Bart Keene's Hunting Days: or, The Darewell Chums in a Winter Camp

CHAPTER VII

GETTING READY FOR CAMP

“Come on, fellows!” exclaimed Bart, as he stumbled on ahead. “We mustn’t lose sight of him again! There’s some mystery about that man. I believe he stole the diamond bracelet.”

Slipping, and almost tripping over sticks, fallen trees, stumps and stones, the chums hurried on. But the man had a number of advantages. He had a start of several hundred feet, darkness was coming on, and he evidently knew the paths through the woods better than did the boys, for when they caught occasional glimpses of him he appeared to be running at full speed, whereas they had to go slowly, and pick their way.

At last they could see him no more, and, as it seemed to grow rapidly darker, the boys were forced to give up the chase.

“Well, wouldn’t that get on your nerves?” Bart demanded of his chums, as they stopped for breath. “That’s the third time we’ve seen that man, and the second time he’s gotten away.”

“The next time he sees us he’ll know enough to run without waiting to take a second look at us,” observed Frank, grimly.

There was little use lingering longer in the woods, the chums decided, so, after a last look about, hoping for a sight of the mysterious stranger, they once more started for home. It was quite dark as they got out on the main highway, and to their great delight they saw approaching Jed Sneed, a teamster whom they knew. He readily consented to give them a ride back to town.

As they were nearing the centre of Darewell Ned exclaimed:

“By jove, I believe it’s snowing! I felt a flake on my face.”

“You’re right,” added Bart, a moment later. “It is snowing,” and a little flurry of white flakes confirmed his words.

“Yes, and I don’t like to see it,” remarked Jed, the teamster, as he cracked his whip, to hasten the pace of his horses.

“Why not?” asked Frank.

“Because it’s a sign we’re going to have a long, hard winter,” went on the man, who was rather an odd character, and a great believer in signs of various kinds. “It’s a sure sign of a hard winter when it snows just before the new moon,” Jed went on. “It’ll be new moon to-night, and we’re going to have quite a storm. Besides it’s down in my almanack that we’re going to have a bad spell of weather about now. I shouldn’t wonder but what we’d have quite a fall before morning,” and certainly it seemed so, for the flurry was increasing.

“Sandy and those fellows will have lots of fun hunting for us,” remarked Ned with a chuckle. “They’ll think we’ve been snowed under.”

“I see Sandy Merton, and two or three lads in a wagon, just before I met you chaps,” observed Jed. “They asked me if I’d met you, but I hadn’t – up to then. What’s up? Been playing jokes on each other?”

“They tried one on us, but I think it’s on them,” said Bart. “Well, here’s where I get off, fellows. Come over to-night, and we’ll have a talk,” and Bart was about to descend from the wagon, as his street was reached first.

“Hold on! Wait a minute! Don’t get down on that side!” cried Jed, earnestly.

“What’s the matter; is the step on this side broken?” asked Bart, in some alarm, as he hastily checked himself.

“No, but you started to get down with your left foot first,” explained the teamster. “That’s sure to bring the worst kind of bad luck on a fellow. My team might run away before I get two blocks further. It’s a bad sign to get out with your left foot first. Don’t do it.”

“Oh, Jed, you’re a regular old woman!” exclaimed Bart good-naturedly, for he and his chums were on familiar terms with the teamster. Nevertheless the lad did as requested, and changed his position, so as to leave the wagon in accordance with the superstitious notions of Jed.

“That’s better,” remarked the man, with an air of relief, as Bart descended. “Yes,” he added, as he drove on, “we’re going to have quite a storm.”

He was right, for that night the ground was covered with the white flakes, but the thermometer did not get down very low.

After supper Bart’s three chums called on him, and, a little later they received an unexpected visit from Sandy Merton and some of his friends. The latter were much worried when they had gone back to Oak Swamp, and had failed to find a sign of the candidates whom they had initiated into the “Shamma Shig” society.

“Say, that’s a nice trick to play on a fellow,” declared Sandy, indignantly, when he found that Bart and his friends were safe and snug at home. “We’ve been hunting all around that swamp in the dark for you, and we’re all wet and muddy. Why didn’t you stay there?”

