THE BUILDER OF THE STRANGE CABIN.
"What is it, Bandy-legs?" shouted Steve, who, in spite of his constant
quarreling with the other, felt a great amount of affection for him.
He had pounced down upon the ax, which happened to be lying close by,
and this he flourished around his head as he started to meet the figure
that was scrambling up the little bank above the beach.
"Whoo, somethin' jumped at me!" replied the startled boy, panting for
breath; for he had fallen at least twice, in his haste to rejoin his
campmates near the blazing fire.
Max took hold of him as he came up, and started to ask questions.
Perhaps he already began to suspect that Bandy-legs was allowing his
fears to run away with his judgment. There was such a thing as being
frightened at one's own shadow.
"Are you sure you saw something, Bandy-legs?" he asked.
"Course I am," came the reply.
"And it wasn't your shadow this time?" Max continued.
Now, had Steve put It in exactly the same way, the boy would have shown
immediate indignation; but he seemed to understand that Max meant every
word, and was not simply trying to tease him. So he replied in like good
faith.
"It sure wasn't, Max. Why, just when I was goin' to bend down over my
canoe, to see how things looked inside, it gave a nasty little spit
straight in my face, and went whirling over the side. And, Max, it had a
tail as big as a broom, honest it did."
"Oh, that means it must have been a 'coon," remarked Max, beginning to
laugh.
"But what would a measly old raccoon want in my canoe?" demanded
Bandy-legs. "If he just had to come snoopin' around, why couldn't the
critter pick out a boat belongin' to somebody else? Seems like
everything has a spite against just me."
"Well, of course, I can't tell you that," remarked Max. "If you want to
know you'll have to ask the 'coon. Perhaps you may have dropped a small
piece of food in your boat; and as he came prowling around, not very
much afraid of us here, he got track of the same, and was hunting for it
when you had to disturb him."
"I don't wonder he sniffed in your face when you poked your head in
there," declared Steve. "Nobody likes to be bothered when they're
eating. Just try taking a bone away from a hungry dog or cat, once, and
see. He thought you a busybody, that's what, Bandy-legs. But he's gone
now, if so be you want to investigate, and find out whether the 'coon
chawed another hole in your canoe."
But Bandy-legs only threw himself down by the fire.
His air was that of one who was determined not to be easily lured away
from so comfortable a place until it was time to go to bed. They could
see that Bandy-legs was really becoming quite worked up over the queer
way a fickle fortune seemed to be showering little adventures on his
shoulders, while the rest went scot free.
"Ain't we goin' to stand guard to-night, fellers?" he asked later on;
showing how the subject stuck in his mind.
"Guard over what?" asked Steve.
"Why, that critter is bent on stealing every bit of our grub, and we
ought to do everything we can to break up his game," Bandy-legs
affirmed, in a firm way that was rather new to him.
"As how?" further questioned Steve; while the others listened as if
interested.
"Well, s'pose Max here laid out a plan that would give every feller two
hours on the watch," pursued Bandy-legs, proudly, as though he had
conjured up this beautiful little scheme all by himself, while sitting
there staring into the fire. "If I had that shotgun in my hands, I'd
just like to see anybody, or anything, sneak in on us, and steal as much
as an egg."
"I guess you would be a pretty dangerous customer, with a loaded gun in
your hands, the way you feel right now," remarked Max, seriously. "Come,
you mustn't think so much about it, Bandy-legs. Leave it to us, and
we'll try and fix it all right."
"But I've got an idea of a trap in my mind I'd like to try out,"
protested the other, eagerly.
"That's all right," laughed Max, "so long as you don't fall into it
yourself, and get us all up in the middle of the night. You must promise
not to creep out at any time, to see if there's anything in it."
"Oh, you'll know it, all right, if it does ketch game," grinned
Bandy-legs. "You see, I was readin' just last week about a crocodile
hunter away off in Africa; and he used to set his traps about like the
way I'm goin' to do mine now."
"Go on and tell us about it, please?" asked Owen, always interested.
"I've known farmers' boys to make the same sort of snare to grab rabbits
in the winter time," Bandy-legs went on, being a most accommodating boy,
especially when he had anything to tell about his own doings. "You find
a nice stout hickory sapling of the right kind, and strip it of all the
branches. Then you bend it over, and fasten it to a crotched stick
you've pounded hard in the ground. The end of the sapling has a stout
cord tied to it, and this is made in the shape of a noose. The bait is
put in this, and bunny gets his leg caught in the loop, which tightens,
so he tugs to get away. Then up goes the sapling, when the trigger is
sprung, and the game hangs there, kicking in the air."
"Fine!" remarked Steve, admiringly; "and the chances are just two to
one, old fellow, that if you set a trap like that for a visitor, you'll
be the first to fall into it."
"Oh, say, can't you let a feller get up even a little thing like that
without throwing cold water on him?" complained Bandy-legs, in a grieved
tone. "Max, don't you think it'd work, if I tried it?"
"It might," came the reply; "and perhaps there wouldn't be any harm done
trying. It's a pretty smart scheme, let me tell you, Bandy-legs. And if
we heard a yell, and crawled out to see the thief hanging there, all the
credit would be yours."
That settled it. Words of praise from so good an authority as Max would
brush away all the sarcastic remarks Steve could think up. So
Bandy-legs, with a look of triumph at his opponent, picked up the ax and
sauntered off again. But he was very careful to keep within the magical
circle of light cast by the blazing camp fire.
They heard him chopping away presently.
"Found the very hickory you wanted, have you?" called out Max.
