“Scouts,” said Mr. Brimmer when both Patrols had gathered, “it’s just as well that we happen to be together in camp, and that we’ve had a little practice in trailing and searching. Because we’re being assigned to something more difficult and important than a hare-and-hounds game, a search for an injured man who is lost. If you’re all through with breakfast, hurry to put your tents and
Patrol areas in order, and then report back here on the double.”
The Scouts buzzed in chorus with questions, but Mr. Brimmer resolutely urged them to obey orders, and at once. Flying at the task, they ordered the camp and returned.
“First of all,” resumed Mr. Brimmer when they had reassembled, “I want to report that this camp ground will remain under guard of some local farmers, who have volunteered to look after our belongings for us while we go ahead with what all Scouts know how to do a trifle better than the average American, the searching. And every second counts. We’ll cram ourselves together into my car and Lew Sheehan’s. That’s a tight fit for fourteen, but you can sit on each other, I suppose. Now, does everyone have good walking shoes ? Does everybody have a hat? A canteen? Yes? Good! No more questions, now. We’re off.”
The two cars were loaded to capacity, and away they drove, Mr. Brimmer leading the way. Doc and Sherlock sat beside Chuck Schaefer in the back seat, with Max Hinkel perched monkeylike on Doc’s substantial knee. “What’s this all about?” demanded Max. “Our delightful two weeks of relaxation and sport is turning into something that grinds you down like basic training with the Marines.”
“It’s about Corey James,” said Doc. “I picked that much, when I listened in on what Mr. Brimmer and Chief Hamilton were saying. He’s the one who’s hurt, and they think he may be in pretty desperate shape, in some swamps north of here.”
“And we’re going to help him?” demanded Pete Criley from the front seat. “After he—”
“Go back to your Scout manual, Pete,” bade Sherlock, wondering if he sounded too much the Patrol Leader. “If the man’s hurt and needs help, that’s one of the reasons we’re Scouting.”
The two cars sailed at a fast clip along the dirt road, and then for some minutes on pavement. After that, it turned off on another country road, narrow, muddy and rutted, between thick clumps of brush and timber. Ahead of them they could see other cars, and behind them still more. And each of these stranger cars seemed as crowded and hurried as their own.
“I spot a Scout hat in that jalopy back there,” said Max, craning his neck to see. “Are we going to have a camporee?”
“No,” replied Lew Sheehan from the driver’s seat, “nothing that festive. But you’ll find out pretty soon. I see Mr. Brimmer parking his car up ahead. We probably go on from here afoot.”
At one point the road’s narrow bed was augmented by a sandy strip some yards wide, and here several cars were already parked. Lew Sheehan braked to a halt beside Mr. Brimmer’s sedan, and the Scouts of Troop Fifteen piled out. Mr. Brimmer quickly formed the two Patrols in marching order and led them up the road, which beyond this point became so narrow and rough that any heavily laden car might have bogged down. As they marched, the boys could see other Scout units to front and rear, some recognizable as Troops they knew in neighboring communities, others made up of strangers.
They marched in the rough road for some ten minutes, and then came into a spacious grassy clearing, once cut away for a field or pasture and since abandoned. It was flanked around by thick, swampy timber, and was large enough to contain the throngs of boys and men who were gathering there. The road itself narrowed here to the width of a mere trail, and ran down to a small bridge of rough logs across a muddy little creek. At this point was parked the dirt-spattered car of Chief Hamilton, and beside it were gathered six competent-looking men.
Sherlock recognized the chief himself, and Sergeant Palmer, both seriously conferring with men who wore pistols and holsters and were undoubtedly deputies from the sheriff’s office. The constable who had helped with the arrest of Hefty was also there, as well as a tall lean man in khaki shirt and slacks, wearing a Scouter’s sombrero. Any Scout of the District would instantly recognize this man as Abel Dawson, the District Executive, but for the first time Sherlock saw Mr. Dawson without his habitual smile.
