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

CHAPTER XIII

THE MUD VOLCANO

Bart’s first act, on awakening in the morning, was to go to the tent flap, and look out. Then he called to his companions, who were still asleep:

“Say fellows, it’s a fine day; only it’s snowing.”

“Did you wake us up to tell us that?” demanded Ned, as he turned over for another nap.

“Well, you don’t want to sleep all day, do you?” asked Bart, looking at his watch. “It’s eight o’clock. If we’re going to do any hunting we’d better get a move on.”

There was much yawning and stretching, but finally the chums were up and dressed, and breakfast was served.

“Now for a nice lot of game,” exclaimed Bart, as he got out his rifle, and looked over his supply of ammunition. “I think I’ll load for bear to-day.”

“Do you mean to say you expect to go shooting in this storm?” asked Frank, for it was still snowing. The white flakes were of a considerable depth on the ground, but the two tents, standing as they did under some gigantic pine trees, were much protected.

“Of course we’re going hunting to-day,” declared Bart. “That’s what we came for. Some bear steak wouldn’t go at all bad, especially as we can’t get fresh meat here.”

“No, nor fresh bread, either,” added Ned. “I miss my rolls with my coffee.”

“I’m going to bake some biscuits for dinner,” declared Fenn. “I brought along some self-raising flour.”

“Good for you, Stumpy!” cried Ned. “Pity, though, you didn’t bring along some self-baking bread, and some washless dishes.”

“Well, if we’re going, let’s go,” proposed Frank. “Will it be safe to leave our stuff in camp, unprotected?”

“We can’t take it with us,” said Bart. “Besides, there isn’t any one within ten miles of this place. That’s why I wanted to camp here. It will be all right. Well, I’m ready if you are.”

“I’m going to take my shot-gun,” decided Frank. “Maybe I’ll see some wild turkeys or some partridge. They’ll do if Bart doesn’t get his bear.”

Fenn, instead of getting ready his gun, as the others were going, had gone to the box where he had placed the large turtle, captured the night previous.

“For cats’ sake!” exclaimed Ned, “aren’t you done playing with that yet, Fenn?”

“I’m not playing,” was the retort. “I’m going to try an experiment.”

“Aren’t you going hunting with us?” asked Bart.

“Not this morning. I’m going to solve this mystery of the turtles, if I can. Besides you fellows will shoot all that’s necessary. I’ll stay around here, and get ready for a partridge pot-pie or a bear roast, just as you prefer.”

“Oh, come on hunting,” pleaded Bart. “What’s the fun in staying here?”

“Well, I don’t know as I shall stay right in camp,” went on Fenn. “I’m going to make this turtle lead me to where the other ones went. In other words, I’m going to use this one as a guide.”

“You’re crazy!” scoffed Ned.

“Maybe,” admitted Fenn, calmly. “You fellows go on with your hunting, and when you come back maybe I’ll have something to show you.”

They tried to induce Fenn to accompany them, but he was firm in his determination to solve the “turtle mystery,” as he called it, and, in the end, Bart, Ned and Frank tramped off through the storm, for it was still snowing, while the stout lad remained behind, watching the turtle, which he had placed on a cleared place on the ground in front of the tent.

“Now go ahead, my fine fellow,” spoke Fenn to the reptile. “Which way do you want to head?”

The turtle seemed undecided about it, for some time after Fenn had placed it on the ground it did not move, but remained with head, legs and tail withdrawn into the protecting shell. But Fenn was patient, and knew better than to poke the reptile to make it move. Presently a long, snake-like neck was thrust out, and black, beady eyes glanced cautiously around, while the parrot jaws were slightly parted, as if to ward off any attack.

Fenn kept behind the turtle, which, in a few minutes, finding that it was not disturbed, stuck out its legs, and began to raise itself up, as if taking an observation. Then it turned partly around, and, to Fenn’s delight, started to crawl in the same direction as that taken by the other two reptiles the previous evening.