“Didn’t think it was healthy,” observed Bart, with a chuckle. “You told us you wouldn’t be back for an hour, so we concluded to leave. You should tie your ropes better, Sandy.”

“We weren’t going to leave you there an hour,” went on the president of the secret society. “That was only a joke on you.”

“Well, our coming away was only a joke on you,” declared Ned with a grin. “Are we full-fledged members now, Sandy?”

“I suppose so,” was the somewhat ungracious answer. Then as Sandy’s chums declared that the manner in which they had been outwitted by the four chums was perfectly fair, it was agreed to call the incident closed, and consider the initiation finished.

“You’re now regular members,” declared Sandy, “and you can come to the meeting to-night, if you want to.”

The chums went to a “hall” that had been fitted up over the barn of Sandy’s uncle. It had all the features of a regular secret society meeting room, with inner and outer sentinels, a hole cut in the door, through which doubtful visitors could be scrutinized; and once inside a more or less blood-curdling ritual was gone through with. But the boys enjoyed it, and, his good nature restored by presiding at the function, Sandy told how he and his friends had been much alarmed at finding Bart and his companions missing, and how they had searched in vain for them.

A thaw, a few days after the storm, removed most of the snow, but it remained long enough for some coasting, in which our heroes took part. Meanwhile they had made some guarded inquiries regarding the mysterious man, but had learned nothing. No one else seemed to have observed him, or, if they had, they thought nothing of it.

Nor was any trace found of the missing diamond bracelet. The police had practically given up work on the case, but the boys had not. They felt the stigma that still attached to them, and they resolved, if it was at all possible, to remove it. The parents of the lads were somewhat indignant that there should be even a suspicion against them, but there seemed to be no help for it, and Mr. Long, thinking to better matters, offered a reward for the return of the property. But he had no answers.

“Well, Bart, what about camp?” asked Ned, one cold morning in December, when an overcast sky gave promise of more snow.

“I was just thinking it was time we got down to business about it,” was the reply. “I’m ready to go, if you fellows are. I’ve spoken to my folks, and they’re willing I should take two weeks out of school, besides the regular Christmas holidays. There’s not much doing the week before that vacation, and not much the one after. That will give us nearly a month – the last half of December and the first half of January.”

“Good idea,” commented Frank. “I’m sure I can go. Dad is going west to visit some relatives, and, as I don’t care about making the trip, I’m sure he’ll let me go to a winter camp.”

“I haven’t asked yet, but I’m sure I can go,” said Fenn, and Ned was also hopeful.

“Well, suppose we go down to my house after school, and look over our camping stuff,” suggested Bart, for the tents, stoves and other paraphernalia was kept in his barn. The boys had gone camping several times before, both winter and summer, and had a very complete outfit, as is known to those who have perused the other volumes of this series.

Bart’s idea met with favor and, when lessons for the day were over, the four chums were overhauling cots, inspecting the big tent and seeing if the portable stove was in good condition. It was a dark, lowering afternoon, and, since morning, the promise of more snow had been added to by several flurries of the white flakes.

“Well, everything seems to be in good shape,” observed Bart at length. “We’ve got about two more weeks of school, and then we’ll cut it, and hike for the woods. We must look up a good place, and you and Stumpy had better find out for sure if you can go, Ned.”

“We will,” they promised.

“All right, then come on out, and let’s try a few shots,” went on Bart. “I’ve got some new cartridges, with smokeless powder, and I want to see how they work.”

A little later the four chums were ready to take turns with two rifles Bart owned. The target was set up in the deserted orchard, and the fun began.

Bart was easily the best shot of the four, and this was so soon demonstrated that he consented to take his aim in difficult positions, such as firing with his back to the target, using a mirror to sight with. He did other “stunts” which, I have no doubt, some of my readers have seen done in “Wild West” shows, or on the stage.

“There’s no use talking, Bart,” observed Ned, “you can put it all over us when it comes to handling a rifle.”

“Well, I’ve had more practice,” said Bart modestly. “You fellows will do as good when you’ve had more experience.”

“I’m afraid not,” spoke Fenn, with a sigh. “Here, see if I can hit that tin can on the fence post.”

