Dick Merriwell's Trap: or, The Chap Who Bungled

But Hogan was a coarse fellow, and he had found it impossible to get in with Dick’s friends. Dick treated him well enough, but Dick’s friends would have none of him. This had turned Hogan’s wavering soul to bitterness again.

These fellows were satisfied that it was only a matter of time when Merriwell and Arlington would become firm friends. That was because they had not sounded the depths of Arlington’s nature, had not realized that his hatred was of the sort that nearly always lived while life lasted.

Arlington had taken a fresh hand and was playing his cards in a new way. And he had resolved not to trust his most intimate friend. He, also, had learned that Dick Merriwell had a most wonderful faculty of turning enemies into friends without at all seeming to wish such a thing.

“The fellows here who pretend to be his enemies to-day may be fawning around him to-morrow,” Arlington had decided. “I must be careful and trust no one. I will fool them all.”

Be careful, Chester! There is such a thing as over-playing a part. You may fool many of them, but you will have to be very clever if you fool Dick Merriwell. You will find that those dark eyes of his have a way of reading secrets, of seeming to look straight through you, of piercing the dark corners of your heart and discovering your motives.

That night three dark figures stole away from the academy and made for a certain strip of woods in the heart of which lay a jungle of fallen trees that had been swept down by a tornado. Other trees had sprung up, bushes were thick, wild vines overran the mass in summer, fallen branches were strewn about; and still through this jungle a path had been made. It led to a secret retreat, where the Black Wolves had met many times to smoke and play cards and concoct plots. They knew the way well, and they followed it through the semi-darkness, for the moon was veiled by clouds.

At one place they were compelled to walk the trunk of a tree that had fallen against another tree. At an angle they walked upward along that often-trod tree trunk, coming to another fallen tree, lodged like the first against the one that remained standing. Down the second tree they made their way. Thus they passed over a thicket through which no path had been made, coming beyond it to what seemed almost like a tunnel, where the darkness was most intense. Creeping through this tunnel, they arrived in the Den, which had been formed originally by a number of trees that fell together, or were twisted together at their tops by the hurricane, in the form of an Indian wigwam. Inside, at the bottom the branches had been cleared away, boughs were spread on the ground, and in the center was a stone fireplace, about which the Wolves could sit in council.

Dry wood had been gathered and piled at hand, and some of this they soon arranged on the stones. Dry leaves served in the place of shavings. They were sheltered from the keen night air, but a fire would feel grateful enough, and one hastened to strike a match with numb fingers.

The leaves flamed up brightly, the wood caught fire with a pleasant crackling sound, and smoke began to roll upward. Then, of a sudden, one of the trio uttered a gasping exclamation of astonishment and startled terror, grasping the arm of another, and pointing toward one side of the Den. There, bolt upright and silent, sat a human figure, seeming to glare at them with glassy eyes.

So still was that figure that Crauthers, who had seen it first, thought it lifeless. It seemed like a person who had sought shelter there and had died, sitting straight up, with eyes wide open and staring. Was it a tramp?

No. As the fire rose still brighter they recognized the unbidden one. It was Miguel Bunol.

“The Spaniard!” exclaimed Stark.

“Spying on us!” burst from the lips of Crauthers, as he saw Bunol’s eyes move and realized the fellow was very much alive.

“Sure as fate!” agreed Hogan. “He is Arlington’s right-hand man, and he must be here as a spy.”

Bunol laughed softly, coldly.

“Don’t be fool all of you!” he said. “Bunol not a spy. Not much at all!”

“Confound you!” growled Crauthers, who seemed ready to leap on the Spanish lad. “What are you doing here, anyhow?”

“I belong to Wolves. I have right to be here.”

“You were not invited. You were not told we meant to meet here. Then – ”

“Bunol is no fool. He find out some things you do not tell him. But why you do not tell him? He is a Wolf, and he have right to know.”

“Oh, go to Arlington, your master!” exclaimed Fred Stark.

“Chester Arlington no master of Miguel Bunol!” returned the young Spaniard, with heat. “Some time he find Bunol be his master. You wait, you see.”

The young rascals looked at one another in doubt. Up to this time Bunol had seemed Arlington’s devoted servant, and it did not seem possible he had turned against Chester so soon and so unexpectedly.

“Trick!” muttered Hogan suspiciously.

