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

CHAPTER XVI

FRANK MAKES PANCAKES

“Fellows, he’s fallen in a quicksand!” yelled Bart. “Come on, help him out!”

“Look out we don’t get in it ourselves,” cautioned Frank, but it was from no desire to shirk any danger in rescuing his chum that he was thus thoughtful. Rather he wanted to be on the safe side. “Go ahead, Bart and Ned. I’ll get some tree branches, in case you can’t reach him,” he added.

Ned and Bart started on a run toward their unfortunate chum. Poor Fenn was engulfed almost to his shoulders, and was struggling ineffectually to get out.

“Don’t worry, we’ll save you!” called Bart encouragingly. “Hold on, Stumpy.”

“That’s the trouble – there’s nothing to hold on to,” panted Fenn.

“Is the water hot?” asked Ned.

“No, only warm; but I’m in as much mud as I am water. Give me a hand, and pull me out.”

Bart and Ned advanced to do so, but, to their dismay they found that they were themselves sinking in. As they had approached on this side of the boiling spring on a previous occasion, much closer to the water than they now were, it was evident that there had been a shifting of the earth underneath the surface.

“We can’t come any closer, Stumpy,” announced Bart. “We’ll sink in ourselves.” He was about to go back.

“Don’t – don’t leave me!” begged the unfortunate lad, making another attempt to lift himself out of the slough. “Don’t go back on me, Bart!”

“We won’t. We were only trying to think of a way to get you out,” answered Bart, as he held Ned back from going too close.

“Here, this will do it,” cried Frank, running up at that moment with a long, tree branch. “Take hold of this, Stumpy, and we’ll haul you out.”

Standing where the ground was firm, Frank thrust forward the branch, Bart and Ned assisting their chum. Fenn grasped desperately at the other end, and his three companions braced themselves.

There was a straining, a long, steady pull and Fenn slowly began to emerge from the hole. Once he was started it was an easy matter to pull him out completely, and in a few seconds he was out of danger, and standing beside his chums on solid earth. But such a sight!

He was covered with mud almost from his head to his feet. It dripped from his clothes, and his hands were thick with it, while some had even splashed on his face. He had not been rescued more than a minute before there came a rumbling sound, and a spray of mud and water shot up into the air. The volcano was in eruption, and Fenn had been saved in the nick of time, for the place where he had been sucked down was right on the edge of the disturbance.

“How did it happen?” asked Frank.

“It was so quick I can’t tell,” answered the muddy lad. “All I know is that I went down and seemed to keep on going.”

“Better come over to where the water flows out of the spring, and wash off,” suggested Ned, and Fenn agreed with him. The water with which he removed the worst of the mud from his clothes was unpleasant smelling, impregnated as it was with salt and sulphur, but there was no help for it. As the three labored to get Fenn into some sort of presentable shape, numerous turtles crawled around them, evidently disturbed by the unaccustomed visits.

“Well, I’ll do, I guess,” remarked Fenn, at length, trying to catch a glimpse of himself in the little stream of water. “Wow, but that’s dirty mud, though!”

“Next time don’t go so near,” cautioned Bart.

“You should have told me that first,” answered Fenn, with a grim smile.

With a final look at the place of the mud volcano the boys turned back toward camp. They had not learned much, save that the mysterious visitor had come in the direction of the boiling spring – why, they could not fathom. Fenn spoke of getting some of the less common turtles to add to his collection, but his chums persuaded him to wait until they were ready to go home.

Fenn’s first work, when he reached the tent, was to change his clothes, and then, making a good fire in the wood stove he took a bath, with water melted from snow. He felt better after this, and was about to proceed with the getting ready of supper, for they had taken their lunch with them on their tramp to the spring, and had made coffee on the way.

“Fenn, you sit down and rest, and I’ll get the meal,” suggested Frank, good-naturedly. “I think I’ll give you fellows a treat.”

“What’ll it be?” asked Ned.

“How would pancakes go?” inquired Frank with a triumphant air.

“Can you make ’em?” asked Bart, doubtfully.

“Sure. I did it at home once; for dad and me. We have some prepared flour here, and the directions are on the package. You fellows go outside, and when the cakes are ready I’ll call you in to supper.”

