"Makes me feel ter'ble ignorant," Rube regretted ruefully. "I dunno nothin' o' what's beyond th' mountains that I see ev'ry mornin' from Birkenshaw's Camp. Don't know nothin'; can't do nothin'. I'm just as useless as I'm ignorant."
Kiddie put his arm affectionately round the boy's shoulders as they moved together towards the campfire.
"Not useless, Rube; not ignorant," he said, speaking now in his character of Lord St. Olave. "You know things that thousands of well-educated English and American boys do not know; you can do things which millions of clever boys are incapable of doing. I won't make you blush by telling you just what I think of you. I'll only say you're learning more and more every day, and that every day you're proving yourself to be a better and a better scout."
He left Rube occupied with the cooking and went off to bring together the animals that had been trapped.
"What d'yer say ter tryin' your hand at gettin' the pelts off en these critters?" he asked, when he returned and had placed the animals side by side. "It's best done while they're fresh."
"You're thinkin' of preservin' 'em, then?" questioned Rube.
"I'm thinkin' of mounting 'em," Kiddie answered, "but mainly for practice. I took lessons when I was in London, from the people who preserve animals for the British Museum, an' picked up a heap of wrinkles. I want ter show you how it's done."
"How d'you reckon you're goin' ter get the skin off that rattlesnake?" Rube was anxious to know.
"Well," said Kiddie, "'tain't just as easy an' simple as drawin' off your glove; but it's on the same principle."
They were engaged during the afternoon with the work of securing the skins and cleaning them. The carcases were cut up for use as bait for the traps, the traps being plentifully baited and very carefully set for the larger animals. Kiddie was again most particular in laying the gin for the same animal that had visited it and perplexed him on the previous night.
"Guess that'll sure get him, whatever he is," said Rube.
He looked round for a response in agreement with his comment, but Kiddie was not there.
"Which way've you gone, Kiddie?" he called.
But there was no answer.
Rube stood listening, but heard no sound. He called louder; there was still no answer.
Now, Rube knew Kiddie well enough to be assured that there was some special meaning in this sudden disappearance. It was not a mere playful fancy. Kiddie had gone away intentionally, making no sound, leaving no sign. Clearly he wanted to test Rube's skill in tracking.
Rube remained standing where he was, but his eyes were alertly searching around amongst the shrubs and trees and along the ground for some mark or sign that might tell him in which direction Kiddie had gone. He knew that success in following him depended entirely upon his true start, and that a false beginning would only land him in difficulties, if not in his being actually lost.
Rube knew also that Kiddie would not play him any childish pranks, but would give him fair play all through, even helping him by leaving some "scent" in his trail—not handfuls of torn-up paper, as in an English schoolboys' game of fox and hounds, nor by so obvious a method as that of blazing the trees. It would be a test in which every faculty of the searcher's scoutcraft would be brought into active exercise.
Sniffing the warm air, listening keenly, looking with sharp scrutiny over every foot of the ground from where Kiddie had stood behind him, Rube at length fixed his gaze upon a tuft of grass where some of the blades had been bent over as by the tread of a moccasined foot. He went closer to it and saw that some of the frail blades were fractured. Now he had his starting point. He did not rush forward, but carefully estimated the probable direction, listening the while.
Presently there came to him the harsh cry of a jay, which told him of Kiddie's whereabouts, or at least of the line of Kiddie's course through the forest solitudes.
And now he went on in pursuit, picking up the faintly-indicated tracks one by one; often going far astray on a false scent and needing to return on his own back trail to the point where he had gone off the line that had been so cunningly laid for his guidance or his confusion; but always coming upon some new clue that lured him on and on.
Many times he stood still in serious perplexity. Everything around him was wild and unfamiliar, with no slightest trace or sign, either new or old, of human presence.
He might easily have allowed himself to be alarmed at the utter loneliness, and afraid lest he should lose himself. But he knew all the time that if he should be lost, Kiddie would come out in search of him and quickly find him.
