by Helen Wells
“Look!”
A man was running—running away from them—awkwardly in the dense growth of the forest. The fading light made it impossible for them to see anything but a blurred figure with a hat pulled down low. Was he carrying something or not? The man slipped out of sight behind the sweeping branches of fir trees.
Cherry breathed a sigh of relief. At least he was not eager to meet them, any more than she and Sue wished to meet him.
“Probably a tramp,” Cherry said to Sue. “Better than a bear! Come on, though. We’re not going to stay here and ask for trouble.”
Cherry reported the incident to Jean Wheeler and also mentioned finding the handkerchief and old newspaper in the shelter. It seemed likely that the man had made himself at home in their shelter.
Jean was a little annoyed, but calm and unworried. “We ought to put up a No Trespassing sign, but he probably won’t cause any trouble since he ran away from you.”
Cheered by the savory smell of supper, Cherry stopped thinking about the figure in the forest.
A more immediate crisis was that Katy had forgotten to bring a cup or a dish to eat from.
“Well, Katy,” said her partner, Mary Alice, “you straightened up my shelf in the cabin. Here, we’ll take turns with my things.”
Katy accepted the offer, though her pride was hurt. But she tried to be particularly helpful, watching that Mary Alice’s and Sue’s biscuits did not burn (they had wrapped dough in a spiral around a long twig), then digging the baked potatoes and ears of corn out of the ashes for the others. It was obvious to everyone that Katy was making a real effort to do her share.
Spiced with the fresh mountain air and pungent wood smoke, the food tasted better than anything served at the Mess Hall, and the girls ate ravenously as they sat around the fire in the gathering darkness.
“I’ll help the cleanup squad,” Katy volunteered, when they had finished.
Cherry went to help Katy scrub the pans. She found the erstwhile Juliet crying, under cover of darkness.
“Now, now,” Cherry softly comforted her. “You’re doing fine.”
“Th-thanks. I’m crying because everybody is so nice to me. I don’t deserve it.”
“Yes, you do. And you’ll come to deserve it still more.”
“I—I—thought I didn’t need anybody. But out here in the forest you’d starve or get lost without friends.”
“But look what you’re doing for them. They need you, too,” Cherry said softly.
Out of the silence came Katy’s surprised voice. “I guess they do, a little bit, don’t they? Lately when I tried to do things for them, I thought it was sort of to buy their friendship but—but—it’s better than that.”
“Much better,” Cherry agreed. “You count, too, Katy.”
“You mean I count not only as Katy, but as one of the Mountaineers—that’s it!”
“Right! Now I wonder if we can make this old skillet shine?”
The stars came out. The girls sat cross-legged around the fire and toasted marshmallows on green twigs, and talked in the firelight.
“How far do you think we’ve come today?” Jean Wheeler asked them. “Can any of you sketch a map of the route we’ve taken?”
Sue did fairly well, sketching lines in the dirt. Jean Wheeler made a few corrections. They had hiked only a few miles; actually they were still quite close to Blue Water.
“We stopped too often,” the Smith twins said solemnly.
The crude observation map set Cherry to thinking. That man she’d seen running away in the woods—he, too, was quite near to Blue Water and also to Purdy’s barn. If someone wanted to rifle that barn, or attempt other thefts, what more logical way than to hide nearby at this lonely outpost and await his chance? Or perhaps the man was simply, as she’d said to Sue, a tramp. Or even perhaps a lone camper who ran away because he did not want to be caught trespassing in the camp-owned shelter.
The hikers turned in early, rolling themselves up in the blankets they had brought, and the last thing Cherry saw was a canopy of stars; then she fell asleep.
The campers awoke to a bright blue sky. The air was filled with birdcalls. Jean Wheeler already had a hot fire going, and Katy, who must have been up before anyone, appeared with her bandanna full of wild red berries she had picked.
“Raspberries,” Katy announced.
Sue washed the berries and helped Katy dish them up as a first course for breakfast. Jean Wheeler made a marvelous pancake mix; she poured the syrup and butter right into the batter. Each girl browned her own flapjacks, Cherry flipping hers as deftly as anyone.
