Kiddie the Scout

CHAPTER X

THE GUARDIAN OF THE HONEYCOMB

"And we're really goin' ter make a start right now?" questioned Rube, as he watched Kiddie packing their fishing gear on top of the rest of their equipment in the canoe. "We shall not get very far if you're notionin' ter make camp 'fore dark."

"All the better," said Kiddie. "If we find we've forgotten anything, there'll be the less distance for us to come back for it, see?"

"Thar's nothin' as you're liable ter have forgot," observed Rube, confident in Kiddie's forethought. "Seems ter me you must have had a schedule of the things already fixed up in your head. Anyhow, I don't reckon as we shall have any occasion t' come back—unless it's for the big dog. Why ain't we takin' Sheila along of us, Kiddie? Wouldn't she have been useful?"

"In some ways, yes; in others, no," Kiddie answered decisively. "I'm leaving her to mount guard up at the homestead and down at the cabin. She'll be better fed here at home, and she won't be running wild. If we took her along with us, she'd sure be foolin' around among our traps, scarin' the wild critters away from 'em; and I ain't in favour of keepin' her on the chain. Besides, I don't calculate on your havin' a hound ter help you in trackin' and scoutin'. You must learn to do it all on your own. Ready? In you get, then, while I shove her off."

Kiddie himself took the paddle. The water was extremely calm, and as the canoe rippled out from the shore, every tree and bush and boulder was clearly reflected in the glassy surface.

"No," he said, after a long spell of silence, reverting to Rube's remark. "Thar's no advantage in going far this evening. We've made a start; that's the great thing. I ain't greatly in favour of a long-prepared programme, or of doin' things accordin' ter plan, like an ordinary tourist. Guess we'll make camp back of that point that juts out in front of us. But 'fore we land, we got ter catch a fish or two for supper. That's why we packed the rods an' lines on top of the outfit. May as well begin right away. Be careful how you move. Don't stand; crawl."

Rube got the two rods ready, while Kiddie paddled onward for a couple of miles. Here and there the calm surface was dimpled by rising fish.

They drifted slowly into the shadows of the trees. Rube was the first to cast his fly, and the first also to make a strike, but it was a catfish that he caught, and, gently removing the hook, he threw it back.

Kiddie caught a small trout, and then a larger one. Both Rube and he were expert fishers, and between them they soon had enough for a good supper.

They entered a sheltered bay, into which flowed a little creek of pure, sparkling water, overshadowed by great, low-branching cotton-woods and tall, feathery silver spruce trees.

"No use in goin' far up the creek," said Kiddie, letting his paddle drag. "What d'ye say to here?"

"Right," agreed Rube. "Thar's a nice level bit o' ground, middle of them four cotton-woods. We couldn't do better."

They beached the canoe, and while Kiddie began to unload her, Rube went about collecting twigs and fir cones and as much dry wood as he could find to start a cooking fire. He built a fireplace of stones from beside the stream, lined it with dry grass and light twigs, and soon had a crackling blaze going from which to kindle the larger billets of wood broken up with his axe.

By the time he had cleaned the fish a glowing red fire was ready. Like a wise trapper, he put aside the offal to serve as bait for the traps. Thoroughly drying the cleaned trout, he soused them in flour, and laid them gently into the frying-pan of boiling lard. Then he gave himself time to cut bread and brew a dipper of tea.

Kiddie paid no regard to the cooking, excepting occasionally to sniff at the odorous air that came to him from the frying-pan. He knew that supper would be quite ready before he had finished his own work of unloading the canoe and setting up the teepee.

In this latter work he needed no help. There were no tent-pegs to drive into the hard ground. He had only to erect the tall poles in pyramid shape, and then enclose them in the buffalo-skin cover, lacing the latter together down to the door flap.

It looked extremely Indian when it was up, even to the smoke-grime round about the vent and the picture-writing in many colours that decorated the outer surface. The two trappers themselves looked Indian also, in their fur caps, fringed buckskins, and moccasins. Kiddie had even stuck a pair of white eagle feathers in his cap, and his tunic was richly decorated with silk thread-work and coloured beads.

When he moved away from the wigwam, Rube saw him go up to a gnarled old cedar tree and stand looking at it curiously. He seemed to be peculiarly interested in the rugged trunk. Presently he took a piece of white chalk from his belt pouch and made a mark upon the tree.

"Guess you've got some p'ticlar reason fer blazin' that thar old tree," said Rube, as Kiddie strode towards the fire; "I ain't just able ter make it out, unless you're figgerin' t' have the tree cut down for timber. It's your own property, of course. You goin' ter have it felled?"

"No, the tree's not comin' down," explained Kiddie, seating himself on his rolled-up sleeping bag within easy reach of the food. "Go an' have a squint at where I chalked the mark. Guess you'll soon understand."

Rube strode to the tree, walked round it, and then stood for a while, with his thumbs in his belt, opposite the chalk mark.

"Yes," he nodded wisely, when he returned. "We oughter git a considerable store of honey in the mornin' when we smoke them bees out. Thar's a rare procession of 'em goin' in at that little hole. Tree's hollow. Dunno why th' critters don't go in by the big doorway on the far side. Takin' a short cut, I expect. Else they goes in one way an' out th' other."

"That's it," said Kiddie. "Say, these trout are just top-notch. You've cooked 'em to a turn. I haven't tasted better since I was in Russia. They keep 'em alive in big tanks in the hotels in Moscow. You c'n choose your breakfast while it's swimmin' round; so it's served fresh. Keep the scraps all together. We'll bait the traps with 'em, presently, soon's we've washed up an' covered the fire. I notice you've made it in a good place—not too near the trees. But we've still got to be some careful. This yer ground's thick with pine needles and cones, that might easily catch alight if a breeze came along. Best dig a trench round it an' fill it with water."