“That’s the stuff!” cried Fenn. “That confirms my theory. There’s some place where these turtles hang out, and I’m going to find it. The three we found must have wandered away from the common camping ground of the turtles of this vicinity, but they all head back toward it. Now I’m going to find it.”

He did not wait for the reptile he had captured to lead him to the place. That would have taken too long, but, after quickly scratching his initials on the back of the turtle’s shell, together with the date, so he would know the reptile again, Fenn replaced it on the ground, and started off through the woods in the indicated direction. He had his gun with him, but he did not expect to do any shooting, and he carried a pocket compass, for the woods were unfamiliar to him.

For a long distance Fenn tramped on, plowing through the woods, making turns now and then to avoid streams, partly frozen over, leaping them when he could, fording them at other times, for he had on high, water-proof hunting boots, but keeping as nearly as he could in the proper course.

“Maybe I’ll find a well-protected cave, where the turtles live during winter,” thought the stout lad, as he made his way under some low hemlock trees, well laden with a blanket of snow. “If I do, I can get some new specimens, anyhow, and perhaps enough to sell to that man who wrote me the letter. Mighty queer about him. I wonder who he was? I wonder if, by any possibility, he could be up here in these woods?”

This idea caused Fenn to look around somewhat apprehensively, but there was no one in sight. He did see something, however, that caused his heart to beat faster, and this was a brace of plump partridges on a tree, not far away.

“I wonder if I can shoot straight enough to bag them?” murmured the lad, as he quickly raised his gun, and banged away, first with the left, and then with the right barrel. Somewhat to his surprise when the smoke cleared away, Fenn saw the two birds lying in the snow. He had made a good shot.

“Well, we won’t go hungry to-night, anyway,” was his comment, as he picked them up and put them in the pockets of his hunting coat. “But I’m going to keep on,” he added.

He had gone perhaps half a mile farther, when he suddenly stopped and sniffed the air suspiciously.

“Sulphur spring,” he remarked, half aloud. “Guess I’ll go take a look at it. Whew! It’s strong enough. I don’t need any other guide than my nose.”

Making sure of the direction in which the strong odor of sulphur was wafted to him, Fenn temporarily abandoned his quest for the place of the turtles. The odor grew more pronounced, for some sulphur springs are so strongly impregnated with that chemical in solution that the smell carries for miles, especially on a windy day. The region where the chums had gone camping, as they learned later, was well supplied with these freaks of nature.

A few minutes later Fenn had come upon the object of his search. The spring gushed out from the side of a hill, and so strong was the sulphur that the stones, over which the spring, and the stream resulting from it, flowed were a yellowish white.

“Whew!” exclaimed Fenn again. “This ought to be good for whatever ails you, but I don’t like it.”

He remained looking at the spring for a few minutes, and, as he was about to move away he was startled by a deep, booming sound in the woods, off to his left. Fenn started.

“Blasting?” he exclaimed aloud, in a questioning tone. “No, it can’t be that, either,” he added. “They wouldn’t be blasting around here!”

The next moment he heard a pattering around him, and several large globules of mud came down, seemingly from the sky. Some struck on his hands, and others dotted the white snow about him.

“That’s queer,” murmured the lad. “It’s raining mud – or else – ” he paused a moment, as the remembrance of the booming sound returned to him. “No,” he added, “there must be a spouting, boiling spring around here. That’s what it is! I’m on the track of it now.”

Fenn dashed off to the left, through the forest. He was eager to see what had caused the curious shower of mud. In a few minutes he came to a little clearing in the woods – a clearing remarkable, among other things, from the fact that the ground there was devoid of snow. There was a warm, damp look about it, too, as when, in a snow storm, the sidewalk over a bakery oven is devoid of the white flakes.

But that was not the most curious thing that met Fenn’s eyes. He made out numerous mud turtles crawling about over the patch of ground that was free from snow. There must have been a score of the reptiles.

