“Well, I hate to leave our post until Mr. Hatfield gives the order,” Dan said after a moment’s consideration. “Anyway, we’ve waited too long. We never could get home ahead of the rain.”
“You’re probably right,” Brad agreed, anxiously studying the fast-moving clouds. “The storm is due to break almost any minute. Lucky we brought along our slickers.”
Buttoning themselves into their long raincoats, the two boys prepared as best they could for the expected downpour.
Soon a faint breath of air rustled the tree leaves. In the quiet of the forest, the sound was ominous.
“Here she comes!” muttered Brad.
Scarcely had he spoken when a rumble of thunder echoed through the woods. A few drops of rain filtered down between the thick canopy of leaves.
Then, wind and rain came on with a rush which sent the two boys deeper into the woods for shelter.
Though they flattened themselves against the lee side of two large oaks, they could find no protection. The rain began to fall in a torrent. It lashed their faces, streamed down their slickers and soaked their shoes.
Limbs loosened by the wind came crashing down. Now and then a vivid flash of lightning etched an electrical pattern across the dark sky.
“It’s not very safe here,” Brad said, ill at ease.
“We ought to seek shelter deeper in the woods, or get out entirely,” agreed Dan, buttoning his slicker tighter about him.
Even as he spoke, a brilliant flash of lightning etched across the sky, so bright that momentarily it blinded the two boys. And the following roar of thunder made them jump.
Simultaneously, came a ripping, tearing sound which told them that the heart of a mighty tree had been struck.
“Gosh! It’s that big oak!” Dan exclaimed, squinting through the rain.
The big tree came crashing down, smashing away smaller saplings and bushes in its path.
“It might just as well have been this one,” Dan murmured, gazing uneasily up into the mass of swaying, wind-twisted boughs above his head. “We’re in a bad spot!”
“How right you are,” murmured Brad.
A bright flash of lightning made the woods as bright as day. In that moment the boys saw the wind whirling like a vicious animal in the treetops. And two hundred yards away another tree fell, making a resounding crash as it toppled.
The sight spurred the Cubs to sudden decision.
“Dan, I know Mr. Hatfield wouldn’t want us to risk staying here in this storm,” Brad said, seizing his companion’s arm. “Come on, boy, we’re getting out of here!”
Alarmed by the intensity of the storm, Dan and Brad made a dash through the whipping trees, seeking an open area. Rain now was descending with furious power, lashing directly into their faces.
“Gosh, I can’t see a thing!” Dan gasped. “Which way is the road?”
Brad turned on the beam of his flashlight, but it failed to penetrate the blinding wall of rain.
Just then the lightning flared again, revealing an opening through the bushes. Beyond Brad glimpsed the old logging road, a river of rainwater despite its under-base of gravel.
“This way, Dan!” he shouted encouragingly. “Follow me.”
Sloshing through water and mud, they reached the barrier fence and climbed over. The blinding sheet of rain all but blotted out a view of the pavement.
“We’re safer here anyhow,” Brad said as they emerged from the woodland. “Brother! Is this a storm?”
The rain showed no signs of slackening. However, now that the boys were in a cleared area, the wind seemed less menacing.
“It’s dropping a little,” Brad observed, studying the treetops along the pavement. “The crest of the storm probably has passed.”
“But the rain is still wet,” Dan shivered. “And it’s steady. No sign of a let-up.”
Along the ditches, muddy water was rushing at a furious rate, draining toward the nearby river.
The two boys scarcely knew which direction to go. They could recall no houses close by where they might seek shelter. The nearest habitation was Mr. Holloway’s camp across the river, but they had no boat.
“There’s a filling station up the road about a quarter of a mile!” Brad recalled, shouting to make himself heard above the roar of the wind. “Let’s go there!”
Dan nodded and followed his companion. Rain drove directly into their faces, closing off their view and making it difficult to walk.
“I sure wish a car would come along,” Brad muttered.
