THE SNIPE HUNT
“Last night about dusk, when I was walking by the marsh down where the
creek empties into the lake, I was surprised to discover a large flock
of snipe. Now, hunting this wary game-bird is one of the sports that
Camp Lenape is famous for; and since in my opinion we couldn’t have
better weather for it, I suggested to the Chief that we have a hunt this
very night.”
Mr. Carrigan, leader of Tent Nine and camp naturalist, was making a
report after supper the next day; and judging from the cheer that went
up at his words, the sport he spoke of was one of the greatest
attractions that camp life could offer. Blackie Thorne, sobered by his
humiliating experience in the Throne Room of the Stuck-Up Society the
previous night, listened with both ears as the councilor continued his
announcement.
“I do not need to explain to campers who have spent a season at Lenape
that it is exceedingly difficult to capture the elusive snipe. It
requires great care and skill to catch them, and since it would be
impossible for all of us to go after them, it has become the custom for
the old campers, who have all bagged their birds, to give first chance
to the new boys and to act as ‘beaters’ and scare up the game for them.
They will take care of the inexperienced hunters, see that they are
placed in a good position along a well-known snipe ‘run,’ and do all
they can to drive the birds their way.
“Now, since many of the new boys will not know about the habits and
method of catching this most famous of all game-birds, it will be best
to explain a few details. There are several varieties of snipe. The
variety that is usually found on the Lenape campus is the ‘coo’ snipe,
which may always be recognized by the fact that its eggs are not round
but cube-shaped. Another variety, the ‘fan-tail’ snipe, is found a few
miles north of here, near Camp Shawnee, our rivals on Iron Lake. The
snipe is a bird with long legs and long bill, and the meat is very
succulent, tasting like a cross between turkey and lemon pie. Ellick,
our genial chef, is well-known for his ability to fry snipe in the most
toothsome way, and has furthermore, out of his love for the sport,
offered a prize of one watermelon from the camp ice-box to the first
camper who brings in his snipe.”
Cheers followed, for Ellick, for Mr. Carrigan, and for the watermelon.
“The best method of catching this cunning bird,” continued the leader
when the noise had died down again, “is by means of the bag and lantern.
Each hunter should provide himself with a burlap bag—or a pillow-case
will do—and a lantern of some sort. When one of the beaters posts him
along a snipe ‘run,’ as we call the trails which the birds make along
the ground through the bushes on their way down to the lake for a drink,
the hunter should prop the mouth of the bag open with sticks, place a
small pyramid of rocks in front of it, and station himself behind the
bag with his lantern. He then at intervals gives the snipe mating-call,
like this—_coo-coo-coo!_—in a soft and liquid voice. The snipe, aroused
and startled by the approach of the beaters through the bushes, flies
into the air in alarm. Hearing the mating-call and mistaking the pile of
rocks for its nest, it flies toward the open bag, and dazzled by the
light in its eyes, blunders right into the bag. Then all the hunter has
to do is to grab the top of the bag quickly, and the bird is imprisoned
alive and brought back to camp. Remember—the first one to catch his bird
wins the watermelon!”
He sat down amidst a tornado of cheering. During the uproar Wally
managed to make himself heard at the Tent Four table.
“With four hunters in our bunch,” he said, “we ought to have enough
snipe to-morrow to make a full meal for the whole table. Soon as we’re
dismissed, you fellows hop around and see if Ellick hasn’t got some old
bags you can borrow. Don’t let anybody else get ahead of you if you can
help it—it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have some watermelon to eat along
with that fried snipe!”
As soon as the whistle sounded, Blackie joined the torrent of boys that
poured out into the kitchen to besiege Ellick for bags, boxes—anything
in which a bird might be trapped. The chef looked about genially,
finding something for most of them, smiling and assuring them that the
prize offer was true, showing them the big green watermelon that would
fall to the lucky Nimrod. Blackie was fortunate enough to find an empty
potato-sack, and after providing himself with the powerful flash-lantern
he had brought to camp, was ready to put himself in the hands of the
experienced beaters, who would show him the correct place to post
himself.
