Stragglers
Jubilant at having obtained permission to visit the Silverton Pheasant
Farm, Dan and Brad told Mr. Holloway the good news when he came for them
twenty minutes later.
“Fine!” he praised. “You boys must have put up a good argument. We’ll
plan a trip to the farm tomorrow if the weather permits.”
The following morning, cheered by a warm sun which rapidly dried the damp
trails, the Cubs set off for the Silverton Pheasant farm with Sam
Hatfield and Midge’s father.
“Remember, gang,” the Cub leader warned as he paused on the path where
the party had met Saul Dobbs the previous day. “We’re here on trial. Mr.
Silverton will toss us out in nothing flat if we wander into forbidden
areas. Everyone got that straight?”
To make certain that all the Cubs understood, Dan passed out the map
which Mr. Silverton had given him the previous day.
“This section along Crooked Creek near the main road and the river is
taboo,” he said, outlining it with his finger tip.
“Wonder why Silverton doesn’t want us to go there?” speculated Red.
“Because he keeps his fancy pheasants in that area,” Dan explained. “The
point is, Brad and I gave our promise the Cubs will stay away from the
marked section.”
“We will,” said Midge. “You don’t have to worry.”
“Lead on,” sang out Mack.
The Cubs moved single file along the narrow woodland trail, noticing many
fine oak, white elm, ash and birch trees.
“Say, we could get wood here for some dandy Indian bows and arrows!” Fred
exclaimed enthusiastically. “Wonder if Mr. Silverton would mind?”
“We’ll not cut any wood without first asking permission,” said the Cub
leader to his son. “And no playful whacks at any of the bushes,” he
added, glancing at Chips who was known to have an itchy hand with a belt
axe.
At a brisk pace, Mr. Hatfield led the Cubs on, crossing a creek at a
footbridge. Soon he came to an open space which permitted a view of the
Silverton barn, the hatchery, the holding pens and a small dwelling,
evidently the cottage where Saul Dobbs lived.
Beyond the mesh enclosed pens, a field had been planted in cover strips
of sorghum grass.
“Oh! Oh!” muttered Dan under his breath. “Here comes Old Man Trouble
himself!”
Saul Dobbs, who had been interrupted as he clipped the wings of a
blue-breasted pheasant, trod angrily toward the Cubs.
In his gnarled hands he still held the beautiful bird, whose handsome red
neck feathers shaded off into a long silver white tail.
“What’s the big idea?” Dobbs demanded harshly. “Didn’t I tell you to stay
away from here? D’you want me to call the sheriff?”
“One moment, Mr. Dobbs,” said Sam Hatfield. “We have permission to visit
the farm.”
“Mr. Silverton said you could come here?”
“Right.”
The information plainly annoyed the foreman, for he scowled. “How do I
know you ain’t just saying that?” he demanded.
Dan produced the memorandum written in Mr. Silverton’s hand. Dobbs read
it in stony silence.
“Okay, it’s nothing to me one way or the other,” he shrugged. “You can
look around if you like. But mind, don’t get the birds stirred up.”
“Isn’t that a silver pheasant you have in your hand?” Mr. Hatfield
inquired pleasantly.
“Yeah,” Dobbs agreed, leading the group to another pen. “This here one’s
a rare breed from the Himalayas,” he explained, pointing to a pheasant
with a short golden-orange tail.
“Do you keep golden pheasants too?” asked Dan.
“Sure, they’re over in those pens near the barn. You can tell a golden
pheasant by their fluffy yellow crest, red breast and long yellow tail
feathers in scale pattern.”
“I see you are quite an authority on pheasants,” the Cub leader remarked,
hoping to coax the man into a good humor.
“Well, I been workin’ fer Mr. Silverton more’n two years now,” Dobbs
informed in a less hostile tone. “But pheasant raisin’ is hard work. You
have to keep close watch of the eggs when they’re hatching. There’s pens
to be cleaned and fumigated, sick pheasants to be treated and always you
have to be on the alert to see that none of ’em get away. I got too much
to do.”
“We don’t mean to put you to any trouble,” said Mr. Hatfield. “Don’t let
us keep you from your work.”
Dobbs shot the Cub leader a quick glance, half suspicious, and replied
curtly: “If you want to see the silver pheasants, there’s a new hatch of
’em over in the south pens.”
“Does Mr. Silverton keep any birds that are imported from Burma or the
Malay States?” Dan asked eagerly. “How about Germain’s peacock pheasant?”
“Seems you’re pretty well versed in pheasants,” Dobbs said, eyeing the
boy keenly. “Who told you to ask that?”
“Why, no one. Mr. Silverton mentioned it, that was all.”
“Well, we got a few of ’em,” Dobbs said reluctantly. “We’re having
trouble getting the birds started. You won’t find any of ’em here by the
barn.”
Apparently annoyed by the question, the foreman walked away, leaving the
Cubs to their own resources. However, as they wandered from one enclosure
to another, they noticed that he watched them closely.