In his moments of deepest despair, however, he always discovered some obvious sign which he had previously overlooked, and at last he perceived that he had been led round in an exact triangle, for through the green meshes of the trees he caught a glimpse of the lake and a thin blue column of fire-smoke, and then in the surrounding silence he heard Kiddie's well-known voice singing a snatch of a Scots ballad—
"Late, late in the gloaming, Kilmeny cam' hame."
"Hullo, Rube; got back inter camp, eh? Been wanderin' about the forest all on your own, have you? I've waited for you; got tea ready, you see—all but boilin' th' eggs. Guessed you'd relish a couple of eggs."
Kiddie did not turn to look at Rube as he spoke. He was reclining between the teepee and the fire with his open note-book on his knee and a blacklead pencil in his fingers. Beside him was a newly-cut birch stick with part of the bark whittled off.
"Yes," Rube responded, halting near him and standing looking him up and down in curious examination. "Yes, I allow I'm some hungry. Say, your moccasins are wet. Spilt some of the tea-water on 'em? Pity ter spoil a nice pair of moccasins by wettin' 'em. You ain't written much with that pencil. The point's still sharp since you sharpened it after dinner."
Kiddie glanced at the pencil point and smiled.
"Might have sharpened it again, while I've been waitin'," he said.
"But you didn't," returned Rube. "There ain't no chips lyin' around—unless you've put 'em in your pocket, same's you did before."
Kiddie smiled again. He had moved to the fire to put on the eggs.
"You're becomin' quite observant, Rube," he said. "See anythin' special on your solitary wanderin's?"
"Guess I found this here scrap of paper," Rube answered. "Looks as if it had been tore outer that note-book you was pretendin' to be writin' in—same size, same colour, an' thar's writin' on it, too. Looks like your own fist, don't it?"
Kiddie reached for the square of paper that was handed to him and examined it as if he had never seen it before.
Kiddie reached for the square of paper.
"Queer!" he ruminated, "it's sure my handwritin'—'Bring this back to camp.' Where'd you pick it up?"
"Didn't pick it up at all," answered Rube. "Found it on a hickory bush, far, far in, as it might be the very heart o' the forest."
"Ah! Some mischievous jay bird plant it there, d'ye think?"
"Jay bird couldn't have written that message on it," said Rube. "Jay bird couldn't have fastened it with a twig drove through the paper ter keep it in place. Guess you heard a jay squawkin' a lot, didn't you, Kiddie?"
"Sure," Kiddie nodded. "Couldn't get quit of the fowl until you came along on my track an' it started ter foller you instead of me. How'd you find your way back to camp?"
"Came th' same way as you did, I reckon," answered Rube. "Went th' same way's you meant me ter go, all the time—trackin' you by the clues you left."
Kiddie was silent until the tea was quite ready and the two of them were seated. Then he said—
"You've done a heap better'n I expected you to do, Rube. I didn't leave many clues, there was none of them conspicuous, an' they were very far apart—fifty yards apart at the least. Tell me exactly what you found."
"Well," said Rube, beginning on his tea, "first of all thar was a mark of your foot where you went in so silent. Then' th' jay started squawkin', an' I got my direction. I follered it, an' hadn't gone far when I
sees a balsam branch swayin' where thar was no wind ter stir it. I went straight forward until I began ter think I was goin' wrong, when I smelt smoke. I searched an' came upon a bit of charred cloth. You'd squandered a valuable lucifer match ter set fire t' a piece of greasy rag that you'd cleaned the lamp with. After that, I went astray; couldn't find a trace o' you nohow, an' had ter get back t' th' burnt rag ter make a fresh start."
"Yes," interposed Kiddie, "just as I intended. The trees were all alike thereabout and easily mistaken one for another. Well?"
"Thar was one of 'em different," pursued Rube, "a silver birch tree amongst the cotton-woods—an' I found where you'd cut a stick from it an' smudged the cut so's it wouldn't easily be seen. Is that right? You carried that stick along of you—brought it home. Once or twice you scored a mark on the ground with th' point of it. You began cuttin' some of the bark from the stick, droppin' a bit every fifty yards or so. But that was too easy for me. Any tenderfoot'd have found them bits o' bark."
"Quite right," agreed Kiddie, "an' you ain't anything of a tenderfoot. Yes? Well?"