They washed their pans and plates in the creek, and then got out their snares and traps.

Rube laid the snares in rabbit runs, and set some beaver traps in the creek, while Kiddie, with his greater skill, laid spring traps for the larger animals of prey in places where there were signs that large animals had recently been hunting and killing.

He was particularly attentive to one special steel trap, which he carefully baited with fish and set close beside the gnawed remains of a rabbit, still fresh and blood-stained. He examined the surrounding ground, and discovered the spot where the rabbit had been killed. Light tufts of fur lay about, and in their midst were the deep scratches of large claws, as far apart as a man's expanded finger-tips.

"Guess there's a lynx been prowlin' around here lately," he said to Rube, who was taking a practical lesson in the laying of traps. "That fish bait 'll sure tempt him. Anything more need doin'? What about that trench?"

"I've done it," Rube answered. "Thar ain't nothin' else, except t' get our beds ready."

"Mine's going t' be in the open," Kiddie decided. "Your's 'll be in the teepee. Keep a candle and matches and your moccasins within reach, case you've got ter get up in the dark. May as well plant your six-shooter under your knees, too. Thar's where I allus keep mine. It's a good habit, anyway. Don't reckon you'll need it, unless the coyotes come nosing around. Take a good sleep. No occasion ter get movin' about 'fore six o'clock."

Before they turned in for the night, the moon had risen over the jagged mountain tops, casting a glittering path of silver across the lake. On the farther side of the water they could see the black openings of many cañons and yawning chasms that invited exploration.

The deep murmur of a distant torrent came to them. The hoarse croaking of frogs and the chirping of crickets were mingled with the hooting of owls and the nearer hum of mosquitoes. Bats and moths were flitting on silent wings among the trees, and there was a rustle of dry leaves, as unseen animals of the night moved in the undergrowth.

Rube was up and moving about the camp at sunrise, and he had stirred up the smouldering fire and put a kettle and a dipper of water to boil before Kiddie crawled out of his sleeping bag. Kiddie's first occupation was to launch the canoe.

"Fetch the towels and come along," he said. "We'll get t' the deep water for our swim. You won't be anyways afraid, will you?"

"Not when you're near ter keep an eye on me," returned Rube, with confidence. "Course you'll help me t' git back inter the canoe. 'Tain't the same's mountin' a pony."

"Well, no," smiled Kiddie. "You'll mount over her head or her tail. She'll roll over, sure, if you try ter get astride her by the middle."

Rube paddled out into the lake until he was told to stop. He shipped his paddle, and looked round in time to see Kiddie's beautiful muscular figure poised ready to dive from the high peak.

With an adroit movement, Kiddie leapt into the air and, turning, cut the water as cleanly as an arrow, making very little splash. Rube waited so long for him to reappear that it seemed almost that some accident had happened to him. But at length he came up in a quite unexpected place, swimming back to the canoe at a pace that was astonishing. Thereafter he devoted himself to giving lessons to Rube in swimming and diving and re-entering the frail canoe.

"Quite enough for one morning," he said, before Rube had been in the water nearly as long as he wished. "We'll get back to camp now and have a cracker and a drink of hot tea. Then we'll visit the traps, and you c'n get breakfast ready while I shave. I guess we may's well have eggs and bacon, eh?"

"Might have some o' that thar honey as well," suggested Rube.

"All right," Kiddie agreed. "But you'll be havin' the bees foolin' around while we're at breakfast, if you're not careful. What you goin' ter smoke 'em out with?"

"Sulphur," Rube answered promptly. "I got a chunk in me pocket; been usin' it t' put in my bear cub's drinkin' water."

Rube was in more haste than he need have been to disturb the bees. Kiddie, while waiting for his shaving water to heat, was making a toasting fork of a stick with a forked end for cooking the bacon. He had seen Rube carry away a flat slab of stone with crushed sulphur on it, and had watched Rube lighting the sulphur and shoving the slab within the hollow of the tree, as he might shove a dish into an oven.

Suddenly there was a cry of alarm.

"Kiddie! Kiddie! Quick! Come here!"

Kiddie ran to the tree, still with his knife and the forked stick in his hands.

"Keep back!" Rube cautioned him. "It's a rattler—a huge one—far in among the roots. Listen!"

Kiddie heard the unmistakable crackling sound. He went nearer, holding his pronged stick in front of him. He peeped into the hollow of the tree, and through the blue fumes of the burning sulphur he saw the snake's thick black body with its brown geometrical markings gliding and twisting round the exposed roots.

While he watched, the repulsive head, with its sinister, beady eyes and busily darting tongue, came out, rising slowly as it came. The wide mouth opened, and Kiddie could see the two protruding poison fangs outside the ordinary teeth. He stepped backward as the snake's neck and body began to curve in readiness to strike.

"Seems he don't intend us ter get that honeycomb, Rube," he said calmly.

"Do keep back, Kiddie!" pleaded Rube. "Them fangs 'ld go clean through your moccasins or your buckskins. What you gonner do—shoot him?"

"Ain't got my gun," Kiddie answered. "It's in my belt alongside my tunic. Fetch it, if you like; may as well."

Rube ran back to where Kiddie had slept, and returned with the loaded revolver. He was astonished and alarmed at what he now saw. The rattlesnake had come wholly out from the tree, and Kiddie stood directly over it with his right foot planted across the thicker part of its writhing body, and the toasting fork, held firmly in his left hand, gripping the reptile by the neck. The snake's mouth was wide open—it seemed almost to be snarling angrily; the long body was wriggling, and all the time came the ominous rattling sound from the ringed tail.

