CHAPTER XIII—THE STEADY GAZE
I retraced my difficult way down the mountain, scratched, soaking, and utterly weary. The lodge, which had seemed gloomy enough before, was a cheery refuge now. I was all but unnerved by a sense of mystery and of things dark and inexplicable. Some strange, brooding shadow hovered over this camp; the place was uncanny. I aroused myself and ascribed it to the storm, to the rain-swept wilderness. After all, where was there any mystery?
Some one at camp had once inadvertently stepped on the hearth before the concrete was dry. That it was the imprint of a bare foot had no significance. One about to go in the lake, or returning from it, might have carelessly stepped on the new hearth. And might not that same habitue of camp have gone exploring up the mountain. But barefoot? That seemed unlikely. And how about the rustic brace upon the tree? Could that have been there two or three years and retained its freshness and pliancy? And the targets with their telltale bullet holes; four on each target? And their disappearance? Had all these things a relation to each other?
I roused myself to the wholesome conviction that the haunting specter of the tragedy and the demon of the storm were playing pranks with my fancy, and to confirm this sensible thought I stood in the window as the twilight deepened the gloom of the already cheerless scene. The new cabins, the piles of timber, the circular stone enclosure for campfire, were very real and diverted my thoughts from the past to the cheerful future and the new life which would soon throng Leatherstocking Camp. If I attached some tragic meaning to every idle scratching on fence or wall or sidewalk, I should soon be as absurd as my adventurous young friend, Pee-wee Harris, of whom you may have heard. That is what I told myself.
By way of dealing with worth-while realities, I prepared my supper. Tom says I am utterly useless except in wielding a fountain pen. But I think I make very good applesauce and my poached eggs have a beauty of form which I dare not aspire to in the field of literary art. I need not detain you with my reveries before the blazing logs after my lonely supper. I thought of my work and studiously avoided any speculations about the past at Leatherstocking Camp. Nothing really strange or suspicious had occurred there. It was the scene of a tragic accident, that was all. If there had indeed been four persons there instead of three, what of it?
After my last log had burned out the place began to grow cool and I gathered up my papers and the smelly lamp, and went to my little room on the balcony to write until I should become sleepy. The warmth ascending lingered still in that small apartment. Some strange feeling (I cannot otherwise describe it) caused me to ascend on tiptoe, for I could not bear the echoing sound of my own footfalls on the uncovered stair. I looked into Tom’s room and into Brent’s, and closed the doors of both. A few dying embers, safely enclosed by a screen, still dimly lighted the hearth and standing on the balcony I could just make out that footprint stamped for all time in the imperishable concrete. There was something weird, I thought, in such perpetuation of a casual footprint, something akin to the preservation of a mummy. He who had carelessly stepped there (young McClintick perhaps) might be dead. But here was this ghostly likeness of a part of him remaining—stamped forever. I would not wish to have in my home such a reminder of a dear, departed one. The cold print of a foot that was no more! And that other duplicate footprint (less clear but still identical) in that haunted pass on the gale-swept mountain! I say haunted for what rational human being would scratch in crazy fashion such a word as strangle in that wild, lonesome passage. And the trail which had taunted and challenged me with its elusive and changing course. Was it real? Here I was again letting my fancy wander....
It was warm and cheerful in my little room, the streaming rain upon the window only increased the sense of coziness and safety, and I sat me down to finish my article about Stevenson. You will remember that on the first evening of our sojourn in camp, Brent had noticed a space on the wall where a picture had hung. This was a painting of Harrison McClintick, for the leather king had not neglected to have his portrait painted by a well known artist who had certainly succeeded in perpetuating his hard features and dominant look. The eyes in that portrait looked straight at the beholder. And it was for this reason (so I understood) that the boys had taken the picture down after reading the shocking news of Mr. McClintick’s death in the newspaper article I had forwarded to Tom. I would not have supposed that any of them (certainly not Tom) would be so susceptible as to be affected by the pictured gaze of a murdered man. Yet perhaps Tom did not greatly care about the portrait anyway.
At all events it had been taken down before my arrival and stood on the floor against the wall of the room I was to occupy. I cannot say that the sight of it distressed me. It meant so little to me that on the top edge of the heavy frame my suitcase rested, and it served also as a shelf for my writing case and used cigarette boxes. I did not like the hard, drawn features of the leather king. The skin seemed to be stretched tight over his face; the forceful mouth seemed almost cruel. The head was massive at the top and narrow at the chin. The gray hair was rather long and disheveled, which just saved the face from utter coarseness. Seeing only the wide forehead and disordered gray locks one might have fancied the man to have been distinguished and cultured. I suppose the cunning artist had hit upon this picturesque disorder of the whitening hair as the only means of saving his picture from commonplaceness.
If I am to tell you just what happened on that frightful night, I must tell you just how I felt. I have mentioned the strange feeling I had, as of something impending. My adventure of the afternoon had not stilled this vague feeling of something mysterious and dark. The feeling was not clear and had no rational basis, but it was strong enough now to cause me to be troubled by that face in the portrait with eyes gazing directly at me. There was something creepy about it, the steady gaze of this murdered man, and it affected me strangely. The eyes seemed to be accusing me. Even while intent on my work I was disturbed by the feeling that the steady gaze of that painted victim was fixed upon me.
Behind me I could feel the door slowly open, its hinges creaking slightly. I arose, stepped out on the balcony and looked down into the large apartment where a few embers still burned. I told myself that these should be extinguished and went down ostensibly for that purpose. The footprint in the hearth showed clear in the adjacent glow; all else was darkness. I told myself that I had made too much of that trifling memorial of some one’s carelessness. Then I stepped over to the door of the lodge and made sure that it was locked. This door, too, had an uncanny habit of rattling, and to prevent this I took a paper from a pile on the table, folded it into a sort of little wedge, and stuffed it between the door and the jamb. From the shape and feeling of this paper I knew it was the article about Harrison McClintick’s dreadful end, which I had mailed to Tom and which had always lain with other papers under a rusty old axe blade that we used for a paper weight.
I went upstairs again and into the room where my little lamp was burning. Small as it was, it seemed cheerful. Since the door would not stay closed I threw it wide open and resumed my work. Now and again I glanced sideways at the portrait and by way of showing my disdain of the effect it had on me, I lighted a cigarette and tossed the empty box upon the wide frame. But still I turned, now and again, and glanced at that intent face with its disordered gray hair, its resolute mouth, its cold, searching eyes. Was it so that Harrison McClintick had looked at his assailant? At last I could stand it no more; you may call it weakness or silly fancy or what not. I arose and tumbling the odds and ends of my belongings from the frame, I turned that haunting picture to the wall. To give my action a cheerful aspect of comedy, I said, “I don’t like people watching me so closely at my work.”
