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08-04-2023
 Exiled as criminals, five young rebels survived the crash of the
Colonization Section spacecraft. Together they fought to make a new
life on the harsh alien world of Klydor:

Samella—sold to ColSec by her own family; gifted with strange

mental powers.
Heleth—raised in the Bunkers of Old London by a gang called
the Vampires.
Jeko and Rontal—one Asian, one Black; both Free Streeters from
the blasted city known as Limbo.
And Cord—the strong but quiet barbarian highlander who
became their leader.

But one other had escaped and now threatened their survival:
Lamprey—a brutal, half-crazed killer who wanted to rule them as
slaves….
 ALIEN PERIL
It reared up out of the turf, a living cylinder, thick and flexible like
an oversized worm. Cord saw that it was covered with a thick
segmented shell, like plates of armor. It was eyeless, with a spray of thin
tendrils sprouting from the front of its head. And on the underside of
the head was a wide gaping mouth, surrounded by long, sturdy
tentacles, each with a sharp, barbed hook at the end.
The creature slid swiftly forward in an oozing slither, disturbingly
silent. One of the tentacles around the repulsive mouth struck out like
a snake. Lamprey raised the laser rifle and took aim. The beam struck
dead center. But nothing happened.. ..
Bantam Books of Related Interest
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VERY FAR AWAY FROM ANYWHERE ELSE by Ursula

LeGuin
INTERSTELLAR PIG by William Sleator
SINGULARITY by William Sleator
DEVIL ON MY BACK by Monica Hughes
DRAGON DRUMS by Anne McCaffrey
DRAGONSINGER by Anne McCaffrey
DRAGONSONG by Anne McCaffrey
FINGERS by William Sleator
THE BRONZE KING by Suzy McKee Chamas
 Exiles of ColSec

DOUGLAS HILL

BANTAM BOOKS
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON • SYDNEY • AUCKLAND
 FOR J.G.
in rueful acknowledgment
of the First Law

RL 7, IL age 12 and up

exiles of colsec
A Bantam Spectra edition / June 1986
Bantam Starfire edition / January 1988
The Starfire logo is a registered trademark of Bantam Books, Inc.
Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark office and elsewhere.

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 1984 by Douglas Hill.
Cover art copyright © 1986 by David Mattingly.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording, or by any information
storage and retrieval system, without permission in
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Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

0 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2
Contents
1 Dream and Nightmare
2The Choice
3 World of ColSec
4 Strangers
5 Responsibility
6 The Leader
7 Forest-dwellers
8 Alien Attack
9 Night Watch
10 Defeat
11 The Screaming
12 Moving On
13 Heart of the Forest
14 The Search
15 Massacre
16 Sacrifice
17 Klydoreans
About The Author
 1 Dream and Nightmare
The broad chamber, with walls and low ceiling of blank, colourless
metal, lay in shadow and silence. Only the muted glow from a
computer screen, set into one wall of the area, interrupted the
darkness. But nothing interrupted the stillness.
It was the empty, gloomy stillness of a long’ forgotten tomb. And it
was made all the more tomb like by the twelve containers fastened
solidly to the metal floor in the centre of the area.
In shape they were like caskets, or large coffins, made of sturdy
condensed plastic. But inside, they were softly padded—the padding
moulded to the individual shapes of the twelve bodies that lay with’ in.
Youthful human bodies, as silent and still as everything else in the area,
eyes closed, with no sign of heartbeat or breathing.
But in the sides of the containers, behind the padding, were
complex devices that worked to nourish, to preserve and support life.
Through the pad” ding a host of needles reached out to thrust deeply
beneath the skin of the bodies. Other parts of the skin were covered
with the electrodes of monitors and scanners. And so the bodies were
healthy and alive.
Now and then a group of muscles might ripple and flex uncannily,
but the movement was caused by a gentle shock from an electrode, to
maintain muscle tone and fitness. The minds within the bodies felt no
movement. The minds were in a sleep that went beyond sleep, a coma
of life in suspension.
Yet within the deepest reaches of those minds, the dreams lived.
Stormy, chaotic dreams, most of them, of grim and ruined
landscapes, of misery and hardship—but also of laughter and crashing
music and wild, high-speed excitement. In two of the young minds, the
dreams centred on a sprawling urban area of crumbling buildings and
filthy, broken streets, an area that armed and armoured Civil Defenders
entered only in hover-tanks. It was a place populated by human refuse
—the thugs and the druggies, the twisted and the insane, the hopeless
and the defeated. It was a place called Limbo.
 But among the outcasts of that place roamed other groups—packs
of young people, wearing strange garb, finding their excitement in acts
of petty crime and violence: the free Streeters of Limbo, homeless but
not helpless, defiantly rejecting the grey, dull, ordered world around
them.
In another casket, a similar dream—of wild, violent, strangely
decorated youths turning their backs on the regulated ordinary world.
But this was a dream of chill and gloom and damp, in endless
underground passages, called the Bunkers—rat-warrens beneath the
ruins of a once-magnificent capital city.. There the youths made their
free lawless domain, where even the most coldly determined squads of
Civil Defenders could not pursue them.
But in a different casket, a different dream. Images tinged with
melancholy beauty—of an unending sweep of dusty plain, of high hot
summer skies, of the eye-searing winter sun on fresh snowfields. And
mingled with these images, the memory of isolation, of bone-twisting
cold, of the clench of hunger.
Oddly, in among the images that lived in that one dreamer, there
came fragmented glimpses of other scenes. Wild pursuits through
crumbling city streets, noisy charges through dark twisting tunnels.
Scenes filled with the shadowy forms of young people, weirdly dressed,
with strange distorted faces… .
Then again, another mind in another casket had its own
individual dream. This one recalled a land of storm-clouded skies and
lancing rain, of steep brush-covered mountain slopes and wide lakes of
black and pitiless water. But to the dreamer it was a land of beauty and
delight, made into a place of joy by the presence of a red-bearded giant
wearing skins and furs and cloth with a colourful criss-cross pattern—
the beloved uncle, who had raised the young dreamer in that wild land
and taught him all its ways.
The dream recalled the breathless stalking of vast herds of red
deer; the warmth of a small stone hut and a dancing fire that kept the
icy wind at bay; occasional nights among other wild folk in skins and
furs, the graceful leaping dances, the soul-saddening music, the
drinking and tale-telling and competitive tests of strength. And the
young dreamer relived his own part in those tests, when he was grown
to a stocky bulk of solid muscle, and set a gleam of pride in the uncle’s
eyes.
But then the dream shifted, from happiness to horror. The fall that
had injured the uncle—and the young dreamer slinging the huge
groaning body over his powerful shoulders and walking forty
kilometres to the nearest civilized place of streets and houses, to seek
help. Help that was refused, because the young one had none of the
necessary stuff called money.
Then the death of the beloved uncle, in raging agony, and the red
fury that bloomed within the young man, amid grief and loss and
thunderous hate. That fury had set out to smash the clinic that had
turned the dying uncle away—and it had needed half a dozen club-
wielding Civil Defenders to subdue it.
The dream then remembered days of drugged mindlessness in a
cage, the cloudy awareness of a five-minute trial, and the judgment:
transportation, for life, to the prison colony of Antarctica, as befell all
young offenders against the civil order.
So that dream came to its end, as it had many times before. But
before it might begin again, as it also, had continuously done, like an
endless loop of video tape, something wholly unusual stopped it.
Alone among all the sleepers in the twelve caskets,’ in that dim,
metal-walled chamber, that dreamer awoke.

