CHAPTER III
LOST ISLAND
It was only a thin edge of a moon that now stood barely above the lowline of tree-covered hills beyond the east bank of the river. The lightit gave was a misty, watery sort of ray that was a doubtful help inwalking over the broken shore line. The two boys were too occupied inwatching their footing to do much talking. Jerry led the way, bearingto the water's edge, finally stopping where a light rowboat had beenpulled well up on the rocky beach.
"We'll have to divide forces, I guess. In this uncertain light we nevercould be sure of seeing the boat if she was on the other side. I'll cutacross while you go down this bank."
"Why not take the boat and go down the middle?"
"Too hard work getting through the shallows, and, besides, this waywe're closest to the place where the boat would most likely have beensnagged. We can go lots faster on foot. We'll keep about opposite eachother; we can yell across once in a while and it won't be quite solonesome. You go ahead till you get below the riffles, and wait theretill I catch up with you."
Jerry stepped into the boat and took up the oars. Dave gave the boat amighty shove that almost put the stern under the water.
"Hey! What you kids doing?" bellowed a gruff voice that the boys hardlyrecognized as being that of Mr. Aikens.
"Just duck and say nothing," called Jerry guardedly to Dave. "He mighttry to stop us."
So Dave scurried into the shadows of near-by trees, while Jerry bentlow over his oars and noiselessly shot the boat out into safe waters.It was the work of only a few minutes to push the nose of his boat highand dry on the sand of the opposite shore. He was in the heavy shadowof a big cottonwood and felt safe from peering eyes, so without wastingtime to mask his movements he jumped out and scurried along the bank. Alevel stretch of a hundred yards carried him around a bend; he stoppedfor a brief rest and a glance toward the other side, where a greatcrashing of bushes told him that Dave was safely out of sight and wellon his way toward the riffles.
A chuckle almost escaped Jerry as he listened to the thrashing about,but remembrance of their errand killed the laughter. In fact, thechuckle turned to a genuine sob, for Tod Fulton was his closest chum.So, without an instant's pause, he made his way to the foot of theriffles, where their search would really begin. How soon it would end,there was no telling; it might be one mile; it might be twenty. ButJerry grimly determined that he would carry the undertaking through tothe end.
The riffles was really a succession of pools of treacherous depths,joined by foaming, rock-broken rapids. The bank was lined with greatboulders through which a day-time path wound a difficult way. Jerrywasted no time in trying to follow it, but skirted far around through awaist-high cornfield. A barb-wire fence held him prisoner long enoughto allow Dave to break cover first on the opposite shore and send avigorous but quavery "hello" across the water.
"I'm stuck on the fence!" shouted Jerry in return. "Go ahead. I'll bealong directly."
But he noticed that Dave stood waiting on the shore when he finallymanaged to release himself and broke through the thin fringe ofwillows. "All right, Dave," he urged. "Let's not be losing any time."
For a while the going was much easier. On Jerry's side a wide reach ofsand lay smooth and firm in the pale moonlight. On Dave's side a fewyards of sand lay between a steep bank and the water's edge, but everyfew hundred feet a shallow creek broke through and forced wading.
There was no chance for the boat to have stranded here, and the boyshurried along. Within a mile the character of the ground changed. Nowthe water lapped along under high, steep banks, with tiny,willow-covered islands alternating with bass-haunted snags of dislodgedtrees barricaded with driftwood. The moon cast queer shadows and morethan once Jerry's heart felt a wild thrill as he fancied he saw a boathull outlined against the silvered current.
Every few hundred yards the two boys stopped and sent encouragingshouts across the widening water. It was a lonesome, dishearteningtask, with every step making the task all the harder. Deep bays cutinto the shore line; the feeder creeks grew wider and deeper. The nightair was chill on their dripping shoulders. Plum Run was no longer arun--it was a real river, and Dave's voice sounded far off when he cameout on some bare point to shout his constant:
"Nothing doing--yet."
They were now on a part of the river that was comparatively strange tothem. Jerry had more than once followed the Plum this far south, but ithad always been by boat, or at best on the west bank, Dave's territory,where a chain of lakes followed the course of the river. Each new twistand turn sent a shiver of nervous dread through him. Many the story ofrattlers and copperheads he had heard from fishermen and campers--andthe night was filled with unexpected and disturbing noises, overheadand underfoot. Of course he knew that snakes are not abroad at night,but the knowledge did not help his nerves.
Moreover, they were drawing near Lost Island, and no boy of Watertownhad ever been known to cast a line within half a mile of that dreadedspot. For Lost Island was the "haunted castle" of the neighborhood. Itwas nothing more than a large, weed-and-willow-covered five acres, awrecked dam jutting out from the east bank, and a great gaunt pile offoundation masonry standing high and dry on a bare knoll at the northend.
It had a history--never twice told the same. The dam had beendynamited, that much was sure. By whom, no one knew. The house, if evera house had been built over those rain-bleached rocks, had been struckby lightning, hurricane, blown up by giant powder, rotted away--a dozenother tragic ends, as the whim of the story-teller dictated. The ownerhad been murdered, lynched, had committed suicide--no one knew, buteveryone was positive that there was something fearfully, terriblywrong with Lost Island.
It was one of the few islands in Plum Run which was not flooded over bythe spring freshets, and the land was fertile, yet no one had ever beenknown to live there through a season; this in spite of the fact thatLost Island was known as "squatter's land," open to settlement byanyone who desired it.