Just as I was trimming the lamp to resume my work, I heard a sudden noise outside. It was not very loud and occurred in a gust of wind. I tried to look from the window, but the streaming rain obscured the glass. However, I was satisfied that a piece of planking leaning against the unfinished cook shelf had blown down. Several of these boards which had been selected for “eats boards” had been left there.
CHAPTER XIV—THE APPARITION
In the glow and satisfaction of at last finishing my article I was stimulated by wholesome, even humorous thoughts. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning and I had completed my work amid a solemn quietude. Laughing at my own expense, I gayly turned the picture about, saying, “now you can stare at me all you want to.” I was not to have my mental poise disturbed by an oil-painting. I would not have my friends return to find that picture turned to the wall. I extinguished my light and retired with the agreeable consciousness of having completed one of my tasks and with a drowsiness which assured me peaceful slumber.
I hardly know how to tell you about the events of that night, or indeed whether I should call them events. When I awoke in the morning, I thought I had been dreaming. But I cannot even now, and in the light of subsequent events, fully explain my own harrowing experience. I suppose it is possible for one to dream that he is awake. Whether it is possible for one to be awake and fancy he is dreaming, I do not know. All I know is that in the still, dark hours of that tempestuous night, I saw vividly the face of Harrison McClintick looking down upon me. It was different, yet it was his face and bore his expression.
What I did not understand afterward was that the gray, disordered hair seemed streaming wet. The narrow chin conveyed somewhat a look of emaciation, the long, stern, resolute mouth to be set as if in death. This was McClintick’s face, but it was ghastly. The wide forehead and narrowing cheeks gave the head a triangular look, suggesting a skull. The features were drawn, the eyes wild. I thought (if one may be said to think in a dream) that this was the face of Harrison McClintick after he had been killed.
HE STOOD OVER ME AND DID NOT SPEAK—ONLY STARED.
He stood over me and did not speak—only stared. I think I did not stir; I was certainly conscious of a resolve not to stir. I heard wind and rain. Yet goodness knows there had been enough wind and rain that night to penetrate into a sleeping vision. Soon the face disappeared. I cannot say that I was conscious of the figure withdrawing, but the face withdrew. Still I heard the wind; it seemed to come in steady, surging gusts—regular, like the surf. I heard the driving rain, the same driving rain I had heard all through the long, gloomy day. Then it seemed to be driving around in a circle. Then I knew no more.
When I awoke in the morning, I was certain that I had been dreaming. I felt quite assured that the gloom and loneliness of the place, and my idle thoughts and speculations, had naturally enough insinuated themselves in distorted form into my sleep. There was the portrait without any suggestion of ghostly associations, the eyes gazing at me. They did not disturb me in the broad light of day.
Scarcely had I arisen, however, when I noticed something which utterly staggered me, a rude and clear reality, that struck me like a rifle ball and left me trembling. Beside my cot was a muddy footprint, less nice in form and clearness than the one embedded in the hearth below, but identical with it. I blinked my eyes to make sure I was awake. I sat on the side of the couch quite unnerved, scrutinizing that little muddy patch showing an irregular diagonal mark across the ball of the foot. Like the print on the mountain it was the impression of a whole foot. The print on the hearth showed only the front part of a foot. But there was not the slightest doubt that these three prints were impressions of one and the same foot.
When I had regained some degree of composure I looked for other prints, in the room, on the balcony, on the stair. There were none. Particles of dried mud there were, to be sure, but I might have tracked those in myself. I returned and studied the mark, utterly bewildered and greatly distraught. What was the meaning of this? Had I in truth been dreaming? Had I seen that ghostly apparition in half sleep? The apparition I had seen had been that of Harrison McClintick. But Harrison McClintick was dead and could leave no footprint. Unless one accepts the theory of a spectral footprint.
I could not now adopt the comfortable theory that I had been dreaming. Footprints are not left after dreams. I looked at the portrait to make sure that the face I had seen had been that of Harrison McClintick. Weird and distorted and troubled as that face had looked, it had been the face of McClintick. Well, I had no theory. I had always laughed at the supernatural. If I had seen the face and there had been no footprint, I would have assumed that I had seen it in a dream. If there had been a footprint, but no apparition, I would have said that some one had entered my room. There was still the explanation (and it seemed to be the only one) that the vision and the footprint were quite two different things; that while I slept after that harrowing dream some creature of flesh and blood had indeed entered and stood beside my couch.
With this thought I felt that I was on firm ground. I emptied my suitcase and laid it open over the footprint intending to preserve it intact for Tom to see. I even smiled at the recollection that I had once confined a boisterous June-bug in the same way. Then I went downstairs to find out how my nocturnal visitor had entered. The discovery of this fact would put the whole spooky business in the category of reality. All of the windows below were locked by the long iron pins that went through both sashes. The door of the lodge was likewise locked—just as I had left it. I opened the door and the clear, morning breeze saluted me, wafting an exhilarating freshness into my very face. How fragrant is the woods breeze, bearing the pungent odor of the drenched earth and foliage after an interval of storm. I can smell the wetness now, and see the grass and trees as they looked that morning bedecked with a myriad of lingering crystal drops.
I strolled around the lodge where the wounded, rain-laden grass was already beginning to straighten up in the welcome sunshine. I was right about the board blowing down; it lay over a sawhorse where it had fallen, so nicely balanced that it teetered in the morning breeze like a seesaw with invisible, ghostly children upon it. I could laugh at that spooky fancy in the cheery light of morning. “When I know how he got in, whoever he was, I’ll be satisfied,” said I.
But I did not find out how he got in. He did not get in, as far as I could find out. The door and windows had all been locked, and none had been tampered with. There was no ladder about and no sign of any attempt to reach the upper windows by any other means. I even went over to the smaller lodge where the boys slept. It was locked and our two ladders were on the floor inside. Tom said that the rungs of a ladder will turn around with annoying effects if allowed to get wet and then dry out. So we kept them under cover.