Stark thought so, too. He believed Arlington had somehow learned they were to meet there, and had sent Bunol to act as a spy and to learn what happened.

“Better soak him!” said Crauthers, who longed to get revenge on Chester in some manner, and thought it would be partial revenge to give his trusted servant a good thumping.

Bunol had not stirred. He was watching them closely with his keen eyes, and his equally keen ears missed not a word they spoke. He understood, too.

“Don’t be fools!” he said, in the same soft voice. “You will not find it safe to soak Miguel Bunol.”

“He carries a knife,” said Stark.

Bunol’s lips curled in a bitter smile. They did not know what had become of his knife. Dick Merriwell had it, but some day he would get it back.

“Look here, you!” he said, “Let me tell you! I have done with Chester Arlington as friend. You think a long time he is my master. Bah! All the time I am his master! All the time he pay my way here at school. I make him give to me the money. How I do it? No matter. I have way. Now he have spend so much he get in bad hole. He try to throw me over. Ha! I say no. He think he is my master, and he say I have to go. He give me one hundred dollars to get me to go. I laugh at him. I say one thousand. He cannot give that. I know he cannot give it. I stay. But I know he mean to get done with me soon as he can. I have done many thing for him, and it make me sore. Ha! See? No longer am I his friend. I make him give me money, but no longer will I do anything for him. I like to see him get it some in the neck. Ha!”

Again the boys looked at each other, this time wondering if Bunol spoke the truth.

“What kind of a game is this?” muttered Stark.

But Bunol protested that it was no game at all, and he swore by all things good and bad that he spoke the truth. He began to convince them. He showed his feeling of hatred for Chester Arlington was intense as well as unreasoning. He seemed to feel that, after providing him with money so long, after accepting him as a companion, after introducing him as belonging to a noble family, that Chester had no right to cast him off and refuse to maintain him longer. He seemed to feel that Chester was doing him a great injury, and he was burning with a desire for revenge.

Crauthers, Hogan, and Stark put their heads together and whispered.

“What do you think?” asked Hogan.

“Fellow’s on the level,” said Stark.

“Believe that’s right,” agreed Crauthers.

“Shall we trust him?”

“He may come handy.”

“Just the one to get at Arlington.”

“He may betray us,” suggested Hogan.

“Put him to the test,” recommended Stark.

“How?” questioned Crauthers.

“Require him to make some move against Arlington.”

“Good idea!”

“First-class!”

“Let him make good by attacking Arlington,” grinned Hogan.

“Will he do it?” whispered Stark.

“Try him! try him!” sibilated Crauthers.

Crauthers was eager for the test. He told himself it would be great satisfaction to bring about a clash between Chester and Bunol. It would give him the keenest satisfaction to watch Bunol knock Chester out. But could Bunol do it? Surely not unless he attacked Arlington unawares and without warning.

The Spaniard, however, was just the one to make such an attack. It was like him to spring on the back of an unsuspecting enemy.

“How much do you hate Chet Arlington?” asked Stark, as he turned to Bunol, who was now coolly smoking a cigarette.

“How much? You wait, you see.”

“But you must prove that you hate him. We can’t trust you unless you convince us. You have been his friend. How can we be sure you are not so still?”

“How you want me to prove it?”

“You must jump him!” palpitated Crauthers. “You must give him a good thumping.”

“When?”

“First chance you get.”

“All right,” said Bunol. “I do that. I show you. Then you know I hate him same as I hate Deek Merriwell.”

Crauthers was filled with the greatest satisfaction. Was it possible Bunol would keep his word? Then it would be fine to turn the fellow against Chet Arlington. One thing that had brought Mark Crauthers to the Den that evening was a desire to induce the others to stand with him in a plan to humiliate and punish Arlington. And now they had stumbled on a way of accomplishing that purpose without taking the work in their own hands.

So Bunol was again admitted to the circle, and they sat about the fire, warming their fingers and smoking. The blaze flared fitfully, lighting their faces and filling the interior of the Den with a pleasant glow.

Like brigands were they there in that snug retreat of the tangled woods. The wind did not reach them, for the thicket broke it. At times it rose and roared above their heads. The trees creaked at intervals, but in all that strip of woods no living creature save themselves seemed present.

Winter was at hand. The breath of King Cold was sweeping across the world. Yet they were warm and comfortable in their sheltered retreat. With blankets and a fire they could have passed the night there in an agreeable manner.

