here. One finds secret passages under houses and medieval
war swords stuck in drains. Then there are 'things that go
boomp in the night,' too. It might be worth settling down
here—''

"Not for you," cut in Charity briskly. "Too far from
the bright lights for you, my man."

"Just for that," he triumphed, "I shall not return this
lost property found under a cushion of the couch in the
hall."

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Andr€ Norton

At the sight of that familiar black note-book, Val shifted
uneasily on his pillows. Rupert got up.

"Tired, old man?" he asked and reached to straighten
one of his brother's feather-stuffed supports.

Val shook his head. Being bandaged like a mummy was
wearying, but one had to humor two broken ribs and a
fractured collar-bone.

"Sometimes," replied Charity, "you are just too clever,
Mr. Judson Holmes. That does not happen to be my

property."

"No?" He flipped it open and held it up so that she
might see what lay within. "I'll admit that it isn't your
usual sort of stuff, but—"

She was staring at the drawings. "No, that isn't mine.

But who—"

Ricky got up from the end of Val's cot and went to
look. Then she turned, her eyes shining with excitement.
"You're trying them again! But, Val, you said you never

would."

"Give me that book!" he ordered grimly. But Rupert
had calmly collected the trophy and was turning over the
pages one by one. Val made a horrible face at Ricky and
resigned himself to the inevitable.

"How long have you been doing this sort of thing?" his
brother asked as he turned the last page.

"Ever so long," Ricky answered for Val brightly. "He
used to draw whole letters from them when we were at
school. There were two sets, one for good days and the
other for bad."

212

RALESTONE LUCK

"And now," Val cut in, "suppose we just forget the
whole matter. Will you please let me have that!"

"Rupert, don't let him go all modest on us now," urged
the demon sister. "One retiring violet in the family is
enough."

"And who is the violet? Your charming self?" inquired
Holmes.

"No." Ricky smiled pleasantly. "Only Mr. Creighton
might be interested in the contents of Bluebeard's Chamber.
What do you think, Rupert?"

At that audacious hint, Val remembered the night of the
storm and Ricky's strange attitude then.

"So Rupert's the missing author," he commented lightly.
"Well, well, well."

Charity's indulgent smile faded, and Holmes, suddenly
alert, leaned forward. Rupert stared at Val for a long
moment, his face blank. Was he going to retire behind his
wall of reserve from which their venture underground had
routed him? Or was he going to remain the very human
person who had spent eight hours of every day at his
brother's beck and call for the past few weeks?

"Regular Charlie Chan, aren't you?" he asked mildly.

Val's sigh of relief was echoed by Ricky. "Thanks—so
much," Val replied humbly in the well-known manner of
the famous detective Rupert had likened him to.

"Then we are right?" asked Ricky.

Rupert's eyebrows slid upward. "You seemed too sure
to be in doubt," he commented.

"Well, I was sure at times. But then no one can ever be
really sure of anything about you," she admitted frankly.

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Andr6 Norton

"But why—" protested Charity.

"Why didn't I spread the glad tidings that I was turning
out the great American novel?" he asked. "I don't know.
Perhaps I am a violet—no?" He looked pained at Ricky's
snort of dissent. "Or perhaps I just don't like to talk about
things which may never come true. When I didn't hear
from Lever, I thought that my worst forebodings were
realized and that my scribbling was worthless. But you
know," he paused to fill his pipe, "writing is more or less
like the drug habit. I've told stories all my life, and I
found myself tied to my typewriter in spite of my
disappointment. As for talking about it—well, how much
has Val ever said about these?" He ruffled the pages of the

note-book provokingly.

"Nothing. And you would never have seen those if I
could have prevented it," his brother replied. "Those are

for my private satisfaction only."

"Two geniuses in one family." Ricky rolled her eyes
heavenward. "This is almost too, too much!"

"Jeems," Val ordered, "you're the nearest. Can't you

make her shut up?"

"Just let him try," said his sister sweetly. The swamper
grinned but made no move to stir from his chair.

Jeems had become as much a part of Pirate's Haven as
the Luck, which Val could see from his cot glimmering
dully in its niche in the Long Hall. The swamper's confine-
ment in the sick-room had paled his heavy tan and he had
lost the sullen frown which had made him appear so old
and bitter. Now, dressed in a pair of Val's white slacks

214

RALESTONE LUCK

and a shirt from his wardrobe, Jeems was as much at ease
in his surroundings as Rupert or Holmes.

It had been Jeems who had saved Ricky and Val on that
night of terror when they had been trapped in the secret
ways of their private ancestors. Sam Two had trailed
Ricky to the garden and had witnessed their entering the
tunnel. But fear of the dark unknown had kept him from
venturing in after them. So he had lingered there long
enough to see the invaders come out and take to the river.
Catching some words of theirs about a cave-in, he had
gone pelting off to Rupert with the story.

The investigating party from the levee had discovered.
to their horror, the passage choked for half its length. They
were making a futile and dangerous attempt to clear it
when Jeems appeared on the scene. Letty-Lou having
given him a garbled account of events, he had staggered
from his bed in an effort to reach Rupert. He alone knew
the underground ways as well as he knew the garden. And
so once getting Rupert's attention, he had set them to work
in the cellar cutting through to the one passage which
paralleled the foundation walls.