I returned to the lodge utterly bewildered. Considering the footprint as wholly apart from my harrowing vision, still here was a profound mystery. If some one had entered, then how had he entered. There was just not one way he could have done so without breaking either window or door latch and so leaving the evidence of his way of entry. The mysterious footprint had been left by some one already in the lodge and still concealed in it. What other explanation was there?
As I entered the lodge resolved to throw open the cupboard, and then to look into the rooms of my friends, I recalled how I had folded that old newspaper article into a sort of plug to stop the rattling of the door. It must have fallen to the ground when I threw the door open. But search as I would, I could find it nowhere on the adjacent floor of the lodge nor on the ground outside. I threw open the cupboard, and not without some trepidation looked for Tom’s pistol before ascending the stair to the balcony. I could not find it, so in a spirit of fine abandon I strode up the stairs and threw both doors open.
No one was in either room. The little closed up quarters smelled damp and stuffy from the penetrating moisture of the recent storm.
I went downstairs again and began a still more thorough search for the folded bit of newspaper. It was not to be found. It seemed to have been taken away by some one capable of entering and departing through solid walls. The supposition that Mr. McClintick’s shade had indeed stood over me and left a ghostly footprint was the only alternative theory that I could devise.
CHAPTER XV—OUT OF THE PAST
I had made no progress in solving these mysteries when, on the second evening after my startling discovery, Tom and the others returned. The weather was cold for that time of year and I had been writing all day in the lodge with a fire blazing in the chimney-place. I had begun to think of another long evening in that uncanny place when I heard the honking of that familiar horn and presently the voices of the returning party as the rattling little flivver emerged from the forest trail into the clearing. I had often ridiculed that rickety and clanking flivver, but on that evening its every squeak was like music to my ears.
They had a fine catch of fish and a big piece of ice which they had brought from Harkness to keep the welcome delicacy fresh if it should last more than a day or two.
“Do you wish ice to-day?” Brent asked, as he approached the door where I stood waiting like some fond mother ready to welcome a long lost son.
“I almost think it will be cold enough without ice,” I commented, as they entered, stretching themselves and setting down their burdens. “Home again,” I said gladly. “And how is the Ausable Chasm?”
“Ask Brent,” said Tom; “most of his hunting was done there. I don’t think he missed a post card stand.”
“When I go hunting in the wilds, I never come back empty-handed,” said Brent. “I have post cards, booklets, rustic canes, pennants, ash trays, paper weights, Indian moccasins, buckskin pocket-books, pine cushions, and I have been in Smugglers’ Pass in the Chasm where I found a spark plug, left there by one of the hardy old buccaneers, I suppose.”
“He didn’t catch one fish,” said Tom.
“That was because they didn’t bite on my hook,” said Brent.
“Well, I want to hear all about it,” I said. “It’s been pretty lonesome here. I’m half sorry I didn’t go.”
“Your place is in the home,” said Brent.
We made a hearty supper of fresh bass and the most delicious perch I ever tasted. The cheery, bantering voices of the company enlivened me beyond measure. One look at Totterson Burke, in his worn old corduroy suit and all one’s illusions about ghosts were dispelled; he was so very real. The very sight of Skipper Tim in flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up was a hearty refutation of every superstitious conjecture. The merest glimpse of Heinie Sheffler eating his supper was enough to resolve all the perplexities resulting from my weird experience. I felt at last that I was on firm ground, and that phantom apparitions and ghostly footprints could not long withstand this wholesome atmosphere.
Still, I said nothing about my experience until Brent and Tom and I were left alone. And before this (which happened in half an hour or so, for the boys were sleepy and tired) something occurred which rather startled me. I did not give it any connection with my experiences while alone except that every strange occurrence had begun to seem part of a single mystery.
As the four were about to withdraw to their own sleeping quarters, I chanced to notice the shabby old black overcoat, belonging to Charlie Rivers, where it still lay as I had thrown it across an end of the long table. In a way of mock servility, I proffered Brent his umbrella and then said, “Don’t forget your coat, Charlie.” I never felt altogether at ease with Rivers, he did not encourage familiarity, but in a sort of playfully cordial spirit, I held the coat up, saying, “The easiest way to carry it is to wear it.”
Now I must tell you that during the several days of his absence, Rivers had remained unshaved and this fact, I dare say, helped to complete the picture which he presented when he slipped on his coat. I had never before seen him thus clad and unshaved, and instantly there sprang into my mind a very vivid picture of the man who had accosted me in the street on that same day of Tom’s visit to me when he first told me of Leatherstocking Camp. You will recall that on that day a man lingered in the street before my home and that later, while on my way to see Mr. Temple, this same man accosted me, asking if Leatherstocking Camp had been sold, and saying that he would like to get a job there.
Well, seeing Charlie Rivers unshaved and in an overcoat which, like magic, seemed to transfer him from the woods to city streets, I recognized with a shock the same man who had tried to get into conversation with me in Bridgeboro so long ago. The revelation struck me between the eyes. So striking and memorable is the appearance of one when clad in unwonted raiment. Charlie Rivers was a man of the woods; in an overcoat he stood apart. “Good night, Charlie,” I said.
As soon as they had gone, I exclaimed, “Tom, Charlie Rivers is the same man whom we saw while we were sitting on the porch in Bridgeboro; he is the same man who spoke to me later in the street and asked about a job up here.”
“What makes you think that?” he asked.
“I know it,” I said. “All that was needed was to see him unshaved and in an overcoat. Don’t ask me, I know he’s the same man.”
“I can’t imagine what he was doing down there,” Tom said.
“All I know is what he said,” I answered. “He wanted to know if the property here had changed hands and spoke of a job—that’s all I know.”
Tom just sat on the edge of the table whistling. “That’s blamed funny,” he commented.
“Are we going to do the dishes to-night?” Brent asked.
“Do you think it would be all right to speak to him about it?” I asked.
“Why not?” Tom said.
“He was glancing at your flivver—remember?”
“Well, there wasn’t anything so extraordinary about that,” Brent said, as he gathered up the supper dishes. “Many people have paused to inspect it. I will presently announce a new surprise myself. Meanwhile, shall we do the dishes, or leave them till we’ve returned from the movies?”
“Well,” I said, “that’s that. Maybe there’s nothing so mysterious about it. But I have other matters to tell you about.”
“I’ll tell you how it is about Rivers,” Tom said. “He’s always been a kind of a wandering adventurer, as I gather. He might have drifted to Bridgeboro and heard about this camp business and asked you about it.”
“Very likely,” I acknowledged.