"Just suits the bill, O. K.," replied the busy one.
After a little he came back for a piece of the rope.
"Don't take more than you need," Owen remarked. "Before we leave here
that rope may come in handy. You never can tell."
"Yes," said Steve, with grim humor; "and there's a mighty convenient
limb sticking out nearly straight and horizontal from that tree over
yonder. If we happened to be out West now instead of ten miles from
Carson, the chances are they'd know what that same limb was meant for."
"Oh, come, none of that stuff," Max protested, for he saw that
Bandy-legs frowned and looked a trifle unwilling to go away from the
circle again. "This is a peaceful community, and they never use ropes
that way around here."
Ten minutes later and they heard a sudden snap, accompanied by certain
pawing sounds, and a great grunting. Hurrying over to where the trap
setter had been hard at work they found him with his hands on the
ground, and one leg held high up in the air by the noose he had made of
the rope.
Despite the efforts of Bandy-legs, he seemed unable to reach the rope,
and only for the prompt assistance of his chums he might have had a
serious time of it. Of course Steve laughed as if he would have a fit,
even while the others were taking the unfortunate trapper down.
"Works all right, don't it, Bandy-legs?" he demanded. "When they got a
new play that they want to try out in some small city away from New
York, they say they're trying it on the dog first. And looks like you--"
"Shut up!" roared Bandy-legs, turning on his tormentor. "I wanted to see
if it would go off, that's all."
"Well, it did!" remarked Steve, dryly.
"And now I'm goin' to set it for fair," returned the other, who seemed
to be so well pleased with the result of his labors that he could even
take Steve's chaffing with some degree of good humor.
They left him there, all but Max, who stayed to render any assistance
the ardent trapper might need. For Max had an idea that perhaps the trap
might play a part in the discovery of the unknown thief, should he take
a notion to pay the camp another visit that night.
Then they all sat around the blaze and chatted once more.
"Does anybody know the history of this island, and who ever lived here?"
asked Max. "That cabin must have been built a good many years ago, I'd
think, judging from the looks of it."
"Say, I was thinkin' about that same thing this afternoon, when sittin'
on that log fishing," spoke up Steve.
"Then you remembered something about it, did you?" asked Owen.
"That's what I did," came the ready response. "But it was a long time
ago, and I must 'a' been only a little kid then, because I don't seem to
just recollect the whole story."
"Tell us what you do remember, Steve?" suggested Max.
"Yes," continued Bandy-legs, "I'd give a lot to know whoever was silly
enough to want to live on this wild-looking old island, where in the
spring they say the flood sometimes nearly covers everything. You c'n
see the drift hanging to the butts of some of the trees right now, and
all pointin' downstream."
"Good for you, Bandy-legs!" exclaimed the pleased Max; "I never thought
you'd notice such things. Owen and myself were talking about it; but
when you get to paying attention to such small matters it shows that
you're just bound to make a good woodsman some fine day."
"You bet I am," confided the other, cheerfully, his eyes glistening with
pleasure at hearing one he respected so highly as Max Hastings hand out
praise in this manner.
"Go on, Steve, tell us what you know," Owen observed, encouragingly.
"Well, I just happened to hear my dad talkin' with another gentleman
once, and it was about this same island up here. They called it
Catamount then, like they do right now. He said that a long time before,
a man by the name of Wesley Coombs had bought the place for a song from
the owners, and with his wife and baby here, started to clear the timber
off. So you see 'twas him that put up the queer little old cabin here.
He thought he could have a great home of it in time."
"Yes, I saw a number of big trees that must have been felled with the ax
years ago," Max remarked at this point; "and I was wondering about it."
"W-w-what happened to W-w-wesley C-c-combs?" asked Toby.
"It was a mighty sad thing, my dad said," Steve went on, a tremor in his
own voice, for Steve was tender-hearted after his fashion; "you see, the
first winter he was here he made quite a heap of money trappin' furs,
and fishing through the ice for pickerel that he sold in town. Then in
the spring the floods came and the whole little family was wiped out;
though the cabin, bein' built so strong, held out against the freshet,
and it has ever since, too."
"All drowned, Wesley Coombs, his wife, and his baby, too; that's a tough
story of the old island you're giving us, Steve," remarked Owen.
"Well, they said as how the man was saved, but he was stark starin' mad;
and my dad said he died later on. I never could get that story out of my
bead for a long time. It gave me a bad feeling this afternoon when I
remembered the same, and I thought of that little cabin once being a
happy home."
"Gee! I hope one of them same floods don't take a notion to swoop down
this way while we're camped on Catamount Island!" declared Bandy-legs.
"Oh, well, we'd get home in a hurry if it did," remarked Steve,
indifferently. "You know, they said our canoes couldn't sink, because
they've got air tanks fitted away up in the bow and back in the stern.
All we'd have to do would be to lash ourselves to 'em with pieces of
that rope, and float along till we got opposite Carson, when we'd yell
for help. Yes, Owen was right; that rope might come in handy one way or
another, yet."
"For shame, Steve," called out Max; "trying to mike Bandy-legs nervous
again. There never was a flood at this time of year, take my word for
it. But we'll try and make ourselves as secure as we can, with our
canoes in the bargain; because, if those Shafters did take it into their
heads to raid us tonight, we want to be ready for them."
And it was with that idea in mind that the campers busied themselves for
half an hour or so before the time they had set for crawling under their
blankets, and "wooing the moose," as Bandy-legs put it, meaning to cast
a sly reflection on the well-known habit Steve had of snoring in his
sleep when lying on his back.