Now that they would have welcomed a ride, the busy highway suddenly had become a deserted thoroughfare.
Struggling on, the Cubs presently came to a stone bridge arching over a creek. Upon reaching it, the boys noticed that already its murky waters were within two inches of flooding the pavement.
“Wow!” Brad exclaimed, pausing to glance briefly at the raging torrent. “She’s coming up fast—and I mean fast!”
“Isn’t this the same creek that flows through Mr. Silverton’s property, Brad?”
“That’s right.”
“If the log jam hasn’t been cleared out before this, the water’s likely to start backing up in the pheasant runs just as Mr. Hatfield predicted!”
“I’m afraid of it,” Brad agreed. “Saul Dobbs ought to have looked after things. But if he failed to, well, this storm will sure make a mess of things at the farm.”
The boys stood a moment longer watching the torrent race beneath the stone archway. So fast was the creek rising that they could see the lapping waters nibbling away at the concrete. It would soon cover the pavement.
“Twenty minutes and the water will be running over the road,” Brad said. “If it’s clearing out at the pheasant farm, all well and good. But if it starts backing up there, Dobbs is in for plenty of trouble.”
Dan made no reply. The two boys pushed on through the slanting rain without meeting or being passed by a car. Finally, soaked and muddy, they reached the filling station.
An attendant, seeing them coming, flung open the office door.
“You look like a couple of drowned rats,” he laughed. “Here, shed those coats before you flood the place!”
Brad and Dan stripped off their slickers and wiped their dripping faces with a coarse towel which the attendant brought from one of the rest rooms. Then they sat down by the electric heater to outwait the rain.
“This is a regular cloudburst,” the filling station attendant remarked, watching the rain pelt against the window. “Worst storm we’ve had this summer.”
“May we use your telephone?” Dan requested.
“Sure. Go ahead. It’s your nickel.”
Dan dialed Mr. Hatfield’s number, intending to tell the Cub leader that he and Brad had taken refuge at the filling station.
There was no answer. Actually, the Cub leader at the moment was driving to the logging road. Alarmed by the intensity of the storm, he had lost no time in setting forth to pick up the Cubs.
Unable to reach Mr. Hatfield, Dan next telephoned his own home where his mother answered.
“I’m glad you are safe, Dan,” she said in relief. “I’ll call Brad’s mother and set her mind at ease. Don’t try to come home until the rain lets up.”
For a half hour, the storm continued without signs of slackening. Then as suddenly as it had started, the rain ended. Clouds gradually cleared away and the sun straggled out. Steam began to rise from the drying pavement.
Brad and Dan wandered outside, debating whether to return to their post or walk to Webster City.
“Mr. Hatfield wouldn’t expect us to go back there after such a terrific storm,” Brad said. “On the other hand, I don’t like to walk off a job just because the going gets tough.”
A big truck loaded with furniture rumbled into the station. The driver sprang out and after ordering the attendant to fill up the gasoline tank, began to inspect the heavy-tread tires.
“That was sure some storm,” he remarked to the filling station man. “Up in the hills the rain was heavy.”
“It’s a cinch the river will rise again,” replied the attendant, removing the hose from the mouth of the gasoline tank. “Creeks running high?”
“Out of their banks most places.”
“Any serious floods between here and Alton Heights?”
“Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time. The water’s coming up fast. I was lucky to get through.”
The snatch of conversation had been overheard by Brad and Dan and added to their alarm.
Although they knew the river would not rise to a dangerous level for many hours, the flood risk at Silverton’s pheasant farm was immediate.
If the rain had been heavy in the hill area as reported by the trucker, then an enormous amount of water soon would pour down into Crooked Creek. Even under normal circumstance, the narrow stream scarcely could be expected to carry the excess away without flooding.
Brad stood nervously drumming his fingers against the wall of the filling station, thinking matters over.
