The Boy Scouts' Mountain Camp

“Those were the days,” Dale said with a regretful sigh, “money was plenty then. By the way, Pete, did you ever hear what became of Black Bart and the others after the revenues broke us up?”

“No, I never wanted to take a chance of inquiring,” rejoined Peter, puffing at a dirty corn cob. “I did hear, though, that they had resumed operations some place around here.”

“They did, eh? I suppose they figgered that lightning don’t never strike twice in the same place.”

“Just the same, they are taking a long chance. With revenues against you it’s all one sided – like the handle of a jug.”

“That’s so. But there’s good money in it, and Black Bart would risk a lot for that.”

The conversation was carried on in low tones. Rob, intent though he was, could not catch any more of it. But he pondered over what he had heard. If what Jim Dale and Peter had said was correct, a gang of moonshiners still made the mountains thereabouts their habitat.

“It’s a strange situation we’ve stumbled into,” thought the boy.

Then he fell to observing Stonington Hunt and his son, Freeman. The man and the boy were talking earnestly at some distance from Peter and Jim Dale. From their gestures and expressions Rob made out that the conversation was an important one. From the frequent glances which they cast in his direction he also divined that he himself, was, in all probability, the subject of it.

All at once Stonington Hunt arose and came toward him. Freeman followed him. They came straight up to Rob and stood over him.

“Well, Rob Blake,” sneered young Hunt, “I guess things are different to what they were the time you drove me out of Hampton and forced my father to profess all sorts of reformation.”

“I don’t know,” rejoined Rob coolly and contemptuously, “you seem to me to be very much the same sort of a chap you were then.”

The inference, and Rob’s unshaken manner, appeared to infuriate the youth.

“We’ve got you where we want you now,” he snarled, “it would serve you right if I took all the trouble you’ve caused us out upon your hide. You and that patrol of yours cost us our social position, then that Hopkins kid lost our sloop for us – ”

“The sloop in which you meant to decamp with the major’s papers,” put in Rob in the same calm tones, “don’t try to assume any better position than that of a common thief, Freeman.”

With a quick snarl of rage the boy jumped on the helpless and bound boy. He brought his fist down on Rob’s face with all his force. Then he fastened his hands in Rob’s hair and tugged with all his might. But suddenly something happened. Something that startled young Hunt considerably.

Rob gave a quick twist and despite his bonds managed to half raise himself. In this position he gave the other lad such a terrific “butt” that Freeman was sent staggering backward, with a white face. Unable to regain his balance he presently fell flat on the sand. He scrambled to his feet and seized a big bit of timber, the limb of a hemlock that lay close at hand. He was advancing, brandishing this with the intention of annihilating Rob when Stonington Hunt, who had hitherto been an impassive observer, stepped between them.

“Here, here, what’s all this?” he snapped angrily. “This isn’t a fighting ring. Put down that stick, Freeman, and you, young Blake, listen to me.”

“I’m listening,” said Rob, in the same cold, impassive way that had so irritated Freeman.

“You want to regain your freedom and rejoin your friends, don’t you?” was the next question.

“If it can be done by honorable means – yes. But I doubt if you can employ such, after what I’ve seen of you.”

“Hard words won’t mend matters,” rejoined Hunt with a frown, “after all, I’ve as much right to this hidden treasure as anyone else – if I can get it.”

“Yes, if you can get it,” replied Rob with meaning emphasis, wondering much what could be coming next.

“Your liberty depends on my getting it,” resumed Hunt.

“My liberty?” echoed the boy, “how is that?”

“I want you to write a note to Major Dangerfield. He thinks a good deal of you, doesn’t he?”

“I hope so,” responded Rob, mightily curious to know what Hunt was driving at.

“He’s responsible, too, in a way, for your safety, isn’t he? I mean your parents rely on him to bring you back safe and sound?”

“I suppose so. But why don’t you come to the point. Tell me what it is you want.”

“Just this: You write to the major. I’ll see that the note is delivered. You must tell him to give my messenger the plan and map of the treasure’s hiding place. If he does so you will be returned safe and sound. So will the nigger and the canoes. We didn’t want that nigger anyhow. In the darkness we mistook him for the major.”

Rob could hardly repress a smile at the idea of the dignified major being confused with the ubiquitous Jumbo.

“Are you willing to write such a letter?”

“You mean am I willing to stake my safety against the major’s hopes of recovering his relative’s hidden fortune?”

