“He was spyin’, that’s what!” the red-haired boy exploded. “Spyin’ on the camp, or I’m a monkey’s uncle! I guess you didn’t notice when we first saw him, but he was standin’ there on the hill, lookin’ through the trees with a pair of field glasses, straight at the lodge! He’s after no good, if you ask me!”
“Why, Brick, are you sure?”
“Sure, I’m sure! What I want to know is, what’s his game? ‘Let me take you for a joy-ride,’ he says. Huh!” Brick spat into the rippling wake of the boat.
Dirk pulled thoughtfully at the oars. They were now nearing the wharf that was their goal.
“It’s puzzling, all right. But I still think you’re too suspicious, Brick.” Nevertheless, he was not altogether sure that Ryan’s distrust was wholly without grounds, and he could not rid himself of the feeling that he had somewhere before seen that pale grim face and frosty eyes.
The two boys tied their craft at the end of the jutting wharf, hauled the mail-sack ashore, and between them carried it up the path to Heaven House. The little cottage was empty at that time, but the flower garden in front was carefully weeded and tended. As they reached the gate, a cloud of dust bearing up the Elmville road told them that they had delivered their burden with little time to spare.
The rattling flivver that served the rural route drew up before them with a screeching of brakes, and Lem Shuttle, the driver, took off his straw hat and wiped his bald head.
“That there the camp mail, boys?” he asked. “Hot today, bean’t it? Got a mighty heap of letters for ye to take back, and a couple parcels.”
Brick heaved the sack into the rear seat of the rattletrap car. “Say, Lem,” he said, “we just saw a strange guy fishin’ down by the creek. Know who he is? Wearin’ a blue suit, and doesn’t know much about how to catch fish.”
Lem scratched one ear. “Heard tell of him as I come along. Peaked kind of little feller, eh? Yep, he drove up to the Petties last night in a blue sedan, and they took him in to board. Give his name as Brown or McGillicuddy or Harkins or some such. Claimed he wanted to do a bit of fishin’.”
“Well, he was tryin’ to catch ’em without any bait on his hook. Down by the creek, too.”
The mail-carrier chuckled. “Don’t surprise me a mite, now! Them city folk is all of ’em crazy as coots! Most of ’em don’t know oxen from buttercups! Wal, got to be goin’.” He tossed out the sack of incoming mail, released the brakes, and stepped on the gas. “Giddap, Napoleon!”
The boys watched him as he careened off down the dusty road. Brick Ryan nodded reflectively.
“H’mm! He wants to catch some fish, so he takes along a pair of field glasses to see ’em with! Stayin’ up at the Pettie house. Well, Van, old oyster, I’ll bet you this won’t be the last time we see Mr. Nosey Fisherman, or my name’s not F. X. A. Ryan!”
The mysterious fisherman, none the less, was pushed out of Dirk’s mind by the crowded hours of the camp routine. There were still half a dozen blank spaces on the emblem card that pointed his way to the Long Trail; and as the end of the week drew near, he was in a fever of excitement, wondering if ever he would complete all the needful tests in time.
His day of service as aide to Tent One was finished without mishap; and late the same afternoon he managed, after scorching a pan of rice and burning his fingers, to produce an edible meal cooked over an open fire built by himself. On Friday morning he rose before Reveille and in company with Long Jim Avery and Nig Jackson penetrated silently into the dewy woods, noting the plumage and song of many birds that Long Jim pointed out to the interested boys. At the performance that evening of the Lenape Vode-Villians on the improvised stage in the lodge, he won applause with a short act entitled “A Wee Drop of Scotch.” In golf sox, a kilt made of a plaid blanket, and a tam-o’-shanter, he sang several songs of Scotland and cracked all the jokes he knew about the canny race, marking his points with a crooked and knobbed cane cut from one of Farmer Podgett’s apple trees.
One by one the blank spaces on the card were filled in by the initials of some councilor. On Saturday afternoon Dirk, after helping Jim Avery after lunch at the store, raced to the boat dock and took his final swimming test, diving into the water head-first as Brick Ryan had taught him, and rounding a life-boat stationed fifty yards out, in all handling himself so neatly that he won a nod from Wally Rawn and a promise to be allowed to help keep the score in the inter-tent Boat Regatta that afternoon.
Dirk arose at dawn on Sunday morning, when around him all the camp was asleep. He shivered as he looked into the misty drizzle that fell among the pines; but screwing up his resolution, threw off the warm blankets and slipped into his heavier clothing and high laced boots. His woodcraft exhibit, a rustic birchwood bench circling the wild-cherry tree beyond the lodge, was still uncompleted; and his skill at axmanship was far from great. He sighed as he shouldered his hand ax and went through the dripping woods to a grove of birches beyond the Council Ring; but the work warmed him in short order, and he was soon whistling as he trimmed the smooth white saplings and split them for his purpose.
