The Penny Parker Megapack: 15 Complete Novels

by Mildred Benson

  “I’ll fetch you’uns each a plate,” the trapper offered.

  From the shack he brought two cracked ones and forks with bent tines. To each of the girls he gave a generous helping, saving for himself a large slice of breast.

  “What brings ye here today?” he presently asked. “Be ye aimin’ to rent my boat again?”

  “Providing your services go with it,” Penny replied. “We want to search for Louise’s dog.”

  “’Tain’t likely you’ll ever see him again.”

  “All the same, we’ve planned on searching the island thoroughly. Will you take us?”

  Trapper Joe tossed away a turkey bone as he observed:“There’s cottonmouths on that island and all manner o’ varmints.”

  “That’s why we want you to go with us,” Penny urged. “We’ll be safe with you.”

  “I hain’t so sartain I’ll be safe myself,” Joe argued. “My gun’s been stole. Some thieven scalawag made off with it late last night while I was skinnin’ an animal. Left it a-settin’ against a post down by the dock. The rascal took my gun and some salted meat I had in a crock!”

  “Someone who came from the swamp?” Penny asked quickly.

  “’Pears he must o’ come from there.”

  “Could the thief have been one of the Hawkins family?”

  “’Tain’t likely,” the guide replied. “They all got good guns o’ their own. Anyhow, the Hawkins’hain’t never stooped so low they’d steal from a neighbor.”

  “Will you take us in your boat?” Louise urged impatiently. “We’ll pay you well for your time. If we find Bones, you’ll receive an extra twenty-five dollars.”

  “It hain’t the money. Lookin’ fer that dog would be like lookin’ fer a needle in a haystack.”

  “You might accidently run into the person who stole your gun,” Penny suggested.

  “Now, there’d be some sense to that,” the trapper said with sudden interest. “I’d like to lay hands on him!”

  “Then you’ll go?” the girls demanded together.

  “’Pears like I will,” he said, his leathery face cracking into a smile. “’Tain’t smart going into the swamp without a gun, but we kin trust to Providence an’ our wits, I calculate.”

  Pleased that the trapper had consented, the girls leaped to their feet and started toward the skiff which was tied up at the dock.

  “Not so fast!” the trapper brought them up short. “We got to take some water and some victuals with us.”

  “But we’re not going far,” Louise said in surprise. “We just ate.”

  “Ye can git mighty hongry and thirsty, rowin’ in a broiling hot sun. When I go into the swamp, I always takes rations along jest in case.”

  “Surely you don’t expect to lose your way,” Penny said teasingly. “An old timer like you!”

  “I’m an old timer ’cause I always prepares fer the wust,” the trapper retorted witheringly. “Many a young punk’s give his life being show-off and foolhardy in that swamp. I was lost there oncst years ago. I hain’t never forgot my lesson.”

  Properly put in their places, Penny and Louise said no more as Trapper Joe prepared for the trip into the swamp. He wrapped the remains of the turkey in a paper, depositing it in a covered metal container in the bottom of the skiff.

  Also, he dropped in a jug of water and an extra paddle.

  “Tell us about the swamp,” Louise urged as they finally shoved off. “Is it filled with wild and dangerous animals?”

  “Bears mostly been killed off,” the old trapper replied, sending the skiff along with powerful stabs of the oars. “The rooters are about the wust ye run into now.”

  “Rooters?” Louise repeated, puzzled.

  “Wild hogs. They got a hide so tough even the rattlers can’t kill ’em. It’s most likely yer dogs been et by one.”

  “Oh, no!” Louise protested in horror.

  “Rooters’ll go straight fer a dog or a deer or a lamb. They’ll attack a man too if they’re hongry enough. Their tusks are sharp as daggers.”

  Penny quickly changed the subject by asking Trapper Joe if he thought Pretty Boy Danny Deevers might be hiding in the swamp.

  “’Tain’t likely,” he replied briefly.

  “Why do you think not?”

  “City bred, waren’t he?”

  “That’s what I was told.”

  “No city bred feller could live in the swamp many days. He wouldn’t have sense enough to git his food; at night the sounds would drive him crazy, and he’d end up bein’ bit by a snake.”