“I’m getting sick of school,” said Crauthers, tenderly caressing his swollen eye. “I’d like to get away. I’d like to go West, or somewhere, and live in the woods, and just hunt and fish and do as I pleased. Wouldn’t it be great, fellows?”

“It might be all right for a while,” said Stark; “but you’d get sick of it pretty soon.”

Crauthers shook his head.

“Don’t you think it!” he exclaimed. “I used to think I’d go to sea, or run away and become a cowboy; but, of course, I’ve gotten over that, for I’ve found out going to sea isn’t such fun, and the cowboy business is getting played out. All the same, a fellow could be a nomad and just hunt and fish and – ”

“And tramp!” laughed Stark. “No, thank you! I have no desire to lead the life of a hobo.”

“Oh, I don’t mean to be a common hobo. I read the other day that there are lots of people in the country yet who make a good living by hunting. I’d like that. I like to hunt. I enjoy shooting squirrels and birds and things, and I know it would be great sport killing big game. I’d enjoy perforating a grizzly bear and then cutting its throat with my hunting-knife.”

“Oh, that would be fine!” came sarcastically from Stark. “But it would not be such sport if you happened to wound the bear and he got you in a corner. I believe grizzlies are somewhat dangerous under such circumstances.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind the danger!” asserted Crauthers. “That would be part of the sport. I’m not afraid – ”

Then he stopped short, for through the woods rang a long-drawn, lonely cry, like that of some prowling animal. Crauthers turned pale and showed symptoms of agitation.

“What was that?” he whispered.

The others were startled.

“Sounded like the cry of a wolf or a wildcat,” muttered Hogan.

The wind rose, rushed through the tree tops and died away. As they sat there listening, the doleful cry was repeated, and this time it sounded much nearer than before. The thing was approaching!

CHAPTER XX – DONE IN THE DARK

One who has never been in the woods at night and heard such a strange, awesome, blood-chilling sound cannot understand the shuddery feeling that creeps over the flesh of the listener.

In his veins Crauthers seemed to feel his blood turning to ice-water. His heart stood still when the second cry came, then leaped and pounded so violently that there was a pain in his breast.

“There’s one of your wild animals, Mark!” said Stark, who was not a little nervous himself, although he wished to hide the fact.

“For the Lord’s sake keep still!” breathed Crauthers, his dark teeth knocking together tremulously as he uttered the words. “What can it be?”

“Here’s your chance to hunt a wild animal,” said Hogan. “Go out and tackle it.”

“Why, you know I haven’t a weapon!”

“Bunol will lend you his knife.”

“No,” said the Spaniard. “The knife I have not.”

“Haven’t even a knife?” gasped Crauthers. “I’ve got a revolver, but I didn’t bring it. Great Scott! not one of us is armed! What if we are attacked?”

“Clubs, fellows!” said Hogan, as he began to pull over the little pile of wood.

“Out with the fire!” sibilated Crauthers, “That’s what has attracted the thing.”

Stark grasped him.

“Let the fire burn,” he said. “Haven’t you read how it will hold real wolves at bay?”

“That’s no wolf!” said Hogan. “It may be a wildcat, but there are no wolves in these parts.”

By this time the boys had each secured a club. The wind had lulled, and silence lay on the woods. Once more the cry came to their ears, and this time it was even nearer. But now there seemed something strangely human about it.

“Listen!” urged Bunol.

He placed his fingers to his lips and blew the signal of the Wolf Gang, a peculiar whistle that cut shrilly through the night.

“You fool!” snarled Crauthers. “Do you – ”

Then he stopped, for the signal was answered in a similar manner. Again the wondering boys looked at one another.

“Our signal!” they said.

“I thought I knew who yelled to us,” said Bunol, in satisfaction.

“There is only one fellow at Fardale who knows our signal,” said Stark.

“That’s Arlington!” declared Hogan.

“He comes,” declared Bunol.

“What? Chet Arlington coming here? Why – ”

“Somehow he think we may be here, and he comes,” said the Spaniard.

Immediately Stark’s suspicions were reawakened.

“It’s a put up job!” he declared. “He sent you here, Bunol, to listen to our plans, and now he is coming. Confound your treacherous skin, if you – ”

“Hold on!” spoke the Spanish lad, in a low tone. “Better go slow. I have nothing to do with him. I hate him. I prove it to you.”