Still, Tom seemed thoughtful as he sat on the uncovered end of the table, whistling and swinging his legs. “When Charlie drifted in here I never asked him much about himself; I was glad enough to get anybody. I understood he came from Canada. You can see yourself how he works.”
“And that’s that,” I said.
“That’s that,” said Tom. “I don’t know anything about Heinie either, if it comes to that.”
“I think he is remotely descended from Germans,” Brent said. And we all laughed.
“Then there’s another thing,” I said. “Have you got those targets, Brent?”
“They’re on the shelf in the closet,” said he.
“They are not,” I shot back at him; “they have disappeared.”
We all looked at each other, but there was no opportunity for comment. “And now,” I said, “I am going to tell you what happened while you were away; you may explain it as you will. I had an experience which almost unnerved me. And I will show you the visual proof of at least part of what I tell you.”
“It sounds good,” said Brent. “Shall we sit down before the cheerful blaze? That’s a good word—visual.”
Seated before the fire, I told them of my experience as you know it; of my difficult ascent of the mountain, of the footprint, and the word I had seen crazily scratched on the rock. I told them of my supposed dream and of the footprint. Then of my assurance that no one had entered the Lodge. And of the disappearance of the newspaper account of Harrison McClintick’s end. “I saw the face of McClintick, yet it couldn’t have been actually the face of McClintick for he is dead,” I said. “Yet there was an actual footprint left by some one who must have entered the Lodge. Yet no one entered the Lodge. The targets are gone. The folded newspaper clipping is gone. Now, unless you believe I am crazy, what do you say?... Wait a minute, before you say anything. Let’s go upstairs and look at the footprint. And first look at this one in the hearth.” We returned downstairs silently. Even Brent’s air of levity was noticeably absent as he and I resumed our seats while Tom on his own account went about, inspecting the windows and the door. He returned, shaking his head in utter bewilderment, and flung himself into one of the big easy chairs, while Brent thoughtfully poked the fire.
“This blamed place is haunted,” said Tom. “It’s a spook camp, that’s what it is.”
“Well, let’s talk things over,” Brent drawled, lazily throwing one leg over an arm of his chair and poking the other in the direction of the fire. He removed his old-fashioned spectacles and held them toward the blaze, then cleaned them with his handkerchief and replaced them on his nose. “Let’s start on the assumption that you are not crazy.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Now before we go any further,” he drawled, “let me throw in my little contribution to the mystery. It isn’t much, but it’s the best I can do. Then we’ll see if we can’t get a working hypothesis. This camp is better than I thought it would be. I’m really getting interested.”
“Yes and you’ll get burned if you don’t pull your foot away from the fire,” said Tom.
“My error,” said Brent, leisurely withdrawing his charring shoe, and at the same time taking an envelope from his pocket. “I didn’t mention this before the boys, not even to you, Tommy. You remember about the targets; how each one had four bullet holes? And I said there must have been four at camp—at the finish? Clever, I thought. Well, here’s a letter in an old battered envelope, postmarked—let’s see—last November—yop, November three—and that would be about a year or so after the place here was closed up. Well, the postmaster in Harkness gave this to me when we came through this evening and asked me if we had anybody of this name up here. Peter Northrop. It’s addressed to Peter Northrop, care McClintick’s hunting camp, Leatherstocking, New York. You’ve got to hand it to Uncle Sam for finding people. This letter has been all over creation—came here from Leatherville, New Jersey. Well, the envelope was all falling to pieces—see? So I dumped the letter out and took a squint at it. I think it shows there were four people here. Funny, huh? Want to read it?”
CHAPTER XVI—SOMEBODY’S SON
I arose and took from him the envelope which he held in his extended hand; he was too lazy to get up and hand it to me. It was very much the worse for its travels, almost in shreds. It was addressed by an illiterate hand and bore several official stampings of Wrong address and Not Found. But Uncle Sam, that invincible errand boy, had left it at the right place at last, though all too late. It contained a letter written with pencil on a cheap tablet page of lined stationery. To me there is something fine about an old travel-worn letter, bearing the honorable scars of its battles with the world, and bereft of its timeliness, finally reaching its intended destination. Be that as it might, I lifted the folded contents from the envelope without any feeling that I was violating the privacy of personal mail. And holding it down in the light of the fire, I read:
Coover’s falls, N. Dakota.My dear Son
Now it is so menny months I did not here I must say it looks like you hav forgot yure own mother. I look for the telegraph paper that Mister McClintik sent but can’t find so try to think of the address were you are. You no you said you would be back soon this time now it is months and I don’t even here. You said it would do you good in the woods just a month but I know you would not stay in the Woods in all this cold. I am spry only for my rumatiz that is so bad in the damp wether. I look for the ducks but Missus Boardman said you decided its silly to send them so far. Now if I knew where Mr. McClintik have his house I would mail this there. You are a bad boy and like your father must be always gadding over the earth but a good boy to so I tell Missus Boardman. I pray God you get this and it finds my boy well. Every day I say you will be here.
love from your Mother
If an old travel-worn envelope has a certain appeal, how much is that appeal heightened by the human touch, the pathos, of such an enclosure! Some poor old woman reaching a trembling hand out into the great world, groping for a lost son! Perhaps the very heart which prompted that all but hopeless inquiry was still. The stout heart that protested its loyalty in the very face of Mrs. Boardman. Perhaps the “rumatiz” had done its work. And still, where was this wandering son who was so much like his father?
“Looks as if there were four people here instead of three all right, doesn’t it?” drawled Brent. “In looking over the targets I hit the bull’s-eye—as you might say. The old gent, little Rollie, Weston, was it?—and Peter Northrop. It really doesn’t make any difference; I don’t have to cook for them. One, more or less, is no matter—as long as they’re all gone.” He considered the fire musingly. “But it’s kind of interesting when things fit together like that, huh.... Might drop a line to the old lady, huh?”
“Leave that to me, I certainly will,” I said. “There are two things I have to do; speak to Rivers and write to Mrs. Northrop.”
“But how about this mystery?” Tom asked. “So far as the vision, or whatever you call it, is concerned, it was just a dream. Old man McClintick didn’t walk out of his picture, that’s sure.”
“He might have at that,” Brent drawled. “He was always pretty hard to hold back, I guess. Maybe he was dodging the income tax people.... Turn that log over, will you Tommy?”
Ignoring his levity, Tom fixed the fire.