After breakfast and cleanup, the girls went exploring. Sue said to Cherry, “I want to show you something.”
“One of those tamarack trees we’ve been watching for?”
“No, this is something—maybe—about that man we saw yesterday.”
Sue led Cherry to the spring, then beyond it to a sheltered area where a stream bubbled. There she held aside low-hanging branches and beckoned Cherry to follow.
“See it? I found it when I came for water this morning.”
“This what you mean?”
It was a fishing rod made of a long, recently peeled, green branch and some sturdy twine. It lay on the bank with the twine tangled, as if its owner had flung the rod down in a hurry.
“Miss Cherry, notice the way the bark was whittled off this branch? In arrow-shaped strokes? That’s the way Mac Cook whittled for us.”
The rod could belong to Mac Cook. Cherry did not believe that he had gone to New York, not after seeing Fred Epler’s jeep on the road when he wouldn’t have had time to get back, not after what Reed Champion had observed at the station. If Mac had not gone to New York, if he still had some unfinished business here with Purdy, mightn’t he be camping out—or hiding out—in these hills?
Cherry did not want to worry Sue. “We-ell, lots of people use a jackknife this way,” was all she said.
Cherry knelt and examined the fishhook. It was a very good, new, commercial hook.
If the man were Mac Cook, how had he come by this fishhook? At the local hardware stores? No one had seen him in the town or village since he left suddenly last Saturday. Or had Mac kept the hook on hand against the day of his leaving Blue Water? But his flight from camp had been sudden, an emergency, probably unplanned—
“Sue, did you ever see Mac fishing at camp?”
“No, I never did.”
The newspaper story came back to Cherry. The young cashier at the loan company, who was suspected of the robbery, had gone off on vacation on a camping trip and never returned. On a camping trip. That would account for the fishhook, for a camper often lives off the land.
Absently, Cherry pulled the red calico handkerchief out of her pocket. “Did you ever see this before, Sue?” she asked.
“Mac Cook had one like it. He tied it around his neck sometimes on very hot days. Where did you get it, Miss Cherry?”
“Found it in the shelter yesterday,” Cherry said, still absently. Then she gathered her thoughts and added briskly, “But a lot of outdoor workers use these red calico handkerchiefs. Some of the men working at the Clemences’ farm have them. Fred Epler has one. We can’t be at all sure that this one is Mac’s.”
Cherry felt disturbed about the whole incident. If the furtive man they saw yesterday were Mac Cook, what was he up to, still hanging around this area?
Sue was worried and concerned for Mac. Cherry was surprised at her feelings.
“I’d hate to think it is Mac Cook,” said Sue. “Why would he run from us? We’re his friends—he was nice to us kids. Imagine if he’s been camping out, all those rainy days! What’s he using for supplies? I’ll bet he’s lonesome, too.”
Cherry reiterated that the man might not be Mac, but Sue was inclined to believe it was.
Cherry really felt much the same way. She was debating whether, on their return, to report what they had found this morning, when Jean Wheeler’s whistle blew.
“Time to pack up! Time to start back!” she called.
CHAPTER IX
Strange Story
AFTER THE DISCOVERY IN THE FOREST, SUE CONTINUED to worry about Mac Cook. Cherry hinted that Mac Cook—if the man were he—might or might not he worth worrying about. But Sue would not believe this, and reports from the hoys, at the next square dance, troubled her further. D. V. and his cabin mates had been on an overnight hike Friday and Saturday, immediately after the girls’ return. Though the boys had not gone to that particular shelter, they, too, had discovered traces of someone living in the wilderness.
At her first opportunity, Cherry talked to Reed Champion about the matter. He knew the land, the people, the habits around here. Reed had an idea.
“If we could find out that Mac did go to New York, it would set Sue’s mind at ease, right? Well,” said Reed in that level tone of his, “it’s more likely Mac would take the train than hitchhike, if he was in such a hurry. Why don’t we do this?—”
The head conductor on the one daily run between the nearest town and New York was Wilbur Hall. He was an old-time railroad man who knew affectionately every passenger, their children, grandchildren, and visitors, and their whole life histories; when he didn’t know a passenger, Mr. Hall got acquainted with him right away. If Mac Cook had taken the train, Mr. Hall would be sure to know, or at the very least would hear about the new passenger from one of his train crew.
