Kitabı oxu: «The Campers Out: or, The Right Path and the Wrong», səhifə 8

CHAPTER XIX – AN ERROR OF JUDGMENT

Had Jim McGovern taken another course when starting out on the war-path, he would not have met such overwhelming disaster, for he would have encountered Bob Budd returning from an experience hardly less stirring than his own; but the two followed different routes and did not see each other until they met in camp, after both had been through their experience and the night was well advanced.

Reaching the highway, Dick mounted his bicycle and continued his journey homeward at an easy pace. There was a faint moon in the sky, and now and then the wind blew fitfully among the tree branches, but he was in good spirits. The words of the physician concerning his father encouraged him greatly, and he was happy over the unexpected manner in which he had recovered his bicycle. Mr. Hunter had notified him that day, that, on the first of the following month, his wages would be increased, and that so long as he showed the same devotion to his interests, he might count upon a yearly repetition of the favor.

“I’m luckier than I deserve,” he reflected, as he skimmed over the highway, “for I was able to attend school until I graduated, and Mr. Hunter, who was one of the trustees, told me that afternoon that he had had his eye on me for several years and wanted me. Well, I have tried to do as father and mother taught me when I was a little fellow, and I’ve no doubt that that’s the reason for it all. I can’t understand how any one can show the meanness of Bob Budd and those boys he has with him. There was no earthly excuse for stealing my bicycle – Hello! there’s some one in the road yonder.”

He was approaching a clump of trees where the shadows were so thick that he could not see distinctly, but he was certain he observed a figure step back as if to avoid being noticed.

Dick gently applied the brake to his wheel and hesitated whether to go on or not. He recalled that he had heard rumors of robbery and attempts at burglary in the neighborhood within the past week. Indeed, there were signs discovered that very morning that proved an effort had been made to pry open one of the shutters of Mr. Hunter’s store; but the marauders were scared off by the dog that was kept on duty every night.

Suppose one of these criminals had located himself alongside the road for the purpose of robbing passers-by!

“He wouldn’t get much from me” reflected Dick, who had less than a single dollar in change with him, “but, all the same, I don’t fancy being stopped by him. He might shoot me because of his disappointment. Maybe he thinks I am like some other clerks, who make a practice of robbing their employers.”

By this time the bicycle was hardly moving, the headway being just sufficient to enable him to keep his poise. He peered intently forward, ready to turn and speed down the road on the first sign of danger; but if a person was skulking among the trees, he took good care to keep out of sight, and whether or not Dick was mistaken could be learned only by going forward.

He was thinking fast. If he wished to reach home, where his parents were expecting him, this was the only road, unless he went back to town and made a circuit of eight or ten miles, a proceeding not to be thought of when he was already within a half-mile of his own door.

True, he might adopt another method. He could return until beyond sight of the rogue, whoever he was, leave his bicycle at the roadside, and then cut across lots on foot.

But Dick was a plucky youth, and could not bear the thought of fleeing from danger whose nature he did not understand.

“No, I’ll go ahead,” he muttered, compressing his lips, as he removed the brake and began gradually increasing his speed. “If he stops me, why, there’ll be a fight, that’s all!”

His plan was to “put on all steam” and dash through the gloomy space, which was only a few rods in extent. By doing so he counted upon surprising any enemy that might be lurking there and getting beyond his reach before he could interpose.

There was but one difficulty in the way. He had already approached so near the clump of trees that he could not well obtain the necessary speed. But he could try, and try he did.

The muscular legs bore down hard on the pedals, and the big wheel began increasing its swift revolutions, but the pace was hardly one-half what it would have been had he possessed a few more rods in which to set things humming.

Dick Halliard had good cause for his misgivings. There was an individual among the shadow of the trees, waiting, like a spider, for a victim to come within his net.

At the moment of gliding into the shadow the youth saw him. He was standing in the middle of the road, directly in his path.

“Out of the way, or I’ll run you down!” shouted Dick, aiming apparently at him, but making a sharp turn to the left.

“Try it, if you dare!” called the stranger in a gruff voice.

“What do you want?” demanded Dick, bending all his efforts to the task of flanking the fellow.

“I want you!” was the startling reply; “get down off of that wheel before I fetch you down!”

Whoever the fellow was he kept in Dick’s path so persistently, that despite all he could do he could not prevent a collision. The bicycle fell with a resounding bang on its side, and the rider was compelled to make a dexterous leap to save himself from going down with it.

