CHAPTER VII
THE FIRST CAMP
“White man and Indian are brothers,” remarked Wandering Bear, solemnly, on the following morning. “Indian always friend of white man. White man give him much presents; Indian show him big game; where fish is plenty. Yes, always much friend now.”
Breakfast was over. The crowd, with the exception of Larry, to whom the situation was so novel as to prevent him from sleeping with any degree of soundness, had spent a comfortable night.
To Tom Clifton’s great satisfaction, Teddy Banes announced his intention of remaining at the Cree village.
“Good! That old sour-face would be enough to take all the fun out of the trip,” said the aspirant for football honors. “Acts awful queer, doesn’t he?”
“At times he did hand out a few awful knocks, if that’s what you mean,” grinned Larry.
He glanced at the sky, in the vast expanse of which not a fleck of cloud could be seen. Every indication pointed to another sunny, sizzling day; and, anticipating the discomfort before him, the lad made a wry face.
“What’s up?” demanded Tom.
“I am,” responded Larry, rising to his feet. “Isn’t it time to skip?”
“Yes! Fool’s Castle is a long way from here,” said Bob. “We shan’t reach it even to-night, eh, Thunderbolt?”
“To-morrow,” answered the young Indian.
“But for stern duty,” remarked Dave, “I’d refuse to leave the delightful shade of these hills.”
At Thunderbolt’s direction several young braves departed for the horses, soon leading them up to the teepee. They had been well fed and cared for, so were in a mettlesome mood. A mass of tribesmen gathered around as Wandering Bear bade them a stately adieu.
“White man come again,” he invited. “Always welcome.”
“How you do,” said Sulking Wolf, shaking hands with each. And, as they sprang into the saddle and started off, they heard him utter the same words as a parting salutation.
Thunderbolt, mounted on a brown-patched nag, led the advance.
Soon after passing the break in the rugged hills they reached a narrow stream which rippled and bubbled and sang its way over a rocky bed.
“We go across,” announced the Indian.
“It looks jolly inviting,” said Larry. “If I could find any excuse I’d fall off my horse and take a swim.”
“Did you ever think how curious a fish’s life must be?” began Dave.
“No! But I’ve often thought how curious the Rambler Club’s life must be,” grinned Larry.
The cool, clear water splashed over stirrup leathers, while the hoofs of the ponies scattered showers of shining drops.
Crossing the marshy strip of shore, with the imprints of many longhorns’ hoofs upon it, they struck off in a westerly direction.
The further they progressed the more Larry Burnham became convinced of the silliness of the whole proceeding. Frequently, when the pace was not too great, he was observed to take a folder from his pocket and scan it intently.
“Wonder what that chap’s doing?” remarked Tom Clifton to Dick Travers on one occasion.
“Ask him,” laughed Dick.
“And get some kind of mean answer?” snapped Tom. “No—I don’t think. But I’ll find out, just the same.”
At noon a halt for lunch was made in a little patch of timber, and upon resuming the march the seven lads pushed steadily ahead, at long intervals skirting around or crossing ranges of hills, and seeing on many occasions great herds of grazing cattle.
“Where are we going to stop, Thunderbolt?” asked Dave, when it came time to look for another camping ground.
The young Indian pointed to a patch of woods in the distance.
“Good place,” he announced. “Water. White boys much pleased. Thunderbolt know all good places.”
“Well, there’s one lucky thing,” mused Larry to himself. “As far as I can make out, this jaunt has taken me in just the right direction. I wonder if the fellows will be mad? But what in thunder do I care if they are?”
As their guide had said the timber seemed to be a most excellent place for a camp. There were plenty of fragrant balsam boughs for couches, all the fire-wood necessary, and a tiny creeklet flowing through the center.
“Simply jim dandy!” cried Tom, enthusiastically. “Everything we need—except ice-cream sodas. How about it, little ‘Fear-not’?”
Larry, feeling that his tribulations were almost over, grinned.
“It’s perfectly lovely, Tom,” he said. “I don’t know what kind of an insect bit me on the cheek just now, but I’ll bet they have an enthusiastic reception committee waiting to receive us.”
“Don’t forget I carry with me all sorts of medical stuff,” said Tom.
“For instance?”
“The first aid to the injured kind.”
“Try to use any o’ it on me, an’ there’ll be a scrap,” snickered Larry.
