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<h2>CHAPTER I</h2> The rain settled into a steady downpour. Drenched to the marrow, Dave Marlin struggled on through the darkness and mire. At times he stumbled away from the wagon trail and floundered through sodden verdure that tangled his feet, clutched with slimy tendrils at his clothing, or lashed his face. Occasionally he stopped to curse the road, the darkness, the storm; again to heap maledictions on the truck driver who had dumped him off on this byway to nowhere. He should have kept to the paved highway. A light blinking through the rain, seemingly not far up the mountainside, had lured his feet. It had long since been lost to view, yet he struggled on. The trail surely must lead somewhere, even if only to a deserted sawmill or mine shaft. His feet slipped and he went down cursing. As he struggled out of the puddle, gouging grit and slime from eyes and nostrils, he became aware of a deeper black looming ahead. It was the rear of an old-style open roadster. Through the swish of waters his ears caught the sound of hammering on metal. Feeling his way along the side, he came to a man who was muttering to himself with bitter emphasis while doing things to the engine under the upraised hood. "Trouble, buddie?" demanded Marlin. The other jerked up his head so suddenly that it struck the hood. He snarled an epithet; then: "Who the devil?" "Just a wayfarer," Marlin answered. "Just a wayfarer, buddie, out for a stroll on this beautiful moonlit evening." "Lay off the comedy!" snarled the other, again diving under the hood. "And get goin' if you can't help." "Why don't you turn on the lights?" "Because she ain't got no lights—that's why." "Battery dead?" asked Marlin. Receiving no answer, he edged back to the instrument panel. As he started searching beneath it for possible ends of disconnected wires, he became aware of a squirming movement under the hand which rested on the seat. "Take your paws off me, you slimy fish!" came a tense feminine voice. When he made no move to comply, the figure which had been slumped down in the seat became a sudden bundle of fury. "Easy, sister!" he protested, deftly capturing the small hands in his muscular grasp. "No use getting excite—" He paused. "What's this? Iron bracelets?" The other man sloshed toward him threateningly. "Get out of what ain't none of your business!" he snapped. "You was headin' up the road. Just keep goin'—and you'll stay outa trouble." Marlin felt the slender wrists grow tense within his grasp. The short length of chain connecting the handcuffs tinkled. "Sorry, bo," he said softly. "The lady's jewelry intrigues me." A hard object pressed sharply into his side. "Scram!" <hr class="tb" /> With panther-like quickness, Marlin twisted. The gun barked as his arm knocked it away. Then the two were down in the sodden grass, flailing and squirming for advantage. Either because he was the stronger or because luck favored him in the slippery rough-and-tumble, Marlin arose with the automatic in his possession. "This," he commented, "is better. I've never been good at taking orders." He considered a moment. "If the car won't start, it won't. That leaves two courses open to us. We can sit and wait till some one comes along—which isn't likely—or we can hoof it until we come to something better. I saw a light up beyond." "I'm tired of sitting in the car," the girl put in. "Anything's better than freezing here." "Maybe you don't know, smart guy," her companion growled, "that you're tangling with the law." He tapped his chest. "Detective—eh?" "Yeah," the girl cut in, "and don't forget to tell him about your phony stunt—kidnaping me across the state line without extradition papers." Marlin studied them for a moment. He had no desire to run up against the law. But if this officer was out of his jurisdiction— "I get it," he said. "You're pulling something shady—that's why you tried to make it on this back trail. All right, brother—take off the jewelry." Grudgingly, the detective removed the handcuffs. "Try any funny stuff," he observed, "and it'll go hard with the both of you. This is Sally Camino," he informed Marlin. "Wanted for workin' a con game. I can turn her over to the authorities here if I have to. Won't be no trouble to get extradition papers. I'm just tryin' to save the state money." "What's your name?" demanded Marlin. "Len McGruder. What you so nosey for?" "Just getting acquainted. Mine's Dave Marlin. Come on, Sal. Any baggage?" "This jerk wouldn't even give me a chance to pack a toothbrush," she returned vindictively. Fortunately, she was dressed in slacks. After a futile attempt to negotiate the mud in her high-heeled shoes, she left them sticking in the ooze. "I'll take it bare-footed," she observed philosophically. Less from chivalry than curiosity, Marlin helped her when she stumbled and assisted her over the deeper puddles. He decided, in the process, that she was firm-fleshed and well-formed. After the first few yards she refused his help. "Keep your muddy paws off of me!" she snapped. "You too!" as McGruder attempted to thrust his bulk between them. They plodded on through the mud and drizzle. The road climbed upward at an agonizing grade. Marlin no longer cursed. In the presence of companions in misery, he became tauntingly ironical. It was they who were buffeted and tormented—he was the strong man, unaffected by the elements, able to "take it." "We shoulda stayed in the car," growled McGruder. "Only room for two of us," returned Marlin. "Want to go back with me, Sal?" "Not if I know what I'm doing!" the girl snapped, brushing a lock of wet hair out of her eyes. Topping a steep rise, they came unexpectedly upon the shelter. <hr class="chap" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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