  “Yet someone stole your gun,” Penny reminded him.

  “It waren’t Danny,” said the old trapper with finality.

  The skiff glided on. As the sun rose high overhead pouring down upon their backs, Penny and Louise began to feel drowsy. Repeatedly, they reached for Joe’s jug of water.

  As the channel became congested with floating plants and rotted logs, the trapper shipped the oars and used a paddle.

  Presently they came within view of Lookout Island. In the bow, Penny leaned forward to peer at the jungle-like growth which grew densely to the water’s edge.

  “Someone’s on the island!” she exclaimed in a low voice.

  “Sure, it’s Coon Hawkins doin’ a little fishin’,” agreed the trapper. “His boat’s pulled up on the point.”

  Louise stirred uneasily. “Is anyone with him?” she whispered.

  “Don’t see no one ’cepting Coon. He won’t hurt ye. Harmless, ole Coon is, an’ mighty shiftless too.”

  “But is Coon really fishing?” Penny demanded suspiciously.

  “He’s got a pole and a string o’ fish.”

  “Also, he’s watching us very closely,” whispered Penny. “I don’t trust him one bit! He’s hiding something on that island! I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t try to keep us from landing.”

  CHAPTER 14

  A CODE MESSAGE

  The old trapper appeared not to have heard Penny’s whispered observation. He paddled the skiff on until it drifted within ten yards of the point where Coon Hawkins sat fishing.

  “Howdy!” called the trapper.

  “Howdy,” responded Coon, his gaze on the bobbing cork.

  “Seen anything of a dog on the island?”

  “Hain’t no animal hereabouts,” Coon replied.

  “’Pears like the gals has lost a dog,” said the old trapper, dipping his paddle again. “We’re landin’ to have a look around.”

  Coon’s gaze shifted from the cork to the party in the boat. He scowled and then coldly turned his back.

  “Suit yerself,” he said indifferently. “You won’t find no dawg here.”

  Trapper Joe beached the skiff very nearly where Penny had landed a few days earlier.

  “Have a keer,” he advised as the girls trod through the muck. “Watch out fer snakes.”

  “Here are Bones’ tracks!” Louise cried a moment later, spying the prints which led away from the shore.

  A short distance in, the tracks abruptly ended, but nearby were prints of a man’s shoe and larger ones made from a heavy boot.

  Trapper Joe noted them in silence, signaling for Penny and Louise to make no comment.

  “Wait here while I look around,” he instructed.

  Penny and Louise sat down on a mossy log to wait. Coon paid them no heed, completely ignoring their presence. The sun climbed higher overhead.

  Presently the old trapper returned, his clothing soaked with perspiration.

  “Did you see anything of Bones?” Louise asked eagerly.

  “Nary a sign. The dog hain’t on the island.”

  “Told ye, didn’t I?” Coon demanded triumphantly.

  “That ye did, son,” agreed Trapper Joe. “We’ll be gittin’ along.” On his way to the skiff, he asked carelessly:“Come here offen, do ye?”

  “When I feels like it,” Coon retorted.

  “Fishin’ good?”

  “Fair to middlin’.”

  The old trapper he
lped the girls into the skiff and shoved off.

  “Please, must we turn back now?” Louise asked earnestly. “I hate to return without finding a trace of poor old Bones.”

  “’Tain’t likely you’ll ever see the dog again.”

  “We realize that,” said Penny, “but it would be a satisfaction to keep looking.”

  “If the dog was still alive, it hain’t likely he’d of swum away from the island.”

  “He could have been carried,” Penny said, keeping her voice low.

  The swamper stared steadily at her a moment, saying nothing.

  “Besides, we’d like to go deeper into the swamp just to see it,” Penny urged, sensing that he was hesitating. “It must be beautiful farther in.”

  “It is purty,” the old guide agreed. “But you have to be mighty keerful.”

  “Do take us,” Louise pleaded.

  The old trapper raised his eyes to watch a giant crane, and then slowly turned the skiff. As he sought a sluggish channel leading deeper into the swamp, Penny noticed that Coon Hawkins had shifted his position on the point, the better to watch them.