***

His body was filled with a vibrating throb of pain, and his mind
was filled with nothingness. Empty’ eyed, he watched needles and
electrodes slide back into the padded sides of the casket. Empty-eyed,
he stared down at his body—the slightly freckled skin, the solidity of
mounded muscle—and did not recognize it. Slowly he closed his eyes,
as if seeking to return to the dream.
But his eyes jerked open again as another needle probed out from
the padding, into his skin. The injection seemed to flow through his
every cell, in a wave of cool soothingness. The pain receded—and with
it went the clouds in his mind.
 He remembered. He was Cord MaKiy, sixteen years old, and a
Highlander, one of the wanderers of a harsh and beautiful land too
bleak and poor and remote to interest the rulers of the rest of the
world. And, he remembered, he was no longer in that land.
He clamped his eyes shut again, but tears seeped through his
eyelids as the memories relentlessly formed. The beloved uncle was
dead, the Highlands lost to him forever. And he, Cord MaKiy, was a
criminal, condemned forever to the Antarctic prison.
But then his jaw tightened, and muscles leaped and bunched in
his arms as he clenched his fists. If he was awake, he thought, they
must be arriving. And he would not arrive tear-stained and
whimpering like a child.
He opened his eyes once more, and felt a jolt of surprise. The top
of the casket had raised itself, on silent hinges. He saw a blank dimness
above him, a slightly curved ceiling of colourless metal. Slowly he sat
up, shivering slightly in the thin, cool air. He was not aware that, until
some moments before, there had been neither air nor warmth in that
metal-walled chamber.
At his feet he saw a bundle of muddy-brown clothing—strange to
him, though commonplace in the ordinary world. Plain tunic and
trousers, sturdy boots. Automatically he pulled on the clothes, ran
fingers through his tangle of auburn hair, then clambered from the
casket. He realized that his body was moving normally, yet somehow
he felt slow and weary, and wondered for a moment how long he had
been unconscious in the casket.
And why, he asked himself, should they send us this way, to
Antarctica? It can’t be that far… .
But he knew he was not familiar with many of the ways of the
civilized world. So he let the question go, trying to ignore the twist of
unease within him.
He stared around blankly at the other eleven caskets, closed and
silent. Then his eye was caught by a sudden brightness across the area.
Sharply defined golden letters had appeared on the screen of the
computer.
He moved towards it. He had learned something of reading and
writing from his uncle, but even so he read the letters slowly, with
puzzlement.

THIS IS A GUIDANCE AND DATA STORAGE

COMPUTER SHUTTLE-FORM 181-QX9
VOICE PROJECTIVE AND VOICE ACTIVATED
SPEAK ALOUD TO BEGIN COMMUNICATION

Cord understood only a little of it, but grasped the idea that he
should say something.
“Uh… what do I say?” He felt a little foolish, and his voice croaked
from lack of use. But it did not seem to matter.
“Thank you for activating me.” The computer’s voice was soft and
human, but totally without emo-tion. “I am known as GUIDE. I am
here to provide information and to answer your questions.”
Cord blinked, unable to think for a moment. “Good,” he said at
last. “You can… you can tell me if we’ve got to Antarctica, now.”
“Antarctica is on Earth,” the soft voice of GUIDE told him. “You are
not on Earth.”