Led by their Scoutmasters, the groups of boys quickly came into a circle at close order around the car. The Scouts of Troop Fifteen looked to right and left from their own position. They saw Troops and parts of Troops, big Scouts, small Scouts, Tenderfeet and Second-Class and First-Class Scouts, in full uniform, partly in uniform, in rough knockabout clothes that suggested that their wearers had come directly to the summons from chores or play. But they were all alike in that they stood at attention and were ready to listen solemnly and intelligently.
“This part of the country never saw so many Scouts and adult Scouters together at one time before,” muttered Max, from where he stood close behind Sherlock. “Some of these outfits come from other Districts, I’ll bet. How many are there?”
“Four hundred, at least, is my guess,” replied Doc. “Maybe more than that. Knock off, now, were going to hear what it’s all about.”
Up on the running board of the car sprang Abel Dawson, so that all present could see his tall form. He lifted his hand high above his head for silence, and at once he got it. Then he began to speak, in clear, emphatic tones that carried to his most remote listeners.
“Scouts,” he began, “you’ve been gathered here on the briefest of notices, very early in the morning, and you’ve responded with promptness and cheerfulness that I wish to commend. Some of you may have heard part of the reason you were needed. Now I’ll give you the full reason.
“Last night a man named Corey James, accused of car theft, escaped from peace officers who were trying to place him under arrest. He was shot and wounded, slightly, it was thought at first, but now the evidence points to a bad injury. He ran from the officers and came in this direction. Here where this car now stands was found definite proof of the pain and danger which now beset him. He is no longer to be considered a dangerous criminal, but a fellow human being in trouble and in need of help. I am going to step down for a moment and ask Sergeant Palmer of the Hillwood Police Department to tell you about that proof, from what he knows from his own investigation.”
He dropped back to the ground, and Palmer’s sinewy figure, in its trim uniform, took his place.
“We officers hunted for James all night,” he said. “I myself fired at him as he ran, and apparently wounded him more severely than I intended. Near the place where the escape occurred were signs that he was bleeding pretty freely, and having trouble to move.”
“He means at the haunted house,” whispered Max. “Remember what Mr. Brimmer told you, Sherlock? About the blood at the step, and the knife lying there?” Sherlock waved Max into silence, and they listened to Sergeant Palmer.
“Officers have been searching all night,” he was continuing. “And just at dawn one of them found definite traces here. At the side of this creek, near the bridge, lay Corey James’ hat.” He held it up in his hand, and Sherlock, for one, recognized the broad-brimmed black felt that Corey James had been wearing when stopped by the officers the night before. “He had lain there and apparently twitched and writhed in pain. There was a considerable amount of blood, too.” Sergeant Palmer paused for a moment. Though he had fired in the performance of his duty, he plainly did not like the thought of having hurt a man, even a criminal. “A doctor has looked at the traces, and gives it as his opinion that Corey James has bled so freely as to put him in serious danger. Though he managed to get up from where he fell and stagger away, he must be faint and weak. If he isn’t found, according to the doctor, he won’t get the medical care he needs badly and at once. Apparently he is lost in these swamps, and the law is asking you to find him.”
Down got Sergeant Palmer, and again Mr. Dawson took his place on the running board that did duty for speaker’s platform.
“As
you have heard,” he said, “we are talking about someone who last night was a criminal and a defier of the law, and who this morning is a critically injured man who must be found quickly and given help. At the request of the authorities, we are going to search for Corey James according to the proved and efficient manner of a mass search. Even this dense and swampy stretch of country won’t keep us from finding him. Let me hear if you all agree with me.”
He paused, and there was a thundering chorus of reply, hundreds of throats whooping and yelling an enthusiastic approval of the District Executive’s proposal. The noise seemed to flutter the distant trees, to shake the grassy ground underfoot, to ripple the murky water of the creek. Again Mr. Dawson lifted his hand, and again silence fell.