In the weeks which followed their emergence from the
threatened tomb, the swamper had unobtrusively slipped
into a place in the household. While Val was frightening
his family by indulging in a bout of fever to complicate his
injuries, Jeems was proving himself a tower of strength
and a person to be relied upon. Even Lucy had once
asked his opinion on the importance of a fire in the hall, and
with that his position was assured.

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Andre Norton

Of the invaders they had heard or seen no more, al-
though the police had visited Pirate's Haven on two sepa-
rate occasions, interviewing each and every member of the
household. They had also made a half-hearted attempt to
search the swamp. But for all die evidence they found,
Ricky and Val might have been merely indulging in an
over-vivid dream. Save that the Luck hung again in the

Long Hall.
"Seriously, though," Holmes drew Val's thoughts out

of the past, "these are worth-while. Would you mind if I
showed diem to a friend of mine who might be interested?''
Since Rupert had already nodded and Charity had handed
him die note-book, Val decided that he could hardly raise

a protest.
"Rupert," Charity glanced at him, "are you going to

see Creighton?"
"Since all has been discovered," he misquoted, "I

suppose dial that is all mere is left for me to do."

"Then you had better do it today; he's planning to leave
for die North tonight," she informed turn.

Rupert came to life. For all his pose of unconcern, he
was excited. In die long days Val had been tied to the cot
hurriedly set up in a comer of die drawing-room on the
night of die rescue—it had been thought wiser to move
him no farther dian necessary—he had found again die real
Rupert dley had known of old. There was little he could
conceal from his younger brother now—or so Val thought.

"Sam has die convertible," Rupert said. "There's some-
thing wrong widt die brakes and I told him to take it to

216

RALESTONE LUCK

town and have it looked over. Goodness only knows what
time he'll be back."

"See here, Ralestone," Holmes looked at his wrist-
watch, "I've the car I rented here widi me. Let me drive
you in. Charity has to go, anyway, and see about sending
off those sketches of hers."

"Oh, but we were going together," protested Ricky. "I
have some shopping to do."

"Very simple," Val suggested. "Why don't you all
go?"

"But dial would leave you alone." Rupert shook his
head.

"No. There's Jeems."

"I don't know," Rupert hesitated doubtfully.

"It doesn't reqire more than one person to wait on me at
present," Val said firmly. "Now all of you go. But
remember, I shall expect die Greeks to return bearing
gifts."

Holmes saluted. "Right you are, my hearty. Well, ladies,
die chariot awaits without."

In spite of dieir protests, Val at last got rid of them.
Since he had a project of his own, he was only too glad to
see die last of his oversolicitous family for awhile.

Val had never been able to understand why broken ribs
or a fractured collar-bone should chain one to the bed. And
since he had recovered from his wrenched back he was
eager to be up and around. In private, with the protesting
assistance of Sam Two, he had made a pilgrimage across
die room and back. And now it was his full intention to be
seated on die terrace when the family came home.

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Andre Norton

It was Lucy of all people who aided fortune to give him

his opportunity.

"Mistuh Val," she announced from the doorway as the
sound of the car pulling out of the drive signaled the
departure of the city-bound party, "them light's out agin."

"Another fuse gone? That's the second this week. Who's
been playing games?" he asked.

"This no-'count!" She dragged out of hiding from be-
hind her voluminous skirts her second son, a infant who
rejoiced in the name of Gustavus Adolphus and was gener-
ally called "Doff." At that moment he was sobbing nois-
ily and eyeing Val as if the boy were the Grand High
Executioner of Tartary. "Yo' tell Mistuh Val what yos
doin'!" commanded his mother, emphasizing her order

with a shake.

"Ain't done nothin'," wailed Doff. "Sam give me a
nickle an'say. 'Le's hab fun.' I puts the nickle in HI' hole,
then Mammy catched me."

"Doff seems to be the victim, Lucy," Val observed.

"Where's Sam?"

"Don' know. But I'm a-goin' to fin' out!" she stated
with ominous determination. "How I'm a-goin' git ironin'
done when dere ain't no heat fo' de iron, I asks yo'?"

"There are some fuses in the pantry and Jeems will put
one in for you," Val promised.

With a sniff Lucy withdrew, her fingers still hooked in
the collar of her tearful son. Jeems glanced at Val as he
went by the boy's cot. And Val didn't care for what he
read into that glance. Had the swamper by any foul chance
come to suspect Val's little plan?
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RALESTONE LUCK

But it all turned out just as he had hoped. Val made that
most momentous trip in four easy stages, resting on the big
chair where Rupert had spent so many hours, on the bench
by the window, in the first of the deck-chairs by the side
of the French doors leading to the terrace, and then he
reached the haven of the last deck-chair and settled down
just where he had intended. And when Jeems returned
there was nothing he could do but accept the fact that Val
had fled the cot.

"Miss Ricky won't like this," he prophesied darkly.
"Nor Mr. Rupert neither. Yo' wouldn't've tried if they'd
been heah."

"Oh, stop worrying. If you'd been tied to that cot the
way I've been, you'd be glad to get out here, too. It's
great!"

The sun was warm but the afternoon shadow of an oak
overhung his seat so that Val escaped the direct force of
the rays. A few feet away Satan sprawled full length,
giving a fine imitation of a cat that had rid himself of all
nine lives, or at least of eight and a half.