“That’s about it – yes.”

Rob’s mind worked quickly. It might be dangerous to give a direct negative and yet he certainly would have refused to do as the rascal opposite to him suggested.

“I – I – Can you give me time to think it over?” he hesitated, assuming uncertainty in decision.

“Yes, I’ll give you a reasonable period. But mind, no shilly-shallying. Don’t entertain any idea of escape. You’ll be guarded as closely here as if you were in a stone-walled prison.”

“I know that,” said Rob, feeling an inward conviction that Hunt’s words were literally true. The cliff-enclosed cove was indeed a prison. Hunt turned away, followed by his son. The latter cast a malevolent look back at Rob as he went.

“My! His father must be proud of that lad,” thought Rob.

Hunt and his followers fell to playing cards. Rob was left to his reflections. Jumbo sat gloomily apart and yet in full view of the card players. After a while Rob’s thoughts reverted to the conversation he had overheard between Dale and Peter Bumpus. In this connection he suddenly bethought himself of something. Jim Dale had spoken of the revenue officers raiding the moonshiners’ plant. If that was the case, and the miscreants had all escaped, how did they go?

The revenue officers probably attacked the place from the lake side of the cove. This would have effectually shut off all hope of escape in that direction. The only conclusion left, to account for the freedom of the gang was a startling one.

The cove must have some secret entrance or exit. If such were the case it could only be by a passage or by steps cut in the seemingly solid rock. Rob’s heart began to beat a bit faster. There might be a chance of escape after all, if only he could discover the means of exit he was now certain must exist somewhere in the cove.

But a careful scrutiny failed to show any indications of such a device as he was looking for. The walls were bare and clean as cliffs of marble. Not more than two or three stunted conifers grew out of an occasional crevice. The enclosing walls would not have afforded footing to a fly.

“Guess I was wrong,” thought Rob to himself and lying back on the sand he closed his eyes the better to concentrate his thoughts. But what with the strain of the early hours and the warm, sultry atmosphere, the lad found his ideas wandering. Presently, without knowing it, he had dropped off into a sound slumber.

When he awoke it was with a start. The long shadows showed him that the day was far spent. All at once voices near at hand struck in upon his half awakened senses.

Rob heard a few words and then, with wildly beating pulses, he fell to simulating sleep with all his might. From what he had heard of the conversation he believed that a hope of escape lay in the words of the talkers.

CHAPTER XIV

A THRILLING ESCAPE

It was Peter Bumpus and Jim Dale who were talking. From their first words Rob gathered that Stonington Hunt and his son had gone fishing, and that Jumbo, like himself, was asleep.

“You’re sure that kid is off good and sound, too?” asked Dale.

“Soon find out,” rejoined Bumpus.

Rob felt the man bend over him, his hot breath fanning his ear. It was a hard job not to open his eyes, but Rob came through with flying colors.

“He’s sound as a top,” decided Pete, “and old Hunt and the kid won’t be back for half an hour anyway. Now’s our time to see if the old rope ladder is still there.”

“It sure did us a good turn the night the revenues came,” said Jim Dale.

“Let’s see, it was over this way, wasn’t it? Right under that big hemlock on the top of the cliff?”

“That’s right.”

Rob heard them cross the sandy strip of beach. Luckily, he was lying with his face toward that side, and by half-opening his eyes could observe their movements without danger of being discovered.

They approached a clump of bushes and fumbled about in it for a brief time. Peter did most of the searching, for that was what it seemed to be, while Dale stood over him.

“Well?” demanded Dale at length, “is it there?”

“Is what there?” wondered Rob.

“It’s here, all right,” responded Peter Bumpus and in triumph he held up something which only by great straining of his eyes Rob was able to recognize as a strand of wire. It was so slender that if his attention had not been drawn to it he would never have seen it.

“I’d like to give it a yank and bring the rope ladder down,” said Dale.

“I wouldn’t mind a run in the old woods myself,” said Peter. He seemed half inclined to pull the wire, which Rob judged, though he could not distinguish it against the dull background of rock, must lead to the cliff summit. On that cliff summit the boy also assumed, from what he had heard, there must lie a rope ladder. The mystery of the escape of the rascals from the revenue officers was solved. They had mounted by the rope ladder on the first alarm and pulled it up after them. Rob could hardly help admiring the strategy that had conceived such a scheme.