“That suits me,” observed Bart, and the others assented joyfully. Leaving Frank in the cook-tent, they busied themselves about various things, awaiting the call for supper, and with no great amount of patience, for they were hungry.

“Do you fellows smell anything,” asked Bart, after a long wait, and he sniffed the air strongly.

“You don’t mean to say Frank’s burning those cakes, do you?” inquired Ned anxiously.

“No, I don’t smell him cooking them at all,” answered Bart. “They ought to be pretty nearly done by this time, for it doesn’t take long. Maybe he’s in trouble. I’m going to take a look.”

He advanced cautiously to peer into the cook tent, whence came a series of rather queer sounds. Bart took one look through the flap, and then beckoned to his chums.

“Look, but don’t laugh,” he cautioned them.

It was well he did, for the sight that met their eyes made them want to howl. Frank was in the midst of the tent, surrounded by several pots, pans, pails, dishes and other receptacles, filled with pancake batter. He was industriously stirring more in the bread-pan, and there was a puzzled look on his face.

“Hang it all,” Frank’s chums heard him mutter, “I can’t seem to get this stuff right. Guess it needs more flour.” He put some into the batter he was mixing, and then stirred it. “Now it’s too thick,” he remarked. “It needs more water.” He poured the fluid in with a too lavish hand, it seemed, for he murmured: “Gee whiz! Can’t I get this right? Now I’ve got it too thin. I’ll have to empty part of it out.”

He looked around for something into which to pour part of the batter, but every available dish in the tent seemed to be filled.

“No use saving it,” Frank went on. “I’ll just throw some of it away. I’ve got lots left.” He emptied part of the batter into a refuse pail, and his face wore such a worried expression as he came back to his task, that Bart and his two chums could not hold back their laughter any longer. As they burst into peals of mirth, Frank glanced up, and saw them spying on him from the tent flap.

“Hu! you fellows think you’re mighty smart, I guess!” he muttered.

“How are you coming on?” asked Bart “Are you stocking up for fear of a blizzard, Frank?”

Then the comical side of the situation struck the volunteer cook, and he, too, joined in the fun.

“It’s funny how this thing came out,” said Frank, with a dubious air. “First the batter was too thick, and then, when I put more water in, it was too thin. Then I had too much, and I had to empty some of it out. Then I did the same thing over again, and had to keep on emptying. I never could seem to get it right, and I’ve used up nearly a sack of flour. I put the flavoring in, too.”

“Flavoring? What flavoring?” asked Fenn quickly.

“Cocoanut, I guess it was. I found it in a cocoanut box, anyhow.”

“I never heard of cocoanut flavoring in pancakes,” said Fenn dubiously, “but maybe it’s all right. But I’ll show you how to mix ’em, Frank. We’ll just put two or three dishes of this batter together in the pan, add a little more flour, and some salt, and it’ll be ready to bake,” and, as he talked Fenn soon beat up the batter to the right consistency, for he had a knack of cooking. Then a frying pan was put on the stove, for they had brought along no regular griddle, it was greased, and Frank, who insisted on doing the rest, was allowed to pour out the batter, and do the turning. This part he managed fairly well, and soon he had a big plate full of nicely-browned cakes.

“Seems to me they smell sort of funny,” remarked Ned, as he sat down to the table, and helped himself liberally.

“Oh, that’s only your imagination,” declared Frank. “They’re all right. Eat hearty, fellows, there’s lots of ’em.” There was – enough for a squad.

Fenn poured out a liberal amount of maple syrup on his pile of cakes. He put a generous piece of the top brown one in his mouth. The next minute he uttered a yell, and made rush for the outside of the tent.

“Wow! Oh!” he cried on his way.

“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Frank, as Fenn hastily drank several glasses of water on his return.

“What did you say you flavored those cakes with?” demanded the stout youth, while Bart and Ned paused, with their forks half raised to their mouths.

“Cocoanut,” answered Frank.

“Soap powder, you mean!” exclaimed Fenn, as he made a dash for the box that served as a cupboard, and took out a pasteboard package that had contained cocoanut. “I put soap powder in this to have handy when I washed the dishes,” explained the fleshy youth, “and you flavored the cakes with it, Frank. Wow! Wow!”