"Get round by the back of me, and give me the gun in my right hand," ordered Kiddie. "Don't be scared. I've got him, sure; he ain't goin' ter wriggle away."

Rube passed the revolver and watched. He expected Kiddie to discharge the weapon close to the rattlesnake's head. To his surprise, Kiddie removed his right foot, drew away the forked stick, and stepped back a couple of paces. The snake, now at unhindered liberty, raised its head several inches from the ground and coiled round, with jaws wide open, ready to strike. Kiddie then pressed his trigger, and the bullet, entering between the two poison fangs, came out at the back of the serpent's skull.

"Say, what in thunder did you let it go loose for?" questioned Rube. "It might have escaped! It might have bitten you!"

"Which means that you figure I might have missed my aim?" said Kiddie. "Not very complimentary to my shootin'. Why did I let it go loose? Well, I jest notioned it would be some cowardly ter shoot while I held the brute that way. Beside, I didn't want ter shatter the skull too much. Biggest rattler I've seen—seven feet long if it's an inch, and worth preservin'. Say, those bees look like givin' us trouble. Best hustle through with breakfast, and then get along to the traps. The honey c'n wait. That sulphur of yours is goin' ter do the trick."

They went together to make the round of the traps, first going some way up the creek to the willows where Rube had set his beaver traps in the midst of a colony of these busy animals. Rube was in hope that every trap would be filled; but there were only two beavers—one of them quite young and small, the other, a large male in prime condition.

"Best let it go, as it ain't hurt any," Kiddie advised, liberating the smaller one. "You c'n take the bigger chap and we'll cook the tail. Where did you set your snares?"

"In amongst the scrub, thar," Rube pointed.

There was a fine jack-rabbit in the first snare they came to. Rube gave the animal a sharp knock on the back of the head, killing it instantly.

"Guess we'll have this yer feller for dinner," he said; "stewed with plenty of onions an' some taters."

"You see," observed Kiddie, "we're already beginnin' ter be self-supportin'. Fish, meat, honey—there wasn't any occasion t' bring a butcher's shop along with us. We c'd even make our own bread at a pinch. I'm plannin' ter make a fruit pudding. Thar's a bush 'most breakin' down with its weight of ripe and juicy thimbleberries, back of the old cedar tree. Bees have been at 'em."

The next snare they visited was empty. In another a woodgrouse was caught, and in yet another a fox cub. Kiddie's steel traps were set farther away. He went first to the one about which he had been so particular.

"Gee!" he exclaimed. "It's sprung! Bait's taken. Remains of that rabbit have been eaten, too!"

"Lynx is a cunnin' critter," said Rube. "You gotter wear two pairs o' moccasins t' git level with a lynx."

"I ain't just sure that it was a lynx," mused Kiddie, searching the ground for signs. "You never happened on a jet-black lynx around here, did you, Rube?"

"Nope," Rube answered. "They's allus the same tawny colour. Why d'you ask?"

Kiddie looked down at the tight shut jaws of the gin.

"Thar's a tuft of black fur in the teeth of the trap," he pointed out. "An' look at them claw marks! Guess that critter's some bigger'n a lynx. May's well stay another night in this camp an' try ter git the critter, eh?"

"Dunno 'bout that," Rube demurred. "Might be a whole fam'ly o' rattlers lyin' around. 'Tain't just healthy."

"Guess that rattlesnake we killed had done with family life a long while ago," said Kiddie. "Anyhow, I'm curious to know what critter it was that sprang this trap."

"Mebbe he shoved his nose inter one of the others," suggested Rube.

Kiddie led the way unerringly among the forest trees. His traps had all been visited by wild animals. Two of them had been sprung ineffectually; in others he found a raccoon, a cross-fox, a musk-rat and an otter. One had been dragged away, and was found some hours afterwards with part of a fox's tail between the teeth.

Rube Carter rather prided himself on his skill in cooking, and he was particularly anxious to make a good rabbit stew. Kiddie helped him only so far as to skin and dismember the rabbit and peel the onions. He was himself a capable camp cook, but he did not wish to interfere with Rube's personal satisfaction in doing the work.

"Say, Kiddie," said Rube, when he had fixed the saucepan firmly in the fire; "if we ain't goin' ter quit this yer pitch 'fore ter-morrow, you'd best sleep to-night along o' me in the wigwam. That rattlesnake wasn't many yards away from you, an' if you'd bin bit I dunno what I should ha' done. Thar ain't no good in hangin' around after that lynx, whatever its colour. Why shouldn't we quit?"

"Where would you go, Rube?" Kiddie inquired.

Rube looked out across the lake.

"I got a idea of paddlin' across an' makin' camp in one of them cañons," he said.

"Tut!" objected Kiddie. "You want to do some exploring, eh? Want ter get into some lonesome place where nobody has ever been before? What's the matter with this forest? I reckon we're the first civilized humans that have ever spent a night in it. Prowl around in it; search in whatever direction you like, you'll find no sign of any sort that a human being has been here in front of us to leave his mark on a tree, to drop a button or a chip of crockery, or to lift a stone from the bed of the creek. It's all as Nature meant it to be, centuries and centuries ago. Growth and the weather alone have changed things."

"All right," nodded Rube; "so long's you're satisfied, so am I. Suppose we get at that honey 'fore the bees come back."

The sulphur fumes still lingered in the hollow tree, and scores of bees had fallen stupefied among the roots. Rube, being the smaller, entered the hollow and looked up.

"Thar's pounds an' pounds of honeycomb here, Kiddie," he called out; "but I can't reach it without somethin' ter stand on, an' we shall need that biscuit tin ter hold it."