Suddenly, while Peter Bumpus still hesitated, there came the sharp “splash” of a paddle.

“Here comes the boss,” warned Dale.

Instantly the two men strolled aimlessly across the beach, as if their minds were vacant and idle. Evidently then, Hunt was not aware of the existence of the rope ladder, and the two men had some strong object in wishing to hide it from him.

The two Hunts brought back several fish, perch and pickerel, which were cooked for supper. After that meal the men sat about and talked a while, and then preparations were made for bed. Jumbo was tied hand and foot, much as Rob was. But not content with these precautions, Dale was stationed to watch the captives. From what Rob could hear he was to be relieved by Bumpus at midnight.

That Dale took his duty seriously was evident by the fact that, beside him, as he crouched by the fire, he laid out a ready cocked rifle, and kept one eye always upon the two prisoners. To amuse himself during his vigil he drew out a big case knife and began whittling a bit of driftwood into the likeness of a ship – a reminder of his old seafaring days. Rob, watching the ruffian at this innocent employment while the firelight played on his rough features, caught himself wondering what sort of childhood such a man could have had, and how he came to drift into his evil courses.

“I’ll bet that the Boy Scout movement in big cities is keeping hundreds of lads out of mischief,” he thought, “and helping to make good men out of them. After all, or so dad says, most bad boys are only bad because they have no outlet but mischief for their high spirits.”

After a while, Dale finished his carving. Then he darted a cautious look about him.

“Wonder if any of that old moonshine is still in the hiding place?” he muttered.

For a while he remained still. Then he once more cast a scrutinizing look around him. Rob interpreted this as a meaning that Dale was anxious to see if everything was quiet. The boy lay still and silent and Dale evidently assumed he was asleep. After a careful inspection of the spot where the others slumbered, the fellow cautiously made for the base of the cliff near the clump of bushes where he and Bumpus had investigated the wire that afternoon. Reaching toward a stone he pulled it aside, and thrust his arm into a recess which was suddenly revealed. When he drew his hand out it clasped a demijohn. The recess was the hiding place formerly used by the moonshiners to conceal their product.

With a swift glance about, to make sure he was not observed, Dale raised the demijohn to his lips. It stayed there a long time. He set it down and looked about him furtively once more. Then he raised the jug again and took another long swig of the poisonous stuff. Rob, through lowered lids, watched him with a shudder of disgust.

When Dale finally thrust back the jug into its hiding place and returned to the firelight, his step was unsteady and his eyes had a strange, glassy light in them. He sank down on the log which served him as a seat, and once more drew out his knife. His intention, apparently, was to resume his whittling. But after a few unsteady strokes at the bit of wood he had selected, he gave over the attempt.

His head lolled limply forward and the corners of his mouth drooped. One by one his fingers relaxed their grip on the knife, and, resting his head on his hands, he allowed himself to sink into oblivion.

Instantly the Boy Scout’s faculties were alert and at work. The firelight played temptingly on the knife the liquor-stupefied man had dropped. Very cautiously the fettered Rob rolled over upon his stomach and, slowly as a creeping snail, began a tedious progress toward the weapon. How he blessed the days he had spent practicing such stealthy means of advance. It was the old scouting crawl of the Indians he used. A means of approach as silent as that of a marauding weasel.

It was ticklish, scalp-tightening work, though. But Rob did not dare to hurry it. The rattle of a misplaced stone, the snap of a twig, might spoil all. To add to the peril at any moment, either the drowsy man by the fire, or one of the sleeping men beyond, might awaken.

But at last, without a single accident, Rob reached the proximity of the precious knife. It was a heavy weapon and lay on the rock-strewn ground with its blade upward. The boy noted this with a quick gulp of thankfulness. For, fettered as he was, he could not have manipulated it till he got his hands free.

With infinite caution he rolled his body so that his wrists were close to the keen blade. Then he began sawing at the ropes, rubbing them back and forth against the blade. At length one of the strands parted. Then another was severed, and, with a strong jerk, Rob tore loose the rest. Then, cautiously picking up the knife in his freed hand, he slashed his leg-bonds. In less time than it takes to tell it he was free.

His next task was to liberate Jumbo. And then —

Rob had allowed his thoughts to dwell on the daring possibility of recovering the canoes and paddling away with them. But on second thoughts he deemed this too risky. Instead he determined to trust to the rope ladder. It had flashed across his mind in this connection, that the strands of the ladder might be too weak to support his weight, or the much greater avoirdupois of Jumbo. But the lad felt that they must risk it.

