Mystery of the Sassafras Chair by Alexander Key Page A

he used only when everything had gone wrong. Why hadn’t he headed straight for Nathaniel’s? How foolish he’d been! It was getting late, and he would soon be soaked through. Where could he spend the night?
    Then, above the slow patter of rain dripping from the leaves, he became aware of another sound. A distant rushing …
    Abruptly he was on his feet again, tugging at the chair. Minutes later he went scrambling down over a jumble of moss-covered boulders, dragging the chair behind him. The rain was increasing, but he hardly noticed it. Before him was the creek, and directly on his left where the tiny stream entered it, was an immense yellow rock with a log across it.
    Timor gave a sigh of relief. This was a spot he remembered well, for he’d fished here often last summer. It was all of a mile from his uncle’s place, though little more than a hundred yards from old Wiley’s shack.

8
    Seng Hunter
    W ILEY’S SHACK was a one-room affair with a small porch in front that faced the creek, and an open shed on the side that had been used as a workshop. So thick was the growth around the place that a chance visitor could approach within a hundred feet of it and hardly suspect its presence.
    Timor, stumbling along the overgrown path at the rear, reached the shed first and set his precious burden down by the workbench. For a moment he stood leaning wearily against the bench, so thankful for having reached his haven that he was hardly aware of being soaked to the skin. Then a sudden fit of shivering reminded him that the day—what was left of it—was turning colder by the minute. He’d better get inside and build a fire.
    From the shed a small door opened into a corner of the shack. He tried the latch, and found it was securely barred on the inside. He hurried around to the porch and tried the heavy front door. It too was barred. For an instant he wondered how Rance Gatlin had entered—for surely the deputy had broken in somehow. Hadn’t Gatlin mentioned that, in searching for Wiley’s keys, he’d found none inside the place?
    Timor shook his head, and began groping under the steps. Finally his exploring fingers closed upon a short but heavy piece of wire with a hook at one end. On the porch again, he thrust the hook into an all-but-hidden crack in the wall, turned it carefully, and drew it out. The hook brought with it the end of a rawhide thong. A quick jerk of the thong, a pressure on the latch, and the stout door creaked open.
    His teeth were chattering with the chill as he stumbled forward in the cabin’s dimness and crouched by the fireplace. Kindling and wood were already in place, awaiting a match—a circumstance that seemed strange, though he was too tired to give it more than fleeting thought. His unsteady hand found a match in the wooden matchbox on the right, but it sputtered out in the rainwater that ran down his arms. He was more careful with the next match, and presently flames were leaping up from the kindling.
    When the fire was blazing brightly he brought the sassafras chair inside, then closed and barred both doors, stripped off his sodden clothing, and wrapped himself in a blanket from the foot of the bed.
    Timor was too exhausted for thought as he slumped down before the fireplace. The chair wasn’t heavy, but his arms ached from carrying it so long, and his whole body throbbed after the unaccustomed exertion of scrambling over rough country.
    Gradually the fire’s warmth went through him and his head began to nod …
    When he opened his eyes he found he was curled up by the hearth, with only his face exposed in the cocoon of the blanket. The fire had died to a glowing mass of embers. He got up stiffly, threw more wood on the fire, then unbarred the front door and glanced out.
    It was black night outside. The rain had stopped, though moisture still dripped from the trees. A few yards away the swollen creek rushed past with a steady