“There aren’t many travelers on this local line, except camp people,” Reed said, “so Mac Cook would stick out like a sore thumb.”
Reed promised to inquire when he drove to town Monday on an errand. On Monday morning Cherry had occasion to walk to the village, and she asked at the drugstore, the waffle shop, the hardware store, the grocery store, the garage, for any news of Mac Cook. Not a soul had seen him nor heard of him in over a week.
When Cherry reported this much to her, Sue said:
“That means Mac, or whoever the man is, hasn’t come to the village for supplies. How long can he live on fish and wild berries?”
“Indefinitely, if he’s lucky,” said Cherry, “and if the good weather holds.”
It did not. The rains started again on Tuesday, in unseasonal downpours. The Clemences said that they and other local farmers were glad of the rain, for the wells had been very low and needed replenishing, but Fred Epler, bringing eggs to camp, looked glum when Cherry saw him Tuesday. That wasn’t like Fred; he was generally cheerful.
Before Tuesday was over, Cherry realized she had stirred up a tide of gossip with her questions in the village about Mac Cook. In a country place, gossip spread swiftly. It had reached the photographer, she found, who knocked at the door of the Blue Water infirmary. In his wide, shapeless raincoat she did not recognize him at first.
“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Purdy! Come in. Dr. and Mrs. Lowell are having supper down the hill,” Cherry explained.
“I’ve hurt my hand and I am half drowned,” the photographer grumbled, walking in. “These dark wet days, not good days to be alone in one’s house or barn all day.”
Cherry attended to the cut on Paul Purdy’s hand, unpleasant hut not serious. He said the supplies in his first-aid kit were stale; besides, he was awkward at bandaging his own hand. Purdy seemed nervous and out of sorts.
“I do not like this talk of a man lurking in the woods,” he said to Cherry. “Ever since I heard it, I have left the lights on all night in the barn—and the house, too,” he added hastily.
“My goodness, Mr. Purdy,” said Cherry, “if you keep something so valuable on your place, why don’t you ask for police protection?”
Purdy did not answer. He grumbled a little more, then said he’d see if Bob Wright had time for a chat. Well, Cherry thought, maybe “Pep” Purdy was just in a dark-blue mood and feeling rather jumpy from the rain.
Then Reed Champion telephoned from town. He had been able to catch Wilbur Hall for a couple of minutes when the train came through.
“Said he hadn’t seen anyone answering to Mac Cook’s description,” Reed reported.
“The conductor would have seen him, surely, if he’d been on the train? Then Mac wasn’t on the train—”
“Apparently not. Now the question is, where did he run off to? Or did he elude the conductor?”
They hung up, uncertain.
Like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, Cherry mused, these odd elements of information should suggest a design. But she could not fit them together. The key piece must be missing. What was that key? Was it Mac Cook? Cherry stared thoughtfully through the rain across the lake. Somewhere in those deserted hills a man hid, perhaps starved, and waited.
There was no question about it, Vernie Epler was on the edge of hysteria. She nearly jumped out of her skin when Cherry rapped on the screen door Wednesday morning, calling, “It’s just me, in need of cream for another birthday party.”
Vernie, admitting her, stumbled and upset the boiling water of the teakettle all over her own ankles and feet. Vernie could barely control the tears in her round blue eyes.
“Are you burned?” Cherry asked, quickly kneeling. “Let me see, Vernie. Sit clown. Take off your stockings.”
“I’m not burned,” Vernie mumbled. “Yes, I am. Yes, I’d better sit down.”
Cherry helped her hobble over to the rocking chair. She noticed how white Vernie was, how shallow her breathing. There was some degree of shock here. She saw hot coffee on the stove.
“Vernie, drink this, it will help you,” Cherry poured a cup of hot black coffee for her, as a stimulant. Then she found two sweaters hanging on hooks and put these around the young farm wife. “I’m sorry I startled you so badly,” she added.
“You didn’t—it’s just, oh, everything. Just me,” Vernie said.
Vernie handed. Cherry the emptied coffee cup. Her skin was regaining its normal color, but she grimaced with pain.
