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that stone, other people are in trouble too. The Connors, mainly. They still owe for their property, and now they could lose it.”
    â€œThen—then we’ve got to find your tin box,” Timor said. “And I think we can.”
    â€œWhat makes you so sure?”
    â€œBecause—” Timor hesitated. “Because of something that’s happened. I, well, for one thing I know that Wiley was in the back of Grosser’s store at the time you were being robbed.”
    â€œHow did you ever learn that?”
    â€œWell, Wiley—” Timor stopped and bit his lip. Something made him ask, “Do you believe in magic, Mr. Battle—Nathaniel?”
    Nathaniel Battle raised one eyebrow. “I can take it or leave it, although I’ve seen some odd things in these mountains. What kind of magic are you talking about?”
    â€œMagic in woods. Sassafras especially.”
    â€œThat’s different. There are people around here who wouldn’t cut a sassafras tree for anything. I’m one. Wiley was another. Come to think of it, Wiley had a piece of sassafras he’d found somewhere; he told me last winter he was making a chair out of it for a friend of his. Was it for you?”
    Timor nodded. For a moment they were silent. Then Nathaniel said softly, “That must be a mighty special chair, Tim.”
    â€œIt is. I—I found it in our cabin last night after we arrived. It was put in my room the night before by somebody who had Wiley’s key to the place. We know that because Mrs. McBane was driving by that evening and saw a light on, but she didn’t think anything of it at the time because she thought we were there.”
    â€œYou’ve talked to the old battle-ax?”
    â€œYes. First thing when we reached town yesterday.” He told of his inquiry at the sheriff’s office, and of discovering the chair after Rance Gatlin had left the cabin.
    â€œGo on,” Nathaniel urged. “I know there’s more.”
    â€œYou won’t think I’m just—just telling you a tale?”
    â€œI won’t know what to think till I hear it.” Nathaniel looked at him earnestly. “Tim, if you weren’t Wiley’s friend, I wouldn’t be talking to you this way. Sure, I’m educated and I held a commission in the army; around here I’m supposed to be level-headed and straight-thinking. But when it comes to some things I’ll admit to you I’m pure Indian. So, what about this chair Wiley made?”
    â€œO.K.” Timor drew a deep breath and plunged into the story of Wiley’s visit.
    Nathaniel did not interrupt. He leaned over the showcase, resting on his elbows, his long fingers locked together and slowly tightening. “So,” he murmured finally, “that’s how it was.”
    Timor nodded silently.
    â€œAnd he told you to come and see me right away?”
    â€œYes. He said the only way to find out what happened is to get everybody’s side of it.”
    Nathaniel unclenched his hands, then clenched them again. He seemed deeply moved. “Bless old Wiley! Why did I doubt him? He’s trying his best to help—and right now I sure need it. He—he told you he’d be back tonight?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThen maybe we’d better—” Nathaniel stopped abruptly, his eyes on the doorway. Timor glanced quickly around.
    In their absorption over Wiley and the chair they had been paying little attention to the occasional car that turned in at the Forks, nor had they been aware of approaching footsteps. But now there was the crunch of gravel outside, and someone moved past the window and swung up to the doorway. Timor recognized the stocky deputy with the protruding chin he had seen briefly in the sheriff’s office.
    Brad James said casually, “Mornin’, Nat.” He came inside and leaned against the doorframe. His hard marble-blue eyes fastened on Timor. He seemed