One of the most noticeable traits about the sinewy Dick was his quickness of resource and presence of mind. While he suspected the identity of the party who had thus stopped him, he was in doubt until the last words were spoken. Then the young man in his excitement forgot to disguise his tones. It was Bob Budd, who had taken this occasion to carry out the threat he had made so often in the presence of others.

Dick could not believe the bully meant to use any weapon, but intended simply to chastise him. He meant to give the boy an unmerciful beating.

It was this certainty that inspired Dick to assail him with all the energy at his command.

The instant he was freed from his wheel, and, without uttering the first word of warning, Dick let fly with both fists, in such sharp and quick succession that the dazed bully went over on his back, as if smitten by the hoof of a mule.

“I know you, Bob Budd!” said the younger youth, whose anger was at a high point, “and you have been threatening me a long time; now we’ll settle the business for good.”

“I aint Bob Budd, either,” replied that worthy, climbing to his feet. Then seeing the absurdity of the situation, he added, desperately:

“Yes, I am Bob Budd, and I have a big account to square with you.”

“This is the time,” said Dick, who, impatient at his slowness, started to assail him the moment he got on his feet.

“Hold on,” protested Bob, “can’t you wait till a fellow is up? Why don’t you fight fair?”

“I’m holding on,” returned Dick, edging round into the moonlight where he could observe every movement of his antagonist; “but I’m tired of waiting for you.”

“I’m coming; you needn’t worry.”

But the vigorous reception of the younger lad had taught the bully to be careful. While he was as confident as the other Piketon Ranger of his ability to “do him up,” he saw the need of going about it carefully. He threw out his arms in the most approved style, and, as Dick slowly retreated a few steps, followed under the belief that he was becoming timid and that the blows struck a moment before were of a chance nature.

But the younger now had the elder in the moonlight, where he could see every movement distinctly. He bounded at Bob again with such fierce quickness that the big fellow was once more prostrate ere he could strike or parry a blow.

“I guess that’s enough,” said Dick, “but if you are not satisfied I’ll wait.”

“I’m not through with you yet,” replied Bob, who was now in a white heat of anger; so much so indeed that he hastily drew the loaded revolver that he carried at all times. He had lost his self-command and was determined to punish Dick Halliard, who had turned the tables upon him with such vengeance.

CHAPTER XX – THE BAYING OF A HOUND

Dick Halliard caught the gleam of the pistol in the hands of the enraged Bob Budd, but before he could bring it into play the younger lifted up his bicycle, ran it swiftly a few paces, sprang up behind, and set his legs to work with desperate energy.

As he did so he remembered he was still in danger. He leaned as far ahead as he could, like a frontier scout trying to avoid the shots of a party of Indians. It was well he took the precaution, for Bob was so beside himself with wrath that he deliberately pointed the weapon at the fast-disappearing fugitive, and let fly with three chambers as fast as he could discharge them. It was not his fault that the bullets sped wide of the mark, for he tried hard to hit the lad that had handled him so roughly.

Dick glanced over his shoulder, and as he caught sight of the dim figure in the moonlight he said, with a smile:

“Bob wouldn’t have used his pistol if he wasn’t beside himself with rage; any way, I think he and the rest of them will let me alone after this.”

Bob Budd stood a full minute after the bicyclist vanished in the gloom. By that time his anger gave way to a feeling of alarm, as he reflected on what he had done, or rather tried to do.

He had stopped Dick Halliard on the highway; he had attacked him without cause, and when he was fleeing had discharged his pistol at him, doing so with the intention of hitting him with each cartridge. If Dick chose to prosecute him, what could keep him out of State prison?

The thought was a startling one, and did not contribute to the Ranger’s comfort as he picked his way homeward, where, after a time, he was joined by Jim McGovern, returning from his equally marked failure to “even up” matters with Dick Halliard.

You may be certain that neither Bob nor Jim had anything truthful to tell about their meeting with the young man. McGovern stated that he lost his way, and, finding the hour was so late, decided to put off his revenge until a more favorable time. He took care to keep the marks of Bowser’s teeth from the sight of the others, and he was therefore vexed by no annoying questions.

Bob explained that he had been looking for Dick Halliard, and wondered that he did not meet him. The news given by his brother Rangers showed that the doomed youth was elsewhere that evening, which, the bully added, was mighty lucky for him.

When Wagstaff commented on the bruised appearance of Bob’s face, he replied that he ran against the trunk of a tree in the woods, and then he hastened to change the conversation.

“To-morrow we shall have our hunt, boys,” he said, with glowing face, “and here’s success to it!”