Never had the garden shown so rich a green. Ricky's
care had sharpened the lines of the flower-beds and had set
shrubs in their proper places. And the plants had repaid her
with a riot of blossoms. A breeze set the gray moss to
swaying from the branches of the oak. And a green grass-
hopper crossed the terrace in four great leaps, almost scrap-
ing Satan's ear in a fashion which might easily have been
fatal to the insect. Val sighed and slipped down lower in
his chair. "It's great," he murmured again.

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Andre Norton

"Sure is," Jeems echoed. He dropped down cross-
legged beside Val, disdaining the other chair.

Satan stretched without opening his eyes and yawned,
gaping to the fullest extent of his jaws, his tongue rising so
that it seemed pointed like a snake's. Then he rolled over
on his other side and curled up with his paws under his
chin. A bumblebee blundered by Val's head on its way to
visit the moming-glories. He suddenly discovered it diffi-
cult to keep his eyes open.

"Someone's comin'," observed Jeems. "Ah just heard

a car turn in from the road."

"But the folks have been gone such a short time," Val

protested.
However, the car which came almost noiselessly down

the drive was not the one in which the family had departed.
It had the shape of a sleek gray beetle, rounded so that it
was difficult to tell at first glance the hood from the rear. It
glided to a stop before the steps and after a moment four

passengers disembarked.
Val simply stared, but Jeems got to his feet in one swift

movement.
For, coming purposefully up the terrace steps, were four

men they had seen before and had very good cause to

remember for the rest of their lives.

In the lead strutted the rival, a tight smile rendering his
unlovely features yet more disagreeable.. Behind him trot-
ted the red-faced counselor who had accompanied him on
his first visit. But matching the rival step for step was the
"Boss," while "Red" brought up the rear in a tidy fashion.

220

RALESTONE LUCK

"Swell place, ain't it?" demanded the rival, taking no
notice of Val or Jeems. "Make yourselves to home, boys;

the place is yours."

Val gripped the arm of his chair. Sam, Rupert, Holmes—
they were all beyond call.- It was left to him to meet this
unbelievable invasion alone. There was a stir beside him.
Val glanced up to meet the slightest of reassuring nods
from the swamper. Jeems was with him.

"Whatcha gonna do with the joint. Brick?" asked Red,
tossing his cigarette down on the flagstones and grinding it
to powder with his heel.

"I dunno yet." The rival strode importantly toward the
front door.

"You might tell us when you find out," Val suggested
'quietly.

With an exaggerated start of surprise the rival turned
toward the boy.

"Oh, so it's you, kid?"

"Perhaps," Val said softly, "you had better introduce
your friends. After all, I like to know the names of my
guests."

The Boss smiled sardonically and Red grinned. Only the
red-faced lawyer shuffled his feet uneasily and looked
from one to another of bis companions with an expression
of pleading. But the rival came directly to the point.

"Where's that high and mighty brother of yours?" he
demanded.

"Mr. Ralestone will doubtless be very glad to see you,"
Val evaded, having no desire for the visitors to discover

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Andr6 Norton

just how slender his resources were. "Jeems, you might
go and tell him that we have visitors. Go through the Long
Hall, it's nearer that way." He dug the fingernails of his
sound hand into the soft wood of the chair arm. Could
Jeems interpret that hint? Someone must remove and hide

the Luck before these men saw it,

"Right." The swamper turned on his heel and padded

toward the French windows.

"No, you don't!" the rival snarled as he moved into

line between Jeems and his objective. "When we want
that guy, we'll hunt him out ourselves. When we're good

and ready!"

"If you don't wish to see my brother, just why did you

come?" Val asked feverishly. He must keep them talking
there until he had time to think of some way of getting that

slender blade of steel into hiding.

"We're movin' in," Red answered casually for them all.
"How interesting. I think that the police will enjoy

hearing that." Val commented.

"It's perfectly legal," bleated the lawyer. "We possess
a court order to view the place with the purpose of apprais-
ing it for sale." He drew a stiff paper from the inside
pocket of his coat and waved it toward the boy.

"Bunk! I don't know much about the law but I do know
that you could have obtained nothing of the kind without
our being notified. And just which one of you has been

selected to do the appraising?"
"Him," answered Red laconically and jerked his thumb

at the Boss.

222

RALESTONE LUCK

"So," Jeems stared at him. "since yo' couldn't git
what yo' want by thievin' at night, yo're goin' to try and
git it by day."

"But what are you really after? I'm curious to know.
You certainly don't want a sugar plantation which hasn't
been paying its way since the Civil War. That just isn't
reasonable. And you ought to know that we can't afford to
buy you off. We must be living over a gold-mine that we
haven't discovered. Come on, tell us where it is," Val
prodded.

"Cut the cackle," advised Red, "an' let's git down to
it."

"I would advise you to get back in your car and drive
out." Val Wondered if his face looked as stiff as it felt.
"This visit isn't going to get you anywhere."

"We ain't goin' any place, kid," remarked the rival.
"You don't seem to understand. We're stayin' right here.
I got rights and die judge has recognized them. I'm top
guy here now."

"Yeah. Yuh ain't so smart as yuh think yuh are,"
contributed Red, scowling at Val. "We ain't gonna leave."

It wasn't Red's speech, however, that straightened the
boy's back and made Jeems shift his position an inch or
two. There was another car coming up the drive. And
since their enemies were all gathered before them, they
could only be receiving friends, or at the worst neutrals.