To his surprise, Sax McNulty, the councilor who had served the previous
night as Grand Mogul and who had ordered Blackie’s ejection from the
Throne Room, singled him out. The gloomy-faced comedian nodded somberly.
“Hello, Thorne! Going to redeem yourself and make the camp forget last
night by being the first to get your snipe?”
“I don’t know about that,” said Blackie, “but I sure am going to try.
Say, Sax!”
“What?”
“I—I’m sorry I was so fresh last night. I won’t forget what you said
about being a good sport. And I didn’t mean to act the way I did.”
“Oh, that’s all right. You didn’t hurt my feelings any. Just to show you
we’re good friends, I’m going to take you to the best place on the
campus for snipe. I know where there’s a ‘run’ where as many snipe have
been caught as in all the other places within six miles. I’ll be your
beater. Got your outfit? Good. Trot along!”
He led the way at a rapid pace and Blackie followed, lugging his bag and
lantern. They cut straight through the woods away from the lake; in
places it was already so dark that the boy switched on his light to see
the way. McNulty made so many turns and twists that it was not long
before Blackie lost all sense of direction. At last, much to the boy’s
satisfaction, the leader announced that they had reached the place. He
helped Blackie rig up the sack with the mouth propped and held open by
sticks, and arranged a pile of stones in front.
“In my experience,” said McNulty, “I think Mr. Carrigan is wrong about
the mating-call. It really sounds more like _kuk-kuk-kuk_ than
_coo-coo_.” He made the boy practise the call over and over until he was
satisfied.
“Now,” he said, “you just wait here until I beat a few down your way.”
He departed stealthily through the undergrowth, and Blackie crouched
waiting behind his glaring lamp. For ten or fifteen minutes he heard
nothing but the sweet whistles of the whippoorwill and the timid
twilight noises of the woods. Then from the front came a series of
halloos and the crackling of a body passing through the brush. McNulty’s
voice was raised in the beater’s call, advancing swiftly toward him. The
boy clucked as he had been told. There was a whirr like that of wings,
and a flashing shadow in the bright beam of the light. Blackie fell
forward on his bag, sure that some wild thing was struggling among its
folds.
“Get any?” asked McNulty, rushing up with a long stick in his hand.
“Here—let me take a look—careful now! Don’t let him out, whatever you
do! Easy—I’ll hold it, and you reach down and pull him out. Don’t be
scared—they just peck you a little bit.”
Gingerly, and not at all sure that he would like to be pecked by a sharp
bill even a little bit, Blackie put his arm in the bag and felt about.
His fingers closed on something, and hastily he jerked it forth. Instead
of a struggling mass of feathers, his hand held only a bunch of tangled
grass and twigs.
Sax McNulty snorted in disgust. “Thought you had a snipe! Huh! Here I
drove a whole covey of them right at you! Didn’t you see them?”
“Yes, I thought I saw one fly right into the bag! How did this get
here?”
“You ought to know. Well, guess I’ll have to go through it all again—and
it’s no fun beating these bushes. I’m all scratched up already. If you
don’t have better luck this time, we’ll have to go somewhere else. I’ll
have to go almost to the top of the mountain as it is—I’ve already
covered the ground near here.”
He moved away and disappeared into the July night. Blackie settled
himself for a long wait.
It was lonely there in the woods. He thought over one by one every
incident that had happened since he had landed in camp. Already four
days of his slender two weeks at Lenape had passed; only ten days more
and he would have to return to the hot city, far from the exciting
adventures of forest and lake and lodge.