“Pull that nail keg over here, will you, Tommy?” said Brent. “Put it under my feet—fine.” He resettled himself comfortably.
“That part was a dream and we’ll forget it,” said Tom.
“If you had seen it you wouldn’t forget it,” said I.
“But the footprint under the suitcase is real,” said Brent. “Anyway, the suitcase is real; it’s a cheap one, but it’s real.”
“Well, what do you think about it?” I asked, a trifle annoyed. “You sit there talking as if we were discussing the weather. What are we going to do about it? A stranger was in this lodge, that’s absolutely certain.”
“You want me to deduce conclusions?” Brent drawled. “Well then, if nobody entered by the windows, and if the door wasn’t tampered with, there are two theories left. Either your midnight visitor was in the lodge before you retired, or else he had a key to the door. Personally, I prefer the key theory.”
The thought of there being some one in the lodge with me all through that tempestuous evening, somewhat startled me. “I don’t think so,” I said thoughtfully. “There was no one in either of the other rooms when I went to mine.”
“All right then,” said Tom, jumping into the discussion in his impulsive way; “here’s what we’re face to face with. Here’s a footprint in this hearth. There’s another like it up the mountain. There’s some vestige of a trail—if our dreamer didn’t dream that too. Some one entered this lodge with a key, left a footprint upstairs, and went away again taking the folded up newspaper article about Mr. McClintick’s death with him. Now what about it?”
“You forgot the word scratched on the rock up the mountain,” Brent drawled.
“And that too,” said Tom.
“And Peter Northrop,” I added. “Do you suppose it’s possible that these footprints are his? Whoever he was, he was evidently here. He was here in the hunting season; he promised to send ducks to his mother. All right; he knew the bunch here; he would be interested in reading about the old man’s death; he took the article. Might that fellow, whoever he was, be loitering around here for some reason or other? He might be back here for some purpose. Isn’t that so?”
“Why sure,” said Tom; “that’s what I was coming to.”
“How did he know that a little folded up bit of paper sticking in the door jamb, was of any interest?” Brent asked.
“It was taken away, wasn’t it?” snapped Tom.
“If he took it, it was because he was looking for it,” said Brent.
“All right,” snapped Tom, rising and pacing back and forth in his mounting enthusiasm, “that’s as may be. But here’s the point; we’re pretty sure now there were four people here instead of three—Brent has established that.”
“You flatter me,” said Brent.
“The old man, his son, Weston, and a fellow named Peter Northrop.”
“We’re not sure of that, but it’s a pretty good surmise,” said Brent.
“Now then,” said Tom, “the old man and his son are eliminated. There were two others. Somebody who has a peculiar interest in this place, and doesn’t want it known, has been about here. We don’t know anything about Weston, but he’s the one who accidentally shot young McClintick, and I shouldn’t think he’d ever want to see this place again. Northrop hasn’t been home since. Do you suppose he could be around here now for some reason or other?”
“It’s not impossible,” said Brent in his leisurely way. “Why don’t you two go up the mountain, exploring?”
“Of course,” snapped Tom.
“I’ll do something before we do that,” I said. And spurred to action by our talk, I stepped over to the table, lighted the lamp, and pulling a sheet of paper out of my portfolio wrote:
Leatherstocking Training Camp,P. O. address Harkness, Clinton Co.,New York.My dear Mrs. Northrop:
A letter sent by you to your son, and misdirected, has lately been received at this address. The envelope was much damaged and its contents falling out, so the letter was read by those in charge here. It is hoped that by this time your boy has returned to you, or that you know of his whereabouts.
Mr. McClintick and his son, the former owners here, are both dead and camp has changed hands. If you have not yet heard from your boy it might be worth while to write and tell us something of the circumstances of his coming here as it is barely possible that some trace of him may be obtained in that way.
A stranger, unseen by those in charge here, has lately visited the camp secretly. It has occurred to us that this might possibly be your son. We are curious to know if he had a scar on his foot, and if you could inform us as to this, it might possibly identify this as yet unknown visitor.
The management here hopes that you will not count on any further information from this source, but if it is possible for us to assist you in your search we shall be only too glad to do so.
In answering, please address your envelope the same as the heading of this letter.
I read this intentionally simple missive aloud to Tom and Brent for their approval and Tom signed it as Camp Manager. Brent suggested that we send two copies, one to the mother, the other to the Mrs. Boardman mentioned in her letter. We assumed that Coover’s Falls was a small place. But if it chanced to be a town of considerable population perhaps one letter would be received if the other was not. We had no initials to prefix to the name on either letter. Brent suggested that if Peter Northrop’s mother had married a second time, her name would not be Northrop.
There is something positively uncanny in the way that Brent thinks of things. He never forgets or neglects anything.
CHAPTER XVII—BAFFLED
We had chopped down a number of trees to open a better wagon trail to camp and the stumps of these stood at intervals along this improved approach. Tom had hit on the idea of using some off-length strips of board for rustic seats along this connecting trail between the camp and the public road. Wherever two wayside stumps were near enough together a board was nailed across them with another board as a rough back. Charlie Rivers was doing this work.
Never at a loss for ideas where camping is concerned, Tom had conceived the notion of naming these seats after scout notables and heroes, and Heinie Sheffler, our artist, was decorating the backs of the seats with such designations as TEMPLE REST, DAN BEARD REST, GOOD TURN REST, and so on.
On the morning after our talk in the lodge, Tom drove into Harkness to mail the letters and I strolled along the wagon trail where Heinie and Charlie were working. I thought the opportunity was good to speak with Rivers. I came upon Heinie first squatted on a box before one of the benches, brush in hand, and presenting a ludicrous spectacle of an artist.
“That’s pretty nice lettering you do, Heinie,” I said, pausing to watch him.
“Och, I don’t got no good light,” he complained, intent on his work.
“I don’t see how you can hold your brush steady, reaching so far,” I observed.
“Dot I got no troubles mitt. On life-boats I could paint names when der oashun iss big mitt wafes all rough. But diss, no. I don’t got no good light.”
“Tenderfoot Rest” I read aloud. “Tom’s full of ideas, isn’t he?”
“Ideas, yess,” said Heinie as he worked: “but efficiency, not.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I said, rather resentfully.
“I know about it; diss he didn’t got. Nice boy, good scout—sure. But—”
And Heinie shook his head.