It still lacked half an hour to Reveille—which always came later on Sundays—when Dirk stepped back from his work at the base of the cherry tree, and surveyed his progress. The little bench needed only a few more slats in the seat to be completed and ready for the use of all campers; the braces were as steady as Dirk could make them, each sunk some inches into the ground and set with wedged rocks. The boy stood sucking his thumb, which had received a blow of his ax-head instead of the nail at which he had aimed; and thus he was unaware that the Chief had approached in his silent fashion and was at his elbow.
The Chief’s face was as unreadable as ever as he nodded in answer to Dirk’s “Good morning!” merely striding to the bench and testing it with his weight. Sitting there, he gazed at the eager lad and smiled gravely.
“A good bench,” he said, and paused. Then:
“Dirk, you’ve been working mighty hard on your emblem, haven’t you?”
“I only have two more things to finish, sir.”
“H’mm. Dirk, what would you say if I told you that, even if you finished these two things, you couldn’t go on the Long Trail this year?”
The boy’s face went white, and he gulped.
“I—I’d say you know best about that sir,” but his lip trembled with disappointment.
The Chief, who had been watching him closely, laughed—rather cruelly, as Dirk thought.
“Let me see your emblem card.” He took it from Dirk’s hand, and pointed to the thirteenth item. “It says here that any boy winning the Lenape honor emblem must show at all times the finest spirit as an all-round camper. Well, any boy who can answer me as you have just done——Look there!”
He pointed behind the lodge, where a large hay-wagon pulled by two horses came into sight, sweeping toward the road leading up the mountain. Upon it were securely lashed three canoes—and on top, gleaming red, was theSachem. TheSachem!
The Chief was scrawling his initials on the two empty spaces of the card. Dirk let out a whoop like an Iroquois on the warpath.
“I’m going, Chief!” he cried. “You mean it! I’m going on the Long Trail!”
“It looks that way. Last night I got an answer from my telegram to your father. He’s given his permission for you to join Sagamore Carrigan’s trailers. You still have much to learn, Dirk, but with this new spirit of yours, I think you’ll win out!” He clasped hands with the dancing boy.
At breakfast, Mr. Carrigan ordered that all Long Trailers report to him immediately to have their outfits inspected, and to receive instructions. Within fifteen minutes Dirk and Brick Ryan had carried several armloads of belongings up to the lodge porch and stacked them alongside of the kits of their five comrades who had been chosen to bear the Lenape flag. Cowboy Platt, lounging at the rail, opened his eyes wide as he took in the heap of things that Dirk had thought necessary to bring.
“You shore must be goin’ to take a pack-hoss along to tote all that,” he remarked in his sleepy drawl. “Wait till old Wise-Tongue sees that pile, pardner!”
Sure enough, when Mr. Carrigan arrived a few minutes later, his first words were on the necessity of “travelling light.”
“We’re going Indian fashion,” he began, “and since each one of you will have to carry all your outfit on your back, we must take only the things that we cannot do without. Now, Dirk, suppose that when we come to the first portage, you have to pack all those clothes and shoes and that big flash-lantern, as well as your blankets and your end of the canoe! Let’s see what you can do without.”
The councilor began laying aside only those belongings that would be needed on the trip. When he had finished, Dirk found his kit reduced to a sturdy hiking outfit of khaki shirt and breeches, puttees, and high shoes, a change of underclothing, a warm sweater, and four pairs of socks. In addition, he had for canoe-work a pair of shorts and light shoepacks. Since two boys would sleep together, one large warm blanket and rubber poncho apiece was adjudged sufficient, even though the mountain nights would be cool.
“I’m glad to see you have a pocket compass and a good knife,” concluded Sagamore Carrigan. “I’ll take my large woodsman’s ax, and Sanders will take his hand ax—that should be enough for the whole party. Cowboy Platt here has offered to do all the cooking, if we take turns at K.P. I’ve drawn from the kitchen only the grub that we can’t get along the way, and we’ll save it for ‘iron rations’ in the back-country. Ellick also gave me some pots and pans, but each trailer will have to take his own cup and plate and fork. Before we leave tomorrow, I’ll have another inspection and try to see that we don’t forget anything we need. Have your blanket-rolls ready immediately after breakfast. Any questions about outfits?”