For all their quiet tone, the words struck Cord like hammers. His
legs felt weak, his flesh cold, his mind reeling. It wasn’t true, he
thought numbly. How could it be true? It was a lie—a joke—maybe a
form of mind-bending torture, a cruel invention of the Civil
Defenders.…
But the computer was going on, doing its duty, providing
information.
“You and the others are inside an orbital shut-tie, which is being
carried by a space freighter, en route to a Colonization Section base in
the Procyon planets. The shuttle will be automatically released when
the freighter passes near a planet named Klydor, after a flight of four
months. We are now approaching Klydor, and have left translight and
re-entered normal space. After release, the shuttle is programmed to
land on Klydor, where you and the others will seek to establish a new
human colony.”
 Even in his daze, Cord understood much of that. Some kind of
spaceship, carried by another spaceship, to be dropped off on some
planet….
Disbelieving horror brought the sudden sourness of nausea into
his mouth. It couldn’t be…. The frozen wastes of Antarctica would have
been bad enough—but another planet? Earth some unimaginable,
unbridgeable distance away, lost to him forever, as he was flung
unconscious across space, to some unknown alien world…. Flung by
ColSec….
Deep within him, behind the fear and horror and shock, a small
red flame began to bum—a flame of wild, barbaric anger. The flame did
not grow or spread, but it had been ignited, and it would not fade or
die. It was bom of hatred—for ColSec, Colonization Section, one part
of the vast organiza-tion that gripped the entire Earth in its
demanding, oppressive control.
Trying to fight the numbing shock, Cord forced his mouth to form
words. “When?” he croaked. “When do we get there?”
“That cannot be computed,” said the soft voice of GUIDE. “There
is a malfunction. The shuttle is unable to disengage.”
For a moment Cord felt he would go insane. There was too much
horror, there were too many sudden unbelievable facts that he barely
understood, yet that filled him with raw and screaming fear. He stood
rooted, covered in a sudden drenching sweat, trembling and unseeing.
Yet, as if hypnotized, he heard every soft word as the computer went
on.
“The humans in the shuttle have two alternative courses of action.
I am not programmed to make human decisions. You have been
awakened, to decide.”
 2The Choice
Somehow the word “decide” rolled back some of the clouds of
shock from Cord’s mind. Out of the depths of memory he heard his
uncle’s deep voice, words that he had heard many times. “In this land
we are our own masters, laddie,” the uncle would say. “We live as we
will, walk where we please. We decide for ourselves.” The memory
steadied Cord, and again he found his voice. “Why choose me?”
“The psychological profiles of all of you are in my data banks,”
GUIDE told him. “Yours has the necessary qualities to make the
decision.”
Cord took a deep breath. He was not sure what a psychological
profile was, but he was unwilling to appear weak or afraid, even to a
computer. “What is it, then? What must I decide?”
And in that soft unperturbed voice, the computer told him.
The shuttle-craft was attached to the outside of the freighter, to be
automatically released at the right time. But the release mechanism
had gone wrong, and the shuttle was unable to detach itself so that it
could head for the planet Klydor. One course of action, then, would be
for Cord and the others to remain where they were, and hope to cross
the path of another human spacecraft, while the freighter went on
towards its destination—which it would reach in a further six months.
But if they did not intersect with another ship, GUIDE said, then
when the freighter finally reached its goal the young people would no
longer be alive.
“The caskets were not designed for a voyage of such length,”
GUIDE explained. “The nutrients and other elements that have kept
you alive, for the past four months of suspended animation, have been
nearly used up. And the shuttle’s power source could not take over the
life support systems for that length of time.”
Cord shook his head numbly, again grasping only the general
meaning. If they stayed where they were, in space, they would soon die.
“What’s the other choice?” he asked.
 GUIDE told him. The simple controlling pro-gramme that kept
the freighter on its course could be over-ridden, through a link-up with
GUIDE. The entire freighter, with the shuttle attached, could be made
to divert to Klydor.
“That’s it, then!” Cord said. But then his face fell. “Except I don’t
know how to…override… what it was you said.”
“That is not the problem,” GUIDE said. “The problem is that space
freighters are not constructed for planetary landings.”
Freighters were loaded and unloaded from orbit, in space, GUIDE
explained. If this freighter were diverted, towards Klydor, it would not
land. It would burn up in the atmosphere, or crash.
Cord stared at the quiet glow of the screen, again feeling himself
beginning to shake. “You’re… you’re saying it’s a choice between two
different ways of dying!”
“That cannot be computed,” GUIDE told him softly. “There are
many random factors. In either case, there is a chance that at least
some of you might survive. But chance is not computable with
accuracy.”
Cord’s mind felt battered. For a desperate moment he wanted to
be back iii his casket, safely asleep and in his dream. Or was all this
another dream, a nightmare, from which he would waken to find
himself in the Antarctic prison colony? But he shook himself, fighting
the urge to escape into childishness, or madness.
“You should wake the others,” he told GUIDE. “They should have a
say in how they are to die.”
“Psychological profiles say that the decision would not then be
made,” GUIDE replied. “It must be made by only one. Please inform me
of your decision.”
Cord’s vision blurred as he fought his inner battle, to make sense
of what he had been told, what he had to do. For several moments the
area was again still and silent, as that battle went on. And then a
strange clear thought entered Cord’s mind.
The freighter belonged to ColSec, carrying some kind of cargo to
some other distant, colonized planet. If Cord and the others remained
where they were, and died before the freighter reached its goal, ColSec
would probably not blink an eye at the loss of twelve lives.
 But if the freighter crashed on Klydor, ColSec would lose
something that mattered. It would lose two valuable spacecraft, and
the freighter’s cargo.
If I have to die, Cord thought fiercely, I want ColSec to suffer a
little too.
And anyway, a further thought came, I would die properly, a quick
and blazing death, on my feet rather than like a sleeping baby in a
casket. The uncle would approve of that.
“We’ll take the freighter to Klydor,” he said at last, his voice low
and hoarse. “If you can show me how.”