But the car which came from between the liveoaks to
park behind the first contained only two passengers. LeFleur
and Creighton got out, stopped in surprise to view the

223




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party on the terrace, and then came up, shoving by

Red.
"Quite a party," Val observed. "But how did you

manage to arrive so opportunely?"
"We have made a discovery," panted the Creole lawyer;

"a very important discovery. What are these men doing

here?"
"We got a court order to view this house for sale." The

rival was truculent. "An' it's all legal. The mouthpiece
says so," he indicated his counselor.

"Perhaps," Creighton's cool tones cut through, "you
had better introduce us." There was a decided change in
his manner. Gone was his shy nervousness, his slightly
hesitant reserve, ft was a keen business man who stood

there now.

Val grinned. "You see before you the family skeleton.
May I introduce Mr. Ralestone, who firmly believes that he
is the Ralestone of Pirate's Haven? And three other—shall
we say gentlemen—whom I myself have never met formally.
Though I did have the pleasure, I believe," he addressed
the Boss directly, "of blackening your eye."

"Yeah, I'm Ralestone, and I'm gonna have my rights,"

stated the rival briskly.
"You are a descendant of Roderick Ralestone?" asked

Leieur.

"Yuh know I am. 1 got proofs!"
"The man is a liar," Creighton said calmly.
As they stared at him, LeFleur nodded. Val saw an ugly

grin begin to curve Red's thick lips.
224

RALESTONE LUCK

"Yeah? An how do yuh know that, wise guy?" he
asked.

"Because there is only one Roderick Ralestone in this
generation and he is standing right there. Permit me to
introduce Roderick St. Jean Ralestone!"

The person he turned to was Jeems1

17

THE RETURN OF RICK
RALESTONE

Val ventured to break the sudden silence which resulted
from Creighton's astonishing statement.

"But how—why—"

"Yeah," the rival had collected a measure of his scat-
tered wits, "whatta yuh mean, wise guy?"

"Just this—" LeFleur drew himself up and faced the
invaders sternly—"I have only this very morning depos-
ited with the probate court certain documents making very
plain the identity of this young man. Without the shadow
of a doubt he is the only living descendant of Roderick
Ralestone and his wife. Valeric St. Jean de Roche. 1 have
also sworn out a complaint—"
226

RALESTONE LUCK

Then the Boss took a hand in the game. "The boy's a
minor," he observed.

"Through me," LeFleur returned, "Mr. Rupert Ralestone
as nearest of kin has applied for guardianship and there
will be no difficulty in the settlement of that matter."

"Yeah!" The rival threw his gloves on the terrace and
glared not at LeFleur but at his own backing. Having
stared at the lawyer of his party until that unfortunate man
lost all assurance, he attacked the Boss. "So, wise guy,
what now? We ain't got such a snap as yuh said we were
gonna have. We were gonna move right in and take over
the joint, were we? We didn't have anything to worry
about. For once we was playin' with the law. Yeah, we
were. We are nothin' but a gang of mugs. Whatta we
gonna do now, huh? You oughta know. Ain't yuh been
doin' our thinkin' for us all along? We can't grab the land
and run. We gotta camp right here if we're gonna git
anything. And how are we gonna—"

"Simpson!" the Boss's voice was sharp. "Be quiet!
You are becoming wearisome. Gentlemen," he bowed
slightly toward LeFleur and Creighton, "one cannot fight
bad luck, and this time Fate smiles upon you. It was a
good-idea if it had worked," he added musingly. "Young
Ralestone seems to have gathered all the aces into his
hand. Even," the drawl became a sneer, "even the guard-
ianship of the missing heir, which will mean a nice sum in
the bank for the happy guardian, if all reports are true."

"What did you want here?" Val asked for the last time.

The Boss smiled. "I shall leave that mystery for you to
unravel, my wounded hero. It should occupy an idle mo-

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Andr6 Norton

ment or two. Doubtless all will be made clear in the
fullness of time. As for you," he turned upon LePleur,
"there is no use in your entertaining any foolish idea
of calling the police. For our invasion today we have a
court order; unhappily it is no longer of use. But we did
come here in good faith, as we are prepared to prove. And
all other evidence of any lawbreaking upon our part rests, I
believe, upon the word of two boys, evidence which might
be twisted by a clever lawyer. You may prosecute Simp-
son for perjury, of course. But I think that Simpson will
not be in this part of tile country long. Yes," he looked
about him once more at garden and house, "it was a very
good idea. A pity it did not work. Well, I must be going
before I begin to curse my luck. When a man does that, he
sometimes loses it. You must have found yours, I think."

"We did," Val answered, but the Boss did not hear
him, for he had turned on his heel and was striding down
the terrace. For a moment his followers hesitated uncer-
tainly and then they were after him. Back into fheir sinister
beetle-car went the invaders and then they were. gone down
the drive, leaving the Ralestones in possession of the

victorious field.

"Now," Val said plaintively, "will somebody please
tell me just what mis is all about? Who is Jeems, really?"

"Just who I said," answered Creighton promptly.
"Roderick St. Jean Ralestone, the only descendant of your

pirate ancestor."
"Bettah tell us the story," suggested the swamper quietly.

"Yo' ain't foolin', are yo', Mistuh Creighton?"
The New Yorker shook his head. "No, I'm not fooling.