“Now, attention to orders, and we’ll start operations, because every second may count. We will operate as Troops and Patrols, with smaller divisions roughly organized as units of four. From this position, as our center of operations, we will move outward in all directions, covering every square yard of ground. As we extend our circle and our line becomes thin, segments will be assigned by your adult Leaders for the units of four to cover. Keep in touch by signals, as directed by your Leaders. Inside the circle as it widens will move peace officers—police, local constables, and sheriff’s deputies.
“If the wounded man is found, or any trace of what has happened to him, the finder will at once build two signal smoke-fires, far enough apart to be seen from a distance as two rising columns of smoke. And for reassembly at this point at any later time, a single smoke- fire will be built.”
Mr. Dawson paused, sweeping the crowd with his eye. “Are there any questions from Troop Leaders? If not, let’s get started.”
INTO THE SWAMP
As rapidly as possible, the great gathering of Scouts and Scouters was put into the designated formation, and got ready to start the search. They were marshaled into a big tight circle, several boys deep all around, elbows touching and faces turned outward. To achieve this formation took minutes, and Sergeant Palmer, who had joined his troop again, spoke quickly and seriously.
“Both Assistant Scoutmaster Brimmer and Junior Scoutmaster Sheehan are being lent to other Troops, that showed up here without enough leadership,” he told the boys. “Were a small group, and as a Troop we’re new, but we’re on our toes and ready to show results. I’m going to split up these two Patrols into three groups of four each. Sherlock, you with Max, Pete and Chuck are at the right of our position. You other two Hounds, Doc Watson and Harry McMurray, join forces with these two from the Eagles,” and he quickly tapped the shoulders of the nearest two Scouts of the other Patrol. “I’m putting Doc in command of this mixed four. Ranny Ollinger, with the rest of his Patrol, makes up the third four and takes the left of our position.”
“What is our position?” demanded Ranny, eager to be away on the hunt.
“There are three hundred and sixty Scouts, approximately, in this whole circle of search,” explained the sergeant. “That means the twelve of you will cover twelve degrees of the circle, one thirtieth of the whole circumference. As the circle widens to search the territory, your chunk of ground will grow. Look ahead,” and he pointed. “There’s our objective. When we’ve gone forward half a mile, we’ll be responsible for a front of about four hundred and twenty feet. At a mile’s distance from the center, twice that, almost a thousand feet. And at two miles, there’ll be more than a quarter of a mile for myself and the twelve of you to comb over and search.” Sherlock peered ahead from under the brim of his hat. “It looks to me as if they’ve given us twelve degrees of the thickest and wettest swamp land to search,” he ventured.
“That’s right,” replied his Scoutmaster at once. “They did give us what seems to be the toughest arc of the circle. Because I asked for it.”
“Naturally you asked for it,” crowed Max, whose high spirits could never be sobered for long at a time. “We’re the sleuths of this whole Scout District, aren’t we? We’ve proved that, at the haunted house and at other places.” “Yes, and I brought up that very point when I asked for this segment of the search circle,” Sergeant Palmer nodded. “But it’s more than that. You see, I’m being a little selfish in picking my part of the field.”
“Selfish?” echoed Doc, and all of them stared.
“I feel the responsibility for this situation as it’s worked out so far,” went on the sergeant. “It was a bullet from my gun that wounded and injured James. Nobody blames me for that fact, except myself. If any of you Scouts were in my shoes, you’d understand, though. I want to find him again and get him into the hands of a doctor. My conscience won’t rest easy until he’s out of danger. And I figure that, hurt and desperate as he is, he’ll have headed for the thickest and most difficult part of the swamp, with what strength he had left.”
“I was thinking that very thing,” put in Sherlock, and for the first time during the day Sergeant Palmer managed a smile.
“Now I feel safe in going ahead this way,” he said, “since the gilt-edged deductive mind of the whole District backs up my hunch. And now, before this movement starts and we commence going into open order, let me give you your reference points.”