The others eagerly joined in the toast, for the reason that they never refused to join in any toast presented.

“You think we’re going to have good weather?” remarked Tom.

“There’s no doubt of it. I asked old Swipes, Carter, and the prophets, and they all agree that the weather will be prime for several days to come.”

“If that’s to be the case, the best thing for us to do is to sleep while we can, so as to be up early in the morning.”

The suggestion was so eminently wise that it was adopted without further delay.

The following morning was one after a hunter’s own heart. The air was crisp and cool, but not sufficiently so to be chilly, nor was it mild enough to render oppressive the slight exertion of walking.

It was too early in the autumn for many of the leaves to fall from the trees, so that in most places a hunter could see but a short distance in advance when picking his way through the woods.

The Piketon Rangers were not accustomed to rise with the sun, and having retired quite late the preceding night, did not rouse themselves as early as was their intention. But their minds were so fixed on the expected enjoyment of the hunt that they willingly put forth the extra exertion needed.

They were in high spirits, for everything was promising, and the bracing air produced its effect upon them.

“I don’t think there will be any need of our pistols,” remarked Wagstaff, doubtingly, when they were ready to start.

“I generally carry mine at all times,” replied Bob Budd, “but we have got to do some mountain climbing, and will be likely to find them in the way. I guess we had better leave them.”

This settled the question, and the three smaller weapons were hidden within the tent, in a hollow which Bob’s ingenuity had fashioned, and where the valuables were not likely to be found by any prowlers in the neighborhood.

The rifles which Jim and Tom had brought from home were left at Bob’s house, and he furnished each with a double-barreled shot gun, as the kind of weapon most likely to be needed, though it seemed to the city youths that the others were just what was wanted in the event of meeting bears or deer. They had cause to regret their choice sooner than they anticipated.

Not the least enthusiastic member of the party was Bob Budd’s hound Hero, that had all a trained animal’s enjoyment of the hunt, and who received so few chances of taking part in the sport that his appetite was at the keenest point.

He darted ahead of the campers, running at his highest speed for a half-mile in sheer wantonness of spirits, then darting off at right angles, and finally trotting back to his friends, as if wondering why they did not make greater haste.

Several times his baying roused the belief on the part of Jim and Tom that he had struck the trail of some animal, but Bob, who had been out with him before, shook his head.

“He lets out a peculiar cry when he takes the scent; I’ll know it the minute I hear it.”

“But what makes him yelp now, when there isn’t any game?” asked Jim.

“Because he can’t help it, just as we sing and shout when we feel happy and merry.”

“There he goes! That means something!” exclaimed Tom, coming to an abrupt halt to listen to the baying of the hound, a considerable distance ahead.

But Bob again shook his head.

“Wild animals aint so plenty that they can be scared up as quick as all that; we must get further up the mountain before we can look for anything worth shooting.”

When Bob was a small boy he had accompanied his uncle on several hunting expeditions in this part of the world, and he held a bright recollection of the occasion.

Many years before deer and bears had been plentiful, and he remembered that his uncle described how the hunt for a deer should be managed among the mountainous section to the rear of their camp.

That knowledge promised to be of great help to Bob, now that, after the lapse of so long a time, he had started to hunt over the same ground.

The course of the party was steadily ascending, and since there were many rocks and considerable tangled undergrowth in their way, it was not long before they felt the result of the unusual exertion.

“Great Cæsar!” exclaimed Tom Wagstaff, dropping down on a log and panting hard; “this is like a good many other things which don’t give half as much fun as we expect. Bob, where’s that flask?”

The others were also glad to sit down for a brief rest, and Bob lost no time in producing the required article, which was applied to the lips of each in turn with the bottom pointed toward the sky, and a part of the fiery contents gurgled down their throats.

“Of course it’s tiresome, because it’s all the way up up-hill,” said Bob, who took of his hat and fanned his flushed face; “but we’ll soon get as high as we want to go, and then it’ll be plain sailing.”

“It’s easy enough to come down-hill, provided it aint too steep.”

“If it gets that way, all a fellow has to do is to lie down and roll,” said Bob; “but I’m hopeful that Hero will start some animal before we go much further.”

The three listened, but though the hound was absent nothing was heard from him. He evidently was making a “still hunt,” but the moment he struck a scent he was sure to let the young hunters know.

Whether or not they did their part, there could be no doubt that the canine would perform his in a creditable manner, for he had been trained by competent hands that fully understood how to teach so sagacious an animal.

Having rested themselves, the party pushed up the mountain-side, until they reached a sort of plateau or table-land, beyond which it was not necessary to climb further.