228

RALESTONE LUCK

But you are not the first one to question my story." He
smiled reminiscently. "Judge Henry Lane had to see every
line of written proof this morning before he would admit
that the tale might be true."

"But where did you find this 'proof?" Val demanded
as Jeems pulled up chairs for the lawyer and Creighton.

"In that chest of Jeems' which you brought out of the
swamp on the night of the storm," he replied promptly.
"And. young man," he said to Jeems indignantly, "if you
had let me see those papers of yours a month ago, instead
of waiting until last week, we would have had this matter
cleared up then—"

"But then we might never have found the Luck!" Val
protested.

"Humph, that piece of steel is historically interesting,
no doubt," conceded Creighton, "but hardly worth risking
your life for."

"No? Well, you heard what that man said just now—
that we had found our luck. It's so; we have had good luck
since. But I'm sorry; do get on with the story of Jeems'
box."

"Ah gave it to him Monday," said the swamper slowly.
"But, Mistuh Creighton, there weren't nothin' in that
chest but some books full of handwritin'—most in some
funny foreign stuff—an' a French prayer-book."

"Plenty to establish your right to the name and a quarter
interest in the estate," snapped LeFleur. Val thought the
lawyer rather resented the fact that it was Creighton and
not he who had found the way out of their difficulties.

"Two of those books were ships' logs, kept in the
229

Andre Norton

fashion of diaries, partly in Latin," explained the New
Yorker. "The log of the ship Annette Mane for the years
1814 and 1815 gave us what we wanted. The master was
Captain Roderick Ralestone, although he concealed his
name in a sort of an anagram. After his quarrel with his
brother he apparently went to Lafitte and purchased the
ship which he had once commanded for the smuggler.
Then he sailed off into the Gulf to become a free-trader,
with his headquarters first in Georgetown, British Guiana,
then in Dutch Curacao, and Finally at Port-au-Prince, Haiti.
It was there that he met and fell in love with Valerie St.
Jean de Roche, the only living child and heir of the Comte
de Roche, who had survived the Terror of the French
Revolution only to fall victim to the rebel slaves on his

Haitian estates.

"Horribly injured, the Comte de Roche had been saved

from death by the devotion of his daughter and her nurse,
a free woman of color. These two women not only saved
his life, but managed to keep him and themselves alive
through the dark years which followed the horrors of the
uprising and the overthrow of the French rule. The courage
of that lady of France must have been very great. But she
was near to the end of her strength when she met Roderick

Ralestone.

"Against the direct orders of the despots in the land,

young Ralestone got de Roche and his daughter away on
his ship. Her maid chose to remain among her people.
Ralestone hints that she was a sort of priestess of Voodoo
and that it had been her dark powers which had protected
the lives of those she loved.

230

RALESTONE LUCK

"Ralestone took the refugees to Curacao, but de Roche
did not survive. He lived only long enough to see his
daughter married to her rescuer and to persuade his son-in-
law to legally adopt the name of St. Jean de Roche, that an
old and honored family might not be forgotten. The Comte's
only son had been killed.

"So it was as Roderick St. Jean—he dropped the 'de
Roche' in time—that he returned here in 1830. His wife
was dead, worn out while yet in her youth by the horrors
of her girlhood. But Roderick brought with him a ten-year-
old boy who had the right to both the name of Ralestone
and mat of de Roche.

"Roderick himself was greatly changed. Years of free-
trading, both in the Gulf and in the South Seas, had made
him wholly sailor. A cutlass cut disfigured his face and
altered the line of his mouth. Anyone who had known
Roderick Ralestone would have little interest in Captain
St. Jean, the merchant adventurer. He discusses this point
at some length in his log, always concealing his real name.

"For the space of a year or two he was content to live
quetly. He even opened a small shop and dealt in luxuries
from the south. Then the desire to wander, which must
have been the keynote of his life, drove him out into the
world again. He placed his son in the care of a certain
priest, whom he trusted, and went south to become one of
the visionary revolutionists who were fighting their way
back and across South and Central America. In one bloody
engagement he fell, as his son notes in the old logs which
he was now using to record his own daily experiences."

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"Ricky said," Val mused, "that Roderick Ralestone
never died in his bed. What became of the son?"

"Father Justinian wanted him to enter the Church, but
in spite of his strict training he bad no vocation. The
money his father had left with the priest was enough to
establish him in a small coastwise trading venture, and
later he developed a flatboat freight service running upriver

to Nashville."

"But didn't he ever try to get in touch with the

Ralestones?" Val asked.

"No. When Roderick Ralestone sailed from New Or-
leans he seems to have determined to cut himself off from
the past entirely. As I said, he used an anagam to hide his
name all the way through the log, and doubtless his son
never knew that there was anything strange about his
father's past. Laurent St. Jean, the son, prospered. Just
before the outbreak of the Civil War he was reckoned one
of die ten wealthiest men of his native city.

"But that wealth vanished in die war when shipping no
longer went form from the port. I did come across one
interesting fact in Laurent's notes covering those years. In
1861 Laurent St. Jean built a blockade-runner called die
Red Bird. His backer in the venture was a Mr. Ralestone
of Pirate's Haven. So once Ralestone did meet Ralestone
without being aware of die fact.

