ON THE MARCH
The mysterious fisherman, none the less, was pushed out of Dirk’s mind
by the crowded hours of the camp routine. There were still half a dozen
blank spaces on the emblem card that pointed his way to the Long Trail;
and as the end of the week drew near, he was in a fever of excitement,
wondering if ever he would complete all the needful tests in time.
His day of service as aide to Tent One was finished without mishap; and
late the same afternoon he managed, after scorching a pan of rice and
burning his fingers, to produce an edible meal cooked over an open fire
built by himself. On Friday morning he rose before Reveille and in
company with Long Jim Avery and Nig Jackson penetrated silently into the
dewy woods, noting the plumage and song of many birds that Long Jim
pointed out to the interested boys. At the performance that evening of
the Lenape Vode-Villians on the improvised stage in the lodge, he won
applause with a short act entitled “A Wee Drop of Scotch.” In golf sox,
a kilt made of a plaid blanket, and a tam-o’-shanter, he sang several
songs of Scotland and cracked all the jokes he knew about the canny
race, marking his points with a crooked and knobbed cane cut from one of
Farmer Podgett’s apple trees.
One by one the blank spaces on the card were filled in by the initials
of some councilor. On Saturday afternoon Dirk, after helping Jim Avery
after lunch at the store, raced to the boat dock and took his final
swimming test, diving into the water head-first as Brick Ryan had taught
him, and rounding a life-boat stationed fifty yards out, in all handling
himself so neatly that he won a nod from Wally Rawn and a promise to be
allowed to help keep the score in the inter-tent Boat Regatta that
afternoon.
Dirk arose at dawn on Sunday morning, when around him all the camp was
asleep. He shivered as he looked into the misty drizzle that fell among
the pines; but screwing up his resolution, threw off the warm blankets
and slipped into his heavier clothing and high laced boots. His
woodcraft exhibit, a rustic birchwood bench circling the wild-cherry
tree beyond the lodge, was still uncompleted; and his skill at axmanship
was far from great. He sighed as he shouldered his hand ax and went
through the dripping woods to a grove of birches beyond the Council
Ring; but the work warmed him in short order, and he was soon whistling
as he trimmed the smooth white saplings and split them for his purpose.
It still lacked half an hour to Reveille—which always came later on
Sundays—when Dirk stepped back from his work at the base of the cherry
tree, and surveyed his progress. The little bench needed only a few more
slats in the seat to be completed and ready for the use of all campers;
the braces were as steady as Dirk could make them, each sunk some inches
into the ground and set with wedged rocks. The boy stood sucking his
thumb, which had received a blow of his ax-head instead of the nail at
which he had aimed; and thus he was unaware that the Chief had
approached in his silent fashion and was at his elbow.
The Chief’s face was as unreadable as ever as he nodded in answer to
Dirk’s “Good morning!” merely striding to the bench and testing it with
his weight. Sitting there, he gazed at the eager lad and smiled gravely.
“A good bench,” he said, and paused. Then:
“Dirk, you’ve been working mighty hard on your emblem, haven’t you?”
“I only have two more things to finish, sir.”
“H’mm. Dirk, what would you say if I told you that, even if you finished
these two things, you couldn’t go on the Long Trail this year?”
The boy’s face went white, and he gulped.
“I—I’d say you know best about that sir,” but his lip trembled with
disappointment.
The Chief, who had been watching him closely, laughed—rather cruelly, as
Dirk thought.
“Let me see your emblem card.” He took it from Dirk’s hand, and pointed
to the thirteenth item. “It says here that any boy winning the Lenape
honor emblem must show at all times the finest spirit as an all-round
camper. Well, any boy who can answer me as you have just done——Look
there!”
He pointed behind the lodge, where a large hay-wagon pulled by two
horses came into sight, sweeping toward the road leading up the
mountain. Upon it were securely lashed three canoes—and on top, gleaming
red, was the _Sachem_. The _Sachem_!
The Chief was scrawling his initials on the two empty spaces of the
card. Dirk let out a whoop like an Iroquois on the warpath.
“I’m going, Chief!” he cried. “You mean it! I’m going on the Long
Trail!”
“It looks that way. Last night I got an answer from my telegram to your
father. He’s given his permission for you to join Sagamore Carrigan’s
trailers. You still have much to learn, Dirk, but with this new spirit
of yours, I think you’ll win out!” He clasped hands with the dancing
boy.
