The Gun Club Boys of Lakeport

“Anything else, Joe?”

“No. But this card shows that we are on the right track.”

“That is true.”

After the card was found they hunted around until long after dark, but nothing else was discovered, much to their disappointment.

“Perhaps the pocketbook was washed into the lake after all,” said Fred, who was very much interested, and who had hunted some on his own account. “If you’ll remember, we had some pretty hard rains before winter set in.”

One day all of the boys went gunning deep into the woods back of the shelter. They went on their snowshoes, and managed to scare up eight rabbits, four squirrels, and seven partridges. It was a beautiful day for such sport, and in addition to bringing down his share of the game, Harry procured several photographs, one showing Joe in the act of bringing down two partridges with one shot.

“That will prove that you are an out-and-out hunter, Joe,” said Harry, after the snap shot was taken. “They can’t go back on a picture.”

“Oh, you must remember, there are lots of trick photos,” said Joe, with a laugh. “Don’t you remember that one we saw of a man shooting at himself?”

“Yes,” put in Link, “and I once saw a picture of a man riding himself in a wheelbarrow. But we can all testify that this is no trick photo.”

Sunday the boys took it easy, and it was a rest well earned and well needed.

“Now for the last of our outing,” sighed Harry. “This week will wind it up.”

“Let us look at the traps,” came from Bart, and he and Link and Fred did so, and found in them two rabbits and a squirrel. There were also signs of a wolf around two of the traps, but they did not catch sight of the beast.

“I fancy that wolf wanted to get one of our rabbits,” said Link. “Perhaps we scared him off just in time.”

“I want nothing to do with wolves,” said Bart. “If they’ll let me alone, I’ll let them alone.”

A couple of days later old Runnell came in somewhat excited. “Unless I am greatly mistaken, I have seen the track of a moose,” he said. “I am going to follow up the tracks. Who wants to go along?”

Who? All of them, and they said so in chorus, while each reached for his gun. Old Runnell made them put on their snowshoes and fill their game bags with provisions.

“We may be gone until to-morrow,” he said. “Running down a moose is no easy thing, even if the snow is deep.”

The route lay along the shore and then across the lake to the mainland. They struck the shore at a point where the pines were heavy, and Joe Runnell showed the young hunters where the moose had stopped to feed.

“He’s after some tender bark,” said the old hunter. “See how he nosed around in the snow for it.”

After a brief rest they continued their journey, but night found the game still out of sight, and they had to go into camp in the best shelter they could find.

“Never mind,” said Harry. “A moose isn’t to be found here every day.”

“No, nor every week, either,” added old Runnell. “So far I haven’t heard of a single one being brought down this winter.”

They were up again before sunrise and following the tracks as before. These now led up a rise of ground and Joel Runnell went in advance.

“The tracks are getting fresher,” he announced. “I don’t think he’s a mile off at the most.”

They went on for a short distance farther, and then Joe put up his hand.

“Hark!” he said, in a low voice. “What sort of a noise is that?”

They listened, and from a distance heard a scraping and sawing that was most unusual.

“We’ve got him!” said old Runnell. “That’s the moose rubbing himself on a tree.”

He crept forward, with the others close behind. Soon they came to a little opening in the forest. Here were several rocks backed up by a clump of hemlocks. Against one of the hemlocks stood a tall, magnificent moose, with wide-spreading antlers. He had been scraping his back on the rough bark, and now he proceeded to repeat the operation.

“You boys can all fire at the same time,” whispered Joel Runnell. “I’ll wait and see what you can do.” And giving them time to take aim, he gave the signal.

The guns rang out together almost as one piece, causing a tremendous report to echo throughout the forest, and filling the little opening with smoke.

“You’ve got him!” shouted Joel Runnell, with as much joy in his voice as if he had brought the game down himself. And when the smoke lifted they saw the moose totter and pitch headlong. Once, twice the animal tried to rise up, then over he went with a thud on the rocks, gave a kick or two, and lay still.

With loud shouts of triumph the young hunters rushed in. But old Runnell held them back.

“Beware,” he cried. “He may give a last kick that will split some one’s head open. Wait!” And they waited until they were certain that life was extinct.