"Laurent St. Jean was imprisoned by 'Beast' Butler,
along widi odier prominent men of die city, when die
Yankees captured New Orleans. And he died in 1867 from
a lingering illness contracted during his imprisonment. His
son, Rehe St. Jean, came home from war to find himself

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RALESTONE LUCK

ruined. His father's shipping business existed on paper
only. Having the grit and determination of his grandfather,
he struggled along for almost ten years trying to get back
on his feet. But mose were dark years for the whole
country.

"In 1876 St. Jean gave up the struggle. With his Creole
wife and dieir two sons he moved into die swamps. Work-
ing first as a guide and trapper and then as a hunter of
birds, he managed to make a sparse living. His eldest son
followed in his footsteps, but die younger took to die sea.
Roderick St. Jean, die eldest son, died of yellow fever in
1890. He left one son to die guardianship of his brother
who had come home from die sea. That son came to look
upon his uncle as his father and the real relationship
between diem was half forgotten.

"But Rene St. Jean die second was curious. He knew
something of die world and he was interested in die past. It
was his custom to do a great amount of reading, especially
reading which concerned die history of his own state and
city. And once he was inclined to get out die old sea chest
which had been moved widi die family for so many years.
Then he must have discovered his relationship to die
Ralestones; perhaps he solved the anagram or found "die
pasted pages in the prayer-book—

"He was not ambitious for himself, but he wanted a
better chance for his foster-son and nephew than die one
he had had. So he endeavored to prove his claim to this
property. Unfortunately, die lawyer he trusted was shyster
of die worst sort. He himself had no belief in his client's

233

Andre Norton

story and merely bled him for small sums each month
without ever really looking into the matter."

"Gran'pappy said he was tryin' to git his rights," broke
in Jeems. "He nevah tol' mah pappy what he knowed.
An' he wouldn't let anyone see into that chest—he kep' it
undah his bed. Then aftah Pappy died of the fever—'long
with mah mothah—Gran'pappy cotched it too. An' the
doctah said that was what made him so fo'getful aftahwards.
He stopped goin' in town; but he came heah—'huntin' his
rights,' he said. An' he tol' me that our fortune was hidden
heah. 'Course," Jeems looked at them apologetically, "it
soun's sorta silly, but when Gran'pappy tol' yo' things yo'
kinda believed 'em. So aftah he died Ah usta come huntin'
heah too. An' then when Ah opened the chest and fbun'
these—" From his breast pocket he drew a wash-leather
bag and opened it.

He held out to Val a chain of gold mesh ending in a
camelian carved into a seal. "This is youah crest," he
pointed to the seal. "Ah took it in town an' a man at the
museum tol' me about it.-An' this heah is Ralestone, too,"
he indicated a small miniature painted on a slip of yel-
lowed ivory. Val was looking at the face of the Ralestone
rebel, as near like the water-color copy Charity had made
of the museum portrait at one pea is to its pod-mate.
Creighton took up the small painting.

"Hm-m," he looked from the ivory to Jeems and then
to Val, "this is the final proof. Either one of you might
have sat for this. You have the same coloring and features.
If it were not for a slight difference of expression you

234

RALESTONE LUCK

might pass for twins. At any rate, there is no denying that
you are both Ralestones."

"I don't think that we'll ever attempt to deny it," Val
laughed. "But you were right, Jeems—I mean Roderick,"
he said to his newly discovered cousin, "you do have as
much right here as we do."

Jeems colored. "Ah'm sorry for sayin' that," he
confessed. "Ah thought yo' were right smart and too good
for us. An' Ah'm sorry Ah played ha'nt. But Ah didn't
expec' yo' would evah see me, only the blacks, an' I
didn't care 'bout them. Ah always came when yo' were
'way or in bed."

"Well, you've explained your interest in the place,"
Val assented, "but what about the rival? Why did he
appear?"

"It started in a blackmail plot. Your family have been
wealthy, you know," explained LeFleur. "But then the
scheme became more serious when the oil prospectors
aroused interest in the swamp. Already several men whose
property bounds yours have been approached by the Cen-
tral American Oil Company with an offer for their land. It
would not at all surprise me if you were asked to dispose
of your swamp wasteland for a good price. And the rumor
of oil is what made the rival, as you call him, try to press
his false claim instead of merely holding it over you as a
threat."

"The Luck is certainly doing its stuff," Val observed.
"Here's the lost heir found, oil-wells bubbling at our back
door—"




Andre Norton
"I would hardly say that, Mr. Valerius," remonstrated

LeFleur.

"They may bubble yet," the boy assured him airily. "1

wouldn't put it beyond the power of that length of Damas-
cus steel to make wells bubble. Oil-wells bubbling," Val
continued from the point where the lawyer had interrupted
him. "Rupert turning out to be the missing author—"

"What was that?" demanded Creighton sharply. He
was on die point of handing a small book to Jeems.

"We just discovered that Rupert is your missing author,"
Val explained. "Didn't you guess when you heard the
story of the missing Ralestone? The family went into town
to tell you all about it; that's why we were alone when the

invaders arrived."