“Oh punk!” groaned Bart, as he pushed his plate away from him, “and I was counting on griddle cakes!”

Frank cautiously smelled of the pile of cakes on his plate.

“Guess you’re right,” he admitted dubiously. “I’m sorry fellows, but my pancakes are a failure.”

CHAPTER XVII

TREED BY A WILDCAT

They made the best of it, laughing and joking, and the meal was finished on some victuals that remained from the day before. Frank was inclined to blame himself, and, after that, Fenn, because the latter had put the soap powder into the cocoanut box, but the amateur cook’s chums were good-natured over his failure, and comforted him with the proverb “accidents will happen in the best of regulated camps.”

The weather the following day turned out unexpectedly warm, and, as Bart, Fenn and Ned elected to remain in camp, and straighten it out somewhat, besides cleaning their guns, and mending some torn clothes, Frank said:

“Guess I’ll go off, and try my luck, if you fellows don’t mind. Maybe I can bag something.”

“Going alone?” asked Bart, looking up from his rifle, which he had taken apart. “If you wait until after dinner I’ll go along.”

“I don’t mind going alone,” was Frank’s rejoinder, and this was true, for, however good a chum he might be to the other lads, he was rather an odd chap, and frequently went off on solitary strolls. His friends were used to this, and did not mind.

“Aren’t you going to take a rifle?” asked Ned. “You might see some big game.”

“Guess not. I’m after birds. You fellows have scared off all the deers and bears,” and, with a light shotgun over his shoulder Frank set out.

It was lonesome enough in the woods, after leaving the winter camp, to suit almost any one who was fond of solitude, and Frank really rejoiced in the calm and quietness all about him. The only sound was the occasional flutter of a bird in the branches, or the soft, slushing noise made by snow toppling from the trees to the ground.

Frank walked on, his eyes alert for a sign of any game that would restock the camp larder, but, for a long time he saw nothing. He had covered about three miles, and was beginning to think that he would have his trip in vain, when, as he went down into a little gully, where the snow lay rather deeper than on the level, he heard a noise, and saw a movement in the underbrush.

“There’s something!” he exclaimed half aloud, and he swung his gun around. “Now let’s see what sort of a shot I am.”

He advanced cautiously, thinking he might flush a covey of birds. But the sound was not repeated, and, look as he did, Frank could see nothing. With ready gun, and eyes that gazed eagerly forward, he kept on, making as little noise as possible.

Suddenly he heard a yelping bark, followed by a shrill cry of agony, and there was a great commotion in a clump of bushes about a hundred feet directly in front of him. Some animal or animals were evidently threshing about in the underbrush.

“A dog! It’s a dog, and something has caught it!” exclaimed Frank. “Maybe it’s a bear! I wish I had my rifle!”

He had no thought of turning back, even though he had but a light shotgun. The commotion increased, the yelping and barking finally dying out, to be succeeded by a low moan, and then there was a silence, and Frank could hear the crunching of bones.

“Poor dead beast,” he murmured. “Maybe I can get a pop at the other creature; and if I get close enough, and put two charges of shot into it at short range, and in the right spot, I may kill it. I’m going to try, anyhow.” He little knew the danger he was running, for he had had, as yet, no view of the creature upon which he was creeping.

As he walked forward he stepped on a dead branch, concealed by the snow, and it broke with his weight, a sharp snap sounding in the still forest. Instantly the crunching of bones ceased, there was a slight movement where the fight had taken place, and a savage growl resounded.

“I’m in for it now,” mused Frank. “I’ve got to see it through. I can’t run, but I don’t like that growl.”

He stood still for a moment, hoping the beast would show itself. Then he advanced a few more steps.

As he got to one side of the concealing bushes he saw a curious sight. A big, lithe, tawny creature, with ears laid back, and with flashing eyes, was crouched down over some smaller animal, savagely regarding the boy. It had been rending and tearing the smaller creature, and, at a glance Frank saw that it was a fox. It had been the whines and barking of the fox that he had heard, and the groans had come when death followed the stroke of the sharp claws of the wildcat, for it was that savage and tawny beast that now glared at Frank – a wildcat disturbed at its meal.