Spaghetti Megaro and young Brown had need of the councilor’s advice about selecting certain of their garments. After he had given it, he unrolled a large map and tacked it to the pine shingles of the lodge wall, where all could see.
“I want you trailers to get every line of this map into your minds,” he urged. “Learn it so you could draw it blindfolded. It will be riding in my pocket for the whole trip, and whenever any of you has a minute to spare, study it. You can see that I’ve lined in the Long Trail in red ink.”
Dirk breathed faster as his eyes followed Sagamore Wise-Tongue’s pointing finger.
“Here’s Lenape, and way off here in the corner is old Mount Kinnecut, where nine green-and-white pennants are flying. That’s where we’ve got to go, and we’ll make it in three days, if all goes well. The first day’s run—tomorrow—will be an easy stage, just to get in trim and harden up. And see that your feet are in good shape, for that’s what you’ll have to travel on most of the way. We’ll stop at Pot-Hole Glen at noon, and make the river before dark. The canoes left on a wagon this morning, and we’ll find them at Skinner’s Ferry when we get there. Now, I’ll leave this map posted here for the rest of the day, so that you can get its details clear in mind before we leave. Anything else?”
“Yes, I got one!” put in Ugly Brown. “Who’s going to carry the flag?”
Sagamore Wise-Tongue smiled, and drew from his blouse a triangular bit of green bunting on which was stitched a large L in white. “The trailer who carries this,” he said, “will have to be watchful and cunning, for he will bear with him the honor of all of us, and the honor of Lenape. I’ll leave it to you to choose which trailer it shall be.”
Before anyone else could speak, Dirk cried out: “Brick Ryan! He’s the best of us! Let it be Brick, sir!”
“Sure,” agreed Megaro, “I bet you my life Brick is the one. I vote for him too.”
The others added their votes with shouts of approval; even Ugly Brown, who secretly had hoped to be the standard-bearer, swallowed his disappointment, and taking the banner, presented it to Ryan, whose face grew almost as red as his flaming hair.
“I’ll take it,” he muttered with some feeling; then, looking the leader straight in the eye, added: “You can bet nobody is goin’ to get this away from me, Wise-Tongue. It’s not goin’ to leave me until we nail it to the flagpole on the big mountain over beyond!”
With a cheer, the little council of war broke up. Brick stowed the pennant inside his shirt.
“Thanks, kid,” he mumbled. “That was swell of you to say that about me.”
“I meant it, Brick! Say, will you show me how to make a blanket-roll?”
The day passed swiftly for Dirk, eager as he was for the morning that would mark the beginning of the Long Trail hike. He was kept busy getting his outfit into shape and seeing that everything was in order; but he found time now and again to study the map posted on the wall. The names on it gave him a thrill that he could not have explained—Flint Island, Lake Moosehorn, the Chain of Ponds, even the few scattered towns that lay among the folds of the hills that skirted Mount Kinnecut. He was a Long Trailer now!
When dusk fell, and the whippoorwills could be heard trilling in the thickets, the Lenape tribe draped their blankets about them and trooped to council. There was no happier or prouder member of that tribe than Dirk Van Horn when, at the time for awards and coups, he rose and was given his honor emblem before the throne of the Chief. It seemed impossible that little more than a week had passed since he had first landed on the Lenape campus. So many wonderful things had happened that he felt a different person from the—as he thought, looking back—pitifully ignorant tenderfoot who had tried to buy Brick Ryan’s friendship with an expensive gift. He had that friendship now, but he had won it as a man should.
He drifted off to sleep clutching his new honor, and when he awoke at dawn, rose and sewed it carefully on the front of the sweater that he would wear on the trail. Brick Ryan was astir too, dressing in his worn hiking clothes and rolling his blankets into a neat pack to be strapped over his shoulders. He winked over at Dirk and whispered: “The pennant is still safe, by gollies! I pinned it to my pajama shirt with a big blanket-pin!”
The eight trailers were off up the mountainside before nine o’clock, after a brief but thorough inspection by their leader. They travelled in close marching order, for as Sagamore Wise-Tongue explained, they were like a war-party and must not lose their strength through straggling or getting out of touch with each other. It might be necessary, when they were in wilder country, to put out scouts, but since the road to Indian Glen was well known to them, they would take it in regular stages.
Although Dirk’s unaccustomed blanket-roll was heavy and grew heavier as the morning wore on, his heart was light. He joined in the songs of the gay trailers as they threaded their way through the trees on the slope above camp, pausing as they reached the road at Fiddler’s Elbow and taking a last glance at the placid waters of the lake and the white tents they were leaving behind. Dirk laughed aloud as he thought of all the adventures he would have before he again caught sight of Camp Lenape. But had he guessed that his life would be more than once in wild danger on the path that lay before him, he might well have shivered instead.