  The skiff moved on into gloomy water deeply shadowed by overhanging tree limbs. Only then did Penny ask the trapper what he thought really had happened to Louise’s dog.

  “’Tain’t easy to say,” he replied, resting on the paddle a moment and taking a chew of tobacco.

  Penny sensed that the old man was unwilling to express his true opinion. He stared moodily at the sluggish water, lost in deep thought.

  “The Hawkins’ are up to something!” Penny declared. She was tempted to reveal what she and Salt had seen a few nights before on the swamp road, but held her tongue.

  “After all, what do I know about Joe?” she reflected. “He may be a close friend of the Hawkins family for all his talk about them being a shiftless lot.”

  Penny remained silent. Sensing her disappointment because he had not talked more freely, Trapper Joe presently remarked:

  “You know, things goes on in the swamp that it’s best not to see. Sometimes it hain’t healthy to know too much.”

  “What things do you mean?” Penny asked quickly.

  Old Joe however, was not to be trapped by such a direct question.

  “Jest things,” he returned evasively. “Purty here, hain’t it?”

  The guide was now paddling along a sandy shore. Overhead on a bare tree branch, two racoons drowsed after their midday meal.

  “In this swamp there’s places where no man has ever set foot,” the guide continued. “Beyond Black Island, in the heart o’ the swamp, it’s as wild as when everything belonged to the Indians.”

  “How does one reach Black Island?” Louise inquired.

  “Only a few swampers that knows all the runs would dast go that far,” said Old Joe. “If ye take a wrong turn, ye kin float around fer days without findin’ yer way out.”

  “Is there only one exit—the way we came in?”Penny asked.

  “No, oncst ye git to Black Island, there’s a faster way out. Ye pick yer way through a maze o’ channels’till ye come to the main one which takes ye to the Door River.”

  “You’ve made the trip?”

  “Did when I was young. Hain’t been to Black Island in years lately.”

  “How long does the trip take?”

  “Not many hours if ye know the trail. But if ye take a wrong twist, y’er apt to wind up anywheres. We’re headin’ toward Black Island now.”

  “Then why not go on?” cried Penny eagerly. “It’s still early.”

  The old guide shook his head as he paddled into deeper water. “It’s jest a long, hard row and there hain’t nothin’ there. I’m takin’ ye to a place where some purty pink orchids grow. Then we’ll turn back.”

  Penny suddenly sat up very straight, listening intently.

  From some distance away came a faint, metallic pounding sound.

  “What’s that noise?” she asked, puzzled.

  The old trapper also was listening alertly.

  Again the strange noise was repeated. Bing-ping-ping! Ping-ping!

  “It sounds like someone pounding on a sheet of metal!” exclaimed Penny. “I’d say it’s coming from the edge of the swamp—perhaps Lookout Island!”

  The trapper nodded, still listening.

  Again they heard the pounding which seemed in a queer pattern of dots and dashes.

  “It’s a code!” Penny declared excitedly. “Perhaps a message is being sent to someone hiding here in the swamp!”

  “In all the times I’ve been in these waters, I never before heard nothin’ like that,” the guide admitted. “I wonder—”

  “Yes?” Penny prodded eagerly.

  But the old guide did not complete the thought. The boat now was drifting in a narrow run where boughs hung low over the water, causing the three occupants to lean far forward to avoid being brushed.

  A tiny scream came from Louise’s lips. The bow of the skiff where she sat had poked its nose against a protruding tree root.

  Within inches of her face, staring unblinkingly into her eyes, was a large, ugly reptile!

  CHAPTER 15

  BEYOND THE BOARDWALK

  “Steady! Steady!” warned the old swamper as Louise shrank back in horror from the big snake. “Don’t move or he’ll strike!”

  Digging his paddle into the slimy bed of the narrow run, Trapper Joe inched the skiff backwards. Should the boat jar against the tree root, he knew the snake almost certainly would strike its poisonous fangs into Louise’s face.

  “Hurry!” she whispered.

  Slowly the skiff moved backwards through the still water, until at last it lay at a safe distance. The snake had not moved from its resting place.