Careful not to disturb any of the hens or cocks, the Cubs spent half an
hour around the pens. As they started to leave, Mr. Hatfield asked the
foreman if he thought Mr. Silverton would object if they cut a little
wood for Indian bow staves.
“Oh, I guess it’ll be all right, providin’ you don’t leave the trails,”
Saul Dobbs said grudgingly. “Just be careful what you cut.”
Feeling that the foreman might not be such a bad sort after all, the Cubs
retraced their way through the woodland toward the river.
Midway there, Fred suddenly announced that he was famished. “When do we
eat?” he moaned.
“This seems to be as good a time as any,” said Mr. Hatfield, squinting at
the sun which had climbed high overhead.
From their knapsacks, the Cubs broke out sandwiches, fruit, and candy
bars. But when Chips would have started a fire to warm a can of soup he
had brought along, the Cub leader vetoed the proposal.
“We’re still on Silverton’s land,” he reminded the Cubs. “No fires.”
After lunch, the Cubs lay for awhile under the trees, basking in the
steamy warmth of the sun.
“I see a lot of good hickory and birch around here,” Red said, stirring
to effort. “Let’s get busy on those Indian bow staves.”
“Go to it,” Mr. Hatfield urged. “But don’t mutilate any of the trees.”
For the next hour, the Cubs wandered about, selecting choice pieces of
hickory, white elm and other woods favored for staves. Midge’s father
showed them how to dress the ends.
“Time we’re getting back,” he announced suddenly, picking up his
knapsack. “Come on, gang.”
“Say, where is Chips?” Brad demanded, counting noses.
“And Red?” added Dan.
“They were here only a few minutes ago,” Fred recalled. “Come to think, I
heard Chips say something about looking for a yew tree!”
“That dumb cluck!” Dan exploded. “If he were in an evergreen forest, he’d
start looking for a date palm!”
Mr. Hatfield whistled several times and waited for an answering signal.
None came.
“Red and Chips can’t be far away,” he said.
“Want me to go after them?” Brad volunteered.
“We’ll all follow their trail,” the Cub leader decided. “But keep
together, gang. We’ve no time to look for other stragglers.”
The Cubs moved along, eyes intent on the ground. A short distance from
where they had eaten lunch, Brad came upon a heel mark in a little patch
of black, moist earth.
Pausing, he studied the mark a moment. “From Chips’ shoe,” he identified
it. “I can tell by that wing design heel mark.”
A little farther on Dan found Red’s tracks. A broken bush indicated the
direction in which he had gone.
“At least they’re together,” Mr. Holloway said in relief.
“Those dumb bunnies!” Fred said irritably. “What made ’em wander off that
way? Do they think we’ve got nothing to do but trail them?”
Mr. Hatfield, deeply troubled, paused at intervals to give the familiar
whistle. No answering call came through the woodland.
The trail of the two wanderers, led on and on to the banks of a racing
creek.
Mr. Hatfield paused a moment to study a pile of logs and debris brought
down by the flood. The litter had accumulated in a narrow gorge
formation.
“Notice how those logs form a dam across the stream,” he remarked.
“The water could back up fast in event of a real flood,” agreed Mr.
Holloway, following the Cub leader’s thought. “Fortunately, the rains
seem to have let up.”
“We’re not far from the pheasant runs,” Sam Hatfield said, thinking
aloud. “If I were in Saul Dobbs’ place, I’d clear away those logs.
Perhaps there’s no danger. But it strikes me considerable damage might be
done if the water should back up any distance.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know about the jam,” suggested Brad.
“That may be,” nodded the Cub leader. “However, some of those logs look
as if they’ve been here quite a while.”
Dan, noticing that the logs formed a perfect bridge across the stream,
started to walk across. The Cub leader called him back.
“Say, Dan,” he said, “let me see that map Mr. Silverton marked for you.”
“Sure.”
Leaping down from the log, Dan fished the paper from his pocket. While
the Cubs peered over his shoulder, Mr. Hatfield spread it out on the
ground.
“We’re very close to the area Mr. Silverton marked as restricted,” the
Cub leader declared. “Directly across the stream is an abandoned logging
road which joins the main highway along the river. This map shows the old
road fenced off—”
The Cubs waited, but Mr. Hatfield did not complete what he had started to
say. Instead, he stared at the log jam, lost in deep thought.
“Anything wrong?” Dan asked, puzzled.
“I was just wondering about that road across the creek,” the Cub leader
said vaguely.
He passed the matter off as of no consequence. Except for Dan, the Cubs
forgot the matter entirely, because at that moment, Brad gave an excited
shout. In poking about along the sandy shore, he had made a disconcerting
discovery.
“Say, come here!” he called.
The Cubs quickly joined him along the rim of the racing stream.
“We’ve got to find Chips and Red right away!” he informed the group. “See
where their tracks lead!”
The Den Chief pointed to a series of heel marks, leading directly away
from the stream.
Clearly, Red and Chips after reaching the site of the log jam, had left
the main trail.
Selecting another, they had continued on, walking into the forbidden area
of Mr. Silverton’s property!