Then, as Fenn looked, a curious thing happened. He had just noted that, in the centre of the clearing, there was a large patch of water, and, a moment later the middle of this spring seemed to lift itself bodily up. Up and up the water spouted, and in an instant its comparative purity was changed to a deep mud color, as a miniature geyser of earth and liquid shot upward.

“A mud volcano!” exclaimed Fenn, as he understood what the phenomenon was. “A mud volcano! This explains the mystery of the turtles!”

An instant later he was under a shower of mud from the boiling spring.

CHAPTER XIV

BART’S FIRST SHOT

Fenn made a dash for the shelter of a spruce tree, and watched the descending shower of mud and water. It was soon over, and he stepped out again, to view the curious volcano. He crossed the open space, free from snow, and a number of turtles scurried away at his advance.

“That’s how it is,” remarked the lad, “that the turtles are so numerous around here. It’s as warm as toast around that mud volcano, and they don’t have to hibernate. The ones we found near our camp must have wandered away in search of food, and were on their way back here. I’ve solved part of the mystery, anyhow. Now to examine this curious place.”

The boiling spring, or mud volcano, as such phenomenons are variously called, consisted, in the main, of a large pool of muddy colored water, lying at the foot of a hill. All around it were dead trees, and the smell of sulphur, though not so strong as at the first spring Fenn had visited, was plainly noticeable. The water had a dead, stagnant look, after the eruption, and Fenn was careful not to approach too close, for he could not tell when the spring would spout up again. He saw a number of turtles on logs and bits of wood that extended out into the pool, and others plunged from the bank into the water at his approach.

“They don’t seem to mind the sulphur and the mud,” said Fenn to himself. The lad had read in his school books of the mud volcanoes. They are of a type similar to the hot geysers of Yellowstone Park, though not so large or numerous. Though called boiling springs in some parts of the country they do not boil or bubble on the surface, as a rule, though there is a constant supply of warm water from some subterranean source, so, that, as in the case with the spring Fenn was viewing, the water ran over from the pool, and trickled off through the woods.

Mud volcanoes or boiling springs, while not common, are to be met with in New York and Pennsylvania. The writer recently visited a large one in New York State, near Lake Ontario. It was around Christmas, and a cold blustering day, yet the water from the spring was quite warm, and had melted the snow for quite a distance in all directions. The water was impregnated with sulphur and salt, and though there was not an eruption when the writer was present, there were marks on surrounding trees showing where mud had been hurled to a height of thirty or forty feet.

There are various theories to account for the action of the mud volcanoes. One is that steam is formed away below the surface, and, seeking an outlet, throws the mud and water with it. Another is that the force of water, flowing from some mountain lake, by an underground passage, spouts up through the boiling spring, being heated in some manner in its passage.

But Fenn did not trouble himself much about these theories as he looked at the curious spring. It was a gloomy, lonesome place, and the presence of so many turtles, some of them very large, added to the uncanny aspect.

“Well, there are turtles enough here to stock several collections,” murmured Fenn. “Lots of different kinds, too. I will take some home I guess. Now if I had that mysterious man’s address I’d send him word. This mud volcano will be a curious thing to show the other fellows. I wonder how warm the water is?”

He approached, to thrust his hand into the edge of the spring, when an ominous rumbling beneath his feet warned him. He jumped away just in time, and, as he ran for the shelter of the trees, there was another upheaval of mud, and he received a share of it. He remained in the shelter until the spring subsided, and then made his way back to camp.

His chums were there when he arrived, and something in their looks prompted Fenn to ask:

“Well, where’s the bear steak, and the partridges for roasting.”

“No luck,” declared Bart in disgust. “Never saw a bit of game! I guess we camped in the wrong place.”

“Oh, no we didn’t!” exclaimed Fenn in triumph, as he produced the two plump birds from his pockets. “Here’s what I got, besides bagging a boiling spring for my morning’s work.”

“Say, where’d you get those?” asked Bart eagerly.

“Come on, show us?” begged Ned.