“Prove it now!” urged Crauthers. “This is your chance!”

“How?”

“Go out there and lay for him in the darkness. When he comes along, soak him! That’s the way to do it! I dare you to do it – I dare you!”

“I’ll do it!” declared Miguel, at once, “Put out fire so he will not see. Quick!”

Crauthers dashed aside the brands with his foot and began to stamp them out.

“Hold on!” urged Stark. “I don’t know about this business. Better be careful, or we’ll all get into – ”

“He can’t prove a thing. If he’s alone, we are four to his one. If he is bringing any one here, it’s right to meet him and give it to him. Go on, Bunol.”

Crauthers ground the dying embers beneath his feet, and the interior of the Den was plunged into darkness, save for the faint glow of a few coals.

“You wait!” whispered Bunol, as he crouched to creep forth. “You see now how much friend I am to him! I prove it to you! I get even with him!”

He still retained the club he had caught up from the pile of wood.

Stark was apprehensive, but Crauthers was shaking with eagerness, being seized by an intense longing to join in the attack on Arlington.

As they waited, the approaching person whistled again.

“He’s crossing the tree-bridge!” palpitated Crauthers. “Bunol will be sure to be waiting for him when he reaches the ground on this side. Keep quiet!”

They did not have to wait long. Soon they heard the sound of a sudden struggle, a muffled, broken cry, and a heavy fall. Their hearts beat painfully after a period of shocked stillness, and it was not without difficulty that they breathed.

The night wind passed over the woods like a sigh.

Hogan started to say something in a whisper, but he was checked, and they waited yet a little longer. Then the voice of Miguel Bunol, soft and steady, called to them.

“Come out and see how I keep my word,” it said. “I prove to you I do not lie.”

Still they hesitated.

“What do you suppose the fool has done?” muttered Stark apprehensively. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”

He was the first of the remaining trio to creep forth from the Den. The others followed him, and they found Bunol waiting in the path.

“Come,” he said, and they silently followed him to a little distance, pausing near the foot of the nearer tree that completed the bridge over the jungle.

“Here he is,” said the Spaniard.

“Where?” asked Stark.

“At your feet.” But they could see nothing.

Stark struck a match, sheltering it with his hollowed hands, as he cast the light downward. Hogan breathed forth an exclamation that betrayed the agitated state of his nerves.

For the flickering light fell on the pale face of Chester Arlington, who lay stretched on his back where he had fallen when struck down by the club in the hands of Miguel Bunol. Arlington’s eyes were closed, and near his left temple something red trickled down from his hair.

“Good heavens!” gasped Hogan, as he dropped on his knees. “Why, this is carrying the thing too far! I’m afraid he’s badly hurt!”

Crauthers said nothing, for in his heart there was a mingled sensation of satisfaction and fear.

“What in blazes have you done, Bunol?” demanded Stark, who was likewise alarmed.

“I soak him!” said the Spaniard. “That was what you say for me to do. I do it!”

The match fell from Stark’s fingers. In darkness they stood huddled about that silent form stretched on the ground. Fear had gripped their hearts. They longed to turn and hurry from the spot, but curiosity held them yet a little longer.

Stark struck another match and bent over Arlington. He thrust a hand inside Chester’s coat and felt for his heart. In his excitement he was quite unaware that he was feeling on the wrong side.

“My God!” he said huskily. “You have killed him, Bunol! His heart does not even flutter!”

“He should know better than to fool with Miguel Bunol,” said the Spaniard.

By the gleam of the expiring match they glanced at Miguel’s face and saw there no look of regret. The Spaniard was utterly pitiless, and remorse had not touched him. A little while before he had seemed the devoted friend of Chester Arlington, but his friendship had turned to the bitterest hatred, and his hatred had led to this terrible deed that might be – murder!

“Let’s get out of here!” whispered Crauthers, “We didn’t do it! We had nothing to do with it! We know nothing about it!”

Stark wanted them to stay a little longer, but panic seemed to clutch them. Crauthers went staggering up the tree trunk, with Hogan following close behind. They did not pause when Stark called to them.

“We better go, too,” said Bunol.

“You go to the devil!” burst from Stark, suddenly overcome by repulsion caused by the treachery of the fellow. But he did not care to be left there with the Spaniard and the fellow he had slain, so he hastened to cross over the trees and rush after his companions.