Frank saw before him one of the tragedies of the forest. The fox had been preying on a wild turkey, as was evidenced by the half-consumed carcass, and the feathers scattered all about. Then along had come the wildcat, intent on a meal, had crept upon the feasting fox, had leaped down from a tree, and, with the quickness of light, had given the death stroke. Now Frank had come, the fourth factor in the woodland tragedy.

For a moment the lad stood regarding the savage creature, whose blazing eyes never left his face. Then, as cautiously as he could, Frank brought his gun to bear. Oh, how he wished he had his rifle now, for well he knew that more than a charge of small shot was needed to kill the big cat.

“But if I can give her both barrels at once, right in the eyes, maybe it will do for her,” he mused quickly.

Once more came the menacing growl, and the cat crouched for a spring. From her jaws dripped foam and blood. Frank raised his gun, and took quick aim. He pulled both triggers together, and the recoil nearly sent him over backwards. But he recovered his balance with an effort, and gazed through the smoke at the crouching creature.

To his horror, instead of seeing her stretched out dead, or writhing in the final struggle, the lad saw the big, tawny body bounding over the snow toward him. On she came, growling and snarling, and Frank saw that he had fired too high, and that with the small shot he had only succeeded in slightly wounding the wildcat on top of the head. The creature’s eyes had escaped, and, now with the yellow orbs blazing with deadly hate and anger, she leaped forward as though to serve the lad as she had served the fox.

“Can I get in another shot?” thought Frank. He “broke” his breach-loader, the empty shells flew out, and his hand sought his belt, to slip in two fresh cartridges.

To his horror he found that they would not fit! He had brought out his smaller gauge shotgun, and the cartridges in it were the only ones available. They had been fired. Those in his belt were too large. And the wildcat was bounding toward him!

There was but one thing to do, and Frank did it. Wheeling quickly he raced for the nearest tree which would sustain him. Fortunately there was one not far away. He managed to reach it well ahead of the wildcat, and began scrambling up. He dropped his gun, since it was useless, and only hindered him in his ascent. And he needed to make all the haste he could, for he was hardly well up out of reach of the cruel claws, before the enraged brute bounded against the foot of the tree with a snarl.

“She’ll come up after me, as sure as fate!” thought Frank desperately. “I’ve got to stop her in some way.”

The cat began climbing, an easy task with her long, sharp claws. Frank reached up, and saw, over his head a dead branch, that was big and sufficiently strong for his purpose. Working with feverish energy he broke it off, and, when the big cat’s head was close enough the young hunter brought the large end of the stick down on the skull with all his might.

With a howl of rage the big beast loosed its hold, and dropped back to the earth. Then it looked upward, glaring at Frank as if wondering what kind of a foe he was. But not daunted by the reception she met, the animal once more began climbing up. Once more Frank raised the club, and dealt her another severe blow.

“I hope I crack your skull!” he murmured.

But alas for his hopes! The blow was well delivered, and sent the cat back snarling and growling, but the force of it broke the branch off close to the lad’s hand, and the best part of his weapon fell to the ground.

“I’m done for, if she comes back at me!” he thought, but the cat had no such intentions, at present at least. The two blows on the head had stunned her.

Down at the foot of the tree crouched the brute, as if to announce that she would wait there until after dark, when she would have the advantage.

“I’m in for it now,” mused the lad. “Treed by a wildcat, and nothing with which to shoot her. I am in a pickle. The fellows won’t know where to look for me, and I can’t fire any shots to call them. I am up against it.”

He made himself as comfortable as possible on his small perch. At his first movement the cat started up from her crouching position, as if to be on the alert, but, seeing that her prey did not attempt to descend, she again stretched out, and began moving her paw over the place where the shot had torn her scalp.

For half an hour Frank sat there, turning over the situation in his mind. He hoped the cat might tire of waiting, or go back to the fox she had killed, but the animal showed no such intentions. Noon came, and there was no change. Frank was tired and cramped, and he began to feel the pangs of hunger. He moved about, seeking to be comfortable, and every time he shifted his position the wildcat would growl, as if resenting it.