“Time enough,” responded the stout lad. “I’m going to have dinner now, and then we’ll have these birds, roasted, for supper. There’s more where they came from. Now I’ll tell you about the mud volcano,” which he did, graphically, so that his chums were eager to go and see it. But they decided to wait until the next day, and to have a good supper of roast partridge that night. Fenn cooked his game to perfection, and was given a hearty vote of thanks.

A visit to the mud volcano was made the next day, and there were found to be more turtles than on Fenn’s visit. The volcano was observed in action, much to the wonderment of the three lads, who had never seen anything like it, and once Ned, who was too venturesome, was caught under an unusually large shower of mud.

“Well, let’s go hunting now,” proposed Bart, after a pause. “I haven’t had a decent shot since we came to camp. I’ve got to get that bear before I go back.”

They tramped off through the woods, their eyes eager for a sight of game, large or small. Each one had a compass, so that if they became separated they could make their way back to camp, for the forest was dense. The snow had ceased, and the weather was clear and cold.

Fenn and Frank had shotguns, and elected to try to bag some wild turkeys or partridges, so they went off to one side, while Bart and Ned, with their rifles, kept together.

Suddenly Bart, after an hour’s tramping in the woods, with never a sight of anything larger than a rabbit, which he would not fire at, came to an abrupt stop. Ned, who was right behind him, halted also.

“What is it?” he whispered.

“What is that over there?” asked Bart, also in a whisper, and he pointed to a black object near some bushes.

“A stump,” replied Ned promptly.

“Do stumps move?” inquired Bart.

“Of course not.”

“Well that one did, so it isn’t a stump. I think it’s a bear.”

Bart’s opinion was unexpectedly confirmed the next moment, for the animal turned and uttered a loud “woof!” as it sniffed at the snow at the foot of the bush, evidently in search of something to eat.

Bart dropped to one knee, and took quick aim. It was his first shot since arriving at camp, and it was one worthy of much care, for bears were none too common to risk missing one.

The rifle cracked, but there was no cloud of smoke, for Bart was using his new smokeless cartridges. The lad pumped another bullet into the barrel, and fired again, for the bear had not moved after the first report.

Then, as the echoes of the rifle died away, the two lads saw the animal quickly rear itself upon its hind legs, and swing around in their direction.

CHAPTER XV

FENN FALLS IN

“Shoot again, Bart!” cried Ned. “You missed him!”

Bart had pumped another cartridge into place, but before he could pull the trigger the bear staggered a few paces toward him, and then fell in a convulsive heap. There was no need to fire again.

“He’s dead!” cried Bart, exultantly, as he leaped forward. “My first bear, though it did take two shots to settle him.” But as he saw a few minutes later, when he examined his prize, the first bullet would have done the work, had he waited long enough, for it was in a vital spot.

“Now to get him to camp,” proposed Ned, when he and his chum had sufficiently admired the dead bear. “We’ll have enough fresh meat for a week.”

“Yes,” assented Bart. “Let’s see how we’re going to get him back.” He raised the fore end of the bear, by his paws, and grunted.

“What’s the matter – heavy?” asked Ned.

“Try it and see,” advised Bart. Ned did so, and grunted in his turn. The truth of the matter was that the bear, though not of full size, was fat and plump, and of greater weight than the boys expected. Then, too, the weight was “dead,” which made it all the more awkward to carry. Bart and Ned tried again, by turns, and both together, but the bear was too much for them.

“We’ll have to get Fenn and Frank to help us,” said Bart and he fired his rifle three times, in quick succession, and then, after a pause, twice, more slowly – the prearranged call for assistance. Fenn and Frank came running up a little later, fearing that some accident had happened, and they were much relieved when they found that their help was wanted in transporting the bear.

At Fenn’s suggestion a long pole was cut, the bear’s paws were tied together and the pole thrust through them, and then, with two lads on either end of the shaft, and Bruin swinging between, the journey back to camp was safely made.

Bart insisted on skinning his prize, saying he was going to make a rug of the hide, and the best portions of the meat were cut off for future use. As it was desired to allow the flesh to cool a bit before using it, the campers prepared a meal of the food they had in stock, reserving the bear steaks for supper.

