Mystery of the Sassafras Chair by Alexander Key Page B

roaring.
    Suddenly realizing he was very hungry, Timor closed the door and lighted the old kerosene lamp that was in its accustomed place on the table. For the first time he peered about him curiously.
    The place, with its handmade furniture, and familiar herbs hanging from the rafters, looked exactly as he’d seen it last. But if Rance Gatlin had broken in to search through Wiley’s things, the room would have been left in disorder. It was hard to imagine either of the deputies bothering to clean up their litter. Yet the tiny cabin was as spotlessly clean as if Wiley had just stepped out of it. The bed was carefully made, the dishes were washed and stacked on the shelf, the floor had been swept recently, and all the clothing put away in the corner cupboard. Even the woodbox was piled high with fresh wood and kindling.
    Who could have done all this?
    Timor glanced at the sassafras chair. The golden wood was glowing in the firelight. He watched it in sudden hope, praying that Wiley would appear and tell him what had been going on. At the moment nothing would have made him feel better than to see and talk to his old friend again. But the chair remained empty, and the only sounds that could be heard were the steady roaring of the creek, the crackling of the fire, and a small noise as if some night creature were on the prowl outside.
    Then Timor went rigid. Something was on the porch, something large, for it was heavy enough to make one of the boards creak. Someone was out there, moving stealthily up to the door.
    He stared at the door, and felt a quick stab of fright as he saw that he’d forgotten to slide the bar in place. A faint click drew his eyes to the ancient latch. Terror mounted in him as he watched the latch slowly rise with the pressure of the unknown hand on the other side.
    It was too late to leap forward and thrust the bar into its slot. He snatched up the only weapon in reach—one of Wiley’s old walking sticks standing beside the fireplace—and managed to cry out boldly, “Who’s there? What do you want?”
    He heard a surprised grunt, and the door swung open. A gaunt figure in patched overalls stood on the threshold. The narrow face that stared uncertainly back at him from under a shapeless hat was grim, youngish, unshaven, and somehow very familiar. Then he realized it was the ginseng hunter he had glimpsed here last year.
    â€œOh—it’s you!” Timor said at last. “You sort of scared me.”
    â€œDidn’t aim to.” The grim face relaxed a trifle. “You kinda had me worried. You—you’re that Hamilton boy, ain’t you?”
    â€œI’m Tim Hamilton.”
    â€œYou been here long?”
    â€œSince just before dark. Why?”
    â€œThat feller Battle at the Forks, he come up here lookin’ for you. Reckon he just missed you.”
    â€œNathaniel? He was looking for me?”
    â€œYeah. Folks are saying you done run off an’ got yourself lost. They’re gettin’ up a search party down at the Hamilton place now.”
    Timor’s mouth fell open with shock. He should have realized this would happen. He felt a little sick.
    The ginseng hunter was scowling at him. “Never figgered it was you in here. Reckon I’d better go back an’ tell them people where you are.”
    â€œNo!” Timor burst out. “Please don’t! I can’t go home tonight. I just can’t.”
    â€œHow come?”
    â€œI—I’ve something to do here. It’s terribly important.”
    The hunter shrugged. “Well, I ain’t exactly itchin’ to go back. I was on my way over the Gap, an’ I promised that Battle feller I’d stop by an’ have another look …”
    Sound died in the ginseng hunter’s throat. His widening eyes were fastened on the sassafras chair. Timor had been standing in front of it, but as he stepped aside to replace Wiley’s stick, the chair was