TREACHEROUS INDIANS AT BUFFALO LAKE
It was a couple of days later before Mr. William Spencer (sometimes
known to his fellow citizens as Jolly Bill) fully explained to Glen the
method by which he hoped to increase their fortunes. He had taken Glen
into his home, had fed and provided for him and had given him some
clothing. An automobile had brought them the twenty miles of their
journey, early that morning, and had left them with their belongings at
the house of a farmer, with whom Spencer was evidently on the best of
terms. Now they stood on a knoll overlooking what seemed to Glen to be
nothing but an immense field of growing corn.
"There is our fortune," said Spencer.
"That field of corn?" asked Glen.
"That is Buffalo Hollow and I repeat that there lies our fortune."
"And how are we to get it?"
"That is your job. That's why I brought you."
"What do you expect me to do. Take a spade and dig?"
"Perhaps! We shall see. Sit down while I tell you about this place.
Buffalo Mound, over there, is the highest ground in this country. From
its summit you can see into six counties. This big field before us is
Buffalo Hollow. When I was a little chap I was told a great story about
this by an old Indian. He said that years ago the Hollow was a beautiful
lake fed by springs from Buffalo Mound. Some freighters carrying bullion
camped here and were slaughtered by Indians. To hide the bullion until
they could dispose of it they threw it in the lake. When they returned
they could not find it readily, so they dammed the springs and drained
the lake. Makes quite a romantic story, doesn't it?"
"Yes, but did it ever happen?"
"I believe there is some record of such a thing, but my private opinion
is that the draining was done by some stingy owner who had little use
for a lake and thought he saw an opportunity to secure twenty acres of
good bottom land. Probably he thought he was a great economist. But as a
matter of fact he did a very foolish thing. This prairie country is
poverty stricken so far as lakes and woods are concerned. In the town I
live in there are many wealthy men who take their families long
distances every summer in order to reach a lake. A twenty acre lake is
only a pool in the lake country, but out here it is worth more than a
gold mine."
"And you think if you could make it a lake again you could sell it to
these wealthy people?"
"I know I could. I know an athletic club in town that would pay a big
price for it. There are many of our wealthy men who would pay five
hundred dollars for a hundred foot frontage, so that they might put up
bungalows for summer residences. My plan is to find those choked
springs, bring them again into their old channels, and convert the
Hollow into a lake. Mr. Ryder, our farmer friend who now owns this farm,
doesn't think much of my plan, and won't have anything to do with it any
more than to sell me options on the land and the privilege of cutting
this excellent stand of corn, and that is as far as my arrangements with
him extend."
"And what is the first thing for me to do?" asked Glen.
"Excellent talk, that, my boy. What would you advise as to the first
thing."
"I suppose you can't do much exploring while the corn stands. It should
be cut."
"It should, and it must be cut in the old fashioned way. Did you ever
cut corn in the old fashioned way?"
"You mean with a corn-knife. I helped cut a hundred acres at the school
last fall."
"Well, there's only about five acres of this land in corn so the
contract is smaller. The first thing is to borrow a corn-knife of our
friend Ryder."
Glen's attack upon the field of corn began that very day. A year ago, at
the reform school, he had hated this work; now, he enjoyed it. The corn
was higher than his head, and the heavy stalks, piled on his left arm as
he cut with his right, wore through his shirt and made an attempt upon
his skin, but he did not complain. He was doing a work into which his
heart entered, and so he was enjoying it.
Spencer could give no help at all. There are people, with like
misfortune to his, who are able to make some sort of a shift with
crutches, but Will could not use them at all. As Mrs. Spencer had
explained to Glen, there had been some trouble in the amputation. All
that was needed was money to go to a famous hospital and have things
properly arranged and a pair of artificial legs fitted that would enable
him to walk, run, race, dance or play the pipe organ. Will hoped to be
successful enough to command the money for this and meantime he intended
to be happy in the prospect. So he sat and watched Glen work, made
suggestions, cracked jokes and drew diagrams of the surrounding country.
The day that Glen finished his work was very hot. He had been working
hard in the hope of completing the job by nightfall and was wet and
grimy with perspiration and dirt. As he carried an armful of stalks to
the shock he noticed a boy standing there dressed in a khaki uniform of
olive drab.
"Wouldn't you like a little help?" asked the boy.
"I could use some," said Glen. "But I have only one knife."
"You rest, then, and let me use it awhile. I know how to cut corn."
"You'll spoil your pretty suit."
"This kind doesn't spoil. It's a scout uniform."
"Perhaps it won't spoil for as long as you'll work," said Glen. "What
are you doing here?"
"We have a camp around the other side of the Mound. We only came
yesterday or you would have seen some of us before now."
He was cutting cornstalks with a practised hand and Glen decided that he
could trust him.
"You can go ahead for awhile. I'll go over and see what my partner
says," he agreed.
"There's a boy scout over there," he told Spencer. "He wanted to help
cut a piece, so I let him. Do you mind?"
"Not a bit. I'd like to get a whole troop of boy scouts to help. They
ought to be some good at our game."
"There is a troop of them camped the other side of the mound, this boy
says. Maybe we could get them to help."
Spencer straightened himself in his seat.
"Bright idea, Glen. To-night you shall push Jolly Bill and the old
billy-cart over there, and we'll give them a chance to do a good turn."
Glen went back to where the scout was working.
"That's enough," he said. "You've given me quite a rest. We're coming
over to see you to-night."