At once streams of figures and symbols began to appear on
GUIDE’S screen. And the computer’s voice seemed almost gentle.
“There is no need,” GUIDE said. “I have begun the awakening of
another of your number, who can programme the override.”
Cord turned slowly. A casket next to his own had begun to open.
The occupant was hidden from him by the raised lid, but Cord knew
what that person would be going through. The pain, the emptiness of
mind, the slow return to awareness, and to fear….
But in a shorter time than Cord would have imagined, the
occupant of that casket emerged, wearing muddy-brown trousers and
tunic like those supplied to Cord. And despite the shock that still
clawed at his mind, after what he had learned from GUIDE, his first
reaction was a childish feeling of chagrin—because she was a
centimetre or two taller than he was.
For all his pride in his powerfully muscled, athletic body, Cord had
always been self-conscious about his height. He was not tall, and the
breadth and solidity of him made him look even shorter. But at least
the girl didn’t seem interested in his appearance, or in him at all. She
was staring, wide-eyed, around the chamber, and especially at the
computer screen.
Cord saw that she was slim and tanned, with a rich gleam in her
short, tawny-blonde hair. Her face was unremarkable, even plain, but
made nearly pretty by her large grey eyes, and by the shaky smile that
she at last turned towards Cord.
“I’m Samella Connel,” she said. “Have we arrived?”
 “Cord MaKiy,” Cord said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I have to
tell you, we’re not at Antarctica. We’re. …”
“I know,” the girl cut in, astonishingly. “We’ve been in suspended
animation, going through translight to some planet.”
Cord’s mouth dropped open. “You know? How. .. ?”
Samella shrugged. Her shakiness seemed to be fading rapidly.
“The ColSec people talked, and I listened. They didn’t seem to notice,
or care.” Her gaze drifted past Cord, towards the jumble of data on the
computer screen. “What’s going on? Why are you and I awake, and not
the others?”
“I… it’s…” Cord stumbled. Then he waved a hand helplessly at the
computer. “This machine can tell you better than me. It’s called
GUIDE.”
And the soft expressionless voice of GUIDE told Samella what was
happening.
As it spoke, her eyes filmed over with tears, and she began to
tremble. “Then we’ve come all this way to die?” she said at last, her
voice faltering.
“That cannot be computed,” GUIDE said.
“Is there nothing we can do,” Samella asked, “to free the shuttle? A
manual release? Repairs?” “You cannot leave this area,” GUIDE said.
“There is no equipment on board for humans to enter vacuum.”
Samella sagged, and turned blindly towards Cord. For a moment
she stared unseeingly at him, and he watched silently as she fought her
own inner battle against shock and mind-twisting panic. With relief
and growing respect, he saw in a moment that her trembling was
ceasing, her eyes refocusing. She’s tough, he thought. And just as well.
“I’m glad it wasn’t me who had to choose,” Samella said to Cord at
last, her voice firmer now.
“I wish it hadn’t been me,” Cord said truthfully. “I suppose… I
chose to crash on the planet just so ColSec would lose something too.”
For an instant there was a glint of approval in Samella’s grey eyes, a
small reflection of the flame of hatred that still burned within Cord.
“I’m glad of that, too,” she said. Then she took a deep breath. “I’ll get on
with the reprogramme.”
 Cord watched, uncomprehending but impressed, as her slim
fingers began to flash over the computer keys. After several minutes,
she stepped back with a small sigh, as the screen cleared itself.
“It’s done,” she said, half to herself. “Klydor, here we come.” Then
she looked thoughtfully at the computer. “GUIDE, can you predict our
chances of surviving the crash?”
“That cannot be computed,” GUIDE said again.
Samella frowned slightly. “Random factors? But you’ll know our
velocity and angle of impact and so on. Do you know about the planet’s
surface?” “Details of the planet’s features are in my data banks,” GUIDE
said.
“So,” Samella asked, “what kind of terrain will we come down on?”
“The freighter will descend,” GUIDE replied, “at a flat angle, to
minimize impact, into an area of dense vegetation.”
“That’s something,” Samella said, her eyes brightening. “Then
what are the random factors?”
“There are several. How the atmosphere will affect the freighter,
since its hull lacks heat-shielding. Whether the freighter will roll,
placing the shuttle beneath it when it crashes. Whether the shuttle’s
hull will resist an impact of unknown force. Whether…”
“All right,” Samella broke in. “Now set accuracy aside, and give an
estimate of survival probability.”
The words sounded oddly formal, and Cord guessed that it was
some kind of standard instruction to a computer. He wasn’t sure he
really wanted to know the answer, but he listened with wary interest.
“Understood,” GUIDE said calmly. “Chances of survival for all
humans on the shuttle, 12 to 15 percent.”
“As low as that,” Samella whispered.
“Chances of survival for eleven of twelve hu-mans,” GUIDE went
on, “17 to 20 percent. For ten of twelve, 20 to 26 percent. For.. .”
The quiet voice continued to roll out the dismal figures. And yet
the percentages steadily rose, and a vague feeling of hope stirred within
Cord.
“Chances for five of twelve,” GUIDE was saying, “48 to 52 percent.
Chances… .”
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“You mean we’ve got him,” interrupted Constable Walker. “I helped
catch him jest th’ same as you.”
“So ye did, but I discovered the clues.”
“Never mind, officers,” spoke the Judge sharply, as he did not think it
dignified to have a dispute in his office. “Who is the prisoner?”
“A burglar!” exclaimed Constable Wolff.
“Dan Hardy!” answered Constable Walker in the same breath.
“You don’t mean to tell me Dan Hardy has been arrested as a
burglar?” said the justice, as much surprised as he thought it
consistent with his dignity to be.
“Yep, Squire—I mean Your Honor,” answered Mr. Wolff. “I catched—I
mean we catched him this mornin’. He robbed Dr. Maxwell’s house
last night, an’ we discovered part of th’ evidence on him,” and he
showed the spoon he had found in Dan’s pocket. “Now we want you,
if you will, t’ hold court, an’ properly commit him t’ jail, until th’ Grand
Jury can sit on his case.”
“Wait a minute!” exclaimed the Squire. “I am the person to judge
what is to be done in this case, not the officer who makes the arrest.
It may be that I will find it unnecessary to commit him for the action
of the Grand Inquest. I shall judge of that when I hear the evidence.”
“But he’s guilty, Mr. Perk—I mean Judge,” said Mr. Walker quickly.
“Silence!” cried the Squire, offended at the slip Mr. Walker had made.
“I am the proper person to decide that. You may bring the prisoner
before me in half an hour. Meanwhile I will look up certain points of