Up and down, over one ridge after another of the Lenape range, the boys took their way, resting now and then for a few moments in the shade beside some bubbling mountain spring. Mr. Carrigan, in the lead, bearing a first-aid kit and many other necessities in the knapsack over which his blankets were strapped, strode along silently, ever on the alert for some wilderness creature that he might point out to his eager followers. Once he pointed out the marks of a fox, and several times their progress stirred up a covey of stupid, drumming partridge. And in one breathless instant, before they came to the end of the forest, he paused and pointed through the trees. Dirk caught a glimpse of a swift-moving dun-colored animal that with a flick of its stubby tail was off in long easy leaps to the shelter of the far thickets—a young deer, the first he had ever seen in its native haunts.
He marched beside Brick and Ugly Brown, the young, snub-nosed lad whose blunt, sun-burnt face was somewhat likable in its very ugliness. He remembered that these two, with Kipper Dabney, had hazed him one moonlight night—long ago, it seemed—but he made no mention to them of that night when he had leaped, blindfolded, over Indian Cliff.
“What’s this Glen like that we’re heading for, Ugly?” Dirk asked.
“Ain’t you ever been there? Say, it’s a swell place. We hike over here lots of times. Whillikers, I’m ready for a swim there right now, even if the water feels as if it had just melted from snow. It’s called Pot-Hole Glen because down below, the water has run across the rocks so fast that there are a bunch of deep, smooth holes worn down by pebbles whirlin’ around—right through solid rock. It used to be an old Indian camping place, I’ve heard. We’ll be there soon, right after we cut across the fields over yonder.”
At that moment Mr. Carrigan turned off the dusty road and cut through a meadow where a herd of white-faced cows grazed. Dirk climbed the rail fence slowly, for he was hot and more than a little tired by the march; but he joined in the whoops of his companions as they raced the short distance that separated them from the goal of their noonday pause and the swim that was to come. And thus Dirk Van Horn came to Pot-Hole Glen, which he was never in his life to remember without a chill of horror creeping up his spine—the horror of strangling death.
The little plateau above the Glen was a pleasant place enough—a smooth, shadowy stretch of greensward marked here and there with the remains of more than one Lenape campfire. Here the trailers paused only long enough to cast off their blanket-packs, and then raced in a body for the steep, twining path leading down the wall carved out in past ages by the running stream at its foot.
“Now for a swim!” was the cry as, helter-skelter, the boys scrambled down the path that zigzagged through the underbrush.
Dirk paused at the bottom of the cleft, and falling slightly behind the others, searched for the pot-holes that Ugly Brown had described. There they were—smooth shafts of varying widths, sunken into the rocky floor over which the stream trickled softly. Taking a stick, Dirk probed one of them, and found at the bottom a few water-worn stones whose action had drilled, in the course of many decades, a deep hole in solid granite.
“The biggest hole of all is under the falls,” Brick Ryan shouted from below him. “Come on, my son—all the other guys are gettin’ wet already!”
He disappeared from sight at a turn in the path leading down-stream, from whence Dirk could hear the boisterous shouts of his comrades rising above the splashing roar of falling water. None the less, he did not hasten, for the wonders of the Glen were too many to be hastily passed over.
He walked slowly, gazing at the many-colored flowers and unknown trees that arched the stream. Several hundred yards down, the path wound about a steep drop over which the water boiled and bubbled—a miniature Niagara. From his place, Dirk could look directly down into a seething basin hollowed in the rock. Below this fell away the bed of the stream in an incline of sheeted, mossy shale, upon which sprawled the naked forms of the trailers. Wild Willie Sanders, with ear-splitting yells, was coasting down the slide head first, and landed in the broad pool below like a noisy otter.
Spray from the falls sprinkled Dirk’s face, and he hurried to strip off his dusty garments and join in the fun. As he took his place on the slide, the rills of water from the side of the falls were so icy that he cried out.
“Brr-r-r! Boy, talk about cold!”
“Get warmed up swimming down here in the pool,” advised Sagamore Carrigan, who was floating about in the crystal water beneath the slide. “Then you won’t feel it!”
Dirk watched Spaghetti Megaro, who was plunging a long pole into the great pot-hole directly underneath the falls. The pole sank out of sight, and shortly after shot into the air, to be caught by the Italian lad.