“What a beautiful haul!” came from Bart. “And see, every one of us hit him in the neck and breast.”

“I’m glad we didn’t hit him in the face,” said Joe. “We can mount that head and it will be something fine.”

“Yes, but who is to keep it?” asked Harry.

“We can take turns,” was the answer, and this caused a laugh.

To get such large game back to the camp at Needle Rock was not easy, and it took them until long after nightfall to cover the distance, and then all were thoroughly exhausted. The moose was placed in a safe place, and they retired without taking the trouble to cook a regular supper.

CHAPTER XXX

THE FIND – END OF THE OUTING

Noon of the next day found Joe walking along the lake shore some distance below the camp. On the outing the day before he had lost a glove and he was trying to locate it in the snow.

“I’m pretty sure I dropped it somewhere along here,” he told himself. “I know I had it on just before we came to those bushes yonder.”

He was still some distance from the bushes when he espied a dark object hanging from one of the branches, among some dried leaves. Thinking it was either the lost glove or the remains of an old bird’s nest, he went over to investigate. The next instant he set up a shout of joy:

“The pocketbook! The pocketbook at last!”

He was right; the pocketbook was there, hanging down from the long string which had been wrapped around it – a dingy, brown affair, well worn at all of the corners and containing two pockets.

With a heart that thumped wildly in his breast, Joe took hold of the pocketbook to examine it. Scarcely had he done so when he gave a groan and his hopes fell as rapidly as they had risen.

The pocketbook was empty. It contained absolutely nothing at all.

“Sold!” he muttered, laconically. “Sold, and just when I thought I had it!”

“What have you found, Joe?” came in Harry’s voice, and a moment later his brother came up.

“Here is Hiram Skeetles’ pocketbook – but it is empty.”

“You don’t say!” Harry looked at the object a moment. “Was it hanging like that when you first saw it?”

“Yes.”

“Then perhaps the contents dropped out, or was shaken out by the wind.”

“To be sure.” Joe went down on his knees at the roots of the bush and began to scrape away the snow. “I hope we do find something.”

Harry began to assist, and soon the snow was gone and they began to dig in among the dead leaves and sticks. Then Joe hauled up several cards with Hiram Skeetles’ name on them and a memorandum of some property located near the lake.

“Here is something belonging to old Skeetles,” said he.

“Here is another paper,” said Harry. “It’s a bill of sale for a town lot,” he added, looking it over hastily.

An instant later Joe came across a large envelope containing several legal-looking documents. He brushed the dirt from the covering and tried to make out some handwriting on it.

“The papers!” he shouted, joyfully. “Grandfather Anderson’s papers as sure as you are born!”

“Let me see!” ejaculated Harry, and bent over the find. They hauled the papers from the envelope and looked them over. Their grandfather was mentioned in a number of places, and also two plots of land they had heard their parents discuss. Clearly these were the papers that were so much needed.

“We’ll take them to camp and read them over carefully,” said Joe. “And if they are what we want we had best go right home with them.”

“Won’t mother and father be astonished when they get the news,” added Harry.

They were soon back to camp, and here sat down to look over their find. They had just concluded to their satisfaction when Fred, who was outside cutting firewood, set up a shout:

“Here comes old Skeetles and Dan Marcy!”

“Quick, Joe, put the papers out of sight,” whispered Harry, and this was done.

In a few minutes Hiram Skeetles and Dan Marcy reached the shelter.

“So ye burnt the lodge down!” exclaimed the real estate dealer. “I’ll have the law on ye fer that!”

“The lodge was burnt down by accident,” answered Joe. “We are willing to pay a fair amount for the damage done.”

“Humph! And what made ye come over here to camp out?” asked Skeetles, anxiously.

“Because we felt like it,” answered Fred.

“I said ye could stay over to the lodge, not here.”

“Well, we came here,” put in Joe. “But we are not going to stay very long. I and Harry are going home, and I guess the rest will go with us.”

The real estate dealer looked at the Westmore boys sharply.

“Did ye find – er – anything belongin’ to me around here?” he asked, suspiciously.