law, and I do not wish to be disturbed. Now clear the court,” and the
justice spoke as if there was a crowd of persons before him.
The truth was he wanted to be alone, to look up some authority in
the matter and see if he had a right to hold court in the case of a
burglar. He had never done so before.
It did not take Squire Perkfell long to determine that he had authority
to act in the case of a person charged with robbery, and then he
waited for the officers to bring Dan in.
Meanwhile the two constables went to the jail, and got their prisoner.
“What are you going to do with me now?” asked Dan, curiously.
“Ye’re goin’ t’ be tried,” said Mr. Wolff.
“Will Mr. Savage be there? I think I have a right to have his
testimony,” declared Dan, who, from having read of trials knew a little
about law.
“I s’pose he’ll be there,” replied Jacob Wolff. “Mebby ye won’t be so
glad t’ see him, after he tells what he knows. Hank Lee is goin’ t’
testify too.”
“What does he know about me?”
“Better wait, an’ see.”
“I am entitled to some rights in this matter,” went on Dan. “I should
be represented by a lawyer.”
“There ain’t none in town now,” said Mr. Walker. “John Burge has
gone t’ Canestota, and Ed Lancing is over t’ his mother’s. But Judge
Perkfell will know what t’ do.”
“I am entitled to a representative in court,” insisted Dan, “and if I
can’t have a lawyer I wish you would send for Mr. Harrison.”
“What, that blacksmith? He don’t know no law,” objected Jacob
Wolff.
“Maybe not, but he is my friend, and he told me to let him know when
I was in trouble, and I’m in trouble now.”
“Wa’al, I’ll tell him,” said Mr. Walker, not very kindly, for he did not
want to lose anything of what was to take place. “I’ll tell him t’ come t’
Squire Perkfell’s court. Jake, d’ ye think ye kin manage him?” and he
nodded at Dan.
“Oh, don’t be afraid, I’m not going to escape,” said the boy,
understanding what was meant.
“I guess ye’d better not,” spoke Mr. Wolff fiercely taking a better grip
on Dan’s coat sleeve.
While one constable went, rather reluctantly, to summon the veteran
blacksmith, the other led Dan toward Hank Lee’s store, a crowd of
persons gathering as soon as they emerged from the town hall.
“Where are we going?” asked Dan.
“Through th’ store, t’ th’ Judge’s office,” replied Mr. Wolff. “Th’ Judge,
he’s lookin’ up th’ law, an’ he don’t want t’ be disturbed fer half an
hour. We’ll wait in Hank’s store.”
“I had rather wait in jail,” spoke Dan, who felt he would be subjected
to ridicule and abuse in the grocery, with its crowd of men and boys.
“Mebby so, but ye can’t do as ye like when ye’re under arrest.”
He led the boy into the store. Though it was quite early there was a
big throng in it, for the rumor had spread that Dan was to have a
preliminary hearing, and all wanted to be present. They knew they
could go through the store into the Squire’s office.
“Clear th’ way fer th’ representative of th’ law!” exclaimed Jacob
Wolff, as he led Dan in.
“Jake’s in his glory now,” said one man.
“That’s right,” added another. “He’d rather be where he is than
President of th’ United States, I guess.”
Dan was led to a chair, near the door which opened into the Squire’s
office. The half hour was not quite up, and Mr. Wolff knew better than
to go in before it was time.
“So you got him, did you?” asked Hank Lee, coming over and
standing before the constable and his prisoner. “I always knowed he
was bad. He played a mean trick on me one day, and I reckon I’ve
got even with him now. I’ll get some reward, won’t I, for telling you he
was the robber?”
“Mebby so,” answered Mr. Wolff. He would have preferred Mr. Lee
should say nothing about his information, as, if he did, it might take
away from the glory coming to the two officers.
“Did you give the constables information that led to my false arrest?”
asked Dan indignantly, of Hank Lee.
“Yes, I did, and I’m glad they got you. Now I’m even with you for
setting that bull after me. I told you I’d fix you.”
“I didn’t set the bull after you, Mr. Lee, and it wasn’t my fault that you
were frightened by it.”
“I wasn’t frightened, I tell you! I jest ran because I was afraid he
might hit me, and knock the money out of my pocket. I got up in the
tree so’s I could count it and see if it was right.”
At this version of the story, so different from the truth Dan could not
help smiling. It was evident that Mr. Lee had told no one exactly what
had happened, or how he had begged Dan not to desert him, to go
for help.
“Oh, you’re laughing now,” sneered the storekeeper, as he saw the
smile on Dan’s face, “but you’ll be sorry enough when you’re behind
the bars. I always knowed you’d come to no good end. It runs in the
family.”
“See here!” exclaimed Dan, springing to his feet. “You can insult me,
if you will, because you are bigger and stronger than I am, but you
shan’t insult the memory of my father and mother! I come of as good
family as you do, and you know it. You gave false information about
me, because you have a grudge against me. I don’t know what it
was, but it wasn’t true, and I’ll prove it.”
Dan’s righteous anger seemed to get the best of him, and he
struggled to get loose from the restraining hold of Constable Wolff.
He had no idea what he wanted to do, except he felt as if he would
like to strike the mean storekeeper.
“Here! Hold on!” cried the officer, roughly dragging Dan back. “None
of that! You’re a prisoner!”
“Yes, you’re a felon!” added Mr. Lee with a sneer.
“I’d rather be an innocent prisoner than a coward!” cried Dan,
remembering how the storekeeper whined when the bull had him up
a tree.
“Who’s a coward?”
“You are. You were afraid to stay up the tree alone when I wanted to
go after help to catch the bull.”
“What’s that?” asked Sam Porter, one of the men in the store. “I
didn’t hear the story that way. Tell us about it, Dan.”
Hardly knowing why he did so, Dan related the story, showing the
cowardice of the storekeeper.
“Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho!” laughed Sam. “That’s a good one on you, Lee.
Treed by a bull, and dasn’t stick your foot down! Ha! Ho! That’s
prutty good!”
The rest of the crowd joined in the laugh at the discomfited Mr. Lee,
who angrily retired to his private office to make out bills. Dan had
gotten the best of him, and, somehow the sympathy of the crowd,
which had been rather against the boy, now turned his way.
Suddenly the door leading to the office of the Squire opened, and Mr.
Perkfell announced:
“Let the prisoner enter. I will now hold court.”
There was a scramble on the part of the crowd to get good seats,
and Constable Wolff led Dan in. As the boy was arraigned before the
Squire, Constable Walker came in, followed by Mr. Harrison. Dan’s
heart leaped, and his courage came back as he saw his sturdy
friend, the village blacksmith.
“We will now proceed with the hearing,” announced the justice.
“Order in the court!”
“LET THE PRISONER STAND UP,” SAID THE JUSTICE.—Page
115.
 CHAPTER XIV
THE TRIAL