Kiddie fetched the biscuit tin, and a spar of firewood, and stood by while Rube handed out to him the dripping combs of honey.

"Thar's heaps more, higher up," said Rube, standing on tip-toes and reaching upward.

Then somehow his foot slipped, the decayed substance of the tree crumbled under his weight. He screamed in terror as he fell in a heap at Kiddie's feet, followed by a shower of dust and strange, dry rottenness that was mingled with the syrup from the honeycombs.

"What is it?" cried Kiddie. "What made you scream? Another rattler?"

"No." Rube shivered. "That!" And he turned over and pointed with an agitated finger at a human skull and a heap of crumbled bones. "It's a man's skeleton. And you notioned as nobody 'd ever set foot in this forest before!"

CHAPTER XI

LESSONS IN TRACKING

"Queer!" ejaculated Rube, standing up and contemplating the gruesome remnants of the skeleton. "Mortal queer it is. Can't make it out. How'd he come ter be fixed up thataway in the middle of the tree, dyin' thar all lonesome, like a poor critter caught in a trap? How'd it happen, Kiddie?"

He appeared to expect Kiddie to tell him off-hand exactly how the thing had occurred.

"Dunno," returned Kiddie, with a grave headshake. "It's a mystery. I'm trying t' think it out. What way was he fixed?"

"Can't just say," Rube answered slowly. "Inside the tree's like a chimney. You c'n see daylight if yer looks up, as I did. I couldn't see that it was a man—a skeleton. Thar was a mass of honeycomb an' wax below what was left of his feet. I reached up an' seized hold o' somethin'. Guess it was one of the poor chap's legs. I was pullin' at it, an' pullin', when my foot slipped, an' the whole concern came down on top o' me, crumblin' into dust. How d'you reckon he got thar? Kin y'u explain?"

"Seems to me," said Kiddie, after a long pause, "that there are three possible explanations. First, that he was killed by some enemy and shoved in there out of sight: which ain't at all likely, since it would have been much easier to fling the body into the lake, and quite as safe from discovery to leave it lying here in the forest glade. Second, that he was escaping from some other Redskins, or even from some dangerous wild animal, and went into the hollow tree for safety."

"Climbin' too high, an' gettin' fixed so as he couldn't wriggle out again either up or down?" suggested Rube.

"Exactly," nodded Kiddie. "But, if that was the way of it, why didn't his pursuers get on his tracks and find him? I'm not of opinion that he had any pursuers, either animal or Indian. I believe he was just a lone scout—a trapper, maybe, but a lonesome wanderer, anyway—and that he was taking shelter from a storm. Perhaps he knew of that hollow tree: perhaps he came upon it by chance. It was a convenient shelter in either case. That's my third point."

"An' a reasonable one," commented Rube. "But it don't account fer how he came t' be fixed in so high above the ground. If he was only shelterin', why didn't he walk out again when the storm was through?"

"I'm supposin' it was a snowstorm, or else a fierce blizzard," Kiddie went on. "As the snow got deeper an' deeper, it would block up the hole that he entered by, and he'd work his way higher an' higher to get at the purer air. Maybe he'd wait till the storm was over, and then the snow might have been so deep that he'd think it easier to climb higher still and escape that way rather than attempt to go back feet foremost and burrow a passage through the drift. And then he got so wedged in that there was no movin' and no means of escape either way, and he just had to stay there and die a lingerin' death."

"Yes," said Rube. "I guess that's th' explanation of the whole thing. Wonder where he come from. Pity thar's none of his clothes left: no gun, or knife, or watch, or pocket-book ter tell us who he was, an' all that."

"He wouldn't be carryin' a gun or a watch," observed Kiddie, "and Injuns ain't in the habit of keepin' pocket diaries."

"Injuns?" repeated Rube questioningly. "D'you reckon this yer chap was a Injun, then?"

"Certainly," Kiddie answered, "an Injun, young an' tall."

"H'm!" murmured Rube, not satisfied. "You just guessin' all that, Kiddie, or have you figured it out?"

"I've figured it out," returned Kiddie. "Look at his thigh bone—the only bone that's left intact. It's longer'n mine, an' I ain't a pigmy. Must have been taller'n I am. Look at the teeth: they're not an old man's teeth. There ain't a speck of decay on 'em, they're not worn down any, an' they're well separate one from another, not crushed together like an old man's. Must sure have been young."

"Yes," said Rube, "but all that don't prove he was Injun. White men c'n be tall; white men c'n have good teeth. How d'you make out he was Injun?"

"By the shape of his skull for one thing," explained Kiddie—"the square jaw, the high cheek bones, the slopin' forehead. But more'n all I argue he was Injun because I calculate he was fixed tight in the tree, and was well on the way to bein' a naked skeleton long before any white man opened his eyes on the Rocky Mountains—yes, even perhaps before the Pilgrim Fathers landed in New England. That's why he didn't carry a gun. He didn't know there was such a thing as a gun, or a watch either."

"Git!" exclaimed Rube incredulously. "D'you expect me ter swaller a tall yarn like that? Why, the tree couldn't have bin more'n a seedlin' all them years ago!"

"Well," returned Kiddie. "I'm not prepared to declare that it was hollow, the same's it is now, in the time of the Pilgrim Fathers. But it was already an old tree. I guess it was an old tree even before Christopher Columbus discovered America. What's the girth of it, anyhow? Measure the girth of it, just above the base."

Rube made the tour of the forest veteran, estimating its circumference with outstretched arms.

"I reckon it's just over twenty-four feet," he announced, "allowing for the part that's missin' from th' open gap."