“We did – a pocketbook and these cards and papers,” answered Joe, boldly, and handed over what belonged to the miserly man.

“What!” Hiram Skeetles turned first red and then white. “Did ye – er – find anything else?”

“Nothing belonging to you, Mr. Skeetles.”

“Nothin’ belongin’ to me, eh? What else did ye find?”

“You’ll learn about that later,” said Harry.

“Ha! you’re keepin’ something back! I can see it in yer faces! Give it up, I say, give it up!” And Hiram Skeetles took a savage step forward.

“Leave the lads alone,” came sternly from Joel Runnell. “What they’ve got belongs to them.”

“He’s got them papers!” screamed Skeetles, losing all self-control. “Take ’em from him, Dan!” And he pointed at Joe.

Marcy took a step forward as if to catch hold of Joe, but a well-directed blow from old Runnell’s hand sent him sprawling in the snow.

“Clear out,” said the old hunter, wrathfully. “If you don’t – ”

He tapped his gun, but it was unnecessary. The bully staggered to his feet and retreated without delay. Seeing this, Hiram Skeetles also fell back, glaring angrily at our friends as he did so.

“What are ye goin’ to do?” he asked, after a pause.

“I am going to help my folks get back the property that belongs to them,” answered Joe. “Hiram Skeetles, you are found out, and the less fuss you make the better off you’ll be.”

“Those papers ain’t no good.”

“That remains to be seen. What I want to know is, how did you manage to steal them?”

“Steal ’em?” Hiram Skeetles’ lips quivered. “Didn’t steal ’em. Dan Marcy got – ”

“Don’t you lay it off on me,” howled the bully. “Skeetles told me they belonged to him, and that’s why I got ’em. If I had known – ” He stopped short.

“My opinion of it is, you are both a precious pair of rascals,” came from Joel Runnell. “And that being so, I want you to leave these boys alone.”

A wordy war followed, but old Runnell and the young hunters were obdurate, and at last Hiram Skeetles and Dan Marcy withdrew, the former trembling for what the future might have in store and the bully like a dog that has been thoroughly whipped.

“I move we start for home at once,” said Joe, and Harry seconded the motion. The others were willing, and they started less than an hour after, dragging their diminished stores and the balance of the moose after them.

The coming into Lakeport with such big game attracted considerable attention, and they were loudly congratulated on the success of their hunting tour; but the majority of the people did not know the full extent of their success until some time later, when the truth concerning the missing papers was announced.

“They are the real papers,” said Mrs. Westmore. “It is wonderful how you managed to locate them.”

“We will start proceedings against Hiram Skeetles without delay,” said Mr. Westmore, and this was done. The real estate dealer put up a feeble fight, but the evidence was all against him, and in the end the property came into the Westmore possession. Then it was also decided that Skeetles had no claim upon Pine Island. The real estate dealer grew so unpopular in that neighborhood that soon he moved to another section of the country and that was almost the last seen or heard of him.

“I guess Dan Marcy feels rather mean,” said Joe. “He knows he didn’t treat us right.”

“Oh, Marcy has a thick hide and wouldn’t feel mean over anything,” answered Fred. “As soon as this affair blows over he’ll go around bullying folks just as much as ever.” And this proved true, although Marcy, for a long while to come, gave the Westmores, Fred, and old Runnell a wide berth.

The young hunters never tired of talking of the grand outing they had had.

“It was a dandy,” said Fred. “I declare, I feel like a regular hunter now.”

“I guess we all do,” said Link. “Although Bart and I weren’t out as long as you fellows.”

“Never mind – I had my share of the fun,” put in Bart.

“We had our sports and hardships pretty well mixed,” came from Joe. “But as everything came out as it should in the end we needn’t complain.”

“Complain!” cried Harry. “I’d like to have another outing just like it next winter.”

The others said the same. And here let us for the present say good-by to the Gun Club Boys of Lakeport. More good times were in store for them, and what some of these were will be told in another volume, to be called, “The Baseball Boys of Lakeport; or, The Winning Run.” Baseball is our great national sport, as all my readers know, and when clubs play each other the rivalry is of the keenest.