“I sure wish I knew if Saul Dobbs ever cleared away that log jam,” he said. “What do you think, Dan?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. But knowing him, I’d say he hasn’t touched those logs.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of Dan. Dobbs has been mighty unpleasant to the Cubs. Even so, I’d hate to see any of Mr. Silverton’s pheasants drown through his carelessness.”
“Same here.”
“Dan, I’m going to telephone Dobbs,” Brad said, reaching a sudden decision. “Then we’ll have the matter off our minds at least. Got a nickel?”
“My last one,” Dan said, fishing a coin from his pocket.
Brad found the number of the Silverton Pheasant Farm in the directory which hung from a cord on the wall. But no one answered his call. He allowed the telephone to ring a long while before finally hanging up the receiver.
“No use,” he said in disappointment. “Dobbs doesn’t seem to be there. Maybe he’s outside looking after the pheasants.”
The filling station attendant who had come into the office for change, overheard Brad’s remark.
“You’re trying to get Saul Dobbs?” he inquired.
“That’s right.”
“You won’t find him at the pheasant farm. Just before the storm broke I saw him driving toward Webster City.”
“And he hasn’t returned since?”
“Haven’t seen him.”
“Then that means there’s no one in charge now at the pheasant farms,” Brad said anxiously. “With the creek rising so fast, it’s likely to back up into the pens.”
“Saul Dobbs is a careless, shiftless sort,” the filling station man replied with a shrug. “I never could see why Mr. Silverton kept him in charge.”
Turning from the telephone, Brad’s troubled eyes sought those of Dan in silent question.
Both boys knew that something must be done quickly if the pheasants were to be saved. Yet they hesitated to disobey by again venturing onto private property to investigate the choked stream.
“Let’s telephone Mr. Silverton,” Dan urged. “Being in the city, he may not realize how heavy the rain was out here.”
Brad lost no time in making the call. But when he gave his name at Mr. Silverton’s office, he coldly was informed that the sportsman was “busy.”
“I must talk to him right away,” Brad argued. “It’s important.”
“Sorry,” repeated the voice. “Mr. Silverton has given orders that your calls are not to be transmitted to him. So sorry.” The receiver clicked in his ear.
“How’d you like that?” Brad howled. “We try to save his old pheasants and he won’t even talk to us!”
“We’ve got to get word to him somehow,” Dan insisted. “Brad—”
“Yeah?”
“Why don’t we hitch a ride with that truck driver into the city? If we can get to Silverton’s office in time, we ought to be able to make someone understand what’s happening out here.”
Brad did not take a moment to debate. Already the trucker was starting to pull away from the filling station.
“Come on,” he urged, bolting out the door.
The boys signaled the truck driver who halted just before he reached the main highway.
“Are you driving to Webster City?” Dan shouted.
“That’s right.”
“Will you give us a lift?”
“I sure will,” the trucker agreed heartily, opening the cab door. “Hop in, boys.”
As the truck rattled along the slippery road, Dan and Brad told the driver of their urgent reason for reaching the Gardiner Building.
“You’re making no mistake in thinking that creek will flood,” the trucker declared, putting on more speed. “Even if the stream isn’t clogged, she’s sure to go over her banks.”
To help the boys, the driver dropped them off directly in front of the Gardiner Building. Their shoes caked with mud, their wet hair still plastered down, the pair made a sorry appearance as they entered Mr. Silverton’s outer office.
Seeing Brad and Dan, the receptionist regarded them with cold disapproval.
“I told you over the telephone that Mr. Silverton will not see you,” she said before Brad could speak. “Those are his orders.”
“But we must see him!” Brad insisted. “Rains have flooded the creek and some of the pheasants may drown if they aren’t taken care of right away!”
The receptionist looked somewhat startled. Having no idea what the boys were talking about, she shook her head.
“I positively cannot disturb Mr. Silverton now,” she said. “If you want to wait on the chance he’ll see you when he comes out, you may.”
“How long will that be?” Dan asked.
“Mr. Silverton usually leaves his office at four-thirty.”