"Say eight feet in diameter," nodded Kiddie. "And it's one of the slowest growin' of all forest trees. I calculate that every inch of diameter represents at the very least ten years of growth. Eight feet equal ninety-six inches; an' that means nine hundred and sixty years. So you see the tree was quite a hundred years old at the time when William the Conqueror was King of England."

"Methuselah!" exclaimed Rube. "Then I ain't denyin' that it may have bin gettin' some ancient an' holler-hearted time of the Pilgrims. But even yet you ain't solved th' problem of just how long this yer trapper's bin dead."

"There's no way of tellin'," said Kiddie, "except by the condition of the bones. They crumble to dust at a touch, and as the protection of the tree was liable to preserve them rather than to hasten their decay, you wouldn't be a whole lot out if you argued, as I did at first, that he was dead before ever a white man set eyes on the Rocky Mountains."

"Guess thar's no occasion fer Sheriff Blagg ter hold an inquest, then," observed Rube, glancing round at the tin of honey. "Say, Kiddie, you gonner eat any o' that stuff—after where it come from?"

"Why not?" questioned Kiddie. "It's good, wholesome honey. We'll store it away in the teepee, where the bees an' flies can't get foolin' around it. That rabbit stew goin' along all right, d'ye think? See if it's seasoned enough. Onions are beginnin' ter flavour the woodland air, eh? Good thing we ain't goin' t' a fashionable West-end party this evenin'. I'd a heap rather smell of onions right here. Prefer bein' here in any case. You've never bin to a party, Rube; never seen me togged out in evenin' dress, wearin' a swallow-tailed coat an' a white bow an' patent leather pumps. But thar's a heap o' things you've never seen. You've never seen a locomotive engine, or a steamship, or a Gothic cathedral, or a Japanese cherry orchard in blossom; don't know what it means ter walk along an English lane, past cottages covered with roses. Thar's London an' Paris, thar's th' Atlantic Ocean an' the lone coral islands of the Pacific. Thar's pictures an' books an' theatres. Oh, thar's a whole world of interestin' things you've never seen!"

"Makes me feel ter'ble ignorant," Rube regretted ruefully. "I dunno nothin' o' what's beyond th' mountains that I see ev'ry mornin' from Birkenshaw's Camp. Don't know nothin'; can't do nothin'. I'm just as useless as I'm ignorant."

Kiddie put his arm affectionately round the boy's shoulders as they moved together towards the campfire.

"Not useless, Rube; not ignorant," he said, speaking now in his character of Lord St. Olave. "You know things that thousands of well-educated English and American boys do not know; you can do things which millions of clever boys are incapable of doing. I won't make you blush by telling you just what I think of you. I'll only say you're learning more and more every day, and that every day you're proving yourself to be a better and a better scout."

He left Rube occupied with the cooking and went off to bring together the animals that had been trapped.

"What d'yer say ter tryin' your hand at gettin' the pelts off en these critters?" he asked, when he returned and had placed the animals side by side. "It's best done while they're fresh."

"You're thinkin' of preservin' 'em, then?" questioned Rube.

"I'm thinkin' of mounting 'em," Kiddie answered, "but mainly for practice. I took lessons when I was in London, from the people who preserve animals for the British Museum, an' picked up a heap of wrinkles. I want ter show you how it's done."

"How d'you reckon you're goin' ter get the skin off that rattlesnake?" Rube was anxious to know.

"Well," said Kiddie, "'tain't just as easy an' simple as drawin' off your glove; but it's on the same principle."

They were engaged during the afternoon with the work of securing the skins and cleaning them. The carcases were cut up for use as bait for the traps, the traps being plentifully baited and very carefully set for the larger animals. Kiddie was again most particular in laying the gin for the same animal that had visited it and perplexed him on the previous night.

"Guess that'll sure get him, whatever he is," said Rube.

He looked round for a response in agreement with his comment, but Kiddie was not there.

"Which way've you gone, Kiddie?" he called.

But there was no answer.

Rube stood listening, but heard no sound. He called louder; there was still no answer.

Now, Rube knew Kiddie well enough to be assured that there was some special meaning in this sudden disappearance. It was not a mere playful fancy. Kiddie had gone away intentionally, making no sound, leaving no sign. Clearly he wanted to test Rube's skill in tracking.

Rube remained standing where he was, but his eyes were alertly searching around amongst the shrubs and trees and along the ground for some mark or sign that might tell him in which direction Kiddie had gone. He knew that success in following him depended entirely upon his true start, and that a false beginning would only land him in difficulties, if not in his being actually lost.

Rube knew also that Kiddie would not play him any childish pranks, but would give him fair play all through, even helping him by leaving some "scent" in his trail—not handfuls of torn-up paper, as in an English schoolboys' game of fox and hounds, nor by so obvious a method as that of blazing the trees. It would be a test in which every faculty of the searcher's scoutcraft would be brought into active exercise.

Sniffing the warm air, listening keenly, looking with sharp scrutiny over every foot of the ground from where Kiddie had stood behind him, Rube at length fixed his gaze upon a tuft of grass where some of the blades had been bent over as by the tread of a moccasined foot. He went closer to it and saw that some of the frail blades were fractured. Now he had his starting point. He did not rush forward, but carefully estimated the probable direction, listening the while.

Presently there came to him the harsh cry of a jay, which told him of Kiddie's whereabouts, or at least of the line of Kiddie's course through the forest solitudes.

And now he went on in pursuit, picking up the faintly-indicated tracks one by one; often going far astray on a false scent and needing to return on his own back trail to the point where he had gone off the line that had been so cunningly laid for his guidance or his confusion; but always coming upon some new clue that lured him on and on.

Many times he stood still in serious perplexity. Everything around him was wild and unfamiliar, with no slightest trace or sign, either new or old, of human presence.