Like a cat, Bunol followed, and in the desolate woods was left the unfortunate lad who had been struck down by his erstwhile comrade.

The wind moaned through the trees with a dreary sound, dying away like a sigh. The woods were still. The trees and the thickets seemed to listen and wait for some sign of life in that motionless figure.

Stark called to Hogan and Crauthers as he stumbled along the path. He uttered exclamations of annoyance, pain, and anger when branches whipped him stingingly across the face. Three or four times he stumbled and fell, but he was up again and hurrying on in a twinkling.

“Where are those fools?” he grated. “What do they mean by running away and leaving me like this!”

He paused a moment to listen, and then he gave a great start, for right beside him a voice spoke:

“They run like cowards.”

“Bunol!” exclaimed Stark, far from pleased. “What in blazes do you mean by following me so closely? I didn’t hear you behind me.”

“You all run off,” said the Spanish lad. “Why you think I should stay?”

“You did the trick! You should have remained to make sure he was dead or alive, one or the other.”

“Bah!” said the other. “If he is dead, it do no good to stay. If he is ’live, he come out of it after while, and I care not to be round. He no see who hit him. If he is ’live, I no want him to have some proof.”

“You were a fool to strike so hard with that club!”

“When I hate, I hate hard. When I strike, I strike hard.”

“But you were a fool! Think of it! You killed him!”

“Perhaps so, perhaps not.”

“I know; I felt for his heart.”

Stark was in a terrible state of mind, for murder was a thing to shake his nerves, even though it had not been meditated upon in advance. His brain seemed confused, and he could not decide on the proper course to pursue. The horror of the tragedy in the woods was on him, and he could not shake it off.

Bunol managed to hold himself well in hand, and his nerve seemed wonderful, making him more repellent to Stark.

“You killed him!” repeated Fred. “You may be hanged for it!”

“Why? Nobody need know.”

“Such things are bound to come out. Besides, why should we put ourselves in a bad box by shielding you? You – you alone are to blame!”

“Ha!” cried Bunol derisively. “You say that? You? Why, you sent me to soak him! You dare to blow on me? Ha! You be in bad scrape, too!”

Stark drew off from the fellow. The shadow of the gloomy woods was close at hand, and he turned from it. Several times he looked back, fearing to see a ghostly figure in pursuit.

Bunol clung close to him. They had not proceeded far before two other forms rose from behind an old stone wall. Stark halted, his heart giving a leap, but one of the two called, and he recognized the voice of Hogan.

Hogan and Crauthers were shivering. The cold night wind seemed to cut them to the bone. Their teeth chattered, and Crauthers seemed almost on the verge of collapse.

“Fellows,” said Stark, “we were fools to run away like that. We should have stayed. Perhaps Arlington was not dead. He may lay there and die in the woods.”

“I wouldn’t go back there for a thousand dollars!” said Crauthers.

Hogan longed to go back, but he lacked the nerve.

They all turned on Bunol, whom they reviled for his act.

“Yah!” snarled the Spaniard. “You squeal! You just as bad! You send me to do it.”

“Get away from us!” said Hogan. “We want nothing more to do with you!”

“Perhaps you blow on me?”

They made no answer, seeking to hurry from him, but he followed them up.

“You blow, I swear I kill you!” he cried. “I swear to do it, and I keep my word! You see! you see!”

They had been ascending a hill. Now they turned on him, and, as they did so, a cry of surprise came from the lips of Hogan.

“Good Lord, boys!” he exclaimed; “just look there!”

They saw him fling his arm out in a gesture toward the distant strip of woods. They looked, and what they saw was startling in the extreme. In the midst of the woods there was a reddish glare which rose and glowed and grew stronger every minute.

“The woods are afire!” gasped Crauthers.

“Sure thing!” came from the lips of Stark.

“Why, how – ”

“It started from our fire in the Den! When the brands were scattered – that’s what did it!”

“Boys,” said Stark chokingly, “Arlington is there in the burning woods! If we had brought him out! Perhaps we can do it now! Come, fellows – come, let’s go back!”

They caught hold of him.

“Too late!” said Crauthers. “See how the fire is spreading! The wind is driving it. The whole strip of woods will be a mass of roaring flame in a few minutes!”

Miguel Bunol stood by, no words falling from his lips. In his heart there was a feeling of relief caused by sight of the rising fire.

“If the Spaniard had stayed away – ” began Crauthers.