It seemed to him that hours had passed since Sax had left him. He
listened with all his might to try and pick up the leader’s shouting off
in the silent woods. Mosquitoes, attracted by the light, swarmed about
him and made him miserable with their tormenting hum; he slapped at
them, but still they came to sting his neck and wrists and ankles. He
would have turned off the light, but knew that if he did so he would
miss his chance of bringing in any snipe; and he was determined not to
return to camp without at least one bird. By this time many of the new
boys should have captured their prey; and he could not think of
returning empty-handed. Why didn’t McNulty return?
Gradually it dawned upon him that the leader would not return, that he
had not intended to return. It must all be a joke! Just another of those
innumerable hoaxes which camp custom had decreed should be played upon
all tenderfoot campers during the first days of their first season under
canvas. It must be just a conspiracy among the experienced campers and
leaders to decoy the credulous greenhorns out into the woods alone under
the pretext of a hunt for snipe. With a bag and lantern! The whole story
seemed so impossible to him that he wondered how he could have been
taken in by it. Sitting behind a pile of stones and a gaping
potato-sack, cooing and waiting for birds to fly his way! McNulty must
have bundled up grass and twigs into a ball and thrown it into the bag
when he had approached on the pretense of “beating” the birds toward the
light. And how he and the rest of the knowing ones would laugh at
Blackie when he returned to camp, shamefaced and abashed at having been
hoodwinked by such a ridiculous flimflam! Snipe that laid cube-shaped
eggs!
The thing must be faced like a good sport, however. If he hurried back
to camp, he might still arrive in time to watch some of the other
victims come in, and thus have the laugh on them——He suddenly realized
that he was not sure which was the way back to camp. He had depended on
the guidance of McNulty, and did not have the least idea where he was,
or how far away the tents might be. Well, he would have to explore a
bit, pioneer the way home for himself.
Carrying his flash-lamp hooked on his belt, he beat his way through the
scrub carefully, on the lookout for snakes and other dangerous dwellers
in the forest. He blundered across a narrow ravine, pushed his way
through a clump of laurels, and climbed a stone fence. The light showed
on the rutted tracks of a lane that wandered through the trees—a lane
that seemed somehow familiar. Sure enough! It was the road that led to
the gloomy house of Rattlesnake Joe, the hermit; it was the trail he and
the others had followed only two nights before!
He knew his way now. The stars were out, and a half-moon was tilted
among the tree-tops. He snapped off his lamp, so that it would not draw
too many mosquitoes, and found he could follow the lane well enough by
moonlight. Taking the direction that led away from the hermit’s dwelling
and toward the campus, he trudged along by himself, almost laughing to
think how easily the snipe-trick had worked. It was a good joke; and
next year, if he came to camp, he could have the fun of taking some
scary tenderfoot out into the woods and planting him there for the
evening, to coo and wait for snipe that would not come.
Only about five minutes passed before he was aware that someone was
coming toward him up the road; he could hear the low mumble of voices
only a few hundred yards in front. Could one of them be McNulty, alarmed
because Blackie had not yet turned up in camp, and coming to seek him
and break the news? If so, he was due for a little scare; the jester
would himself be the butt of a jest. Blackie planted himself behind a
thick oak trunk, ready to jump out with a shout and throw the bag over
the leader’s head and give him the fright of his life.
The voices came nearer; one of them harsh and bullying, the other
sounding strangely weak and pleading. Blackie pondered. Neither of them
could be McNulty. They must be strangers, even men who, finding him
alone, might do him harm. He resolved to keep quiet and let them pass
without noticing him. Inwardly congratulating himself for turning off
his light, he concealed himself as best he could behind the friendly
oak. The voices grew louder; they were rough, uncouth, and profane.
Two slouching figures emerged from the dark, and stopped right beside
the tree Blackie had chosen. He could have reached out his arm and
touched them both. There was a scratching sound as a match was drawn
across a rock; a red flicker burst forth and revealed two faces bent to
light cigarettes. The face of the taller man was seamed and dirty, and
the unshaven jowls were covered with gray stubble. A green patch hung
over one eye, giving him a peculiar and sinister look. The other man was
younger, with a slack mouth and watery eyes, and a vacant face that
showed he had little or no will of his own. Both were garbed in loose,
patched garments streaked with mud and torn in places.