"So you changed your scent, so ter speak. You felt in your pocket an' fetched out them chips o' lead pencil, an' you planted em one by one so all-fired cutely that nobody who wasn't searchin' fer signs c'd have discovered 'em. One of 'em you dropped lightly on a branch of balsam, level with my eyes; another you hung up, even more lightly, on a line of spider web. How did you manage that, Kiddie?"
Kiddie looked up from his spoonful of egg.
"Just laid th' chip in the palm of my hand an' blew it softly inter th' web, where it stuck suspended, like Mahomet's coffin," he explained.
"Don't know nothin' 'bout Mahomet's coffin," said Rube, "but that chip o' pencil was real cleverly done; it was top notch. After that, you dropped clues pretty freely, afraid o' my missin' 'em, I reckon. You didn't just blaze the trees; but you broke down twigs, you tore up ferns an' things, you kicked up the soil with your toe, an' you scored marks with your stick. At one place you tied a knot in a clump of rush grass, leavin' a pointer. I was follerin' you quick when at last I come t' the creek, an' thar you had me. You waded into th' water—that's how you got your moccasins wet—an' you didn't cross; you walked up the stream, I guess."
"Right," nodded Kiddie. "But that was a false scent. I didn't go far—not more'n a dozen yards—I came out on the same side and dried my feet."
"I saw where you did that," Rube went on. "It wasn't far from where you laid the three fir cones as a pointer, plain's a sign-post. Then you followed along by the creek to the tree where you hung up th' leaf from your pocket-book. From there you made it easy for me, comin' home in a bee-line, scatterin' clues right an' left."
"Well, Rube, I'll say this," declared Kiddie, "that you did remarkably well all through. There were not a great many clues that you failed to pick up. You missed some important ones, however, which makes it all the more surprisin' that you came back so quickly. We'll play that same game another time. It's good for us both. And now, I guess we'll just wash up an' make the camp clean for the night before goin' out in the canoe ter catch a fish or two, if it's not too late."
CHAPTER XII
A MOONLIGHT VISITOR
As a matter of fact, the fishing was only a pretext on Kiddie's part. They caught no fish whatever, and they were still in the middle of the lake when darkness came on.
Kiddie lingered yet longer, resting over his paddle and entertaining his companion with talk and stories and the singing of songs. Hardly noticed by Rube, he dipped the paddle and gradually turned the canoe round and round.
"Rube, old man," he said at length, "I've made up another scouting task for you. Find our landing place. Take us straight into it. You can't see it in this darkness, I know. You dunno where 'tis; but you've got ter navigate us into it, and without my help, see?"
Rube was not to be caught napping. He took the paddle in hand, looked up to the stars, and made for home as truly and unerringly as even Kiddie himself could have done.
The air was hot that night, and Kiddie again preferred to sleep in the open. And he slept very soundly.
Rube, on the contrary, found the teepee stifling, in spite of the wide-open door flap. He was restless; the mosquitoes tormented him, too. He began to envy Kiddie, lying in the cooler air. So much so that at about two o'clock in the morning ho got free of his sleeping bag, took his revolver, and crept out into the bright moonlight.
Kiddie lay flat on his back under a cotton-wood tree, his arms folded across his chest, shielding his hidden eyes from the silvery light of the moon.
Rube's foot kicked against an unseen pannikin, making an alarming clatter.
He looked to see if Kiddie stirred, and saw instead a movement in the tree. The branch just above Kiddie's head was swaying and a strange black body showed itself ominously through the trembling leaves.
Rube leant forward and became aware of a pair of large, shining, yellow eyes. Beneath them, farther back, a long, curved tail was swinging to and fro like a pendulum. The eyes were far apart, showing that the animal which owned them was of great size—bigger, certainly, than an ordinary lynx.
Rube raised his gun, deciding to shoot the beast between the eyes. But before he could take aim there was a sudden quick movement in Kiddie's sleeping-place, a sharp flash, and a loud report that was mingled with a fierce howl and a heavy thud.
Kiddie had leapt to his feet and was ready to fire a second shot at the beast that was writhing and snarling at his feet.