He raised the weapon, sighted it carefully, and pulled the trigger. There was no smoke, for the powder was of the self-consuming type, but a bright sliver of flame shot from the muzzle of the gun, plainly visible in the fast-gathering darkness. The can was not touched, but, an instant after Fenn fired, some one beyond the fence set up a great shouting.

“Great Caesar, Stumpy, you’ve shot some one!” gasped Bart.

Poor Fenn turned a sickly color, and the rifle fell from his nerveless hands. The shouts continued, and there was a commotion in the bushes.

A little later Alice Keene, with her hands full of bandages, and carrying a small medicine chest, rushed from the house and past the group of terror-stricken lads toward the fence, whence the yells continued to come.

“Oh!” cried the girl. “I was afraid some one would get hurt when you boys used those horrid guns! You had better telephone for a doctor, Bart, while I go see if I can stop the bleeding! Who is hurt?”

“We – we don’t know,” faltered Fenn. “I was shooting at a can, but I missed it. I didn’t know anybody was in the bushes.”

Bart hurried into the house to telephone for a physician, while Alice in the rôle of a red-cross nurse, hurried on toward the fence. The shouts were growing fainter now. The boys, with white faces, followed her.

CHAPTER VIII

AN ODD LETTER

“Suppose he is dead?” faltered Fenn, as he stumbled along. “Will – will I be arrested.”

“Don’t worry until you see who it is, and how badly he is hurt,” advised Frank. They were soon at the fence. Ned and Frank parted the bushes that grew higher than the topmost rail, and plunged on through. Fenn followed, but Alice was going farther up, where she knew there was a gate.

The sight that met the eyes of the boys was most reassuring. Standing up on his big wagon was Jed Sneed, calmly pitching off cord wood into a pile. The fuel was evidently for Bart’s house.

“Were you – are you – that is – you aren’t dead; are you?” gasped Fenn. “Is – is anybody?”

“Not that I know of,” answered Jed, as he straightened up. “But I come pretty nigh bein’. As nigh as I want to. I just heard a bullet sing over my head, as I was stooping down to get hold of a stick. Who was shooting, anyhow?”

“I – I was,” faltered Stumpy. “I missed the tin can I aimed at. Did I come very close to you?”

“I didn’t take time to measure the distance,” announced Jed dryly, “but it was close enough.”

“We heard you yell,” said Frank, “and we thought some one was killed. We didn’t know it was you.”

“I was hollering at the horses, partly,” explained the man. “The pesky critters won’t stand still when they hear shootin’. So it was you fellows; eh? Well, I ought to have knowed better than to come out with this load of wood to-day. Jest as I was startin’ a black cat run right across the road in front of the horses, and that’s one of the very worst kind of bad signs. I should have turned back, but Mr. Keene wanted this wood to-day, so I kept on. Then, as if one warnin’ wasn’t enough, I had another. Jest as I was turnin’ in this back way, thinkin’ it would be a little shorter, three crows flew over my head, goin’ South. They must have stayed up pretty late, but there’s no worse sign than three crows, unless it’s to meet a snake with his tail toward you. But, as Mr. Keene wanted the wood, I come on, and look what was the result – I was nearly killed.”

“Oh, I guess the bullet didn’t come so near you as you thought,” suggested Ned, partly for Fenn’s benefit. “Fenn usually fires high, and he missed the can clean. Then, you’re down in a sort of hollow here, and I guess it was well over your head.”

“I hope so,” remarked Jed. “A miss is as good as a mile, I guess. Still, it was partly my own fault, for not payin’ attention to them signs. You can make up your minds I won’t tempt fate that way again. I’ll turn back next time when a black cat crosses in front of me. And then, too, I ought to have give you chaps warnin’. I heard you shootin’ as I drove up, and then, when it stopped, I s’posed you was done. Then when that one shot came, and whizzed over my head, I thought it was all up with me. I hollered some, to let you know I was here, and to quiet the team. Then I went on tossin’ off the wood.”

Fenn breathed easier. Some color was beginning to come back into his cheeks. A moment later Alice came hurrying along, having found the gate.

“Is he badly hurt?” she asked. “Have they got him in the wagon? Perhaps you’d better drive right to the hospital Mr. Sneed,” for she knew the teamster, who did odd jobs around town.