“That’s fifteen minutes yet,” Brad said, glancing anxiously at the wall clock. “We shouldn’t delay. Please—”
“I’ve already explained that I cannot disturb Mr. Silverton. Now if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”
The receptionist busied herself typing a letter. However, the boys saw her gaze with disapproval at the enlarging pool of water which dripped from their slickers onto the floor.
At intervals, Dan and Brad would get up from the bench and go to the window. Fifteen minutes already had elapsed. And still Mr. Silverton’s office door remained closed.
Then at twenty minutes to five, when the Cubs had nearly given up hope, the sportsman unexpectedly walked out of his inner office. He wore his hat and coat and would have passed through without speaking to anyone, had not the receptionist stopped him.
“Mr. Silverton, these boys have been waiting a long while to see you,” she informed the pheasant farm owner. “They are quite insistent that it is important.”
The sportsman gazed at Brad and Dan, and appeared to look straight through them.
Deliberately turning his back, he then strode toward the outer door.
The Cubs had no intention of allowing him so easily to elude them.
“Please, Mr. Silverton, we must see you for a minute!” Dan exclaimed, starting after him.
The sportsman acted as if he had not heard the appeal. Walking rapidly, he continued toward the elevator.
Rebuffed, but nevertheless determined that Mr. Silverton should listen, the two boys pursued him down the hall.
“Mr. Silverton, listen to us just for a moment—” Brad began, but the stock broker cut him short.
“Pests!” he exclaimed. “Unless you cease annoying me, I’ll turn you over to a policeman. I’ve had quite enough of Cub Scouts!”
By this time the elevator had stopped at the third floor. Glaring angrily at Brad and Dan, Mr. Silverton entered the cage.
But not alone.
Stung by the sportman’s bitter words, the two boys crowded in with him. The cage door closed.
“Mr. Silverton,” Dan said, gazing directly at the sportsman. “We’re sorry to force ourselves upon you. But I’m afraid you’ll have to listen to us now.”
“Oh, I will, eh?” Mr. Silverton demanded. “We’ll see about that!” He rapped his cane sharply on the floor of the cage door. “Attendant, let me out of here!”
However, he spoke too late, for already the elevator was moving slowly downward.
“Mr. Silverton,” Dan began, speaking rapidly because he knew he had only a moment in which to present his case. “It’s about your pheasants—”
“Attendant, stop the elevator at the second floor,” the sportsman directed the operator of the cage. “I’ll walk!”
The elevator man, observing the despairing look of the two boys, deliberately let the lift slide past the second floor level.
“Sorry, sir,” he said, fumbling with the levers. “Too late, sir.”
“Mr. Silverton, you’ve got to listen!” Dan went on desperately. “The creek’s rising fast out at your farm! With that dam across the stream, it may flood the pheasant runs.”
At last he had gained Mr. Silverton’s attention.
“Dam?” the sportsman demanded. “What are you talking about?”
“Logs have jammed across the creek, sir. Mr. Hatfield, our Cub leader, said if it rained hard, water would be almost certain to back up and flood.”
“A trucker told us the area up in the hills had a regular cloud burst,” Brad added. “When that water gets down here, adding to what we’ve already had, the creek will come up fast.”
The elevator had halted at the first floor and the cage door slid open. But Mr. Silverton had lost his desire to elude the boys.
“Saul Dobbs told me nothing about the stream being clogged,” he said, looking worried. “How long has this condition existed?”
“We noticed the logs on our visit to your farm several days ago,” Brad said. “We wanted to tell you then, but you wouldn’t talk to us.”
“Humph! I haven’t forgotten a certain little matter still between us.” Mr. Silverton’s pouchy face again became frozen and unfriendly. He turned to leave the elevator, saying in curt dismissal: “Well, thanks for telling me.”
“But sir!” exclaimed Brad. “Don’t you think—that is—shouldn’t you try to do something to save the pheasants?”