“Why, look what he’s done here,” I said. “He’s inspired us all to hustle—even me. Look at the camp—all these cabins. I don’t think you ought to speak like that, Heinie. Tom likes you; he says you’re a wonder.”
“Nice boy, yess,” said Heinie, smiling. “But he don’t got no efficiency. Look down the trail—Charlie, making benches—toys. He can chop down four trees aready, while me unt you chops down one. Look at shingles, how he nail them on. Look at Burke, quartering logs for chinking. In an hour aready Charlie would make such a pile big enuff for all day. Och, dot feller could work, I would say dot. Sure—but down the trail you find him—see? Making bench toys! He ask Tom for diss job—easy!”
“No, no, Charlie isn’t lazy,” I said.
“Sure not. I wouldn’t deny he got us all beat for work—sure. Dot’s it! Why don’t he got work wot counts mitt getting cabins up? Sure, nice boy, Tom. Laugh, play pinocle, work like ten devils! But for boss—och, he got no efficiency.... Neider I got no good light mitt diss,” he added, intent on his work. Tom’s deficiencies seemed neither to trouble nor prejudice him.
I strolled up the trail toward where Rivers was working. It did seem odd, I reflected, that Tom had set our best worker to this odd job just after the planking had come and the more important labor had been resumed. As for Heinie, his lettering occupied but an hour or so every now and then. But I wondered not only that Tom had set Rivers to this task, but that Rivers (a competent and rapid worker if ever there was one) should have asked for the job.
You will understand that this wagon trail through the woods led to the public road. It was up that way, where the trail reached this public road, that Rivers was working. I did not go straight along the trail, but cut into the woods, for I thought that Brent was gathering sphagnum moss for chinking the storehouse cabin and I wanted to speak with him. He was nowhere to be seen and I went on through the woods, reaching the public road at a point perhaps a hundred yards from the wagon trail. Thus, approaching along the road, I could see Rivers working a few yards from it on the trail. He heard me approaching, and arose suddenly as if startled. I was astonished at this, for I was still some distance from him. He seemed relieved as soon as he had identified me.
“H’lo Charlie,” I greeted. “How’s the work coming on? May I sit down on this bench? Did I startle you?”
“Not many folks come along the road,” he said.
“You’re all by your lonesome up here, huh? I was looking for Brent in the woods.”
He did not pause to entertain me, proceeding with his task as if I were not there. He was the hardest man to talk to I ever knew. It takes two to make a conversation and I could not seduce him into responsiveness. So I made a bold plunge. “Charlie,” I said, “I wonder if I didn’t meet you before I ever came here?”
He paused in his work, looking not at me, but straight ahead of him. “I don’t reckon I did,” he said; “not unless you’re more a man of the woods than I take yer ter be.”
“In Bridgeboro? You don’t remember? How you spoke to me in the street? Last fall—no?”
“Reckon I was in Canada then,” he said. “That’s where Slade lives, huh? No, I ain’t never been there.”
I paused, baffled. And meanwhile, he resumed his work, ignoring me. I felt, as I always felt when speaking with Rivers, that I had been put at a disadvantage. I had tried to verify a conviction, and had only been reminded that I was not a man of the woods. It was a sneer, ever so skilfully conveyed.
CHAPTER XVIII—SEEING IS BELIEVING
So that was that. I told Tom of my encounter with Rivers and he said, “Well, I suppose that settles it.” Brent was even more brief. “Hmph, funny,” he said.
“Tom,” said I, “did Rivers ask you for that job; I mean working out near the end of the trail?”
“Sure, why?”
“Why—I don’t know,” I answered hesitatingly. “I suppose you’ll say I’m always getting impressions, but it seemed to me as if—well, when I happened along the road it seemed to me as if he was startled. And it occurred—it just occurred to me—that maybe he wanted to be right there.”
“Why?”
“Well,” I hesitated; “maybe so he could sort of be on the lookout. You think not?”
“Nah!”
“All right, then that ends it,” I said.
“What I’m thinking about,” said Tom, “is the trail you saw—or didn’t see. I’d like to get a line on that. Either there is one or there isn’t.”
I was rather annoyed at being twice discredited; once by Rivers and once by Tom. “If there was an east wind and rain, I could show it to you readily enough,” I said, rather sharply.
“Sure it wasn’t part of your dream? Remember the face.”
“I am not likely to forget it,” I retorted. “But I’m perfectly willing to leave it out of our reckoning. Let’s say it was a vision. All right, you saw the footprint. Now do you want to go up the mountain and see the other one? And also what’s scratched on the rock? Trail or no trail we can get up that far—I did it. Maybe I’m not a man of the woods, but I did it. As for the spook trail, as you call it, it’s there whether it can be seen now or not.”
“Maybe it caught cold in the rain and can’t come out,” Brent said.
“I’ll find it if it’s there,” Tom said conclusively.
“Atta boy,” said Brent.
“Wait till twilight,” Tom added.
“When the slow declining sun sinks beyond yonder hills,” said Brent. “Sounds like a play, doesn’t it?”
But just the same the twilight did play its part in Tom’s plan. Daggett, Burke and Heinie were out on the lake after their day’s labor. Rivers was down the wagon trail still working; he seldom observed the regular hours. Thus, unseen by any save Brent and myself, Tom climbed the huge elm which overspread our lodge. It was fifteen minutes or more before he descended.
“You’re right,” he said conclusively, “there’s a trail all right. This is getting interesting.”
“Is it up there in the tree?” Brent asked.
“Come ahead,” said Tom as he explained volubly. “You know how it is at twilight, the light’s the same all over—while it lasts. Get up high somewhere and look down and if there’s a trail you’ll see it. Why in the war the aviators used to discover trails that had never been seen down below, just little trails made by soldiers going single file—new trails. Twilight’s the best time. Or very early morning if there’s no mist. This trail runs from—well, between those two cabins, up past those rocks, and on up.”
“Do you believe now that I saw that face?” I asked.
“What’s this got to do with faces?” he snapped. “Come ahead, follow me.”
“To-morrow evening, at twilight, I’ll climb up the tree and take a nap up there,” said Brent. “Then I’ll be able to tell you if your dream was true.”
“Well, don’t take a nap down here,” said Tom. “Come on, let’s get away from here before the boys come in.”
