THE WATCHER AGAIN
The little plateau above the Glen was a pleasant place enough—a smooth,
shadowy stretch of greensward marked here and there with the remains of
more than one Lenape campfire. Here the trailers paused only long enough
to cast off their blanket-packs, and then raced in a body for the steep,
twining path leading down the wall carved out in past ages by the
running stream at its foot.
“Now for a swim!” was the cry as, helter-skelter, the boys scrambled
down the path that zigzagged through the underbrush.
Dirk paused at the bottom of the cleft, and falling slightly behind the
others, searched for the pot-holes that Ugly Brown had described. There
they were—smooth shafts of varying widths, sunken into the rocky floor
over which the stream trickled softly. Taking a stick, Dirk probed one
of them, and found at the bottom a few water-worn stones whose action
had drilled, in the course of many decades, a deep hole in solid
granite.
“The biggest hole of all is under the falls,” Brick Ryan shouted from
below him. “Come on, my son—all the other guys are gettin’ wet already!”
He disappeared from sight at a turn in the path leading down-stream,
from whence Dirk could hear the boisterous shouts of his comrades rising
above the splashing roar of falling water. None the less, he did not
hasten, for the wonders of the Glen were too many to be hastily passed
over.
He walked slowly, gazing at the many-colored flowers and unknown trees
that arched the stream. Several hundred yards down, the path wound about
a steep drop over which the water boiled and bubbled—a miniature
Niagara. From his place, Dirk could look directly down into a seething
basin hollowed in the rock. Below this fell away the bed of the stream
in an incline of sheeted, mossy shale, upon which sprawled the naked
forms of the trailers. Wild Willie Sanders, with ear-splitting yells,
was coasting down the slide head first, and landed in the broad pool
below like a noisy otter.
Spray from the falls sprinkled Dirk’s face, and he hurried to strip off
his dusty garments and join in the fun. As he took his place on the
slide, the rills of water from the side of the falls were so icy that he
cried out.
“Brr-r-r! Boy, talk about cold!”
“Get warmed up swimming down here in the pool,” advised Sagamore
Carrigan, who was floating about in the crystal water beneath the slide.
“Then you won’t feel it!”
Dirk watched Spaghetti Megaro, who was plunging a long pole into the
great pot-hole directly underneath the falls. The pole sank out of
sight, and shortly after shot into the air, to be caught by the Italian
lad.
“That’s plenty deep, you bet!” grinned Megaro. “They call this one the
Devil’s Cauldron. Some shower-bath if you get in this tub! Once when I
was here, Wally Rawn got in and tried to dive down to bottom—but he
didn’t find no bottom, not at all. He got out plenty quick.”
Dirk hastily removed himself from the brink of the treacherous-looking
hole, and joined the divers who plunged into the pebble-bottomed pool
below. The swim period was short, not only because the hikers were
hungry, but because the water was so chill that too long exposure might
be dangerous to health. After a brisk rub-down the trailers, glowing
with vim, donned their cast-off clothes and started for the plateau
above, where Cowboy Platt was already building a small cooking-fire for
the noonday meal.
Lingering behind alone, Dirk dressed slowly, pausing now and then to
watch the flight of a bird, or to mark some strange formation of rock
along the walls of the Glen. At last he picked up his dripping towel and
started up the path to rejoin his friends.
When he came once more to the bend directly above the falls, he paused
for a last look at the impressive sight. As he stared down at the racing
waters, a clump of star-shaped flowers on a tough-leafed bush caught his
eye. He had never seen such strange bright blossoms before, but Sagamore
Carrigan could tell him all about them. It struck him that it would be a
good thing to get some and take them with him to the others.
Spreading his feet firmly on the slippery path, he reached down to
snatch the plant from its perch in a crevice in the rocky cliff. It was
too far. He knelt, and dropping one leg over to balance himself, made a
second attempt. Still the nodding flowers were a tantalizingly few
inches from the tips of his fingers. Tossing his head with annoyance, he
made a swift swoop. As his hand touched the fringe of the bush, he felt
the earth beneath his weight stir and slip.