“That’s plenty deep, you bet!” grinned Megaro. “They call this one the Devil’s Cauldron. Some shower-bath if you get in this tub! Once when I was here, Wally Rawn got in and tried to dive down to bottom—but he didn’t find no bottom, not at all. He got out plenty quick.”
Dirk hastily removed himself from the brink of the treacherous-looking hole, and joined the divers who plunged into the pebble-bottomed pool below. The swim period was short, not only because the hikers were hungry, but because the water was so chill that too long exposure might be dangerous to health. After a brisk rub-down the trailers, glowing with vim, donned their cast-off clothes and started for the plateau above, where Cowboy Platt was already building a small cooking-fire for the noonday meal.
Lingering behind alone, Dirk dressed slowly, pausing now and then to watch the flight of a bird, or to mark some strange formation of rock along the walls of the Glen. At last he picked up his dripping towel and started up the path to rejoin his friends.
When he came once more to the bend directly above the falls, he paused for a last look at the impressive sight. As he stared down at the racing waters, a clump of star-shaped flowers on a tough-leafed bush caught his eye. He had never seen such strange bright blossoms before, but Sagamore Carrigan could tell him all about them. It struck him that it would be a good thing to get some and take them with him to the others.
Spreading his feet firmly on the slippery path, he reached down to snatch the plant from its perch in a crevice in the rocky cliff. It was too far. He knelt, and dropping one leg over to balance himself, made a second attempt. Still the nodding flowers were a tantalizingly few inches from the tips of his fingers. Tossing his head with annoyance, he made a swift swoop. As his hand touched the fringe of the bush, he felt the earth beneath his weight stir and slip.
In sudden terror, he dropped the fragment of the bush and dug in the toes of his heavy shoes, painfully trying to scramble back to safety. He grunted with the effort; but inch by inch the treacherous loose dirt gave way. A fearful glance over his shoulder, and he shut his eyes, dizzied by the hissing rush of the leaping rapids beneath his kicking legs. A rattle of stones; and then, with a despairing shriek, he plunged backward into the foaming falls!
The breath was knocked from his chest as he struck the seething surface of the giant pot-hole—the Devil’s Cauldron! Down, down he sank, freezing water filling his nose and open mouth and shutting off all chance of summoning help. The sunshine was far above him, seen dimly through a glassy green froth, and the roar of the rattling falls was drumming in his ears.
Desperately he kicked his leaden feet and fought his way upward, the blood hammering in his veins. One outstretched arm caught at the slippery edge of the hole and clung fiercely.
Upon his unsheltered head, battering drops fell like hailstones.
He had barely time to suck in a mouthful of air when the force of the spinning current tore his handhold loose, and again he dropped into the Cauldron’s depths. This time he felt weaker, chilled by the glacial stream and beaten by its pounding force. It was dark now. Dimly he wondered if they would ever find his body in that bottomless well....
An unseen hand was gripping him by the hair, hauling him upward toward light and life. Again the bullets of water struck his face and throat, but strong arms were about his shoulders. His chest scraped against the jagged margin of the pool; like a sodden bag of meal, he was pulled out of the clutch of that grim torrent.
He gasped, spat, and rolled over on his back. Somewhere above him, a bird was whistling. He opened one eye. Bending over him, with a serious look on his freckled face, was Brick Ryan.
“Are you alive, my lad? Gorries, say you’re all right!”
Dirk choked, and tried to sit up, but fell back weakly.
“I—I’m safe! It was horrible, down there——”
“Now, don’t try to talk. Take it easy for a minute. There, that better? Gee, you sure must have had a bad time of it! I was comin’ along down the creek to see what was keepin’ you, and heard you yell.”
“I was—trying to get some of those flowers up there, and slipped.”
Above him, through his moist eyelashes, he saw the coveted blossoms swaying slightly in the midday breeze.
“Huh! Well, that’s called rhododendron, and it’s against the law to pick it in this state! If you’re feelin’ better, I’ll help you up to camp, and we’ll dry out your duds.”
Fearing that delay might bring severe consequences, Dirk crawled to his feet, and shivering in his sodden garments, allowed himself to be led up-stream, leaning heavily upon the lad who had pulled him from that deadly bath. At the foot of the path leading to the camping place, he turned and faced his friend.
“Brick,” he said soberly, “you’ve saved my life. I—I can’t put it in words, but if ever there’s anything——”
The red-haired boy grinned and patted his arm. “Forget it!” he muttered gruffly. “You’d have done the same if it had been me.”
“But all the same——”
“Come on, old son, before you freeze to death. Climb, my lad!”