At breakfast, Mr. Carrigan ordered that all Long Trailers report to him
immediately to have their outfits inspected, and to receive
instructions. Within fifteen minutes Dirk and Brick Ryan had carried
several armloads of belongings up to the lodge porch and stacked them
alongside of the kits of their five comrades who had been chosen to bear
the Lenape flag. Cowboy Platt, lounging at the rail, opened his eyes
wide as he took in the heap of things that Dirk had thought necessary to
bring.
“You shore must be goin’ to take a pack-hoss along to tote all that,” he
remarked in his sleepy drawl. “Wait till old Wise-Tongue sees that pile,
pardner!”
Sure enough, when Mr. Carrigan arrived a few minutes later, his first
words were on the necessity of “travelling light.”
“We’re going Indian fashion,” he began, “and since each one of you will
have to carry all your outfit on your back, we must take only the things
that we cannot do without. Now, Dirk, suppose that when we come to the
first portage, you have to pack all those clothes and shoes and that big
flash-lantern, as well as your blankets and your end of the canoe! Let’s
see what you can do without.”
The councilor began laying aside only those belongings that would be
needed on the trip. When he had finished, Dirk found his kit reduced to
a sturdy hiking outfit of khaki shirt and breeches, puttees, and high
shoes, a change of underclothing, a warm sweater, and four pairs of
socks. In addition, he had for canoe-work a pair of shorts and light
shoepacks. Since two boys would sleep together, one large warm blanket
and rubber poncho apiece was adjudged sufficient, even though the
mountain nights would be cool.
“I’m glad to see you have a pocket compass and a good knife,” concluded
Sagamore Carrigan. “I’ll take my large woodsman’s ax, and Sanders will
take his hand ax—that should be enough for the whole party. Cowboy Platt
here has offered to do all the cooking, if we take turns at K.P. I’ve
drawn from the kitchen only the grub that we can’t get along the way,
and we’ll save it for ‘iron rations’ in the back-country. Ellick also
gave me some pots and pans, but each trailer will have to take his own
cup and plate and fork. Before we leave tomorrow, I’ll have another
inspection and try to see that we don’t forget anything we need. Have
your blanket-rolls ready immediately after breakfast. Any questions
about outfits?”
Spaghetti Megaro and young Brown had need of the councilor’s advice
about selecting certain of their garments. After he had given it, he
unrolled a large map and tacked it to the pine shingles of the lodge
wall, where all could see.
“I want you trailers to get every line of this map into your minds,” he
urged. “Learn it so you could draw it blindfolded. It will be riding in
my pocket for the whole trip, and whenever any of you has a minute to
spare, study it. You can see that I’ve lined in the Long Trail in red
ink.”
Dirk breathed faster as his eyes followed Sagamore Wise-Tongue’s
pointing finger.
“Here’s Lenape, and way off here in the corner is old Mount Kinnecut,
where nine green-and-white pennants are flying. That’s where we’ve got
to go, and we’ll make it in three days, if all goes well. The first
day’s run—tomorrow—will be an easy stage, just to get in trim and harden
up. And see that your feet are in good shape, for that’s what you’ll
have to travel on most of the way. We’ll stop at Pot-Hole Glen at noon,
and make the river before dark. The canoes left on a wagon this morning,
and we’ll find them at Skinner’s Ferry when we get there. Now, I’ll
leave this map posted here for the rest of the day, so that you can get
its details clear in mind before we leave. Anything else?”
“Yes, I got one!” put in Ugly Brown. “Who’s going to carry the flag?”
Sagamore Wise-Tongue smiled, and drew from his blouse a triangular bit
of green bunting on which was stitched a large L in white. “The trailer
who carries this,” he said, “will have to be watchful and cunning, for
he will bear with him the honor of all of us, and the honor of Lenape.
I’ll leave it to you to choose which trailer it shall be.”
Before anyone else could speak, Dirk cried out: “Brick Ryan! He’s the
best of us! Let it be Brick, sir!”
“Sure,” agreed Megaro, “I bet you my life Brick is the one. I vote for
him too.”
The others added their votes with shouts of approval; even Ugly Brown,
who secretly had hoped to be the standard-bearer, swallowed his
disappointment, and taking the banner, presented it to Ryan, whose face
grew almost as red as his flaming hair.
“I’ll take it,” he muttered with some feeling; then, looking the leader
straight in the eye, added: “You can bet nobody is goin’ to get this
away from me, Wise-Tongue. It’s not goin’ to leave me until we nail it
to the flagpole on the big mountain over beyond!”
With a cheer, the little council of war broke up. Brick stowed the
pennant inside his shirt.
“Thanks, kid,” he mumbled. “That was swell of you to say that about me.”