“I’m going to remove your stockings,” Cherry told her. “Relax. I’ll try to be very gentle.”
Vernie kicked off her shoes. Cherry rolled down the stockings, going very slowly and carefully when she came to the scalded ankles and insteps. The skin revealed was a raw red and, Cherry could see, was going to blister. A second-degree burn, probably. The left stocking stuck. For a moment Cherry thought she would have to cut around the stocking, rather than pull and risk ripping the skin. But then the stocking gave of its own accord.
“There’s absorbent cotton and iodine in the bathroom cabinet,” Vernie said weakly.
“Never, on this deep a burn,” Cherry cautioned her. “Iodine burns, too, you know, and the cotton will stick.”
“Well, then, you’ll find butter in the churn—”
Cherry smiled up at the young woman. “Not butter, either, I don’t want to alarm you, you’ll be fine, but this isn’t just a superficial burn.”
Cherry asked for baking soda and sterile gauze and a large basin. Vernie was not sure she had any gauze in the house, but she had soft, clean white cloths in the linen drawer in the kitchen. Baking soda was in the cupboard.
“Good,” said Cherry. “Now in just a minute, I’ll make you more comfortable.” And safe from infection, she added to herself. First, she thoroughly washed her hands with soap and hot water.
Vernie watched despondently while Cherry heated a basin full of fresh water to lukewarm, added two or three tablespoonfuls of baking soda, then soaked two clean white cloths in the soda solution. Twisting the ends of the cloths so they would not drip, Cherry applied the warm wet dressings to Vernie’s feet and ankles.
“That feels better,” Vernie sighed. “I’m so ashamed of myself, Miss Cherry. Nervous, I guess. I’m never so clumsy.”
“Anybody can have an accident,” Cherry soothed her.
She did not miss Vernie’s hint that she was badly upset about something. But Cherry’s first concern was medical care for her.
“Have you a phone so that I can call a doctor? Either our camp doctor, or your own?”
“I’d rather hav
e Dr. Lowell.”
Vernie said that they were on a party line, and the telephone was in the front hallway. When Cherry went to telephone the infirmary, she thought she heard a door open upstairs.
“Dr. Lowell will be over in an hour,” Cherry said, returning to Vernie. “Too bad he can’t come sooner, but it’s all right as long as your husband keeps the dressings moist. Is Fred at home?”
“He’s in the village,” Vernie said unhappily.
Cherry sat down to wait. Vernie stared into space, brooding. A slight sound from upstairs made her grip the arms of the rocking chair. She looked guiltily toward Cherry and as quickly glanced away.
“Do you want to tell me what’s worrying you, Vernie?” Cherry asked. “I want to help if I can.”
“Believe me, you do help me, I appreciate it a whole lot. But—but I can’t—Oh, it’s nothing, honestly.”
“I can’t believe it’s nothing that made you so upset you scalded yourself.”
“Please, Miss Cherry, don’t ask me to talk.”
“Very well. I’ll just saturate the dressing again—”
While she was doing so, footsteps sounded on the stairs. Vernie strained forward in her chair, her round face frightened. Then Mac Cook came in. He was freshly shaven, his mustache was gone. Mac looked tired and worn, and he had caught a cold. His yellow hair was brown at the roots.
“Hello, Miss Cherry. Surprised to see me? It’s all right, Vernie. I’ve come to a decision.”
Cherry was so surprised she was speechless. Mac Cook poured himself a cup of coffee. Vernie had started to cry soundlessly; Mac patted her on the shoulder.
“I heard Miss Cherry telephone for the doctor. Gee, I’m sorry you burned yourself. Is it bad?”
Vernie was unable to reply. Cherry said, “It’s painful but she’s not in any danger.”
“I just had to come downstairs to see if you’re all right. But listen, Vernie. I wasn’t going to hide any more, anyway. I can’t keep this up. It’s what Fred has been warning me about all along. I have to tell somebody the truth! And Miss Cherry has been awfully decent to me.
“Look, Miss Cherry, no matter what you think, I’m no criminal. Don’t look at me like that! I know I’ve done a lot of peculiar things but—Are you willing at least to listen to my story?”