At the summit, the rest of the trailers were lying about on their packs, and there was a brisk smell of wood-smoke and frying bacon in the air. Mr. Carrigan leaped to his feet as he saw the two boys, and without asking for any explanation, had Dirk’s dripping garments stripped off in short order, and after a rough rub-down he was stowed between a pair of warm blankets and told to rest.
Dirk had been living in the open for more than a week now, and long before his wet clothes were dried before the fire, he felt none the worse for the mishap that might so easily have taken his life. The councilor brewed him a cup of warm, heartening soup that brought his strength back quickly; and when an hour had passed he convinced the man that he was himself again and ready to travel.
“We don’t have far to go now,” announced Sagamore Carrigan. “It’s only a couple miles to the river and Skinner’s Ferry, where the canoes are; and from there we can paddle to Kittahannock Lodge in no time—that’s where we stop for the night.”
Once more the hikers put their blanket-rolls over their shoulders and set out, following the dirt road that led westward from the Glen toward the river. The councilor now had a hard time to keep them together, so anxious were they to reach the ferry where the canoes waited for them; but he held them to the same steady pace. Dirk was forced to admit to himself that he was tired now, and he was glad when they crossed a stone bridge over a creek and came in sight of the ferry.
An unpainted, low frame building with a roof of “shakes,” or shingles split with an ax, lay beside a rude wharf at which was moored a flat-bottomed scow. Such was the ancient Skinner’s Ferry that dated back to Revolutionary days. On the wharf lay the three Lenape canoes, ready for their voyage into the wilderness. There was now no thought of restraining the eager lads, and Dirk, with the rest, broke into a run that ended on the narrow wharf. An old and bent ferryman came from the house to announce that the equipment brought from camp on the wagon awaited them within.
Now began a busy half-hour of packing and launching the light craft. It was settled that Dirk and Brick Ryan would handle theSachem, in which would be stowed the cooking outfit, rations, and odds and ends of camp outfit, while the other members of the party divided into two crews of three campers each to manage theRed Foxand theWhiffenpoof. When the equipment had all been stowed inside the rubber tarpaulins and lashed firmly to the thwarts, so that it would not be wet or lost in case of an upset, Dirk and his partner each took an end of their vessel and dropped it overside into the sheltered water below the wharf. As Dirk climbed into his place at the bow, he took care to make sure that his first misadventure with his canoe at Lenape should not be repeated; and in the wake of the other two craft, they shoved forth into the stream, shouted a farewell to the bent ferryman, and began paddling swiftly.
Mr. Carrigan, in the stern of theRed Fox, led the way, with Megaro at the bow paddle and Ugly Brown riding amidships. At a distance of a few lengths followed theWhiffenpoof, carrying Cowboy Platt, Saunders, and Steve Link. Dirk dipped and pulled his paddle in fast time, for their course lay diagonally across the current, which at this place rippled whitely over its stony bed.
“Make for the point!” shouted the councilor.
“That’s Kittahannock Lodge, where we sleep tonight!”
Ahead the broad river made a turn, and at the bend a tall white flagpole rose from a clump of trees, tinged with sunset gold. Dirk gave it a glance, and bent to his straining task, while Brick fulfilled the delicate job of keeping the light vessel on its path. On flew theSachem, as if glad to be afloat and bearing her owner farther and farther toward the northern wilds.
Once Dirk paused momentarily to catch his breath. He looked back to the shore that they were leaving. A road wound along the edge of the river, above the ferry, and along it crawled a small automobile with a plume of dust rising behind it. Dirk saw it only for a moment before it disappeared from sight behind a low hill. But he was sure, as he turned again to his paddling, that the car was a blue sedan, and that he knew the slight figure of the man that hunched over the wheel. It was the mysterious fisherman they had surprised on the shore of Lake Lenape some days before.
Sagamore Carrigan and his trailers were greeted in hearty fashion by the campers of Kittahannock Lodge, and the director, who each year was glad to extend his hospitality to the Lenape Long Trailers, offered an empty tent-house to the canoe party. He also invited them to supper at the lodge, but when Mr. Carrigan explained that they had provisions with them, assigned them a grassy spot above the river. Here, after they had washed up in the camp bath-house, the trailers were drawn about the fire by the aroma of Cowboy Platt’s cookery, and attacked with no little gusto the meal he handed out.
As soon as each man had washed his plate and fork, the trailers joined in the campfire merriment of the Kittahannock tribe within the lodge of hewn timber, on the walls of which were hung many examples of their woodcraft skill and collections of natural objects. The band was a lively and merry crowd, and the Lenape lads joined in the fun in friendly spirit. Games and stunts passed the time until the call to quarters sounded, and the eight hikers sought their cabin sleepily with many thoughts of their exciting first day on the trail.