“Wa’al, I don’t mind drivin’ to the hospital for ye,” announced Jed with a grin, “but there ain’t no need for it.”

“Don’t tell me he’s – ” but Alice paused, not willing to utter the fatal word. Several rolls of bandages fell from her hands.

“Oh, I’m all right,” went on Jed. “I’ll live to be an old man if I wait to be shot, I guess. Whoa, there, ponies,” this last to his team.

“Then isn’t any one hurt?” asked Alice, and though she was undoubtedly glad of it, there was a distinct note of disappointment in her voice.

“No one,” explained Ned, as he told how it had happened. Jed took part of the blame, for not announcing his presence, but, nevertheless, Fenn was a bit shaky for some time after the incident, and Ned and the others were nervous.

“The doctor will be right over!” suddenly cried Bart, bursting through the bushes. “Who is it, and is he badly hurt?” Then he had to be told how it was, and he hurried back into the house to countermand the order for the physician. Alice gathered up her bandages, and with her box of remedies retraced her steps. She had missed a chance to practice for her chosen profession, but she was glad of it.

A more careful investigation of how Fenn had stood when he shot, and a calculation of the angle at which he held the rifle, showed that the bullet must have gone well over Jed’s head, so it was not so bad as at first thought.

“But it was mostly my own fault,” concluded the odd man, as he drove away. “Never again will I keep on when I see a black cat – ” He stopped suddenly, checked his team, and got out of the empty wagon.

“What’s the matter now?” asked Frank.

“There’s a horseshoe in the field there, and it’s turned the wrong way for luck,” explained Jed, as he picked it up. “I was drivin’ right toward it – must have come off one of my horses when I was comin’ around to get a good place to toss off the wood.”

“Anyway it had the curved, or open side, toward me, and if you go toward a horseshoe that way it’s a sure sign that you’ll have no luck in a year. A mighty sure sign, too.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Bart, as he saw Jed put the shoe back on the ground again.

“Oh, I just turned it around again. Now I can drive toward it right, and I’ll have good luck – you see,” which he proceeded to do, and, after his wagon had passed the shoe, he got out again, picked it up, and then went on, well satisfied with himself.

As the days went on the weather grew colder. There were frequent snow storms, and the snow did not melt. The Christmas holidays were approaching, and the boys were preparing for camp life, each lad having secured permission to take some time out of school.

One night, when the four chums were at Fenn’s house, getting ready some things, and talking of the fun they expected to have, there came a knock on the front door. As the boys were the only ones downstairs, Fenn volunteered to answer it.

“Though I don’t know who can be calling at this hour,” he remarked, for it was nearly ten o’clock. He opened the door, and his startled exclamation brought his chums to his side.

“There’s no one here!” cried the stout lad, “but I was sure I heard a knock – didn’t you?”

“Sure,” replied Bart, and the others nodded. “There has been some one here,” went on Bart. “See the footprints in the snow. It’s snowed since we came. Some one ran up, knocked, and ran away again.”

“I wonder what for?” murmured Fenn, looking up and down the deserted street. “Probably a joke. Maybe it was Sandy Merton.”

“Whoever it was, he left something,” said Frank, suddenly.

“What?” asked Fenn.

“This letter,” answered Frank, picking up a missive from the doorstep. The white envelope, so much like the snow, had not at first been noticed.

“Bring it in and see what it says,” proposed Bart, and soon, under the light of the gas in the dining-room, the boys were perusing the strange missive.

“It’s to me,” said Fenn, as he rapidly scanned it. “But what in the world does it mean? And it has no signature. Listen to this fellows,” and he read:

“‘MR. FENN MASTERSON,

“‘Dear Sir: – I understand you have quite a collection of mud turtles. Would you be willing to part with them? I mean for a consideration, of course. If you would kindly communicate with me. I will pay you a good price for all the turtles you have. But I must make this stipulation, which, at first may seem odd to you. But I have a reason for it. I can not meet you personally. If you are willing to sell your turtles will you write a note to that effect, and leave it in the dead sycamore tree on the edge of Oak Swamp? That is the only way in which you can communicate with me. Kindly let me hear from you soon.’”

As Fenn had said, there was no signature. He turned the strange letter over and looked at the back. It was blank.