He might easily have allowed himself to be alarmed at the utter loneliness, and afraid lest he should lose himself. But he knew all the time that if he should be lost, Kiddie would come out in search of him and quickly find him.

In his moments of deepest despair, however, he always discovered some obvious sign which he had previously overlooked, and at last he perceived that he had been led round in an exact triangle, for through the green meshes of the trees he caught a glimpse of the lake and a thin blue column of fire-smoke, and then in the surrounding silence he heard Kiddie's well-known voice singing a snatch of a Scots ballad—

"Late, late in the gloaming, Kilmeny cam' hame."

"Hullo, Rube; got back inter camp, eh? Been wanderin' about the forest all on your own, have you? I've waited for you; got tea ready, you see—all but boilin' th' eggs. Guessed you'd relish a couple of eggs."

Kiddie did not turn to look at Rube as he spoke. He was reclining between the teepee and the fire with his open note-book on his knee and a blacklead pencil in his fingers. Beside him was a newly-cut birch stick with part of the bark whittled off.

"Yes," Rube responded, halting near him and standing looking him up and down in curious examination. "Yes, I allow I'm some hungry. Say, your moccasins are wet. Spilt some of the tea-water on 'em? Pity ter spoil a nice pair of moccasins by wettin' 'em. You ain't written much with that pencil. The point's still sharp since you sharpened it after dinner."

Kiddie glanced at the pencil point and smiled.

"Might have sharpened it again, while I've been waitin'," he said.

"But you didn't," returned Rube. "There ain't no chips lyin' around—unless you've put 'em in your pocket, same's you did before."

Kiddie smiled again. He had moved to the fire to put on the eggs.

"You're becomin' quite observant, Rube," he said. "See anythin' special on your solitary wanderin's?"

"Guess I found this here scrap of paper," Rube answered. "Looks as if it had been tore outer that note-book you was pretendin' to be writin' in—same size, same colour, an' thar's writin' on it, too. Looks like your own fist, don't it?"

Kiddie reached for the square of paper that was handed to him and examined it as if he had never seen it before.

"Queer!" he ruminated, "it's sure my handwritin'—'Bring this back to camp.' Where'd you pick it up?"

"Didn't pick it up at all," answered Rube. "Found it on a hickory bush, far, far in, as it might be the very heart o' the forest."

"Ah! Some mischievous jay bird plant it there, d'ye think?"

"Jay bird couldn't have written that message on it," said Rube. "Jay bird couldn't have fastened it with a twig drove through the paper ter keep it in place. Guess you heard a jay squawkin' a lot, didn't you, Kiddie?"

"Sure," Kiddie nodded. "Couldn't get quit of the fowl until you came along on my track an' it started ter foller you instead of me. How'd you find your way back to camp?"

"Came th' same way as you did, I reckon," answered Rube. "Went th' same way's you meant me ter go, all the time—trackin' you by the clues you left."

Kiddie was silent until the tea was quite ready and the two of them were seated. Then he said—

"You've done a heap better'n I expected you to do, Rube. I didn't leave many clues, there was none of them conspicuous, an' they were very far apart—fifty yards apart at the least. Tell me exactly what you found."

"Well," said Rube, beginning on his tea, "first of all thar was a mark of your foot where you went in so silent. Then' th' jay started squawkin', an' I got my direction. I follered it, an' hadn't gone far when I sees a balsam branch swayin' where thar was no wind ter stir it. I went straight forward until I began ter think I was goin' wrong, when I smelt smoke. I searched an' came upon a bit of charred cloth. You'd squandered a valuable lucifer match ter set fire t' a piece of greasy rag that you'd cleaned the lamp with. After that, I went astray; couldn't find a trace o' you nohow, an' had ter get back t' th' burnt rag ter make a fresh start."

"Yes," interposed Kiddie, "just as I intended. The trees were all alike thereabout and easily mistaken one for another. Well?"

"Thar was one of 'em different," pursued Rube, "a silver birch tree amongst the cotton-woods—an' I found where you'd cut a stick from it an' smudged the cut so's it wouldn't easily be seen. Is that right? You carried that stick along of you—brought it home. Once or twice you scored a mark on the ground with th' point of it. You began cuttin' some of the bark from the stick, droppin' a bit every fifty yards or so. But that was too easy for me. Any tenderfoot'd have found them bits o' bark."

"Quite right," agreed Kiddie, "an' you ain't anything of a tenderfoot. Yes? Well?"

"So you changed your scent, so ter speak. You felt in your pocket an' fetched out them chips o' lead pencil, an' you planted em one by one so all-fired cutely that nobody who wasn't searchin' fer signs c'd have discovered 'em. One of 'em you dropped lightly on a branch of balsam, level with my eyes; another you hung up, even more lightly, on a line of spider web. How did you manage that, Kiddie?"

Kiddie looked up from his spoonful of egg.

"Just laid th' chip in the palm of my hand an' blew it softly inter th' web, where it stuck suspended, like Mahomet's coffin," he explained.

"Don't know nothin' 'bout Mahomet's coffin," said Rube, "but that chip o' pencil was real cleverly done; it was top notch. After that, you dropped clues pretty freely, afraid o' my missin' 'em, I reckon. You didn't just blaze the trees; but you broke down twigs, you tore up ferns an' things, you kicked up the soil with your toe, an' you scored marks with your stick. At one place you tied a knot in a clump of rush grass, leavin' a pointer. I was follerin' you quick when at last I come t' the creek, an' thar you had me. You waded into th' water—that's how you got your moccasins wet—an' you didn't cross; you walked up the stream, I guess."

"Right," nodded Kiddie. "But that was a false scent. I didn't go far—not more'n a dozen yards—I came out on the same side and dried my feet."