Sagamore Carrigan yawned as he pulled his blankets over him and switched off his flash-lantern. “Not many stars out,” he remarked; “and I didn’t like the way the campfire smoke hung low in the chimney tonight. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we had a wet cruise tomorrow, fellows.”
Dirk woke in the night to hear a splatter of drops on the roof of the tent-house; and he fell asleep again thinking drowsily that the leader’s words had come true. The next morning dawned mistily over a wet world, and a swirling fog hung low over the river, shrouding the farther shore. The gloomy weather, though, penetrated no deeper than the ponchos of the Lenape boys, who after a warming breakfast, were afloat at an early hour. In a mysterious silence they pushed off into the overhung waters to continue their cruise up-stream, keeping close together so that no canoe should be separated from the others in the fog.
After an hour’s stiff paddling against the stubborn current, they saw the sun shine through once or twice, and the fog cleared away. But it was plain to be seen that the rain would continue steadily throughout the day. Through the downpour, Dirk caught sight of the river banks, now much closer together than they had been at Skinner’s Ferry. Shallow rapids became much more frequent, and Brick in the stern had to exercise unusual care to see that theSachem’sbottom was not ripped on some jagged rock.
Dirk, paddling doggedly with his arms thrust through the slits in his rubber poncho, felt the muscles of his shoulders stiffening with the unwonted labor; and he was happy when, in the middle of the morning, the little fleet came into sight of the white houses of the small river town of Port Jermyn. They tied up at the wharf where the main street of the town ended, and strolled about through the rain-swept village while the councilor, assisted by Steve Link, purchased the supplies that would be their sole provisions until their return from the wilds into which they were about to plunge.
The stop at Port Jermyn, short as it was, refreshed the paddlers, and Dirk found that he had gained his second wind. He still retained his place in the bow, however, for he did not feel that he owned the skill necessary to guide theSachemthrough the ever-increasing shallows of the river above the town. Feeling that he had left civilization behind for some time to come, he worked with a will, chewing a piece of butterscotch and waiting patiently for the signal that would mean a halt for the midday meal.
Shortly after noon, Mr. Carrigan beckoned to the following canoeists to turn off the main stream into the mouth of a wide creek flowing from the west. A few hundred yards from the outlet, they turned their craft toward the bank, and climbed out stiffly to stretch and gather dry wood for a smoky fire built beneath the shielding branches of a large oak. The canoes were turned on their sides, ponchos were taken off and stretched on sticks above the openings, and within these snug shelters the trailers lounged on their backs and lazily devoured heaping plates of beans and bread and slightly damp cookies.
“We-all are goin’ to fix some spaghetti for supper, in your honor, Wop!” Cowboy Platt twitted Megaro. “How will you like that?”
“O. K., I bet!” answered the Italian boy. “Say, maybe I catch some bullheads in Lake Moosehorn, and if I get more than fifty, I give you one to eat in your honor!”
Dirk laughed, not because the joke was good, but because he was well fed and warm and happy to be with such a game crowd of campers. Although the rain might have dampened the holiday moods of many boys, not one of these lads had uttered a word of complaint. Later that eventful day, Dirk was to look back wistfully at that scene; for neither he nor Brick Ryan was fated to partake of that contemplated meal of fish and spaghetti on the shore of Lake Moosehorn.
Refreshed and rested, the boys broke camp and prepared to leave the broad river behind. Dirk recalled that this stream they were now following must be the Sweetwater Creek shown on the map that Sagamore Carrigan carried in his breast pocket. If so, it would lead to the first of the Chain of Ponds, where the first portage would begin.
His surmise was correct. Close together, their bows sometimes brushing overhanging limbs of trees as they rounded a bend in the creek and a new reach of rain-spattered water met the paddlers’ eyes, the three canoes wended up-stream. On either side the walls of the forest closed in about them, and in some places it was as gloomy as though it had been nightfall instead of broad afternoon. Before two miles had slipped past their dripping paddles, the creek ended in a rough dam of logs that marked the outlet of the lowest of the ponds; and here was the first portage.
It was a short one, merely circling the dam and so to another launching on the dark mirror-like water of the pond. The boys landed and hauled their canoes ashore; then, without bothering to remove the contents, they each seized an end and carried the craft up a narrow trail, slippery with weeds and mud, to the edge of the pond. Once more afloat, they pulled through the dripping rain in the rippling wake of theRed Fox. Dirk, brushing the drops from his glistening face, wondered how the leader could find his way through the winding passage. Reeds and ugly, misshapen snags jutted upward from the murky, black bottom covered with dead leaves, and somehow brought a chill to the boy in the canoe, so close were they beneath his paddle. He wondered what would happen to any daring soul that might try to swim in the dark forbidding water.