“Saul Dobbs can be depended upon to look after my interests. Should any emergency develop at the farm, he’ll get in touch with me.”
“But that’s just the point, Mr. Silverton,” Dan interposed. “Dobbs isn’t on the farm.”
Mr. Silverton now gave the boys his complete attention.
“Not there?” he demanded. “How do you know?”
Dan related the information given to him by the operator of the filling station. At last he saw that the sportsman was beginning to be disturbed.
“If Dobbs isn’t at the farm, that changes the picture!” Mr. Silverton exclaimed. “With the creek rising, the pheasants easily could be endangered! Why did Dobbs go away without notifying me?”
Neither Dan nor Brad made any attempt to answer. Nor did Mr. Silverton expect them to do so, for he seemed to be thinking aloud.
“I’ll drive out there right away and see what’s happening! Will you boys come with me? I’ll need you to point out where the gorge is choked.”
“Sure, we’ll be glad to go!” Brad agreed quickly.
Mr. Silverton led the way to a nearby parking lot where he kept his automobile. At a fast clip they drove over the slippery pavement to the pheasant farm.
En route, they encountered two areas where fast-running ditch water had overflowed the road. However, they were not too deep to prevent the car from getting through.
“I had no idea the rain was so heavy,” Mr. Silverton commented. “Of all times for Dobbs to leave the farm unattended this takes the prize!”
The drive to the farm offered the two boys an excellent opportunity to explain to Mr. Silverton again that the Cub Scouts never had intended to break any of the rules laid down by him.
Delicacy however, prevented them from bringing up the subject. Mr. Silverton seemed so worried and absorbed in his thoughts that they decided any discussion of the matter or apology must wait until after the present emergency.
As the big blue car descended the private gravel road and presently emerged at the cleared area of the pheasant farm, Brad and Dan saw that they had not exaggerated the situation. It was even worse than they had anticipated.
Already an ugly line of murky water had spread through the woodlands to the lower level areas. The hatching yard in the grove was covered with an inch of water. Overflow from the creek slowly nibbled at the walks leading to the house and to the barn on somewhat higher ground.
“Dobbs!” Mr. Silverton shouted. “Are you here?”
Receiving no answer, the sportsman parked his car some distance behind the barn and ran to the house. All the doors were locked.
“You were right!” Mr. Silverton said to the Cubs. “Dobbs has gone off, apparently for the day!”
“And the water’s creeping up fast,” Brad said, gazing anxiously at the pheasant pens which already were beginning to flood.
“A nice mess!” the sportsman muttered. “Half of my pheasants will be lost if I don’t get them out of the fields.”
“Can’t we help?” Dan offered.
“Yes, I’ll need you and anyone else I can get. This will be a big job. We’ve got to work fast to keep ahead of the rising water.”
Smashing a glass pane at the rear door of the foreman’s dwelling, Mr. Silverton went inside to telephone.
“I’m trying to round up men,” he explained a few minutes later to Brad and Dan. “But at best it will take an hour for anyone to get here. And it’s an awkward time—close to the dinner hour.”
“All the Cubs would help if I could get word to them,” Dan said eagerly.
“I can use anyone, and I’ll pay well for the work. The vital thing is to get help fast.”
“Say, Mr. Hatfield should be showing up at the old logging road exit to relieve us of our stint!” Brad exclaimed. “Dan, if you could reach him—”
“I’ll go after him,” Dan agreed instantly. “If he isn’t there, I’ll call him from the filling station.”
“If you cut through the woods, be careful not to be trapped by the flood waters,” Mr. Silverton warned as Dan started away. “Keep well to the north of the creek.”
Leaving Brad to help the sportsman, Dan set off through the woods at a fast dog trot.
Shadows were deepening among the trees, but he kept his sense of direction. Circling around the flooded area, he struck the logging road at a point well beyond the clogged point of the stream.
To the right he could hear the rush and roar of the torrent which raced toward the river. Unless the log jam gave away or the crest of the flood was soon past, he knew that in a short while the entire side road would be under water.