“Maybe when I don’t come home to dinner the fellows will come looking for me,” thought the treed lad. “They may be able to trace my footsteps.”

But the afternoon began to wane, and no relief came. Frank was desperately weary, and was beginning to be alarmed. Not only was the prospect of a night in the tree most unpleasant, but he feared that after dark he could not watch to ward off the approach of the beast, whose ability to see after nightfall was better than was his. Then, too, he feared that his muscles might get numb, and that he would fall.

“Well, I’ll cut another club, and have it in readiness,” Frank thought, and, as there were no more suitable dead limbs that would serve, he whittled off with his knife, a tough green branch, that would answer as a club.

This movement on his part was resented by the cat, who raised up and tried her fore paws on the tree trunk, tearing off bits of bark. But she did not venture to climb. The memory of the blows on the head probably deterred her.

It began to get dusk. The cat seemed to know this, and began prowling about the foot of the tree, as if waiting until the veil of night had completely fallen before making another attack. Now and then she growled and once howled dismally.

“Maybe she’s got a mate,” thought Frank. “If two of them come at me – ” He didn’t like to dwell on that.

The big cat curled herself at the foot of the tree, and looked up at the boy, not far above her head. Then, as Frank carefully shifted his position, to get rid of a cramp in his left leg, his fingers came in contact with his belt filled with cartridges.

“Oh, if I had only brought the right size, or else had my other gun,” he mused regretfully. “There’d soon be a different story to tell. As it is – ”

He paused, struck by a sudden thought.

“By Jove! I’ll try it!” he cried. “Wonder why I didn’t think of it before.”

Taking out a cartridge, and bracing himself in the crotch of a limb so as to have both hands free, he dug out, with his knife, the wad that held the shot in place. He let the leaden pellets fall to the ground. At this the cat growled, but the lad paid no attention to her.

Next he removed the wad over the powder, and poured the black grains out into his hand. From his pocket he took a piece of paper, and, emptying the powder into this he laid it in his cap, which he managed to balance on a limb in front of him. Working rapidly in the fast-gathering darkness he emptied several cartridges, until he had a sufficient quantity of powder in the paper.

This he wadded up tightly, leaving one end twisted into a sort of fuse. Next he tied a string to his improvised bomb.

With trembling fingers he lighted the fuse, and then, when it was burning well, he began to lower the paper of powder toward the wildcat. The beast snarled as she saw the tiny flame approaching, but she did not withdraw. Rather she reared on her hind feet, and was about to strike at the little tongue of fire.

This was better than Frank hoped for. An instant later there was a big puff of flame, and a dull report. The powder in the paper had exploded almost in the face of the wildcat.

With a scream of rage and pain the creature dropped to all fours, and began clawing the dirt and snow. The fire had burned her severely, and she was wild with pain.

“Good!” exulted Frank. “I wish I had another!” He peered down at the snarling cat, and began to open more cartridges. But it was too dark to see to work, and he had to stop, for he spilled the powder.

Suddenly, above the yelps and growls of the brute, the lad in the tree heard a hail far off in the woods. He listened a moment, and then shouted:

“Here I am, fellows. Over here! I’m treed by a wildcat! Look out!”

“We’re coming,” shouted Bart’s voice. “Where are you?”

Frank rapidly twisted some paper together, lighted it, and waved the improvised torch above his head. He hardly dared descend yet. A shout told him that his light had been seen. Then, off through the woods, he saw the flicker of a lantern.

“Come up easy,” he cautioned. “The brute is still here, though I burned her some.”

He dropped the blazing paper to the ground. It flared up, and the cat, with a snarl, sprang away.

An instant later a shot rang out, and the beast turned a somersault, falling over backward – dead. Bart had seen the tawny body in the gleam from the burning paper, and had fired in the nick of time.

“You can come down now, Frank,” he cried, as he and the other chums rushed up to where the wildcat was still twitching in death.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE MYSTERIOUS MAN AGAIN

Frank’s story was soon told, and he was helped back toward camp by his comrades, for he was stiff from his long position in the tree.

“You want to be more careful of your gun, next time,” cautioned Bart, “and take the right one.”