“Tramps!” thought Blackie. “Gee, they sure look hard-boiled! If they
ever find me here——” He crouched behind his shelter, fearing that they
had seen him already.
“Aw, what ya want to be yeller for?” the older man was growling. “I tell
ya it’s a sure thing! He lives all alone up there—I heard all about him
down in Elmville. The hermit, they call him around here, and everybody
knows he’s got a silver mine somewheres in the mountains that he won’t
tell about! Every once in a while he sneaks off and digs up some silver
and buries it under the stones of his fireplace!”
“Are ya sure, Reno?” asked the other, in snivelling tones.
“’Course I’m sure! I seen him myself the other night, diggin’ up the
stones at the fireplace and takin’ somethin’ out that looked like a bar
of silver. There ya stand moanin’ like a sick chicken, and all we have
to do to get rich is just walk in and tie him up and take the silver!”
“We might be seen!” The younger man’s terror was increasing every
minute. “And he’s got dogs, too.”
“Blast the dogs! They’re all chained up anyway.”
“But how about them kids?”
“Aw, they’re all in bed by now. If you’d seen that bar of silver like I
saw, you’d pull yer freight and get the job done.”
Blackie wanted to cry out and tell them that the hermit was poor, that
he had no money or treasure at all, that the man must have seen him
looking at his precious thunderbolt which he kept under the hearthstone.
But his mouth was so dry with terror that he could not make a sound. He
leaned against the tree for support, and the lantern on his belt clinked
against the rough bark.
“What’s that?” The weak-chinned man jumped nervously about.
“Aw, yer jumpy as a cat to-night! ’Fraid of the dark, ain’t ya, Lew?”
“I thought I heard somebody in the bushes.”
“Not likely. If I thought there was, I’d pull out his windpipe. There
ain’t nothin’ to be scared of. Now, will ya come, or will I have to do
the job meself?”
“I—I’ll come, Reno.”
The two men moved off in the direction of the hermit’s house. Some
minutes passed before Blackie dared to relax his body from the stiffened
position his fright had put him into. Reason told him to get away from
the spot before he was discovered and would have to face the wrath of
the two tramps alone; but curiosity and an uncanny fascination seemed to
draw him to the house whose grim face had somehow haunted him since
first he had arrived at Lenape. With lagging steps, he followed down the
lane toward the fateful, tumbledown dwelling.
As he drew near the door, his terror increased. The hounds were making a
dismal racket in their kennel, rattling their chains fiercely. One
small, dusty window on the ground floor showed red with firelight; the
rest of the house was dark. Drawn and yet repelled by what might be
going on behind the weather-beaten walls, he dared the chance of one of
the dogs escaping and attacking him, crept to the door, and listened.
The sound of voices raised in anger came to him, a bedlam hubbub of
words. He thought he could distinguish the peculiar, slouchy dialect of
Rattlesnake Joe above the others.
“Ye’re crazed, ye devils! I’ll have the law onto ye!”
“Will ya tell us where yer silver mine is located?”
“No! I won’t tell ye a tarnal thing——”
There was the clatter of a chair overturned on the board floor. A
piercing, terrifying scream, hoarse and horrid, came once and broke off.
A heavy body slipped noisily to the floor. Afterward endured a hushed,
strained silence, during which Blackie heard with distinctness the
beating of his own pulse and the hollow ticking of a clock beyond the
door.
The wind was rising; a gust swept over the roof of the somber house,
rattling the loose shingles and stirring the tops of the pines. Its
coming brought panic to Blackie Thorne. He turned and, with eyes
starting with horror, fled away into the dark with the ghastly memory of
that hoarse, despairing scream still ringing in his ears.