Jumbo very nearly ruined everything. For, as Rob bent over him, he awakened with a start.

“Oh, fo’ de lan’s sake, massa, don’ you go to confustigate dis yar – ”

But in a flash Rob had clapped his hand over the garrulous black’s capacious mouth. Jumbo’s first fear that his last hour had come was speedily relieved as he saw who it was.

Rob, after a quick look about, assured himself that Jumbo’s words had not aroused any of the sleepers. Then, taking his hand from the negro’s lips, he quickly slashed his bonds. In another instant Jumbo, too, was at liberty.

“Wha’ you go fo’ ter do now, Marse Blake?” he whispered.

“Hush! Not a word. Follow me,” breathed the boy.

“Dis suttingly am a pawtuckitus state of affairs,” muttered the black, “don’ see no mo’ how we can git out uv this lilly place dan er fly kin git out of a mo’lasses bar’l.”

However, he followed Rob, who, on tip-toe, approached the clump of bushes where he knew the wire he had observed that afternoon lay hidden. With beating pulses he poked about in the scrub-growth till, suddenly, his fingers encountered the filament of metal. The most dangerous step of their enterprise still lay before him. What would happen when he pulled it? Would the ladder come down with a crash that would awaken their foes, or —

Rob lost no time in further indulging his nervous thoughts, however. He gave the wire a good hard tug. Simultaneously, from out of the blackness above them, something came snaking down. Rob dodged to avoid it.

He could have cried aloud with joy as, in the faint glow cast by the fire, he saw that, right in front of him were the lower rungs of a rope ladder. It was padded at the bottom so that its descent, abrupt as it had been, was almost noiseless. Rob noted, too, with inward satisfaction, that the ropes seemed strong and in good condition.

“Up with you, Jumbo,” he ordered in a tense, low whisper.

The black turned almost gray with apprehension.

“Ah got ter clim’ dat lilly ladder lak Massa Jacob in de Bibul?” he whimpered.

“You certainly have, or – ”

Rob made an eloquent gesture toward the camp of Hunt and his gang. The hint conveyed proved effectual.

“Mah goodness, dis am suffin’ dis coon nebber thought he hab to do,” muttered Jumbo, “but all things comes to him who waits – so heah goes!”

He set his foot on the ladder and, rapidly ascending it, soon disappeared in the darkness above. As soon as the slackness of the appliance showed Rob that the negro was at the cliff summit, the boy prepared to follow him.

But as he set his foot on the lower rung the man by the fire awakened with a start. Before Rob, climbing like a squirrel, could mount three more steps he became aware that his prisoners were missing.

Snatching up his rifle he ran straight toward the rope ladder. The next instant Rob, with a hasty glance backward, saw that the weapon was aimed straight at him. His blood chilled as he recollected having heard Dale that afternoon boasting of his ability as “a dead shot.”

CHAPTER XV

OUT OF THE FRYING PAN

For only an instant did Rob remain motionless. Then, as if by instinct, he suddenly crouched. It was well he did so. A bullet sang above his head as he clung, swinging on his frail support, and flattened itself with an angry “ping!” against the rock wall above him.

The report brought the rest of the sleeping camp to its feet. In an instant voices rang out and hastily lighted lanterns flashed. Rob, taking advantage of even such a brief diversion, sprang upward. But with a roar of fury, Dale sprang to the foot of the ladder. Desperation gave Rob nimble feet. He literally leaped upward.

In his mind there was a dreadful fear. The ladder was hardly strong enough to bear two. By placing his weight on the lower part of it, it was Dale’s intention to bring him down to the ground. That in such an event he could escape with his life, seemed highly improbable.

But fast as he went, he felt the ladder quiver as Dale’s hold was laid upon it from below. At this critical instant a sudden diversion occurred. From right above Rob’s head, or so it seemed, a voice roared out through the night.

“Tak’ yo’ dirty paws off’n dat ladder, white man, or, by de powers, it’s de las’ time you use ’em!”

It was Jumbo’s voice. But Dale answered with a roar of defiance. He shook the ladder violently. Rob felt himself dashed with sickening force against the cliff-face. But all at once there was a warning shout. Something roared past his ears, just missing him.

“Haids below!” sung out Jumbo as he watched the huge rock he had dislodged go crashing downward.