His shoes and clothing caked with mud, Dan presently came out at the rail fence barrier. A familiar looking car, which had pulled up on the other side of the paved highway, was just starting away.
“That’s Mr. Hatfield’s automobile!” Dan thought. “If only I can catch him before he drives away!”
Scrambling over the rail barrier, he shouted the Cub leader’s name. In the act of shifting gears, Mr. Hatfield heard the boy and turned his head.
Seeing Dan, he quickly switched off the engine and ran to the fence.
“Where’s Brad?” he asked anxiously. “When the storm broke so suddenly, I came out here as fast as I could. Had a flat tire on the way, which held me up. Is Brad all right?”
“He’s with Mr. Silverton,” Dan replied, and poured out his story of Dobbs’ disappearance and the threatened flood disaster at the pheasant farm.
“No one there but Brad and Mr. Silverton?”
“That’s right, and the water is coming up fast. Mr. Silverton’s trying to get men from Webster City, but having no luck. Brad stayed with him to do what he could.”
“Silvertonisin a spot,” the Cub leader declared. “When I saw that log jam in the creek, I was afraid something like this would happen.”
“Mr. Hatfield, do you think the Cubs could help?” Dan asked breathlessly. “If only we could round them up!”
“We can and will, Dan. Jump into the car! We’ll make a whirlwind trip into Webster City and see how many boys we can find!”
Driving as fast as the slippery pavement permitted, the two soon reached the city. Notified as to the emergency at the pheasant farm, Red, Chips, Mack and Fred immediately offered their services.
“Wear your slickers and either high boots or galoshes,” the Cub leader advised the boys. “It’s plenty moist out at Silverton’s place and the creek still is rising.”
Mr. Hatfield, in stopping at his own home to pick up his son and a pair of hip boots for himself, paused long enough to telephone Mr. Holloway and Midge. The information received from across the river was disconcerting.
“They can’t come with us,” he reported to the Cubs. “The river is rising fast, and Mr. Holloway is afraid the cabin may be flooded within a few hours. He and Midge are sticking close to look after things there.”
“Gosh all fish hooks!” Red groaned as he piled into Mr. Hatfield’s car with the other Cubs. “If the flood reaches the cabin, some of our Den equipment may be ruined. Especially our handicraft work.”
“I left the pheasant feather war bonnet there somewhere,” Chips added with concern.
“Mr. Holloway and Midge will look after your things,” the Cub leader reassured the boys. “The water hasn’t reached the cabin yet. As soon as we’ve done what we can to help Mr. Silverton, we’ll drive over to Mr. Holloway’s place.”
“After the way Silverton talked about the Cubs, he doesn’t deserve too much help—” Chips began, but a glance from Mr. Hatfield silenced him.
Taking the longer route which entered the Silverton property from the higher level road, the Cub leader was able to drive his car within a hundred yards of the pheasant farm barn.
“Wow! The water’s even higher than it was when I left!” Dan exclaimed in dismay.
Already, many of the pheasant pens were partially submerged by the creeping, chocolate-colored water.
Brad and Mr. Silverton, wet to their waists, had used grain to coax some of the more valuable pheasants into traps or carrying crates.
Sorely beset, they had been unable to free the penned pheasants or to carry any of the crates to higher ground.
“We sure are glad to see you!” Brad exclaimed as the Cubs tumbled from Mr. Hatfield’s car. “Boy! Can we use a little help.”
“Where shall we take the pheasants?” the Cub leader asked, quickly surveying the situation.
“I think the barn is the best place,” Mr. Silverton decided. “Turn them loose there. The water shouldn’t come that high.”
“Get busy, boys,” Mr. Hatfield instructed the Cubs.
Handling the crates carefully, the boys carried them one by one to the barn. There, after making certain the doors and windows all were closed, they set the startled birds free on the ground floor.