Dismounting, the boys led their ponies through the woods, coming to a stop in a small, grassy clearing.
“Couldn’t be better,” exclaimed Bob. “Pitch in, fellows; we’ll have a camp made in a jiffy.”
Setting the example, he quickly unsaddled his tired horse, whose shaggy sides were flecked with foam. Then, tethering the animal to a near-by sapling, he drew a hatchet from his belt.
“We’ll need lots of fire-wood,” he said.
“I’ll help you cut some,” announced Tom.
“Me too,” said Thunderbolt.
“My job will be getting the water, and things ready to cook,” declared Dick Travers. “It’s your turn to-night, Tom, to play chef.”
“Guess I’ll gather a whole lot of balsam boughs for beds,” supplemented Sam Randall.
After the horses had been cared for Dave Brandon, on looking around, discovered a spot which promised to afford a delightful resting place; and, in order to see if his ideas were correct, promptly tested it.
The result proved highly satisfactory.
Seeing this, the tired, hot and dusty Larry Burnham, after washing his face and hands in the creek, and satisfying his thirst with the fresh, cool water, sauntered back to the glade and imitated Dave with considerable success.
There was no doubt that the blond lad, as Tom often declared, lacked get up and go. He had everything in him to make a great success but the willingness to hustle. His laziness differed from Dave’s; for while the former editor of the High School “Reflector” often indulged in periods of rest, it was more in order to allow his mental faculties full play. Then, too, Dave could be very strenuous and determined when anything called for such an effort.
And no one had ever seen Larry Burnham either active or strenuous, although he was generally known to be determined—to exert himself as little as possible on all occasions.
Presently the noise of the hatchets stopped, and Tom Clifton, bearing in his arms an enormous quantity of brush and wood, was seen approaching. He threw his burden down on the grass, then began to eye Larry sternly.
“What are you sitting there for?” he demanded.
“Resting, thank you, Mr. Clifton,” responded Larry, sweetly.
“You’re a nice one, I must say.”
“Yes, as fellows go, I suppose I must be pretty nice,” chirped Larry.
“Why in thunder don’t you get up and hustle like the rest of us?”
“There’s no use in everybody working.”
“Oh, there isn’t, eh? Well, that’s a good one! There’s plenty for a chap to do if he only wants to look for it. Come—get up, Larry. Start the fire going.”
“No, thanks,” drawled Larry, with a shake of his head. “Don’t think Dick Travers’d like it.” His eyes began to twinkle. “When Dick gets all the kindlings together I won’t mind puttin’ a match to ’em.”
“You haven’t done a blessed thing since you’ve been with us,” stormed Tom. “You’re always sitting around waiting for grub to be served.”
“Mercy! Just listen to the boss!”
“It makes me tired. On a camping-out trip the work ought to be divided equally. Be sensible, Larry. I’m willing to do my share, but I want to see every other chap do his.”
“Don’t waste so much time, Tom. Talk to Dave. He’s loafin’.”
“Aren’t you going to give us a hand then?”
“I sort o’ think it isn’t worth while.”
“You’re lazy, Larry Burnham!” cried Tom, hotly. “A fine football player you’ll make if you don’t wake up and put a little ginger into that big form of yours.”
“Softly—softly, Tom!” laughed Dave.
“I’ve been talking to a big softy, I know,” growled Tom, thoroughly disgusted, “and——”
“Hold on!” interrupted Larry. His anger began to rise. “Fire off a little more talk like that, an’ I’ll tell you what I think of you.”
“Go ahead, then!” snapped Tom.
“For goodness’ sake, fellows, cut it all out,” put in Dave. “I’ll prescribe a good supper and a couple of hours rest——”
“Don’t be afraid, Larry,” persisted Tom.
“Afraid of what?” jeered Larry—“you? See here, Tom Clifton”—the big fellow rose to his feet—“believe me, I’m tired of your always pitchin’ into me. Do you understand?”
“I should worry,” said Tom. “The idea of your talking like that after all the mean things you’ve said about the Rambler Club! Didn’t you nearly die with laughter when that idiot of a Teddy Banes made silly remarks? Oh, no!” The color mounted to his face. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”
“I don’t sport a chip on my shoulder, but I’ll take just so much an’ no more!” exclaimed the blond lad.