"I hope you will," the scout replied. "My father is the scout master and
I know he'll be glad to have you come. His name is Newton."
"I suppose you get along with the same name?" suggested Glen.
"I surely do. And my other name is Corliss, but the fellows call me
Apple."
"Why's that. Is it your round face and red cheeks?"
"No. I couldn't help looking that way and the boys wouldn't throw it up
to me. No, sir; they started to call me Core, then Apple-core, and so
down to Apple."
"It's a good name for you," said Glen. "Did I tell you I'd be bringing
my partner over this evening, too?"
"He's welcome. It's in our articles, you know. 'A scout is friendly.'"
"Well, don't forget to ask him to tell some stories. Then you'll be glad
we came."
"We'll be glad, anyway," said Apple, politely, as he turned away. When
Glen learned to know him better he found this sunny cheer and gentle
courtesy to be characteristic of him at all times and places.
It was no easy job to propel the old "billy-cart" over the fields, but
Glen managed it. The scouts were just getting together for their evening
camp-fire. They were all attracted by the queer vehicle and its jolly
occupant and cheerfully and noisily responded to the introductions given
by Apple Newton. Mr. Newton, the scout master, was just such a gentleman
as one might expect Apple to have for a father and cordially welcomed
both Spencer and Glen to their fellowship.
A hint from Apple Newton that Mr. Spencer was a teller of stories drew
forth a wild clamor from the boys for his services. His first story, a
funny one, brought forth delirious applause--a "side-splitter" they
voted it. Then he told them a story of adventure which held them
spell-bound. They clamored yet for more.
"Only one," stipulated the scout master. "It will soon be time to turn
in."
"Then I will tell you a short story about this country, but I cannot
vouch for its truth. First I must tell you that I grew up a mile or two
from here. There are still some Pottawatomie Indians here occasionally,
I saw one yesterday. When I was a small boy there was quite a colony--a
number who never had gone onto the reservation. I knew some of the old
men pretty well and one of them used to tell me stories. The most
remarkable story he ever told was the story of Buffalo Lake. Years ago
the place now known as Buffalo Hollow was a twenty acre lake. Lakes of
any size are so rare in this country that even one of twenty acres is
sure to be preserved in tradition, so there is plenty of record to
verify this part of his story. The remainder may be true. He insisted
that it was.
"It was late in the evening of a hot day. The freighters had been
pushing along their tired horses for the last three hours, with their
eyes steadfastly set on a clump of trees ahead--probably this clump in
which we sit. When they reached the trees they no longer needed them for
shade, for the sun had already set, but they were none the less glad of
their leafy branches, glad of the green grass, glad of the cooling
waters of the lake. They could scarcely restrain their tired but eager
animals from plunging in as they were, and dragging their loads along,
and once the harness was released the beasts made a wild dash for the
water and reveled in its coolness. The men themselves lost no time in
stripping off their clothing and taking the first swim of their trip.
They swam and larked and sported until they were not only refreshed and
rested but actually tired again. Then they ate a plentiful supper,
spread their blankets around the treasure wagons and soon slept the
sleep of exhaustion. Even the watch slept, for he, too, had borne the
burden of the day and worn himself with the frolic of the evening. He
felt no need of special caution for they were now in territory
considered safe.
"But the Indians had been following them for many days, eager for such
an opportunity. They dreaded as well as hated these plainsmen. They had
not dared to attack them on the open prairie. But now, one dark form
after another slipped noiselessly from tree to tree, and very soon every
tree sheltered a savage form and made cover for the marksmanship of an
Indian brave in feathers and war-paint.
"I don't dare to tell you the rest of this story as the old Pottawatomie
told it to me, for it is near bedtime and these are the very trees
between which the ghostly, ghastly figures flitted in the darkness. It
is all past and gone now and you need have no fear. You boys on the
outer edge who are crowding up to the light of the camp-fire are just as
safe as the fellows in the middle. The thing to interest you is what the
Indians did with the bullion, after they had massacred its guardians.
"There is a government record that such a massacre actually occurred and
that the bullion has never been recovered. The old Indian said that
being unable to take the treasure away they rowed it out in the lake and
buried it in its waters. They were chased out of the country and it was
years before they dared to venture back. Then they tried to regain the
treasure but without success. As a final measure they dammed up the
springs and drained the lake. But the treasure was not there and so far
as known it has never been found. What has become of it!"
A moment of deep silence followed.
"Supposing they didn't put it in the lake at all? Supposing they hid it
in a cave?"
It was Apple Newton who spoke and his speaking was the signal for a
perfect babel of suggestions and guesses.
Spencer held up his hand for silence.
"I did not come here to search for this bullion; but I feel sure that it
did exist and that it may exist yet. Your scout master has invited me to
stay with you for a week. I will tell you all that I know about the
country, and you will help me as much as possible in getting about. We
will hunt for this treasure. I try to be generous, so I will say that
the scout finding it may keep it."
"I have a word to add," said Mr. Newton. "In this treasure hunt we must
have system. Every scout desiring to enter will choose the section which
he thinks most favorable, draw a map of it and present it for our
approval. Afterwards he will give a full report of all his actions, how
he has gone to work and what he has noted."
And then came a third speaker who had been expected by no one. He
stepped from behind a tree, and to the eyes of the boys he was tall and
erect and to some of their eyes he wore feathers and war-paint.
"Boys hunt gold! Boys hunt heap stone!" he said and disappeared.