Meanwhile, along the pheasant runs, Mr. Silverton aided by Brad and Mr. Hatfield, had been collecting the traps. As rapidly as the pheasants were caught, the Cubs carried them to the barn where they milled with the others.
“We’ve done all we can here,” Mr. Silverton decided as deepening shadows made it difficult to locate straggling pheasants. “Some will take refuge in the trees and bushes.”
“The water’s still coming higher,” Mr. Hatfield observed as he prepared to move his car. “If the gorge were cleared out, the level should drop fast.”
“Let’s see what can be done,” Mr. Silverton proposed.
Both men moved their cars to higher ground lest flood waters continue to rise. Then, followed by the Cubs, they circled around to the old logging road, approaching the dam from the upper and drier side.
“Why Dobbs would leave a mess like that in the stream, I can’t figure!” Mr. Silverton exclaimed in disgust as he caught sight of the jam. “He must have known about it, but he never spoke of it to me.”
Mr. Hatfield casually pointed out that the logs formed a natural bridge, adding: “Almost as if they had been laid deliberately.”
“They do at that!” the sportsman agreed. “Let’s have a closer look.”
While Mr. Hatfield and the Cubs waited on dry land, he waded out to examine the accumulation of debris. When he returned to the group a few minutes later, his expression was grim.
“You’re right, Mr. Hatfield,” he declared. “I’m convinced those logs were placed deliberately. Apparently, more has been going on here than I suspected!”
“Any chance to dislodge them?” the Cub leader questioned.
“Not without a crew of men. But a stick of dynamite would do the trick. I think Saul Dobbs has some locked up in the tool house.”
While the Cubs waited, the two men started back to the house to obtain the dynamite.
“What I can’t figure, is why anyone would go to the trouble of making a log bridge at this particular point,” Dan said, frowning as he watched the water spill over the makeshift dam. “Farther up stream, there’s a perfectly good foot bridge.”
“This section is near the restricted part of the woods,” Brad commented. “Mr. Silverton keeps his best Germain pheasants there. And say! I wonder if they’re safe?”
“The water’s backing up fast in that direction,” Red observed.
“Maybe we ought to investigate,” Dan proposed. “Think it’s safe to cross the dam?”
“The water isn’t more than ankle deep,” Brad decided. “We can get across if we’re careful.”
Joining hands, the Cubs cautiously waded through the shallow sheet of water which coursed over the top of the dam.
“Mack, you and Fred stay here to wait for Mr. Hatfield and Silverton,” Brad instructed. “Otherwise, they’ll wonder what became of us.”
Though disappointed to be left behind, the two Cubs made no protest. Brad, Dan, Chips and Red, then went on alone.
“Chips, I wish you’d show us again where you and Red picked up those pheasant feathers,” Brad said suddenly.
“Sure, providing the place isn’t under water,” the other agreed. “I guess it won’t be, because we’re moving into higher ground.”
The four Cubs continued for a short distance, and then Red and Chips fell into an argument as to the exact place where they had found the feathers.
“It was right here,” Red insisted, indicating a small clearing.
“No, it wasn’t,” denied Chips. “It was farther on.”
Dan paid no heed to the two Cubs, for he had made an interesting discovery of his own.
“Fellows, come here!” he called excitedly. “See what I’ve found!”
Dan stood at the entrance to a path which had been masked with a pile of dead brush.
“Just what have you found?” Chips demanded as he and the other Cubs hurried over. “I don’t see anything to make a howl about.”
“Then look at this!”
Dan lifted away the pile of brush. Beyond they saw a freshly made path which wound through a dense tunnel of overhanging bushes.
“It’s just another trail,” said Red in disappointment. “The way you yipped, I thought you’d made an important discovery, Dan.”
“Don’t be so cock-sure this isn’t important,” Brad caught him up. Stooping, he peered up the path, trying to see in which direction it led.
“What’s important about it?” Red demanded. “Mr. Silverton’s farm has dozens of trails. We saw ’em marked on the map, didn’t we?”