Several minutes passed before the crowd settled down. There was
not room for all to sit, and many stood up in the back part of the
room.
The two constables, placing Dan between them, took seats near the
Squire’s desk. Judge Perkfell put on his glasses and selected a book
from the pile in front of him. He took the first one he came to, and
opened it at random. This was only done to impress the onlookers.
“Ahem! Let the prisoner stand up,” called the justice.
Dan arose.
“Ahem! That will do, be seated.”
Dan did not see what that amounted to. Neither did any one else but
the Squire. To him it showed the power he had to make prisoners do
whatever he commanded.
“Where is the complainant in this case?” went on the justice.
No one answered.
“Is the complainant not present? Unless he answers at once I shall
commit him for contempt of court.”
“I don’t think there is any com—complainant, Judge,” spoke Mr.
Wolff, wondering what the word meant.
“What? No complainant? Why there must be, or we can not hold
court.”
“Can’t I get you one, your Honor?” asked Mr. Walker, determined to
make up for past offenses. “If you tell me where it is I’ll bring it.”
“The complainant is the person who makes the complaint—who
brings the charge—who accuses the prisoner,” explained the justice,
frowning, as he saw some persons smiling.
“Oh, I’m makin’ th’ charge,” replied Constable Wolff.
“So am I!” exclaimed his fellow officer quickly, for he was not going to
be left out of the affair.
“You are both complainants? Why, I understood it was Dr. Maxwell’s
house that was burglarized.”
“So it was,” said Mr. Walker quickly.
“Then Dr. Maxwell is the complainant. Is he present?”
“He has got to see a sick lady,” explained Silas Martin, the doctor’s
hired man, as he stood up in the back of the room, blushing very
much at the notice he attracted.
“Ah, in that case we will proceed without him, and we can have his
evidence later. A doctor is privileged to stay away from court, to
attend the sick, as laid down in the Atlantic Reporter, 638, Barker
versus Sanderson, but for no other cause. Otherwise I should have
had to commit Dr. Maxwell for contempt of court.”
There was a sort of gasp at this, as the Squire intended there should
be, for, as he thought, it showed his power.
“Meanwhile we will proceed with the case. I will hear the evidence of
the two representatives of the law.”
The constables straightened up in their chairs at thus hearing
themselves mentioned.
At that moment Mr. Harrison, the blacksmith, went over and took a
seat beside Dan.
“Here!” exclaimed the Judge. “What are you doing? You have no
right there.”
“I am here to look after the interest of the prisoner, Dan Hardy,” said
Mr. Harrison firmly.
“But you’re not a lawyer. You’re only a blacksmith.”
“I know it, Squire Perkfell, but one does not need to be a lawyer to
represent a person in the court of a justice of the peace. Your law
books will tell you that.”
Perhaps they would, but the Squire did not know where to look for
the information. He was half inclined to dispute the word of the
blacksmith, but he thought better of it.
Perhaps Mr. Harrison was right, and he was entitled to represent
Dan. The Squire knew enough of law to realize that a prisoner ought
to be represented by some one. He thought it ought to be a lawyer,
but if the blacksmith insisted, perhaps it would not be wise to
disagree with him.
“Very well,” announced the Justice, after a moment’s thought, “I will
allow you to represent the prisoner,—temporarily, however, only
temporarily. I may change my decision later, as the case develops.”
Mr. Harrison smiled.
“I now demand the right to have a few minutes private conversation
with my—my client,” said the blacksmith.
Squire Perkfell did not know what to do. This was something new in
his practice.
“Don’t do it!” exclaimed Constable Wolff. “Don’t allow it, your Honor.
It’s a plot t’ let him escape!”
“Silence!” cried the Squire. “I am in charge of this court!”
He dimly remembered once being at a trial where a lawyer made
such a demand, and the judge granted it. Squire Perkfell prided
himself on knowing law, and he wanted to do what was right, so he
said:
“Very well, your request is granted. But you must talk to the prisoner
in this room. You may withdraw to a corner.”
“That will do,” assented Mr. Harrison, and he led Dan to a part of the
room where he could converse with him quietly. The two constables
watched him narrowly. Dan told his friend all the events of the night
ride, including the finding of the spoon, and the actions of the
mysterious men. Then he led the boy back to his seat, and spoke to
the Squire.
“We are ready to proceed,” he said.
“Who is the first witness?” asked the justice, who, in the meanwhile,
had been asking Constable Wolff more about the case.
“Si Martin,” answered Jacob Wolff, who had assumed the role of
prosecutor. “He discovered the robbery.”
“Silas Martin, step forward,” called the Squire, and the doctor’s hired
man, blushing like a girl, shambled to the desk.
“Now tell the Court what you know.”
“I don’t know nothin’ about it. I didn’t see Dan steal anythin’. I don’t
believe he done it. Neither does Dr. Maxwell, an’ he told me t’ say
so. He’s comin’ here as soon as he can.”
“The court can not await the convenience of any one,” said the
justice with dignity. “Nor does it want you to express your opinion as
to the guilt or innocence of a prisoner. Just tell what you know of the
robbery.”
Thereupon Silas related what we already know, of how he
discovered that the house had been entered, and the silver and
other things taken. Next he told of his visit to the constables, and
what Mr. Lee had said regarding Dan’s midnight ride.
The storekeeper was called and gave his evidence. It began to look
black for Dan, especially when the constables added their story of
him being up the tree, and of the finding of the spoon in his pocket.
“That seems to be the case for the prosecution,” remarked the
Squire. “Is the defense ready to proceed?” And he looked at Mr.
Harrison.
“We are,” replied the blacksmith. “I want to ask some questions of
the witnesses. I did not interrupt them while they were testifying, as I
wanted to hear the whole story. First I would like to call Mr. Lee back
to the stand.”
“I ain’t got no time to bother with this case any more,” replied the
storekeeper. “I told all I know. I’ve got to go back and wait on some
customers.”
“Take the stand!” exclaimed the justice. “You are a material witness
in this case, and, until you are excused by the court, you must
remain. I will commit you for contempt if you go away.”
Mr. Lee scowled. He was angry at the justice, and he privately
resolved to raise his rent as soon as the case was over, for he
owned the office where the Squire held court.
 CHAPTER XV
HELD IN BAIL

