Yard by yard Allston fought his way along the mountain road that follows the slope of the hills and past the Lutheran church which gave him his bearings. With the creek on his right he stumbled through a heavy growth of hemlocks, passing several shacks in darkness. Each time he mastered the temptation to rouse the occupants and inquire his way. To do this would be possibly to reveal his business--would inevitably reveal his presence in the neighborhood--and that seemed unwise. These people were certain to be more friendly to Bud than to himself. In the end he might be obliged to take that risk, but he knew that Bud’s shack opened somewhere from this road into a clearing, and he felt sure that however late the hour he would find it lighted. If he knew Roxie there would be little sleep for Bud that night. Whatever club the bully held over her head to make her follow would not be effective enough to cow her utterly. If left alone Bud might win in the end, but he would have a fight on his hands that could not be settled in a few hours. That was a fair argument, and yet with every passing minute Allston felt the strain of the delay. She might not be conquered, but she must be suffering. And for every second of pain he was responsible. Unwittingly she had placed him in a position where this could not be otherwise. So for another ten minutes he floundered on, and then, to the right and ahead, he caught through the trees--flashing on and off as the waving branches passed before it--a yellow gleam. He pressed on faster and nearer. A sharp turn brought him to the log which crossed the creek to the clearing before the shack. Cautiously he moved over this. The light from the uncurtained window did not carry far and the rain dripping down the panes obscured his sight of the room within. He paused now, a little out of breath. It was not easy to wait when so near, but this was no easy task he had before him. A single careless move might end for all time his usefulness. He had once read somewhere that there is no such thing as an accident; that every mishap can be traced directly to some one’s mistake. He had always remembered that. It had served him in good stead in the war. It helped him to a cool judgment that cut down his own mistakes. When he moved a few steps nearer the window, he was in complete command of himself. The driving rain was to his advantage. It made it easier to look in than to look out. With his automatic in his hand he crept to within a few feet of the shack, and standing a little to one side of the window peered in. What he saw made it very difficult for him to breathe normally. CHAPTER XVI