Standing beside Sherlock, he motioned straight ahead. “Do you see that little spurlike hill with a big dead tree on top, poking up above the woods on the horizon? Keep your four headed toward that as the central point of your part of our sector, and at the same time let yourselves spread out and keep touch to left and right. Doc,” he continued, moving to the leader of the central four, “a little to the left of the dead tree you can see a lake. A patch of it shines bright and blue through the trees. That’s the central point for you. And Ranny, you can see another hill still more to the left, like a big bald knob, for yours. Has every leader of a four got a compass?”
Ranny had, but neither Sherlock nor Doc was so equipped, and their Scoutmaster hurried off to the central command point, then returned with borrowed compasses for them. “I think everybody’s about ready at last,” he said. “I’ll be at mid-point behind you, and as the circle widens other peace officers will come inside it, to form a smaller circle inside the lines of searchers.”
The organization was at last complete, and the command came from within to start. Leaders of the Troops repeated it. Away moved the Scouts. Sherlock and his companions splashed through a dull, scum-covered pool and in among the trees that bordered the cleared field. Pete Criley yelled out in startled surprise as a big turtle lumbered away from in front of his approaching shoes. Beyond them as they entered the timber was mossy mud, grown up with dense willow brush.
“I certainly don’t see any signs of a trail,” spoke up Max Hinkel, who held the place at Sherlock’s left. “If Corey James had gone this way, he’d have left tracks a foot deep in this mush. Personally, I think we’ve drawn a blank.”
“As I remember Corey James, he was smart enough to hide a bunch of stolen cars,” returned Sherlock. “He’s certainly smart enough to hide a trail.”
“I agree with that,” added Mr. Palmer, from his position behind and to the center of his Troop. “James would have picked his way where his trail would show the dimmest, and then would angle back into the thick of the swamp. Don’t slack off on us, Max. Keep those feet moving and those eyes open.”
“If only I can keep from getting my eyes as muddy as my feet,” replied Max, kicking great soggy cakes of mud from his shoes.
Within ten minutes the Scouts of Troop Fifteen had so extended their small arc of the circle that they were almost ten yards apart. To right and left of their position they could hear other Scouts at all times, calling back and forth to maintain touch, but the thickets and clumps of brush and weeds generally obscured their view of each other and of adjoining units. They waded through more shallow, muddy pools, and fought off clouds of buzzing gnats and mosquitoes. Max Hinkel tripped over a root hidden in mud and water, and splashed himself liberally from foot to shoulder. His spectacles misted over like the windshield of an a
utomobile in a rainstorm, and Doc Watson’s apple-dumpling figure began to swim in sweat. Even the athletic Sherlock, probably in the best condition of his entire Patrol, felt himself beginning to tire on the toilsome march. With eyes ready for any possible sign of the wounded man they sought, his brain was busy with a thousand disturbing meditations.
Sergeant Palmer had already confessed a feeling of personal responsibility for the condition of Corey James and for the necessity of finding him. Yet he, Sherlock, was fully as responsible, or even more so. Had it not been his own guesswork, luck and activity that had revealed what Corey James and the giant Hefty were doing at the haunted house? Had not Sherlock’s own personal investigation brought that pair to a showdown with the officers of the law? Then could not Sherlock blame himself if a man was in pain and peril? His young face grew as long as a meat platter and glumness spread through him as these thoughts presented themselves.
But another line of mental argument made him feel better. If he had not done the things he had done, what would have happened? A success in crime, perhaps, for Corey James and Hefty, a tidy profit to be shown by thieves from property of honest citizens, a victory on the part of criminals, and perhaps others tempted by that victory to take up a life of swindling and stealing. Sherlock, the son of a police officer and self-determined to follow the career of a detective, decided at once that this would have been the greater of two evils. He swore to himself to do what he could to find Corey James.
As the Scouts continued their advance, each constantly quartered his part of the line from left to right and back again, covering every inch of it as the circle widened and ever widened. Sherlock kept peering ahead at the hill and the dead tree that had been given him for his reference point, and repeatedly called to his companions to do likewise. Greater and greater grew the space between them as they increased the distance from the central point of the search circle.
Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1947 Page 12