The blacksmith, who had made several notes when Dan told him the
story, looked at the paper in his hand. He had often seen court-
martial trials in the army and knew how to proceed.
“Mr. Lee,” he said, “you have testified to seeing the defendant, some
time early this morning, riding on a horse, and carrying a bundle. Is
that correct?”
“I seen Dan Hardy, if that’s who you mean.”
“Yes, he is the defendant in this case. Now will you state to the court
just how large this bundle was?”
“Wa’al, it wasn’t very big.”
“As big as a bushel basket?”
“No, of course not. He had it in his pocket, and I’d like to see any one
carry a bushel basket there and ride a horse.”
“Well, how big was it?”
“How do I know?”
“You said you saw it, and have so testified under oath.”
Mr. Lee squirmed in his seat.
“Wa’al,” he said at length, “I didn’t see it very plain. It was dark at the
time.”
“Yet you have stated to the court under oath that you saw Dan Hardy
very plainly when you got up to get something to stop your
toothache. You have testified that you saw him have a bundle. Now I
want you to state to the court the size of that bundle.”
The room was very still now. Clearly something was coming, and the
crowd did not want to miss it.
“Wa’al, I guess it was about as big as a quart measure,” said Mr. Lee
at length.
“You swear to that?”
“I s’pose so.”
“That will do.”
There was a murmur of surprise at the sudden ending of the
storekeeper’s testimony.
“Is that all?” asked Mr. Lee, apparently much relieved.
“Yes. Call Silas Martin.”
The hired man, still blushing, returned to the witness stand.
“Silas,” began the blacksmith in a kindly tone, “can you swear as to
how much stuff was taken away from Dr. Maxwell’s house?”
“Pretty near, Mr. Harrison.”
“What was it?”
“Wa’al, there was a lot of spoons, forks, knives, a big silver water
pitcher, a silver sugar bowl, a silver coffee pot, a silver coffee urn and
—”
“In fact there was quite a bulky lot of stuff, was there not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“About how large a bundle would it make?”
Once more the crowd gave a sort of gasp. They began to see to
what end Mr. Harrison was asking questions.
“Wa’al, I used t’ clean th’ pitchers, urns an’ sugar bowl once a week,”
testified Silas, “an’ I used t’ put ’em all in a basket t’ carry ’em out t’
th’ harness room t’ polish ’em.”
“How big a basket did you put them in, Silas?”
“Wa’al, by careful managin’ I could git th’ water pitcher, th’ milk
pitcher, th’ sugar bowl, th’ coffee pot an’ th’ tea pot in a bushel
basket.”
“Was there room for anything more?”
“Not a bit.”
“Then the things stolen from Dr. Maxwell’s house would more than fill
a bushel basket?”
“They’d pretty near fill two.”
“That is all, Silas.”
“Ye don’t want me no more?”
“No, I do not, but perhaps some of these other gentlemen might like
to question you,” and Mr. Harrison motioned to the two constables.
“No, I don’t want to,” said Mr. Wolff, and Mr. Walker also indicated
that he desired to take no part in the matter.
“Then I think you may go, Silas,” said Mr. Harrison.
“Before I go I want t’ say I don’t believe Dan Hardy robbed th’
house!” exclaimed Silas.
“Silence!” cried the justice, who, for the last few minutes had felt that
he was being ignored. “If you say that again I shall commit you for
contempt of court.”
“Wa’al, I said it all I want t’,” murmured Silas, as he went back to his
place in the rear of the room.
“Squire Perkfell,” began the blacksmith, “I think I have brought out
enough evidence to prove that Dan had no part in this robbery. Mr.
Lee has testified that the bundle Dan had was the size of a quart
measure. The doctor’s hired man, who is in a position to know,
swears that the booty taken from the house would more than fill a
bushel basket. I therefore submit that the bundle Dan had was not
stolen property, and I shall prove it.”
Mr. Savage was next called, and, though he was rather an unwilling
witness in behalf of Dan, he told of sending the lad to Mrs. Randall’s
house with the medicine, which was brought back. He thus
accounted for Dan’s night trip, and for the package the boy carried.
“Dan Hardy, take the stand,” called Mr. Harrison, and Dan, with firm
tread, and head held erect, walked forward to give his evidence. He
told of his night ride, and of seeing the mysterious men, also of his
intention to slip to the village and inform the constables without
bothering to tell Mr. Savage.
“What about th’ spoon we found in his pocket?” asked Constable
Wolff triumphantly.
“Explain that, Dan,” said Mr. Harrison, and Dan did so, telling how he
had found the article.
There was a murmur in the courtroom at this. It was plain that many
persons, if they did not believe Dan guilty, did think he was in league
with the robbers. There were sneering whispers.
“In view of what had been testified, and from the lack of any positive
evidence that my client was involved in this robbery, I respectfully
ask his discharge,” said Mr. Harrison.
“Don’t let him go free! He’s guilty!” exclaimed Constable Walker, who
hated to see his prisoner set at liberty.
“Silence!” cried the justice. “I shall commit you for contempt.”
He glared around in a menacing manner.
“Ahem!” he went on portentously. “I have carefully listened to all the
evidence in this case. The prisoner seems able to prove a fairly good
alibi—”
“What’s that. I wonder,” whispered Constable Walker to Constable
Wolff.
“Sh! That means he was somewhere else when he done th’ crime.”
“But how could he be somewhere’s else?—”
“Silence!” cried the justice, glaring at the two officers. Then he went
on:
“In spite of the seeming alibi, and the testimony about the size of the
bundle he had, the discovery of the spoon in his pocket is very
damaging. I shall express no opinion in the matter, but I feel obliged
to hold the prisoner in one thousand dollars bail to await the action of
the Grand Jury.
“If he can not furnish the bail, or a satisfactory bondsman, who owns
property worth at least twice the amount of the bail, I shall have to
commit the prisoner to jail. Court is adjourned.”
 CHAPTER XVI
A FRIEND IN NEED