"I saw where you did that," Rube went on. "It wasn't far from where you laid the three fir cones as a pointer, plain's a sign-post. Then you followed along by the creek to the tree where you hung up th' leaf from your pocket-book. From there you made it easy for me, comin' home in a bee-line, scatterin' clues right an' left."

"Well, Rube, I'll say this," declared Kiddie, "that you did remarkably well all through. There were not a great many clues that you failed to pick up. You missed some important ones, however, which makes it all the more surprisin' that you came back so quickly. We'll play that same game another time. It's good for us both. And now, I guess we'll just wash up an' make the camp clean for the night before goin' out in the canoe ter catch a fish or two, if it's not too late."

CHAPTER XII

A MOONLIGHT VISITOR

As a matter of fact, the fishing was only a pretext on Kiddie's part. They caught no fish whatever, and they were still in the middle of the lake when darkness came on.

Kiddie lingered yet longer, resting over his paddle and entertaining his companion with talk and stories and the singing of songs. Hardly noticed by Rube, he dipped the paddle and gradually turned the canoe round and round.

"Rube, old man," he said at length, "I've made up another scouting task for you. Find our landing place. Take us straight into it. You can't see it in this darkness, I know. You dunno where 'tis; but you've got ter navigate us into it, and without my help, see?"

Rube was not to be caught napping. He took the paddle in hand, looked up to the stars, and made for home as truly and unerringly as even Kiddie himself could have done.

The air was hot that night, and Kiddie again preferred to sleep in the open. And he slept very soundly.

Rube, on the contrary, found the teepee stifling, in spite of the wide-open door flap. He was restless; the mosquitoes tormented him, too. He began to envy Kiddie, lying in the cooler air. So much so that at about two o'clock in the morning ho got free of his sleeping bag, took his revolver, and crept out into the bright moonlight.

Kiddie lay flat on his back under a cotton-wood tree, his arms folded across his chest, shielding his hidden eyes from the silvery light of the moon.

Rube's foot kicked against an unseen pannikin, making an alarming clatter.

He looked to see if Kiddie stirred, and saw instead a movement in the tree. The branch just above Kiddie's head was swaying and a strange black body showed itself ominously through the trembling leaves.

Rube leant forward and became aware of a pair of large, shining, yellow eyes. Beneath them, farther back, a long, curved tail was swinging to and fro like a pendulum. The eyes were far apart, showing that the animal which owned them was of great size—bigger, certainly, than an ordinary lynx.

Rube raised his gun, deciding to shoot the beast between the eyes. But before he could take aim there was a sudden quick movement in Kiddie's sleeping-place, a sharp flash, and a loud report that was mingled with a fierce howl and a heavy thud.

Kiddie had leapt to his feet and was ready to fire a second shot at the beast that was writhing and snarling at his feet.

"Keep back, Rube," he said calmly. "He ain't dead yet. But I've got him. It's that black puma that came t' th' trap last night."

From where Rube Carter stood, Kiddie and the wounded puma seemed to be hopelessly mixed up together in the darkness. He made a step or two forward holding his revolver levelled, with his finger on the trigger, ready to shoot, yet hesitating, lest he should hit Kiddie.

"Keep back!" Kiddie repeated. "I've sure got him."

The puma was rolling and writhing in helplessness, snarling viciously, and now and then howling, as it tried to rise to its feet. Rube could see the brute's big round eyes flashing brightly at first and then becoming smaller and dimmer.

"Mind it don't give you a scratch with them claws," he cautioned Kiddie.

Kiddie stood back, and the moonlight fell upon the puma's sleek black coat.

"Biggest lion I've ever seen," remarked Rube. "I'm only wishin' it had bin me 'stead of you as put the bullet in him."

"You can give him one right now, to finish him," said Kiddie.

"He ain't needin' another," said Rube. "Besides, 'tain't th' same thing. I guessed you was sound asleep when I come outer the wigwam. Puma was lyin' along the branch right over you, gettin' ready ter drop down on you. I reckoned your life was in danger, an' I wanted ter save you, see? That's what I'm allus wantin' t' do; but you never gives me a chance. How did you know the brute was thar, Kiddie? How did you happen ter wake an' git out your gun an' shoot so mortal quick—'fore I'd time ter lift my arm an' press the trigger?"

"Well," returned Kiddie, "I dunno exactly. But I've a notion that I knew the critter was right there long before you did, Rube. I'd heard him crawlin' along among the bushes an' nosin' around about the traps. He was some wise, though, after his experience of last night. He wasn't havin' any truck with them traps. He was kind of suspicious of 'em, I guess, an' preferred to hunt his own food alive. So he got on ter the scent of the camp an' came sneakin' right here. I've a notion he didn't like the look of the teepee where you were sleepin'—thought maybe it was another trap; no more did he find any attraction in the camp fire. Thar was a live man, however, easy t' get at, under this yer tree. He came t' investigate overhead, an' was lyin' along that branch when you oozed outer the teepee an' diverted his attention by kickin' your foot against a tin pannikin, makin' noise enough t' waken the seven sleepers. If I hadn't been pretty quick with my gun just then, I guess that puma wouldn't have hesitated t' make a meal of you."

"Allus allowin' that I didn't stop him," rejoined Rube.

He watched the puma giving a final kick, and then become still and silent.

Kiddie went nearer to the animal, seized its long tail in both hands and hauled it bodily away from under the tree.

"We'll leave him there till daylight," he decided, "an' then have a proper look at him. Meanwhile, let's quit and finish our sleep."

Daylight revealed the puma as an uncommonly fine animal, in good condition. Kiddie preserved the pelt, with the head and feet. He also took the dimensions of the carcass at various parts to help him in modelling the body for mounting.