“Well, wouldn’t that jar you!” exclaimed Bart, as he took the note from Fenn’s hand.

CHAPTER IX

OFF TO CAMP

“This must be a joke,” remarked Fenn, at length, after he had once more read the note. “Sandy Merton, or some of the other fellows, who want to have some fun with us, wrote that.”

“I think not,” said Frank, thoughtfully.

“Why?” inquired Ned.

“Some man wrote that,” went on Frank. “That’s no boy’s handwriting. There’s too much character to it. What are you going to do about it, Fenn?”

“Nothing, I guess. Of course, I’d sell my turtles and things, if I got a chance, for I think I’m going to collect different kinds of wood now, and – ”

“What did I tell you?” interrupted Ned triumphantly. “I knew Fenn’s fad wouldn’t last much longer.”

“It would, if we weren’t going camping,” declared the stout youth, with vigor. “Only when I’m away there’ll be nobody to look after the things. Mother is afraid to feed ’em, and dad won’t, so if I had a good chance to get rid of ’em I’d do it. Only I wouldn’t do business with a fellow like this, who doesn’t sign his name, and who wants me to act as if I was leaving money in response to a black-hand note. I’ll not pay any attention to it.”

“I would, if I were you,” said Frank, quietly, but with some determination.

“You would?” asked Bart, in some surprise.

“Sure. I think there’s something back of this,” went on Frank. “If I were Fenn I’d enter into a correspondence with him, and try to find out what was at the bottom of it.”

“What do you think it is?” asked Ned. “Let’s make another examination of the letter, detective style, and see what we can deduce from it.”

“I think the man who wrote that letter is the same man we have met several times – the mysterious stranger who entered the school – the man who stole the diamond bracelet,” spoke Frank, quickly.

“Then if you’ve got it all figured out, we don’t need to puzzle over this letter,” decided Ned.

“Oh, I don’t say I’m altogether right,” came from Frank quickly. “That’s only one theory.”

“And I think it a good one,” added Bart. “Fenn, suppose you answer this letter, and leave your reply in the dead sycamore tree.”

“What shall I say?” asked the heavy-weight chum.

“Oh, you don’t need to be specific. Say you don’t like to do business this way, that you prefer to meet the writer. Then we’ll leave the letter in the tree, hide, and nab him when he comes for it.”

“Good!” cried Ned. “That’s the stuff. Regular detective business, fellows. Come on, Fenn, write the letter.”

“I think that would be a good plan,” commented Frank, who, being more sober-minded than his chums usually were, often said the final word when some scheme was afoot. “If the writer wants to resort to such tactics as leaving an anonymous letter on the doorstep, we can retaliate by playing the spy on him. Get busy, Fenn.”

“When shall we leave it in the tree?” asked the stout lad.

“To-morrow,” answered Bart promptly. “We haven’t any too much time before going to camp. We’ll try to catch him to-morrow, and maybe we can solve the mystery of the diamond bracelet.”

It took some time to compose a letter to the satisfaction of all four lads, as each one had some suggestion to make, but it was finally done, and enclosed in a strong, manilla envelope, ready to be left in the dead sycamore tree. Then the chums planned to go to Oak Swamp the next afternoon, early.

The appointed time found them at the place, and, as they came in sight of the tree, they adopted precautionary tactics previously agreed upon.

“For,” Bart explained, “we want to catch that man, and we’ve got to go about it right. He’s given us the slip a number of times. Now, naturally, he’ll expect us to-day, and he’ll be in hiding somewhere near the tree. Look around carefully, and see if we can’t spot him before we deposit the letter.”

Accordingly, the lads made a cautious approach, but there was no sign of a man, or any one else near the big tree. The approach to the swamp appeared deserted, and on that afternoon, with a dull, leaden sky overhead, and a mournful wind sighing through the trees, Oak Swamp was anything but a cheerful place.

“It’s going to snow,” observed Ned, as they walked slowly on toward the tree.

“Keep quiet,” advised Bart, in a sharp whisper. “The man may be in hiding.”

There were patches of snow on the ground about the sycamore, but an examination of them did not disclose any human footprints, though there were squirrel and rabbit tracks which gave the boys hope that they would get plenty of game when they went to their winter camp.