On he went, pausing now and again to examine the ground or scrutinize some brush or tree that we passed. I could not see any sign of trail. Brent accompanied us with a kind of whimsical submissiveness. Tom was so detached and preoccupied that he did not question him. Here indeed he was at his best, the true scout, and seeing no guiding line beneath our feet, I marveled as he verged to right or left acting, apparently, on the hint of some stone or drooping bough. Once, when we were well upon the mountainside he paused, whistling in preoccupation, as he studied a tree trunk from which he said an obstructing branch had been broken off within a month or two, he thought. “Didn’t you notice that the other day?” he asked me. He looked about and found the severed branch in a grassy gully near by. “See?” he concluded triumphantly.
“There is only one Houdini—or was,” said Brent.
I am certain that our route was not the same as that I had followed in my haphazard ascent. Yet once or twice I did recognize trifles that I had seen before. Probably in places I had been on the trail. Tom’s progress was more purposeful, and he moved from one significant thing to another as one proceeds by means of stepping stones across a stream. I was astonished by his discovery of little signs that seemed sufficient to guide him. At one place he paused in a perfect tangle of underbrush, Brent and I dutifully pausing also while he stooped to inspect a stone which he had discovered by stepping on it. He said it was a trail stone, meaning that it had been much stepped on.
“The only thing this thoroughfare lacks is a name,” said Brent, as he started again, lifting his lanky legs high out of the dense growth. “Be on your watch for a traffic cop, Tommy.”
Soon we came to my discovery, the long wisp of pliant wood tied around the tree at the head of the declivity. “Here it is,” I said triumphantly.
“You can see I didn’t dream it. Now that’s there to grab hold of. Am I right?”
Tom was too preoccupied with his inspection of it even to answer me. “Why, it hasn’t been here long, either,” he said; “it’s fresh, look here.” And he pulled a long strip of bark from it. “Look at the color of that—feel of it.”
“Well,” said I with a slight touch of disdain. “What did I tell you?”
“That’s a kind of a—let’s see—that’s a—no it isn’t—yes it is,” Tom said. “That’s a colly knot. I haven’t seen one tied like that since I was overseas. Come ahead, let’s go up and look at these rocks.”
“You will find them as represented,” I said with an air of quiet triumph.
“If not, we get our money back,” said Brent.
CHAPTER XIX—GUESSWORK OR ACTION
My star exhibit, the footprint, was as clear as when I had first seen it, and I permitted myself to gloat a little as Tom, and even Brent, gazed at it with riveted astonishment. “And there is the word,” I said, as I indicated each crazy letter of the topsy-turvy printing. “S-T-R-A-N-G-L-E.”
Tom only shook his head, amazed, bewildered. “Three of them,” he said. “Yep, they’re all prints of the same foot. Gosh, I don’t know what to think. But one thing is certain. Somebody who was at camp a long while ago has been here lately. That’s dead sure.”
“And doesn’t want it known,” said Brent.
“Righto,” Tom agreed.... “Well,” he added, arousing himself to action, “how about this trail? I wonder where it goes from here, anyway? All the way up, do you suppose? What do you say, shall we follow it along?”
“I don’t see how we can do that, it’s getting dark,” I said. “We certainly couldn’t reach the summit to-night even if it can be done at all.”
“Trouble is, I’d rather the boys wouldn’t know anything about this business,” Tom said. “It’s pretty hard to get away without them knowing something about it.” He paused, seeming to consider. “This is a blamed mysterious kind of business if you’re asking me,” he mused aloud. “And the only theory I have—well somehow that chap Northrop sticks in my mind.” In his obvious bewilderment he turned upon Brent. It was interesting to see how this indomitable scout and pathfinder turned instinctively to his friend about a question not involving scout skill and physical prowess. “What do you think about it, Brent? Will you please for once give us a serious answer? What do you think about this business? This spook-ridden camp we’re in. Blame it all, I wish I knew something about that Northrop.”
Brent glanced about in the little rocky shelter as if looking for something to sit on, and it was amusing to note how Tom always reacted to this leisurely habit of his friend. “What do you want, a steamer chair?” he asked.
Brent slowly seated himself on a rock. “Are you sure you’ve told us all you know—all you heard—about this place, Tommy?” he asked.
“Why, sure,” said Tom.
“Well, it’s a puzzle,” said Brent. “Here’s what we actually do know. We know somebody lately passed down through here and left a footprint. We don’t know that the same person scratched that word—now wait a minute, Tommy, don’t interrupt. I’m talking about what we know. Let’s stand on the ground—”
“Or sit down,” I playfully suggested.
“All right,” said Brent. “We know that a footprint just like this was left in a room in the lodge the other night. And we know that these two footprints match another one that was left in the hearth a long time ago. So we know that some one who was here a long time ago, has been around here lately. Now that’s what we actually do know, because footprints can mean only one thing. If we want to find out who’s hanging around here, the best thing to do is to hunt for him, or at least watch for him. When we find him, if we do, we’ll find out who he is and why he’s here.”
“There’s one thing more that we know,” I said.
“We don’t know for an absolute certainty that there were four people here,” Brent said. “We have what they call presumptive evidence, that’s all.”
“That isn’t what I mean,” I said. “But we do know—”
“Cut out the dream,” said Tom.
“We do know,” I continued, “that the person who entered the lodge the other night had a key.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Brent said thoughtfully.
I paused before expressing a thought—something less than a thought—that was lurking in the back of my mind. “Do you suppose that this Northrop, whoever he is or was, might have been mixed up in some way with the murder of Mr. McClintick? Whoever returned here the other night had a key. It was some one familiar with the place. He was interested in that article about McClintick’s death—took it away with him. This man Northrop has been missing from his home. McClintick was strangled, and there’s the word scratched up on the rock.”
“Why should he scratch it there?” Brent asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But it’s rather interesting to find that particular word scratched there—right where one of the footprints is.”
“It seems to me,” Brent said, “that whoever scratched that word there wasn’t exactly in his right mind. Nice, intelligent, normal murderers don’t do things like that. Why pick on our missing friend, Peter? How about absent-minded Wes, the young duck-shooter?”
“If you mean Mr. Weston why don’t you say so?” Tom snapped.
“He might have gone crazy at that,” Brent said. “Maybe he—didn’t you say he went to pieces after popping little Rollie?”
“Roland,” said Tom.
“Well, as long as we’re giving guesses,” Brent continued, “Weston was the one who had the best reason to go to pieces. Maybe in that state he fancied the old gent would kill him, so he beat him to it. One guess is as good as another. All we know about Northrop is that he didn’t go home.”
“And that he wasn’t mentioned as being here at all at the time of the accident,” I said.