"Keep back, Rube," he said calmly. "He ain't dead yet. But I've got him. It's that black puma that came t' th' trap last night."
From where Rube Carter stood, Kiddie and the wounded puma seemed to be hopelessly mixed up together in the darkness. He made a step or two forward holding his revolver levelled, with his finger on the trigger, ready to shoot, yet hesitating, lest he should hit Kiddie.
"Keep back!" Kiddie repeated. "I've sure got him."
The puma was rolling and writhing in helplessness, snarling viciously, and now and then howling, as it tried to rise to its feet. Rube could see the brute's big round eyes flashing brightly at first and then becoming smaller and dimmer.
"Mind it don't give you a scratch with them claws," he cautioned Kiddie.
Kiddie stood back, and the moonlight fell upon the puma's sleek black coat.
"Biggest lion I've ever seen," remarked Rube. "I'm only wishin' it had bin me 'stead of you as put the bullet in him."
"You can give him one right now, to finish him," said Kiddie.
"He ain't needin' another," said Rube. "Besides, 'tain't th' same thing. I guessed you was sound asleep when I come outer the wigwam. Puma was lyin' along the branch right over you, gettin' ready ter drop down on you. I reckoned your life was in danger, an' I wanted ter save you, see? That's what I'm allus wantin' t' do; but you never gives me a chance. How did you know the brute was thar, Kiddie? How did you happen ter wake an' git out your gun an' shoot so mortal quick—'fore I'd time ter lift my arm an' press the trigger?"
"Well," returned Kiddie, "I dunno exactly. But I've a notion that I knew the critter was right there long before you did, Rube. I'd heard him crawlin' along among the bushes an' nosin' around about the traps. He was some wise, though, after his experience of last night. He wasn't havin' any truck with them traps. He was kind of suspicious of 'em, I guess, an' preferred to hunt his own food alive. So he got on ter the scent of the camp an' came sneakin' right here. I've a notion he didn't like the look of the teepee where you were sleepin'—thought maybe it was another trap; no more did he find any attraction in the camp fire. Thar was a live man, however, easy t' get at, under this yer tree. He came t' investigate overhead, an' was lyin' along that branch when you oozed outer the teepee an' diverted his attention by kickin' your foot against a tin pannikin, makin' noise enough t' waken the seven sleepers. If I hadn't been pretty quick with my gun just then, I guess that puma wouldn't have hesitated t' make a meal of you."
"Allus allowin' that I didn'
t stop him," rejoined Rube.
He watched the puma giving a final kick, and then become still and silent.
Kiddie went nearer to the animal, seized its long tail in both hands and hauled it bodily away from under the tree.
"We'll leave him there till daylight," he decided, "an' then have a proper look at him. Meanwhile, let's quit and finish our sleep."
Daylight revealed the puma as an uncommonly fine animal, in good condition. Kiddie preserved the pelt, with the head and feet. He also took the dimensions of the carcass at various parts to help him in modelling the body for mounting.
"I've got a pair of glass eyes that'll just suit," he told Rube. "They're some light in colour, but I guess we c'n darken 'em before we fix 'em in."
On that same day they moved the camp to a different part of the forest, but still on the shores of the lake, and they remained there for a week, trapping, shooting, fishing, and exercising their woodcraft. Then, at Rube's suggestion, they landed on a small island thickly overgrown with pine trees. Here, however, there were very few animals to trap, and small opportunity for scouting, although Rube did not for that reason cease to take advantage of Kiddie's wider knowledge and skill.
They were out in the canoe fishing one afternoon. Kiddie remarked upon the extreme clearness of the water, and told Rube to lean over and look down into it.
"You c'n see the bottom of the lake fathoms an' fathoms beneath us," he said.
"Yes," agreed Rube, peering down into the transparent depths. He raised his head and added: "You was sayin' th' other day, Kiddie, that no white man, an' p'r'aps no red man either, had ever lived in these parts in ancient times."
"I said—or meant to say—that there was no visible trace of early native inhabitants or white settlers," Kiddie corrected.
Kiddie the Scout Page 10