Dan was bitterly disappointed. He thought when Mr. Harrison had

brought out the evidence so clearly, and when it was testified that he
was far away from the scene of the robbery, that the justice would
give a verdict of “not guilty.”
“What does it mean?” asked the boy, much bewildered.
“It means ye’ll have t’ go back t’ jail, that’s what it means,” declared
Constable Walker vindictively.
“Yes, an’ stay there ’till yer regular trial at th’ county court house,”
added Constable Wolff.
“That is unless you can get some one to go on your bond for a
thousand dollars,” explained Justice Perkfell, not so gruffly as he had
spoken before. He was well satisfied with himself, and the way he
had conducted the case.
“You mean if I can get some one to sign a paper I can go free until
my regular trial?”
“That’s it, but whoever signs the paper must be worth at least two
thousand dollars. He would be security for your appearance to be
tried, that is if the Grand Jury finds an indictment against you. If you
should run away in the meanwhile, whoever went on your bond
would have to pay a thousand dollars.”
Dan naturally thought of his employer, who was quite wealthy.
Certainly he was worth two thousand dollars.
“Will you go bail for me?” asked the boy, turning to Mr. Savage.
“What’s that?” inquired the farmer, as if he had not heard aright.
“Will you be my bondsman?”
“Your bondsman? Go yer bail fer a thousand dollars? Wa’al, I guess
not much, Dan Hardy! You must think I’ve got money t’ throw away,”
cried the miserly farmer.
“But it would not cost you anything. All you would have to do would
be to sign the paper.”
“Yes, an’ ef ye took a notion t’ skip out between now an’ th’ time of
yer trial, I’d have t’ pay th’ thousand dollars.”
“But I promise I’ll not ‘skip out’ as you call it Mr. Savage.”
“Wa’al, I ain’t takin’ th’ word of a thief!”
“Do you think I’m a thief?” asked Dan indignantly.
“Ain’t ye jest been found guilty?”
“No, he has not!” exclaimed Mr. Harrison. “Only a jury of twelve men
has a right to say whether or not he is guilty. He is only held for trial.”
“Wa’al, I ain’t goin’ t’ risk no thousand dollars on him.”
“Then you’ll not go on my bond?” queried Dan.
“Not much I won’t!”
Poor Dan was down-hearted again. He counted on being allowed his
freedom, for he had resolved to do his best to trace the real robbers,
and so clear his good name.
“Wa’al, I guess ye’d better come along t’ jail now,” said Constable
Wolff. “There ain’t nobody goin’ yer bail. Come on,” and he caught
Dan by the coat sleeve to lead him away.
“Stop!” cried Mr. Harrison in a ringing voice.
“What fer?” demanded the constable.
“Dan needn’t stay in jail until his trial comes off.”
“I’d like t’ know why? Ain’t nobody goin’ his bail.”
“I am!”
“You are?” and the constable sneered. “I’d like t’ know where ye got
two thousand dollars t’ go on anybody’s bail. Ye ain’t worth more’n
two hundred dollars.”
“I must require good security,” hastily interposed Justice Perkfell.
“Very good security.”
“And I can furnish it!” exclaimed the veteran, standing close beside
Dan, as though he would protect the boy. “I will go on this boy’s bond
for a thousand—yes, for ten thousand dollars, for I know he is
innocent!”
“Talk’s cheap, but it takes money t’ go on bail bonds,” came from
Constable Walker. “Everybody knows ye ain’t got no ten thousand
dollars, Mr. Harrison.”
“Then everybody is mistaken,” replied the sturdy old blacksmith with
a smile. “I was not worth ten thousand dollars a few days ago, but I
am now. Justice Perkfell, I’ll ask you to look at those papers,” and he
handed the Squire a bundle of documents.
The old justice adjusted his glasses and began to examine the
documents, while the crowd waited impatiently.
“Does that show whether I can qualify in the sum of two thousand
dollars and go on Dan’s bond?” asked the veteran.
“Ahem! I—er—must admit it does,” replied the Squire. “I must, under
the law accept you as bondsman for the prisoner, if you desire to
take that responsibility.”
“I certainly do.”
“I may add, for the information of those present,” went on the justice,
who was not going to miss a chance to make a speech, “that the
papers I have examined show that Mr. Harrison has been left
considerable property, including some real estate, which is
necessary for a bondsman to have. This property, it appears, comes
from a distant relative, and I should say, from the statement of the
lawyers, that it was worth at least ten thousand dollars.”
“Fully that,” replied the blacksmith quietly. “It was an unexpected
legacy for me, and I never was more surprised in my life than when I
got it. It came from a distant cousin, all of whose relatives, save
myself, had died. I am glad it came when it did, for it enables me to
do my friend Dan a service.”
The bond was soon made out and the blacksmith signed it.
“Now, Dan,” he said, “you are at liberty. I hope you’ll not run away,
since I have gone on your bond.”
“Indeed I will not, Mr. Harrison. I’m going to stay right around here,
and see if I can’t discover the burglars. May I go now?” he asked of
the justice.
“Yes. You are now under bail for the Grand Jury’s action. They may
indict you, and they may not.”
“Then he ain’t got t’ go t’ jail?” asked Peter Savage, and he seemed
a little disappointed.
“No,” replied Squire Perkfell.
“Then ye’d better come back t’ th’ farm with me, Dan,” exclaimed his
employer. “Ye’ve lost enough time as ’tis. It’s past dinner time, an’
there’s lots of chores t’ be done. Come along, step lively!”
Dan made a sudden resolution.
“Mr. Savage, I’m not going back to the farm with you!” he said.
“What’s that?”
“I say I’m not going back to the farm. I’m done working for you.
Besides, I don’t see why you should want in your house a boy whom
you consider a thief. I’m done with you forever!”
If a bomb had been exploded under the feet of Mr. Peter Savage, he
could not have been more surprised.