It missed Dale by the fraction of an inch. But his narrow escape unnerved the fellow for an instant. In that molecule of time Rob gained the summit of the ladder, and Jumbo’s strong arms drew him up to safety beside him.

“Well done, Jumbo,” he exclaimed.

“Oh, dat wasn’ nuffin’,” modestly declared Jumbo, “if dat no-account trash hadn’t uv leggo I’d have flattened him out flatter’n dan a hoe cake. Yas, sah.”

“I guess you would, Jumbo. But there’s no time to lose. Come, we must be getting on.”

“One ting we do firs’ off wid alacrimoniousness, Marse Blake,” said Jumbo.

“What’s that?”

“Jes’ len’ me dat lilly knife you take frum dat pestiferous pussonage below an’ I shows yoh right quick.”

Rob had thrust the knife into his scout belt. He now withdrew it and handed it to the negro. With two swift slashes, Jumbo severed the top strands of the ladder. A crash and outcry from below followed. Rob, peeping over, saw that Dale, who had just begun to mount after them, was the victim. He was rolling over and over, entangled in the strands of the ladder, while Stonington Hunt stood over him in a perfect frenzy of rage.

“Now den, Marse Blake, ah reckin’ we done cook de goose of dem criminoligous folks,” snorted Jumbo as he gazed. “He! he! he! dey is sure having a mos’ fustilaginal time down dere.”

“I guess they’ll have plenty to think over for a time,” said Rob, rather grimly; “come, let’s set out. Have you any idea in which direction the camp lies?”

“No, sah. But I raickon if we des foiler de lake we kain’t go fur wrong.”

“We must go toward the south, then. See, there’s the Scout’s star, the north one. The outer stars in the bucket of the dipper point to it.”

“Wish ah had a dippah full ob watah. I’m po’ful thirsty,” grunted Jumbo.

“We’ll run across a stream before very long, no doubt,” said Rob.

With these words the lad struck off through the forest of juniper and hemlocks. The moon had not yet risen, and it was dark and mysterious under the heavy boughs. Jumbo held back a minute.

“Come on. What’s the matter, Jumbo?” exclaimed Rob.

“It look powerful spooky in dar, Marse Blake.”

“Well, I guess the spooks, if there are any, will do us less harm than that gang behind us,” commented Rob.

Jumbo, without more words, followed him. But he rolled his eyes from side to side in evident alarm at every step. On and on they plunged, making their way swiftly enough over the forest floor. From time to time they stopped to listen. But there was no sound of pursuit. In fact, Rob did not expect any. With the ladder destroyed, there was not much chance of the Hunt crowd clambering over the cliff tops.

At such moments as they paused, Rob felt, to the full, the deep impressiveness of the forest at night. Above them the sombre spires of the hemlocks showed steeple-like against the dark sky. The night wind sent deep pulsations through them, like the rumbling of the lower notes of a church organ. All about lay the deeper shadows of the recesses of the woods. They were shrouded in a rampart of impenetrable darkness.

“I hope we’re keeping on the right track,” thought Rob, as it grew increasingly difficult, and finally impossible, to see the north star through the thick mass of foliage above them.

The boy knew the danger of wandering in circles in the untracked waste of forest unless they kept constantly in one direction. Without the stars to guide him, it grew increasingly difficult to be sure they were doing this.

“Golly! Ah suttinly hopes we gits out of dis foliaginous place befo’ long,” breathed Jumbo stentorously, stumbling along behind Rob over the rough and stony ground that composed the floor of the Adirondack forest.

All at once, as Rob strode along, he stopped short. Some peculiar instinct had caused him to halt. Just why he knew not. But he was brought up dead in his tracks.

“Wha’s de mattah, Marse Blake?” quavered Jumbo, “yo’ all hain’t seein’ any hants or conjo’s, be yoh?”

Rob replied with another question.

“Got a match, Jumbo?” he asked.

“Yas sah, Marse Blake, I done got plenty ob dem lilly lucilfers.”

He dived in his pocket and produced a handful of matches, which he handed to Rob. The boy struck one, and, as the yellow flame glared up, he uttered a little cry and stepped back with a perceptible shrinking movement.

No wonder he did so. At the young Scout’s feet the flare of the match had revealed a yawning abyss. One more step and he would have been over it. Gazing into the ravine he could hear the subdued roar of a stream somewhere far, far below. A cold blast seemed to strike upward against his face.