The rest of the day was spent around camp, several improvements being made, with a view of rendering life more comfortable during their stay. The bear steak, broiled with pieces of bacon stuck on it, was voted most delicious, and Fenn ate so much that he said it made him sleepy.

It grew much colder in the night, and before morning there was a demand for more blankets on the part of Frank and Ned. As there were no more, Bart volunteered to get up and replenish the fire in the stove, for it had died down.

As he was putting on more wood he suddenly paused, and seemed to be listening. Then he quietly went to the tent flap and peered out into the darkness, illuminated by a lantern hanging from the ridge pole.

“What’s the matter?” asked Ned. “Did you see another bear, Bart?”

“I thought I heard some one walking around,” was the answer. “It’s snowing again. I don’t see any one.”

He went back to bed, every one sleeping more in comfort now that the tent was warmer. In the morning, Bart was the first one up, and he opened the tent flap. As he looked out, noting that the sun was shining, though the weather was cold, the lad uttered a cry of astonishment.

“What’s the matter?” asked Fenn, pausing in his dressing operations.

“Some one was sneaking around last night!” declared Bart. “See the footprints!”

The campers rushed from the tent in various stages of negligee, and stared at a track of human footprints, clearly visible in the new-fallen snow.

“Whoever it was he came close to our tent, and was evidently going to look in, when I must have frightened him off by getting up to put wood on the fire,” said Bart.

“Who was it?” asked Ned.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” responded Bart, “only it was some one who evidently wanted to get away unobserved. Look, you can trace where he came out of the woods, approached our tent very cautiously, and then, when I frightened him, he took it on the run.” This was easy to confirm by the spaces between the footprints, for when the midnight visitor had approached slowly and stealthily the marks were comparatively close together, but where he had run they were far apart.

“Let’s get dressed, and have a look around,” said Fenn. But though they searched for some time they could not find the intruder, even if his footsteps were plainly visible, leading off into the forest.

“We’ll get breakfast and trace him up,” suggested Frank. “Might as well do that as anything else.”

“Let’s look and see if he’s taken anything,” suggested Fenn.

“No need to do that, Stumpy,” was Bart’s opinion. “You can tell by his tracks that he wasn’t near enough to our camp to have stolen anything. Even the bear meat is safe,” and he looked to where it was suspended on a tree limb, by means of a long rope, a precaution taken to keep it out of the way of prowling animals.

With their guns in readiness for any game, the four chums set out after breakfast on the trail of the unknown, midnight visitor. The marks were easy to follow, for very little snow had fallen after Bart had replenished the wood in the stove.

“Say, do you notice which way he’s heading?” asked Fenn, excitedly, when they had gone on about a mile.

“Not particularly,” said Frank. “Why?”

“He’s gone to the mud volcano – that’s where he’s gone, fellows!” declared the stout youth. “I wonder what he wants there? Maybe he’s after mud turtles. Maybe he’s the same man who wrote to me.”

“He might be almost anybody, Stumpy,” was Ned’s opinion. “We can’t tell until we see him. Get a move on.”

The footsteps were becoming fainter now, for the wind had drifted the snow across them in a number of places, but they were sufficiently visible to indicate that the man had kept on in the direction of the boiling spring.

Just before the boys reached that phenomenon, the marks vanished altogether, coming to an abrupt stop in the snow, but it was evident that this was due to the wind covering the tracks with white crystals from the drifts, and not because the man had mysteriously vanished.

“Well, we may as well go on to the spring,” spoke Fenn. “Maybe we’ll find him there.”

But the vicinity of the mud volcano was deserted, though numerous mud turtles were crawling about over the warm ground, which was devoid of snow.

“I’m going closer and have a look,” decided Fenn, as he started away from his chums.

“Better be careful, Stumpy,” warned Bart. “It doesn’t look as if there had been an eruption lately, and you may catch it all of a sudden.”

“Oh, I’ll chance it,” said the heavy-weight lad.