His belligerent attitude and the look which came into his mild blue eyes quite astounded Tom Clifton. Here was a chap whom he sometimes thought belonged in the overgrown baby class actually threatening a member of the Rambler Club. To retreat would never do.
“Are you going to start a scrap?”
For a few seconds the two tall boys, but a few paces apart, eyed each other so angrily that the “historian” felt compelled to literally step into the breach.
“That will do, fellows,” he said, quietly.
“He needn’t think I’m afraid of him!” cried Tom.
Dave gently urged him away.
Thereupon Clifton, with a snort of disgust, seized a water pail and went off toward the creek. Larry then resumed his former position.
“A conceited dub!” he remarked, kicking lazily at the turf.
“No,” answered Dave; “Tom really isn’t conceited. He’s simply terribly in earnest.”
“Oh, I don’t know!” growled Larry.
The stout boy smiled.
“I’ll admit that sometimes he’s a little too free in expressing his opinions; but he’s fair and square as a chap can be. You’re lazy, Larry—so am I.” He ended the sentence with a good-natured laugh.
By this time the workers were coming back. Enough wood had been gathered for the entire night, and a sufficient quantity of balsam boughs for the beds was only waiting to be dragged into the glade.
Whistling cheerily, Dick Travers returned with pails of water, closely followed by Tom.
“Say, Dave, would you believe it,” remarked the former, “there’s a big bunch of longhorns grazing on the other side of these woods. Some of them have just crossed the creek a bit further down.”
“Gee!” exclaimed Larry. “Suppose they should come upon us while we’re asleep!”
Feeling sorry he had given way to his temper, he addressed this remark to Tom. Tom, however, preserved an icy silence.
“Cattle no hurt,” said Thunderbolt, reassuringly.
The meal was prepared in a surprisingly short time. Luscious slices of bacon sizzled away in the frying-pan; potatoes were baking on red-hot embers; while coffee-pots sent up clouds of hissing steam. Then there were crackers and cheese and preserves.
Any boy who could not have enjoyed the “spread” which Chef Tom Clifton prepared would have been in a pretty poor condition.
But every boy did enjoy it, even though the insects, both flying and crawling, persisted in making themselves unduly conspicuous.
Thunderbolt proved a most agreeable guide and companion. He related stories, told them secrets of woodcraft which even Tom admitted he had not heard before, and helped to drag the balsam boughs into the glade and arrange them in neat, smooth piles.
“He’s a crackerjack,” laughed Sam Randall. “After this, don’t let anybody talk to me about lazy Indians.”
“Thunderbolt certainly isn’t one,” said Tom, with strong emphasis.
When preparations for the night’s rest were finished the fire was sending a wide circle of dancing light over the darkening woods. And in this little oasis of light amidst a vast desert of gloom the boys sat, often conjecturing about Jed Warren’s strange disappearance.
“I’m going to turn in,” remarked Dave, finally.
“I think we’d better all do the same,” said Bob. “We want to make an early start for Fool’s Castle to-morrow morning.”
Thereupon the crowd unstrapped their blankets and betook themselves to the fragrant balsam boughs—that is, all except Sam Randall, whose duty it was to stand first watch.
“And don’t you dare to wake me up a minute before time, Sam,” warned Dave, laughingly.
So the lone sentinel began pacing to and fro. The occasional comments from the recumbent forms ceased, and the soft pat, pat of Sam Randall’s feet, the never-ceasing rustling of grass and leaves, and the noises made by the horses moving about were the sounds which reigned supreme.
Sam was too “seasoned a veteran” to have his emotions stirred. Mechanically, he watched the light flashing over tree trunks, tinging deep recesses with its ruddy glow, and the smoke rising high and drifting slowly out of view.
Every now and again he replenished the fire, until the flames shot up, and crackling sparks, like a miniature fire display, dropped about him.
His lonely vigil neared an end.
“Poor old Dave,” he reflected, glancing at the round face of the sleeping “historian.” “I almost hate to do it.”
He was about stepping over to awaken him when a series of blood-curdling yells from a point not far distant, followed by the sharp cracking of pistol shots, gave him the start of his life.
Then came the neighs of frightened horses, the stamping of hoofs, and the sound of a heavy crashing through the underbrush.
Before the astounded Sam Randall had time to even voice a warning the camp was astir.