  Now that the danger was over, Louise collapsed with a shudder.

  “You saved me!” she declared gratefully.

  “It weren’t nothin’,” he replied as he sought another run. “There’s thousands o’ varmints like him in this swamp.”

  “And to think Penny and I dared come here by ourselves the other day! We didn’t realize how dangerous it was!”

  The incident had so unnerved both of the girls, that some minutes elapsed before they recalled the strange pounding sound which had previously held their attention.

  “I don’t hear it now,” Penny said, listening intently. “Just before we ran into that snake, you were about to say something, Joe.”

  The guide stopped paddling a moment. “Was I now?” he asked. “I don’t recollect.”

  “We were talking about the strange noise. You said you never had heard anything like it before in the swamp. Then you added—‘I wonder—’”

  “Jest a-thinkin’,” Joe said, picking up the paddle once more. “One does a lot o’ that in the swamp.”

  “And not much talking,” rejoined Penny, slightly annoyed. “What do you think made the noise?”

  “Couldn’t rightly say.”

  Realizing it was useless to question the old man further, Penny dropped the subject. However, she was convinced that Joe had at least a theory as to the cause of the strange pounding sound.

  “He knows a lot he isn’t telling,” she thought. “But I’ll never get a word out of him by asking.”

  If Joe were unwilling to discuss the signal-like tappings, he showed no reluctance in telling the girls about the swamp itself.

  Wild turkey, one of the wariest fowls in the area, could be found only on the islands far interior, they learned. Although there were more than a dozen species of snakes, only three needed to be feared, the rattlers, the coral snake, and the cottonmouth.

  “Ye have to be keerful when yer passin’ under tunnels o’ overhanging limbs,” Old Joe explained. “Sometimes they’ll be hangin’ solid with little snakes.”

  “Don’t tell us any more,” Louise pleaded. “I’m rapidly losing enthusiasm for this place!”

  “Snakes mostly minds their own business ’less a feller goes botherin’ ’em,” Trapper Joe remarked. �
�Too bad more folks ain’t that way.”

  The boat floated on, and the heat rising from the water became increasingly unpleasant. Penny mopped her face with a handkerchief and considered asking the old man to turn back.

  Before she could speak, Joe who had been peering intently at the shore, veered the skiff in that direction.

  “Are the orchids here?” Louise asked in surprise.

  Old Joe shook his head. “Jest want to look at something,” he remarked.

  He brought the skiff to shore, and looking carefully about for snakes, stepped out.

  “May we go with you?” asked Penny, whose limbs had become cramped from sitting so long in one position.

  “Kin if yer a mind to, but I only aim to look at that dead campfire.”

  “A campfire?” Penny questioned. “Where?”

  The old trapper pointed to a barren, dry spot a few feet back from the water’s edge, where a circle of ashes and a few charred pieces of wood lay.

  “Why, I hadn’t noticed it,” Penny said. Wondering why the trapper should be interested in a campfire, she started to ask, but thought better of it. By remaining silent, she might learn—certainly not if she inquired directly.

  Trapper Joe gazed briefly at the camp-site, kicking the dead embers with the toe of his heavy boot.

  “Thet fire hain’t very old—must have been built last night,” he observed.

  “By a swamper, I suppose,” said Penny casually. “One of the Hawkins’ family perhaps.”

  “It hain’t likely they’d be comin’ here after nightfall. An’ that fire never was built by a swamper.”

  “Then a stranger must be hiding in the area!” Penny cried. “Danny Deevers!”

  “Maybe so, but Danny was city-bred and never could survive long in the wilds. One night here would likely be his last.”

  “Supposing someone who knew the swamp were helping him?”

  “Thet would make it easier, but it weren’t Danny Deevers who built this fire.”

  “How can you be so positive?”

  “Deevers was a big man, weren’t he?”

  “Why, fairly large, I guess.”

  “Then would he be leavin’ little tracks?” Joe pointed to several shoeprints visible in the soft muck. “This man, whoever he be, didn’t have anyone campin’ with him. Leastwise, there hain’t no tracks except from the one kind o’ shoe.”