"I've got a pair of glass eyes that'll just suit," he told Rube. "They're some light in colour, but I guess we c'n darken 'em before we fix 'em in."

On that same day they moved the camp to a different part of the forest, but still on the shores of the lake, and they remained there for a week, trapping, shooting, fishing, and exercising their woodcraft. Then, at Rube's suggestion, they landed on a small island thickly overgrown with pine trees. Here, however, there were very few animals to trap, and small opportunity for scouting, although Rube did not for that reason cease to take advantage of Kiddie's wider knowledge and skill.

They were out in the canoe fishing one afternoon. Kiddie remarked upon the extreme clearness of the water, and told Rube to lean over and look down into it.

"You c'n see the bottom of the lake fathoms an' fathoms beneath us," he said.

"Yes," agreed Rube, peering down into the transparent depths. He raised his head and added: "You was sayin' th' other day, Kiddie, that no white man, an' p'r'aps no red man either, had ever lived in these parts in ancient times."

"I said—or meant to say—that there was no visible trace of early native inhabitants or white settlers," Kiddie corrected.

"Well, that's good enough," resumed Rube. "I guess I've got you, anyway. Look deep down thar, an' you'll see the trunk of a tree. It ain't got 'ny branches on it. I b'lieve I c'n even make out the cuts of an axe on the end of it. How'd it come there if it wasn't hewn down by men as used edged tools?"

Kiddie was not in the least nonplussed.

"How'd it come t' be lyin' at the bottom of the lake, anyway?" he questioned.

"Dunno," Rube answered, very much puzzled. "You mean, why ain't it afloat? Guess it's too heavy; though I can't tell just why. All wood floats, don't it?"

"Most wood does—all that grows about here," Kiddie affirmed. "Why, do you suppose, your men with edged tools took the trouble to cut down a big tree like that, and not make any use of so much valuable timber?"

Rube shrugged his shoulders.

"Now you're askin' me a conundrum I can't answer," he said.

"No," returned Kiddie; "because you've got hold of the wrong idea. That tree wasn't felled by any axe. It grew at the edge of the lake, where the ground was soft and moist. It was blown down in some storm or hurricane, and fell into the water. Gradually th' roots an' branches broke off, and after a long while—many years, mebbe—the bare trunk floated off. It drifted about like an iceberg or a derelict ship—drifted an' drifted until it became water-logged an' so heavy that it sank t' th' bottom, where it still lies. It was just an ordinary process of Nature."

Rube was silent for many moments.

"Thar ain't no trippin' you up, Kiddie," he said at length. "I made certain sure I had you that time."

"Wait a bit," pursued Kiddie; "I'll show you something else." He paddled farther out in the lake, taking his bearings by well-remembered landmarks. "Now look down through the water," he instructed, when after many pauses, he at last drew in his paddle. "What d'ye see?"

Rube leant over and searched the depths.

"Not much," he answered. "I c'n see the bottom, sure—stones, gravel, swayin' weeds. Hold hard, though. Them stones didn't grow there. Guess they're too reg'lar. I c'n make out a ring of 'em."

"Yes," said Kiddie. "So c'n I. Some queer that they should be arranged in a circle that way, ain't it? Are you able t' figure it out?"

Rube pondered deeply, frequently looking down at the stones so precisely placed in a ring at the bottom of the lake.

"They sure never come there on their own account, like the tree," he decided. "Looks as if human hands had put em' that way, an' I've got a idea, Kiddie. It's just this. Centuries an' centuries ago, this yer lake wasn't a lake at all, but dry land."

"Well?" Kiddie smiled. "That's possible."

"And," continued Rube, "when it was dry land, a tribe of what you call prehistoric men lived here. They was pagans—sun worshippers, an' such. They built the stones in a circle as a kinder temple, same's them chaps you told me of that built Stonehenge. What? Ain't that a cute idea of mine?"

"I allow th' idea's cute," conceded Kiddie. "But it ain't an explanation. It's too far-fetched altogether, an' it contradicts the theory that there were no inhabitants in these wildernesses all that time ago. If you'd thought a bit longer, you might have hit upon the true an' very commonplace explanation. Y'see, the stones haven't even been in the lake long enough to get a growth of weeds and moss on 'em. As a matter of fact, they've been there only a very few winters—since the time when the name 'Kiddie' was more appropriate to me than it is now. There was a big frost; the lake was frozen over. I'd the boyish idea that it 'ld be int'restin' t' build a house on the ice. There was no snow; stones were handier 'n timber. I carted the stones here on my sled. I built 'em in a circle. Snow came, an' I finished the buildin' with snow. You c'n sure guess the rest."

"Yes, course I can," said Rube. "When the snow an' ice melted, the stones sank straight down, an' fell to the bottom in a ring. What did I say just now, Kiddie? Thar ain't no trippin' you up or catchin' you nappin'."

"I dunno if you're aware of it, Rube," resumed Kiddie, "but for the past two or three minutes I've had the corner of my eye on a canoe that's comin' this way down the lake. Who's at the paddle? 'Tain't Gideon's way of paddlin'. 'Tain't Abe Harum. Who d'ye reckon it c'n be?"

Rube watched the approaching canoe. It had appeared suddenly from beyond a jutting promontory of spruce trees.

"Dunno," he answered, "don't reco'nize him. Seems like as Gid had loaned the canoe t' a stranger. An' yet I seem t' have seen that pinky-red shirt before, an' that straight-rimmed Stetson hat."

"Looks t' me like Sheriff Blagg," said Kiddie. "What's he want, cavortin' about on the lake searchin' for us? He's been t' our first campin' ground. Now he's shapin' for the island, led by our fire-smoke."