CHAPTER XIV
BART'S FIRST SHOT
Fenn made a dash for the shelter of a spruce tree, and watched thedescending shower of mud and water. It was soon over, and he stepped outagain, to view the curious volcano. He crossed the open space, free fromsnow, and a number of turtles scurried away at his advance.
"That's how it is," remarked the lad, "that the turtles are so numerousaround here. It's as warm as toast around that mud volcano, and theydon't have to hibernate. The ones we found near our camp must havewandered away in search of food, and were on their way back here. I'vesolved part of the mystery, anyhow. Now to examine this curious place."
The boiling spring, or mud volcano, as such phenomenons are variouslycalled, consisted, in the main, of a large pool of muddy colored water,lying at the foot of a hill. All around it were dead trees, and thesmell of sulphur, though not so strong as at the first spring Fenn hadvisited, was plainly noticeable. The water had a dead, stagnant look,after the eruption, and Fenn was careful not to approach too close, forhe could not tell when the spring would spout up again. He saw a numberof turtles on logs and bits of wood that extended out into the pool, andothers plunged from the bank into the water at his approach.
"They don't seem to mind the sulphur and the mud," said Fenn to himself.The lad had read in his school books of the mud volcanoes. They are of atype similar to the hot geysers of Yellowstone Park, though not so largeor numerous. Though called boiling springs in some parts of the countrythey do not boil or bubble on the surface, as a rule, though there is aconstant supply of warm water from some subterranean source, so, that,as in the case with the spring Fenn was viewing, the water ran over fromthe pool, and trickled off through the woods.
Mud volcanoes or boiling springs, while not common, are to be met within New York and Pennsylvania. The writer recently visited a large one inNew York State, near Lake Ontario. It was around Christmas, and a coldblustering day, yet the water from the spring was quite warm, and hadmelted the snow for quite a distance in all directions. The water wasimpregnated with sulphur and salt, and though there was not an eruptionwhen the writer was present, there were marks on surrounding treesshowing where mud had been hurled to a height of thirty or forty feet.
There are various theories to account for the action of the mudvolcanoes. One is that steam is formed away below the surface, and,seeking an outlet, throws the mud and water with it. Another is that theforce of water, flowing from some mountain lake, by an undergroundpassage, spouts up through the boiling spring, being heated in somemanner in its passage.
But Fenn did not trouble himself much about these theories as he lookedat the curious spring. It was a gloomy, lonesome place, and the presenceof so many turtles, some of them very large, added to the uncannyaspect.
"Well, there are turtles enough here to stock several collections,"murmured Fenn. "Lots of different kinds, too. I will take some home Iguess. Now if I had that mysterious man's address I'd send him word.This mud volcano will be a curious thing to show the other fellows. Iwonder how warm the water is?"
He approached, to thrust his hand into the edge of the spring, when anominous rumbling beneath his feet warned him. He jumped away just intime, and, as he ran for the shelter of the trees, there was anotherupheaval of mud, and he received a share of it. He remained in theshelter until the spring subsided, and then made his way back to camp.
His chums were there when he arrived, and something in their looksprompted Fenn to ask:
"Well, where's the bear steak, and the partridges for roasting."
"No luck," declared Bart in disgust. "Never saw a bit of game! I guesswe camped in the wrong place."
"Oh, no we didn't!" exclaimed Fenn in triumph, as he produced the twoplump birds from his pockets. "Here's what I got, besides bagging aboiling spring for my morning's work."
"Say, where'd you get those?" asked Bart eagerly.
"Come on, show us?" begged Ned.
"Time enough," responded the stout lad. "I'm going to have dinner now,and then we'll have these birds, roasted, for supper. There's more wherethey came from. Now I'll tell you about the mud volcano," which he did,graphically, so that his chums were eager to go and see it. But theydecided to wait until the next day, and to have a good supper of roastpartridge that night. Fenn cooked his game to perfection, and was givena hearty vote of thanks.
A visit to the mud volcano was made the next day, and there were foundto be more turtles than on Fenn's visit. The volcano was observed inaction, much to the wonderment of the three lads, who had never seenanything like it, and once Ned, who was too venturesome, was caughtunder an unusually large shower of mud.
"Well, let's go hunting now," proposed Bart, after a pause. "I haven'thad a decent shot since we came to camp. I've got to get that bearbefore I go back."
They tramped off through the woods, their eyes eager for a sight ofgame, large or small. Each one had a compass, so that if they becameseparated they could make their way back to camp, for the forest wasdense. The snow had ceased, and the weather was clear and cold.
Fenn and Frank had shotguns, and elected to try to bag some wild turkeysor partridges, so they went off to one side, while Bart and Ned, withtheir rifles, kept together.
Suddenly Bart, after an hour's tramping in the woods, with never a sightof anything larger than a rabbit, which he would not fire at, came to anabrupt stop. Ned, who was right behind him, halted also.
"What is it?" he whispered.
"What is that over there?" asked Bart, also in a whisper, and hepointed to a black object near some bushes.
"A stump," replied Ned promptly.
"Do stumps move?" inquired Bart.
"Of course not."
"Well that one did, so it isn't a stump. I think it's a bear."
Bart's opinion was unexpectedly confirmed the next moment, for theanimal turned and uttered a loud "woof!" as it sniffed at the snow atthe foot of the bush, evidently in search of something to eat.
Bart dropped to one knee, and took quick aim. It was his first shotsince arriving at camp, and it was one worthy of much care, for bearswere none too common to risk missing one.
The rifle cracked, but there was no cloud of smoke, for Bart was usinghis new smokeless cartridges. The lad pumped another bullet into thebarrel, and fired again, for the bear had not moved after the firstreport.
Then, as the echoes of the rifle died away, the two lads saw the animalquickly rear itself upon its hind legs, and swing around in theirdirection.
Bart Keene's Hunting Days; or, The Darewell Chums in a Winter Camp Page 14