“That’s the point,” drawled Dan. “I don’t think this trail ever was on the map.”
“Got it with you?” Brad asked.
“The map?” Dan dug in one pocket after another. “I don’t think I have—yes, here it is!”
Emerging from the path so as to obtain a better light, Brad studied the map. In the deepening shadows, he barely could make out the markings, and was unable to locate the trail.
“You’re right, Dan,” he said finally. “This trail doesn’t appear on Silverton’s map.”
“Anything so remarkable about that?” Chips demanded. “Maybe the path was made after he drew up the map.”
“Smart deduction,” Brad grinned, returning the map to Dan. “But made by whom? That’s the fifty dollar question.”
“Maybe by those fellows in the station wagon who’ve been using the old logging road,” Dan offered his theory.
“Might be,” Brad admitted. “It all fits in. The natural bridge—this path.”
“What fits in where?” Chips demanded in an aggrieved tone. “You guys think you’re funny, talking in code?”
“We’re not hiding anything,” Brad denied. “All the clues are plain to see if you know how to read ’em.”
“What you’re saying doesn’t make sense to me.”
“Nor me,” added Red.
“Well, it’s like this, kiddies,” grinned Brad. “You and Chips found a lot of pheasant feathers here, didn’t you?”
“Check.”
“And not far from the same spot, Mr. Silverton or Dobbs come upon two dead birds. Check?”
“Sure,” admitted Red, “but I still don’t see—”
“We know someone has been using the old logging road. Well, maybe that log jam was put in the creek for a purpose.”
“To make a bridge across,” supplied Dan. “Whoever did it, wanted the dam to look natural.”
“You think someone planned to flood the pheasant runs?” Chips asked.
“No,” Brad explained patiently, “that part probably was an accident. The bridge was just a convenient means of getting into this section of the woodland.”
“Then you believe someone has been stealing pheasants from Mr. Silverton?” Red said slowly.
“Ah, the bright boy is catching on!” declared Brad.
“Your theory may sound good to you, but I’d say it’s full of holes like a sieve,” Red retorted.
“For instance?”
“Well, Saul Dobbs must have known about that log jam. And living on the place, how could he help but know if a strange car used the old road?”
“That’s what I’m wondering myself.”
Hardly knowing what to do, Brad stood staring thoughtfully up the dark, mysterious looking path. It had not been used many times, he knew, for the grass was worn thin in only a few places. Elsewhere, it merely was heavily trampled.
Though tempted to see where the trail led, he hesitated to take time to explore it. Soon it would be quite dark, and none of the Cubs had brought a flashlight.
Furthermore, with night coming on, the air was becoming chilly. In their damp clothing, the boys already were thoroughly uncomfortable.
“What do you say, Brad?” Dan asked eagerly. “Shall we find out where this path leads?”
The question stirred the Den Chief to decision.
“We might follow it a little ways,” he said. “But someone ought to stay here, just in case Mack or Fred should come looking for us.”
“I don’t want to stay—not alone,” announced Chips, as the Den Chief’s gaze singled him out.
“Then you and Red wait here together,” Brad directed. “Dan and I won’t be gone long.”
“If you hear us whistle twice, come a-running,” Chips advised as the pair started off together. “Mr. Hatfield may get back any minute and want us all in a hurry.”
With Dan leading the way, the two boys walked swiftly along the path. The ground sloped upward away from the general direction of the creek. All along the tunnel of bushes, Brad noticed broken branches, indicating to his observing eye that an object wider than the path itself had been carried along the trail.
“I hardly can see ahead,” Dan complained. “It’s sure getting dark fast.”
“Since we’ve come this far, let’s keep on a little longer,” Brad urged. “I think I see a clearing ahead.”
A few yards more and the pair came to a small lean-to constructed of second-hand lumber marred by numerous knot holes. The building, low to the ground, had been set back almost out of sight amid the bushes.