"Mr. Ralestone my missing author! No, I didn't guess.
1 was too interested in the story—but I should have! How
stupid!" He looked down at the book he still held and then
put it into the swamper's hand. "Between the pages of the
prayerbook, covering the offices for St. Louis' Day, you'll
find the birth certificate for Laurent St. Jean-with his right
name," he said. "That's a very important paper to keep,
young man. Mr. Ralestone my author." He wiped his
forehead with the handkerchief from his breast-pocket.
"How stupid of me not to have seen at once. But why—"

"He had some idea that his stuff was no good when he
didn't hear from that agent," Val explained, "so he just

tried t& forget the whole matter."

"But I have to see him, I have to see him at once." The
New Yorker looked about him as if by will-power alone he
could summon Rupert to stand before him on the terrace.
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RALESTONE LUCK

"Stay to supper and you will," Val invited. "Ricky and
I discovered him for you just as we promised we would.
But then you've given us Rod in return. I am not," Val
told his cousin, "going to call you Rick even though there
is a tradition for it. There are too many 'Ricks' complicat-
ing the family history now. I think you had better be
'Rod'."

"Anythin' yo' say," he grinned.

For the third time that afternoon Val heard a car coming
up the drive.

"If this should turn out to be the Grand Chan ofTartary
or the Lama of Peru I shall not be one iota surprised," he
announced. "After what I've been through this afternoon,
nothing, absolutely nothing, would surprise me. Oh, it's
only the family."

With the impatience of one who has a good earth-
shaking shock ready to administer, he watched his wander-
ing relatives disembark. Charity and Holmes were still
with them and a sort of aura of disappointment hung over
me group. Then Ricky looked up and with a cry of joy
came up the terrace steps in what seemed like a single
leap.

"Oh, Mr. Creighton," she began when Val lifted his
hand. "Let me tell it," he begged, "I've been waiting for
a chance like this for years." Ricky was obediently silent,
thinking that he wished to break the mystery of the author.
But Jeems and LeFleur understood that it was to them Val
appealed.

"Val, what are you doing out of bed?" was Rupert's
first question.

237

r

Andre Norton
"Saving the old homestead while you went joyriding.

We had visitors this afternoon."

"Visitors? Who?" he began when his brother silenced

him with a frown.

"Oh, let's not go into that now," Val said hurriedly.

"There is something more important to be discussed. Since
you left this afternoon we have had an addition to the

family."

"An addition to the family?" puzzled Ricky. "What do

you mean?''

"Rick Ralestone has come back," Val announced.
"Val, hadn't you better go back to bed?" suggested his

sister.

"Not now," he grinned at her. "1 haven't lost my mind

yet, nor am I raving. Ladies and gentlemen," Val pre-
pared to echo Creighton's speech of an hour before, "permit
me to introduce Roderick St. Jean de Roche Ralestone, the

missing heir!"

With an impish grin Val had never seen on his face

before, Jeems clicked his heels in a creditable imitation of a
court bow.

238

18

RUPERT BRINGS HOME HIS
MARCHIONESS

"Such a nice domestic scene," Val observed.

Ricky looked up from the bowl into which she was
shelling peas. "Now just what do you mean by that?" she
asked suspiciously.

"Nothing, nothing at all. It's getting so I can't say a
word around here without you suspecting some sort of a
catch in it," her brother complained. He shifted the drawing-
board Rod had fixed up for him an inch or two. Although
Val's arm was at last out of the sling, he was not supposed
to use it unless absolutely necessary.

"Well, after that afternoon when you made the missing
heir appear like a rabbit out of a hat—" began his sister.

239




Andre Norton

"Rod," Val called down to where their cousin was
busied over the stretching of the new badminton net, "did
you hear that? She referred to you as a rabbit—deliberately."

"Hm-m," Rod answered in absent-minded fashion. "That
cat of Miss Charity's just walked away with one of those
feathered things yo' bat 'round."

"Let us hope that he returns it in time," Val said;

"otherwise I can prophesy that you are going to spend the
rest of the morning crawling arouund under hedges and
things hunting for him and it. Ricky will not be balked. If
she says that we are going to play badminton—well, we
are going to play badminton."

"I think that you might help too." Ricky attacked a
fresh pod viciously as their cousin came up on the terrace.
He stopped for a moment by Ricky's chair, long enough to
gather the pods together on the paper she had put down for
them, piling them up in a more orderly fashion than she

was capable of.

"Doing what?" Val inquired. "You know that Lucy
has chased everyone out of the house. And now that Rod
has finished setting out the lawn sports, what is there left
to do? By the way, did Sam mend that croquet mallet, the
one with the loose head?"

"The one that you broke hitting the stone with when
you aimed at your ball yesterday?" she asked sweetly.
"Yes, I saw to that this morning."

"Then what more is there to worry about? Let the party
begin." Val reached for his box of pencils.

That afternoon promptly at three-thirty the Ralestones of
Pirate's Haven were going to give their first party. They

240

RALESTONE LUCK

had lived, eaten, and slept with the idea of a party for the
past week until Rupert rebelled and disappeared for the
morning, taking Charity with him. He declared before he
left that the house was no longer habitable for anyone
above the mental level of a party-mad monomaniac, a
statement with which Val privately agreed. But Ricky did
trap him before he got the convertible out and made him
promise to bring home two pounds of salted nuts and some
more ice, because she simply knew that they wouldn't
have enough.

Ricky dropped the last of the peas into the bowl and
leaned back in her canvas deck-chair. "I'm going to wear
green," she murmured dreamily, "with that leaf thing in
my hair. And Charity's going to wear her rose, the one
that swishes when she walks."