Sagamore Carrigan knew his way, however, and unerringly came out at the end where the next portage began. This was a long one, for these two ponds were connected only by a swampy trickle that wound across hummocks of mud. For half a mile the boys threaded through the ankle-deep muck; and though the councilor sent Spaghetti Megaro back to bear a part of the overburdenedSachem, Dirk was ready to call a halt before a third of the way had been traversed. Gritting his teeth, he tried to forget the cutting, swaying load pressing his aching shoulders, meanwhile thanking his stars that his shoes were strong and waterproof.
By the end of the afternoon all the trailers, although they would not have admitted it under torture, were heartily sick of ponds and portages. Everlastingly climbing in and out of the vessels, slipping and sliding through an overgrown footpath with one end of a staunch canoe on one’s shoulder and dripping branches catching at garments and whipping into one’s face, all in a semi-darkness that depressed the heartiest spirit—it seemed to all of them that they could not last out another hour of this winding progress through the lowlands, when from the van came Sagamore Wise-Tongue’s cheering cry: “Lake Moosehorn ahead!”
The broad expanse of clear water uplifted the souls of all. Dirk, feeling glad that reeds and snags and winding dark ponds were left behind at last, threw himself on a grassy bank beside his canoe, breathing a sigh of relief. It was late in the afternoon and the rain had slackened to a filmy drizzle. Across from them loomed the hump of Flint Island, while over the tree-clad summit of Mount Kinnecut toward the west, the descending sun was bravely trying to show forth before sinking into night.
“We’ll be pitching camp inside an hour, men,” said the leader. “Our headquarters will be at the old spot at the far end of the lake, up by that tall dead spruce. From there we’ll have to use our feet instead of our paddles, to make the summit of Kinnecut.”
“Huh!” remarked Ugly Brown. “I’ve been usin’ my feet all day. I don’t mind hikin’, if I don’t have to carry a canoe with me. Why, after today, I’ll probably race up to the top of that little mountain tomorrow just to get an appetite for breakfast!”
“We’ll never even pitch camp before dark if you yearlings don’t stop argufyin’ and get started,” drawled Cowboy. “I want lots of wood cut for the fire, and somebody mentioned he was goin’ to hook some fish.”
“Well, we’ll move along, then, and do our resting when we get to camp,” said Mr. Carrigan. “It’s the old earth that will be your bed tonight, if I don’t cut some spruce tips for mattresses—so let’s be on our way!”
TheRed Foxand theWhiffenpoofpushed out on the lake for the last lap of the day’s long journey.
“Well,” asked Brick Ryan, paddle in hand, “aren’t you goin’ to stir, my son?”
“I suppose so.” Dirk rose stiffly, and stretched. “Gollies, I hate to move, though. I could go to sleep right now.”
“Not here, my bucko.” The red-headed boy playfully prodded his canoe-mate in the ribs. “Stir your stumps. Look, the other guys are almost out of sight around Flint Island. Old Wise-Tongue is wavin’ for us to come on.”
The two foremost canoes vanished behind the bulk of the little island as theSachempushed out.
“Steer over along the shore of the island, will you?” asked Dirk, after a moment. “I thought I saw something moving in the bushes. It looked like——See it? Why, it’s a man! And he’s waving to us! What do you suppose he wants?”
He quickened his stroke, and they pulled toward the rocky edge where the waterline of the lake marked the island. A low, hoarse cry rose from the twilight of the thickets.
“Ay! Help me, you come help! I caught!”
A man’s head was visible through a gap between the trees. The hair was long and black, the skin dark, and the features that could be made out were rugged and wild-looking. The voice was that of one in pain.
“Why, it’s an Indian! Hurry, Brick—he’s hurt. Maybe a tree fell on him!”
“Don’t you think you better take it slow till you know what’s up?”
“Nonsense! He needs us right away. Here’s a good place to land.” Dirk leaped ashore as he spoke, and ran to the spot where the Indian lay moaning in his broken pidgin-English.
As he approached, the man rose to his feet and leaped at the boy like a wildcat. As the outstretched arms caught Dirk about the shoulders and threw him backward, he realized, too late, what was happening.
“Get away, Brick!” he screamed. “It’s a trick!” He fell on the rocky ground, with the strange Indian upon him, holding his body so that he could not move an inch, nor see what Brick was doing.