“I meant it, Brick! Say, will you show me how to make a blanket-roll?”
The day passed swiftly for Dirk, eager as he was for the morning that
would mark the beginning of the Long Trail hike. He was kept busy
getting his outfit into shape and seeing that everything was in order;
but he found time now and again to study the map posted on the wall. The
names on it gave him a thrill that he could not have explained—Flint
Island, Lake Moosehorn, the Chain of Ponds, even the few scattered towns
that lay among the folds of the hills that skirted Mount Kinnecut. He
was a Long Trailer now!
When dusk fell, and the whippoorwills could be heard trilling in the
thickets, the Lenape tribe draped their blankets about them and trooped
to council. There was no happier or prouder member of that tribe than
Dirk Van Horn when, at the time for awards and coups, he rose and was
given his honor emblem before the throne of the Chief. It seemed
impossible that little more than a week had passed since he had first
landed on the Lenape campus. So many wonderful things had happened that
he felt a different person from the—as he thought, looking
back—pitifully ignorant tenderfoot who had tried to buy Brick Ryan’s
friendship with an expensive gift. He had that friendship now, but he
had won it as a man should.
He drifted off to sleep clutching his new honor, and when he awoke at
dawn, rose and sewed it carefully on the front of the sweater that he
would wear on the trail. Brick Ryan was astir too, dressing in his worn
hiking clothes and rolling his blankets into a neat pack to be strapped
over his shoulders. He winked over at Dirk and whispered: “The pennant
is still safe, by gollies! I pinned it to my pajama shirt with a big
blanket-pin!”
The eight trailers were off up the mountainside before nine o’clock,
after a brief but thorough inspection by their leader. They travelled in
close marching order, for as Sagamore Wise-Tongue explained, they were
like a war-party and must not lose their strength through straggling or
getting out of touch with each other. It might be necessary, when they
were in wilder country, to put out scouts, but since the road to Indian
Glen was well known to them, they would take it in regular stages.
Although Dirk’s unaccustomed blanket-roll was heavy and grew heavier as
the morning wore on, his heart was light. He joined in the songs of the
gay trailers as they threaded their way through the trees on the slope
above camp, pausing as they reached the road at Fiddler’s Elbow and
taking a last glance at the placid waters of the lake and the white
tents they were leaving behind. Dirk laughed aloud as he thought of all
the adventures he would have before he again caught sight of Camp
Lenape. But had he guessed that his life would be more than once in wild
danger on the path that lay before him, he might well have shivered
instead.
Up and down, over one ridge after another of the Lenape range, the boys
took their way, resting now and then for a few moments in the shade
beside some bubbling mountain spring. Mr. Carrigan, in the lead, bearing
a first-aid kit and many other necessities in the knapsack over which
his blankets were strapped, strode along silently, ever on the alert for
some wilderness creature that he might point out to his eager followers.
Once he pointed out the marks of a fox, and several times their progress
stirred up a covey of stupid, drumming partridge. And in one breathless
instant, before they came to the end of the forest, he paused and
pointed through the trees. Dirk caught a glimpse of a swift-moving
dun-colored animal that with a flick of its stubby tail was off in long
easy leaps to the shelter of the far thickets—a young deer, the first he
had ever seen in its native haunts.
He marched beside Brick and Ugly Brown, the young, snub-nosed lad whose
blunt, sun-burnt face was somewhat likable in its very ugliness. He
remembered that these two, with Kipper Dabney, had hazed him one
moonlight night—long ago, it seemed—but he made no mention to them of
that night when he had leaped, blindfolded, over Indian Cliff.
“What’s this Glen like that we’re heading for, Ugly?” Dirk asked.
“Ain’t you ever been there? Say, it’s a swell place. We hike over here
lots of times. Whillikers, I’m ready for a swim there right now, even if
the water feels as if it had just melted from snow. It’s called Pot-Hole
Glen because down below, the water has run across the rocks so fast that
there are a bunch of deep, smooth holes worn down by pebbles whirlin’
around—right through solid rock. It used to be an old Indian camping
place, I’ve heard. We’ll be there soon, right after we cut across the
fields over yonder.”
At that moment Mr. Carrigan turned off the dusty road and cut through a
meadow where a herd of white-faced cows grazed. Dirk climbed the rail
fence slowly, for he was hot and more than a little tired by the march;
but he joined in the whoops of his companions as they raced the short
distance that separated them from the goal of their noonday pause and
the swim that was to come. And thus Dirk Van Horn came to Pot-Hole Glen,
which he was never in his life to remember without a chill of horror
creeping up his spine—the horror of strangling death.