“That’s one thing I can’t understand,” Tom exclaimed.
“Well,” said Brent, rising, “here we are part way up a mountain playing guess, guess and night coming on. The thing to do is find out who’s been around here if we can. Come on, let’s go down home.”
Before descending, Tom examined the land above the rocks and found that the trail, such as it was, continued on up the mountain. As I glanced up there it seemed to me quite incredible that any one could ascend to the summit. Surely, I thought, the trail could not be continuous and must encounter many obstacles. But Tom argued that the footprint at the rocks proved that our mysterious visitor had descended the mountain, since there was no evidence of any one having camped in the little rocky shelter. He was all for action and resolved to follow the trail to the very summit, if that were possible, the next day.
How to do this without the others of our party knowing about it was a question. Tom thought it would seem less significant if he went alone, and his determination to do this was the more easily reached because of the rather poor opinion he held of Brent and me as scouts.
“That’s the only thing to do,” he said, as we made our way back to camp. “There’s no use wasting time in guesswork, and I can’t sit around, or even work, knowing that there’s maybe somebody lurking around the place. Somebody came down that trail or the footprint wouldn’t be there on the mountain, that’s sure. I’m going to find out where the blamed thing leads to.” He seemed full of resolve, restive for action, and rattled on in his hearty, vigorous way as we picked our path down the mountainside.
“I don’t want either of you to go along,” he exclaimed. “It isn’t necessary and the boys will only wonder what we’re up to. I’m going to start out to-morrow at daylight; I always wanted to get to the top of the mountain anyway. Now if anybody asks any questions about me just let them think I went to Harkness on foot; you can sidestep questions all right. Probably that’s what they’ll think anyway, because they know the flivver doesn’t work half the time. When I come down to-morrow afternoon, I may have something to tell you. If somebody came down the mountain I ought to be able to go up. I’ll punch a hole in this blamed mystery and be done with it. The plaguy thing’s getting on my nerves.”
CHAPTER XX—SUSPENSE
Tom had gone when we arose in the morning and there were no questions asked. He often went to Harkness and sometimes to the sawmill at Rogers Gap and was gone all day, so there was nothing remarkable about his absence. I dare say no one even knew that he had not gone in the flivver.
In the light of subsequent happenings how vividly I recall that day! The early morning was cold and the roofs of the cabins covered with frost. But soon the sun dispelled this chilliness and the air was filled with the balmy fragrance of spring. We had a pretty good illustration of the effects of long and heavy rains on the mountain lakes of that region, and I was impressed with Tom’s wisdom in not building any cabins too near the shore. Every little gully on our camp land was a running stream, and every depression a miniature pond. There was one place where it was clear that every storm would transform a certain irregular hollow (which we had not even noticed) into a broad and rushing torrent. So Brent and Tim and I spent the day in throwing up a couple of rustic bridges at convenient spots across the course of this occasional outlet.
At suppertime Tom had not returned and Brent and I thought he must have made a discovery. Nothing in particular was said about his absence. We played cards with the boys for a while and then they went to their cabin. Brent and I sat up till midnight, puzzled and a trifle concerned. Still I cannot say that we were greatly worried, Tom was so thoroughly at home in the woods. I did think it possible that he might have got lost in the darkness on that wild mountain. Acting on this thought we hung a lantern in the window and I fixed a sheet of shiny tin (such as is used to lay beneath shingles in certain parts of a roof) behind it so as to throw the glare toward the mountain. “He ought to be able to see that from any part of the slope,” I said. Then, comforting ourselves with the thought that this belated beacon would guide him, we went to bed for we were very sleepy.
I must have been dozing when I thought I heard him tiptoeing on the balcony and I slept the better for that assurance that he had returned. But in the morning we found him still absent and we were greatly perplexed. Here was something added to the mystery of that uncanny place. The lantern, still burning in the window, seemed to emphasize the strange non-appearance of our comrade. It was still very early, for Brent had aroused me at dawn, and as he lifted down the lantern with its makeshift reflector, it cast a glow upon the footprint in the cement hearth. For just a moment this stood out in bold relief in the surrounding gray of early morning.
“What had we better do?” I asked. “For my part, I can’t go to work with Tom absent like this. Should we arouse the boys and tell them? Surely something is wrong; he wouldn’t have stayed up there all night unless something had happened.”
“I don’t like the idea of talking about these matters with the crew,” Brent said. “If Tommy is just lost of course it would be all right, though I suppose they’d wonder why he went up the mountain. Blame it all, it’s hard to know what to do. Trouble is, I have a feeling—I just can’t help it—that something is going to come out about this place, that something is going to happen. What kept Tommy away all night with that lantern burning in the window? It would be pretty tough, after all the work that’s been done here, if anything happened to give the place a black eye. People are queer, when you come right down to it. There’s many a good house standing empty because it has the reputation of being haunted.”
His thoughtfulness made me thoughtful also. “Sure enough,” I agreed. “If anything happened to hurt the prospects of this camp it would be a harder blow for poor Tom than any personal mishap that could befall him.... I tell you what let’s do, Brent. Let’s go right now, before any one is about, and drive the flivver out into the road and down a little distance. Then they’ll think that you and Tom and I went to Harkness early; they won’t think twice about it. We can cut up through the woods and get into the mountain trail that way. We’ll be out of sight before they’re out of bed. We can follow the trail up, and if the worst comes to the worst, and we find that something has happened, it will be time enough then to tell them. What do you say?”
This seemed to be the best plan and we were soon cutting up through the woods approaching the sheltering rocks from a new point. It was hard to reach them by this route, but they stood out in plain view so we had them to guide us through the dense, trailless thicket. No one was stirring about the camp when we looked down from this romantic spot. A mist lay over the lake and my thoughts recurred, as they so often did (especially in early morning), to the shocking accident which had occurred there.
There was but one little sign of Tom at this spot. On the edge of a certain flat stone was a sort of stained or scraped area which Brent said was where a knife had been sharpened. This supposition was soon confirmed by the blazings on trees above the rocks. Evidently Tom had found no trail beyond this point and had plunged into the thicket, blazing his way as he ascended, so that he might be guided on his return. This made our own progress easy, or at least enabled us to follow his own path on up the mountain.
After about half an hour’s climbing through bramble and thicket and up minor precipices and rocky ledges, Brent suddenly reached forward laying his hand on my shoulder.
“Shh! Listen!” said he.