And Lost Island lay barely half a mile farther down the river. Jerryfervently hoped that their search would be ended before they were inthe shadow of that forsaken territory. His nerves were not calmed anyby the tremble in Dave's voice as he shouted across:
"Lost Island's just below us, Jerry. Shall we go on?"
"Sure thing, Dave!" called Jerry with a confidence he did not feel. "Itcan't be any worse than what we've already gone through--and we've gonethrough _that_ all right."
"Supposing," hesitated Dave, "supposing the boat's grounded on LostIsland itself----"
"It's the boat we're looking for, isn't it?" But Jerry knew as hespoke, that, hard as the going was, he would be well satisfied todiscover the boat five weary miles farther on.
Once more they plodded along, the dark, forbidding hulk of Lost Islandlooming nearer and nearer. Just before passing behind the northernpoint Jerry came out to the water's edge and had cupped his hands abouthis mouth for a final reassuring shout, when a sudden discovery madehim pause. A shout, that seemed to split in mid-air, convinced him thatDave too had just then caught sight of the astounding object.
It was a gleaming, flickering, ruddy light, and it came from the verycenter of Lost Island!
Jerry's first thought was fright. But that soon gave way to the wildestof conjectures. Suppose Tod had been in the boat. Suppose he had cometo in time, but too weak to do more than remain in the boat till itgrounded here on Lost Island. A waterproof match-safe easily accountedfor the fire. Jerry refused to allow himself to reason any further.There might be a dozen reasons why Tod had not swum the scant hundredyards to shore.
"Do you see it!" finally came a shout from the other side.
"It's a camp fire," called Jerry. "Do you suppose it could possiblybe----"
"It couldn't be Tod, _could_ it!" came the answer, showing the samewild hope that had surged through Jerry.
"Oh--_Tod!_" rang out from two trembly throats on both sides of theriver.
There was no reply. At least there came no answering s
hout. But thenext instant Jerry rubbed his eyes in bewilderment. The camp fire hadbeen blotted out as if by magic. Only the deep gloom of thick-setwillows lay before him.
"The fire's gone!" came in alarmed tones from Dave.
"_Tod--Oh, Tod!_" rang out once more through the still night air.
This time there was an answer, but not the one the boys expected. Agruff voice demanded angrily:
"Say, you idiots--what in the thunder you want!"
"We're looking for a boy who was drowned up at----" began Jerry, whowas closest to the high point where a man was presently seen stalkingthrough the fringe of bushes.
"Boy who was drowned? _Calling_ for him! Ye crazy loons!" interruptedthe man.
"We don't know whether he was drowned or not," answered Jerry hotly.
"Well I'll never tell you," was the surly response. With a disgustedshrug of the shoulders the great hulk of a man slouched back toward thecenter of the island, pausing just before he disappeared once more inthe wilderness to warn:
"Any more of that howling's going to bring a charge of buckshot, and Idon't care which of you I hit."
"Do you care if we come over and look along the shore of the island?"shouted Dave at the retreating figure.
The answer, which was more like a growl than a human response, left nodoubt of the man's meaning. Neither boy felt the slightest desire toswim across to Lost Island. Instead Jerry waved his arms over his headand then pointed downstream.
So once more they trudged along, disheartened more than ever, forsomehow the actions of that weird figure on Lost Island had made theirsearch look more of a wild goose chase than ever. The island was soonpassed, but Jerry found himself peering hopelessly across a sluggish,muddy-bottomed slough that promised many a weary minute of wadingbefore he could hope to establish communication with his companionagain.
So it was with a great feeling of relief that, once more on solidground, he heard Dave's call.
"Say, Jerry, we're pretty near down to Tomlinson's wagon bridge. Whatyou say that we hustle on down and meet halfway across--and wait therefor daylight. I'm about woozified."
"Good!" agreed Jerry, pleased that the suggestion had come from Dave."Even the thought of it rests my old legs till they feel like new. I'lljust race you to it!"
But it was a slow sort of race, for neither boy was willing to take achance in passing the most innocent shadow--which always turned out tobe a water-soaked log or a back-eddied swirl of foam. Nevertheless, itwas a spent Dave who sank gasping to the rough plank floor of themiddle span of the wagon bridge a scant second ahead of another puffingboy.
A good ten minutes they lay there, breathing hard. Then both rose andwalked over to the edge and leaned heavily against the girders as theylooked gloomily down the river.
"Looks almost hopeless, doesn't it!" admitted Jerry, finally.
"Worst of it is we don't really know whether she's down below yet or ifwe've passed it. She was riding pretty low."
"Wonder what that man was doing on Lost Island?" speculated Jerry,crossing wearily to the north edge of the bridge and peering throughthe gray dawn-mist toward the island, barely visible now. A meretwinkle of light showed among the trees, and he stood there for a longminute. Dave come to his side, and the two waited in silence for thedawn. Jerry had almost fallen asleep standing up, when a sudden clutchat his arm nearly overbalanced him and sent him tumbling off the dizzyheight.
"Look!" gasped Dave.
"What is it?" exclaimed Jerry, turning to his companion, all sleep gone.
"I'll swear it's the boat--right under us!"
Boy Scouts of the Air on Lost Island Page 3