"I think I'll appear in saffron," Val announced firmly.
"Somehow I feel like saffron. How about you. Rod?"

The thin, efficient, brown-faced person who was Roder-
ick St. Jean de Roche Ralestone, to grant him his full
name, stretched lazily and transferred a fistful of Ricky's
peas to his mouth, a mouth which was no longer sullen. At
Val's question he raised his shoulders in one of his French
shrugs and considered.

"Yellow, with lilies behind mah ears," he grinned at
Ricky. "Bettah give them somethin' to stare at; they'll all
be powerful interested, anyway."

"Yes, the lost viscount," Val agreed. "Of course, you're
really only a Lord like me, but it sounds better to say 'the
lost viscount.' You'll share the limelight with Rupert and
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Andr6 Norton

the Luck, so you'd better take that pair of my flannels
which haven't turned quite yellow yet."

Rod shook his head. "This time Ah have mah own. Ah
went in town shoppin' yesterday. It's mah turn to share
domes. Youah brothah told me to get yo' some shirts. So
Ah did. Lucy put mem in the top drawer."

"Don't tell me," Val begged, aroused by this news,
"that we are actually able to afford some new clothes

again?"

Rod nodded and Ricky sat up. "Don't be silly," she
said, "we're comfortably well off. With Rupert writing
books, and a lot of oil or something in the swamp, why,
what have we got to worry about? And next fall Rod's
going to college and I'm taking that course in dress designing
and Rupert's going to write another book and—and—"
Her inventive powers failed as Holmes came out on the

terrace.

"Hello there." Val glanced at his watch. "I don't want
to seem inhospitable, but you're about four hours too
early. We haven't even crawled into our party duds."

"So I see. But this isn't a social call. By the way,

where's Charity?"

"Oh, she went off with Rupert this morning," answered
Ricky. "And I think it was mean of them, running out on
us that way, when there was so much to do."

It seemed to Val that there was a faint shadow of
irritation across the open good nature of Holmes' smile
when he heard her answer. "That damsel is becoming very
elusive nowadays," he observed as he sat down. "But
now for business."

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RALESTONE LUCK

"More business? Not another oil-well!" Ricky expressed
her surprise vividly with upflung hands.

"Not an oil-well, no. Just this—" He pulled Val's
black note-book from his pocket. "Now I am not going to
tell you that I have shown them to a publisher and that he
wants fifty thousand or so at five dollars apiece. But I did
show them to that friend I spoke of. He isn't very well
known at present but he will be some day. His name is
Fenly Moss and he is interested in animated cartoons. He
has some ideas that sound rather big to me.

"Fen says that these animal drawings of yours show
promise and he wants to know whether you ever thought
of trying something along his line?"

Val shook his head, impatient to hear the rest.

"Well, he's in town right now on his vacation and he's
coming out to see you tomorrow. I advise you, Ralestone,
that if Fen makes you the proposition I think he's going to,
to grab it. It'll mean hard work for you and plenty of it,
but there is a future to it."

"I don't know how to thank you," the boy began when
Holmes frowned at him half-seriously. "None of that. I
was really doing Fen a favor, but you neend't tell him
that. Do you know how long Charity and your brother are
going to be gone?"

"No. But they'll be back for lunch," Ricky said. "If
they remember lunch—they're getting so vague lately. Val
went out to call them to dinner last night and it took him a
good five minutes to get them out of the garden."

"Five? Nearer ten," scoffed her brother.

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Andre Norton

Holmes got up abruptly. "Well, I'll be drifting. When

is this binge of yours?"

"Three-thirty, which really means four," answered Ricky.
"Aren't you going to stay to lunch?"

The New Yoricer shook his head. "Sorry, I've another
engagement. Thanks just the same."

"Thank you!'' Val waved the note-book as he vanished.
"Wonder why he hurried off that way?"

"Mad to think that Miss Charity was gone," answered
Rod shrewdly. "Yo've had that board long enough." He
calmly possessed himself of Val's drawing equipment.
"Time to rest."

"Yes, grandfather," his cousin assented meekly.

Ricky slapped at a fly. "It seems to get hotter and
hotter," she said. From the breast pocket of her sport dress
she produced a handkerchief and mopped her face. Then
she looked at the handkerchief in surprise.

"What's the matter? Some face come off along with the

paint?" asked Val.

"No. But I just remembered what this is—our clue!"
"You mean the handkerchief we found in the hall? I

wonder who—"

Rod reached up and took it out of her hand.
"Mine. Miss Charity gave me a dozen last Christmas."
"Then you left it there," Ricky laughed. "Well, that

solves the last of our mysteries."
"All present or accounted for," Val agreed as around

the house came Rupert and their tenant.
"So there you are," began Ricky. "And I'd like to

know what you've been doing all morning—"
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RALESTONE LUCK

"Would you really?" asked Rupert.

Ricky stared at him for a long moment and then she
arose before transferring her gaze to Charity. It might have
been sunburn or the heat Ricky had complained of which
colored the cheeks of the Boston Biglow.

"Rod! Val!" cried Ricky. "Where are your manners?"
As she sank forward in a deep and graceful curtsy she
added, "Can't you see that Rupert has brought home his
Marchioness?"

"Now that," said Val. as he held out his hand to the
new mistress of Pirate's Haven, "is what I call 'Ralestone
Luck.' "