By this time the three were pretty well tired out again, and once more an appeal was made to the stuff in the flask, without which the hunters felt they could not get along.

Then they indulged in several cigarettes apiece, that and the drink of alcohol being the worst preparation possible for the sport in which they were engaged.

“Now,” said Bob Budd, “we have only to wait here until Hero starts the game for us.”

“Will it come up in front of us to be shot?” was the natural inquiry of Tom Wagstaff.

“I shouldn’t have said that ‘we’ are to wait here, but one of us,” Bob hastened to explain. “You’ve noticed that we have been following a path all the way to this point. Well, it keeps on over the mountain and down the other side.”

“Who made the path?”

“It is a hundred years old, if not older, and was made by wild animals that came down the mountain to drink from the stream that makes the mill-pond near our camp. The path branches off into three forks a quarter of a mile up the mountain, each of the three having been used by deer, bears, and other wild beasts that used to be so plentiful in these parts.”

“Where are the other paths?”

“This is the middle one; about two hundred yards to the left is the second, and not quite so far to the right is the third; now, if Hero starts any game he is sure to take one of these paths in his flight.”

“But suppose the animal is on the other side of Hero,” said Jim, “that is to say, suppose the dog is between us and him?”

“Then he will run the other way, but there’s where Hero will show his training. He knows as much about hunting as we do.”

If Bob had said that the canine knew a great deal more he would have told the truth.

“If Hero should strike the scent of a deer or bear he would know in a minute whether he was closer to us than the game, and if the dog was the closer, he would not bay until he had circled around and got on the other side, for he knows that if he didn’t do so the beast would run away instead of toward us, and his business is to drive him down within our reach.”

Tom and Jim were filled with admiration of the brute, whose knowledge of sporting matters was so extensive.

“I had no idea a pup could be trained to such a fine point,” remarked Jim, “but I suppose it is the nature of the beast.”

“When I was a sweet, innocent little boy,” said Bob, disposed to be facetious, “I came up here with my father and Uncle Jim to hunt deer. They left me at this spot while father went to the left and Uncle Jim to the right. I was too small to handle a gun, and they told me if I saw anything to yell. Well, a very queer thing happened. A buck and doe were started, and the old fellow came trotting over this path. He never saw me until I let out a yell like a wild-cat, when he wheeled off to one side and dashed through the wood to where father was waiting. He was shot without trouble, and at the same moment Uncle Jim brought down the doe, that took the other path.”

“Do you suppose there is any likelihood of Hero starting two to-day?”

“We will be lucky if he starts one, for the animals are very scarce, and hunters have spent several days roaming over the mountains without getting a shot.”

“It seems to me that to make sure of our sport we should station ourselves as you did,” said Jim; “then if the animal comes down this side of the mountain, he will be sure to take one of the three paths, and Tom or you or I will get a shot at him.”

“It will be time enough when we hear Hero,” replied Bob, “for he aint likely to start a deer very near us.”

The young man’s knowledge of the sport was so much superior to that of his companions that they naturally deferred to him in the preliminary arrangements.

“How long ago was it that you had that famous hunt with your father and uncle?” asked Jim McGovern.

Bob reflected a minute, and replied that it was ten years, if not more.

“You can see that I was but a sprig of a youngster, though I was considered unusually smart. If they had given me a gun, and I had had a chance to kneel down and aim over the rocks, I would have brought down that buck, for he couldn’t have offered a better target than at the moment I scared him away.”

“Do you suppose,” asked Tom Wagstaff, “that any deer have been over these paths within the past few weeks or months?”

By way of reply Bob stooped down and brushed away the leaves covering the space of several feet in front, doing it with great care.

“Look!” said he to the others, who kneeled beside him.

There, sure enough, were the imprints of the small, delicate hoofs of a deer, the marks being so distinct that there could be no mistake about their identity.

“But they are under the leaves,” said Jim.

“Yes; under the leaves that have fallen this year, but on top of those that fell last fall; you can see how the rotten leaves have been pushed down in the ground by the hoofs.”

“Then how long since the deer went by?”

“It is so early in the autumn that few leaves have fallen, so I’m satisfied the game passed within a few days, probably not more than a week ago.”

“If that’s the case,” said the gratified Jim, “there is a much better chance than I suspected for us – ”

“Hark!”

The peculiar cry of the hound at that moment rang out on the autumn air sharp, clear, and distinct.

“He has struck a scent as sure as you’re born!” exclaimed Bob.