In sudden terror, he dropped the fragment of the bush and dug in the
toes of his heavy shoes, painfully trying to scramble back to safety. He
grunted with the effort; but inch by inch the treacherous loose dirt
gave way. A fearful glance over his shoulder, and he shut his eyes,
dizzied by the hissing rush of the leaping rapids beneath his kicking
legs. A rattle of stones; and then, with a despairing shriek, he plunged
backward into the foaming falls!
The breath was knocked from his chest as he struck the seething surface
of the giant pot-hole—the Devil’s Cauldron! Down, down he sank, freezing
water filling his nose and open mouth and shutting off all chance of
summoning help. The sunshine was far above him, seen dimly through a
glassy green froth, and the roar of the rattling falls was drumming in
his ears.
Desperately he kicked his leaden feet and fought his way upward, the
blood hammering in his veins. One outstretched arm caught at the
slippery edge of the hole and clung fiercely.
Upon his unsheltered head, battering drops fell like hailstones.
He had barely time to suck in a mouthful of air when the force of the
spinning current tore his handhold loose, and again he dropped into the
Cauldron’s depths. This time he felt weaker, chilled by the glacial
stream and beaten by its pounding force. It was dark now. Dimly he
wondered if they would ever find his body in that bottomless well....
An unseen hand was gripping him by the hair, hauling him upward toward
light and life. Again the bullets of water struck his face and throat,
but strong arms were about his shoulders. His chest scraped against the
jagged margin of the pool; like a sodden bag of meal, he was pulled out
of the clutch of that grim torrent.
He gasped, spat, and rolled over on his back. Somewhere above him, a
bird was whistling. He opened one eye. Bending over him, with a serious
look on his freckled face, was Brick Ryan.
“Are you alive, my lad? Gorries, say you’re all right!”
Dirk choked, and tried to sit up, but fell back weakly.
“I—I’m safe! It was horrible, down there——”
“Now, don’t try to talk. Take it easy for a minute. There, that better?
Gee, you sure must have had a bad time of it! I was comin’ along down
the creek to see what was keepin’ you, and heard you yell.”
“I was—trying to get some of those flowers up there, and slipped.”
Above him, through his moist eyelashes, he saw the coveted blossoms
swaying slightly in the midday breeze.
“Huh! Well, that’s called rhododendron, and it’s against the law to pick
it in this state! If you’re feelin’ better, I’ll help you up to camp,
and we’ll dry out your duds.”
Fearing that delay might bring severe consequences, Dirk crawled to his
feet, and shivering in his sodden garments, allowed himself to be led
up-stream, leaning heavily upon the lad who had pulled him from that
deadly bath. At the foot of the path leading to the camping place, he
turned and faced his friend.
“Brick,” he said soberly, “you’ve saved my life. I—I can’t put it in
words, but if ever there’s anything——”
The red-haired boy grinned and patted his arm. “Forget it!” he muttered
gruffly. “You’d have done the same if it had been me.”
“But all the same——”
“Come on, old son, before you freeze to death. Climb, my lad!”
At the summit, the rest of the trailers were lying about on their packs,
and there was a brisk smell of wood-smoke and frying bacon in the air.
Mr. Carrigan leaped to his feet as he saw the two boys, and without
asking for any explanation, had Dirk’s dripping garments stripped off in
short order, and after a rough rub-down he was stowed between a pair of
warm blankets and told to rest.
Dirk had been living in the open for more than a week now, and long
before his wet clothes were dried before the fire, he felt none the
worse for the mishap that might so easily have taken his life. The
councilor brewed him a cup of warm, heartening soup that brought his
strength back quickly; and when an hour had passed he convinced the man
that he was himself again and ready to travel.
“We don’t have far to go now,” announced Sagamore Carrigan. “It’s only a
couple miles to the river and Skinner’s Ferry, where the canoes are; and
from there we can paddle to Kittahannock Lodge in no time—that’s where
we stop for the night.”
Once more the hikers put their blanket-rolls over their shoulders and
set out, following the dirt road that led westward from the Glen toward
the river. The councilor now had a hard time to keep them together, so
anxious were they to reach the ferry where the canoes waited for them;
but he held them to the same steady pace. Dirk was forced to admit to
himself that he was tired now, and he was glad when they crossed a stone
bridge over a creek and came in sight of the ferry.
An unpainted, low frame building with a roof of “shakes,” or shingles
split with an ax, lay beside a rude wharf at which was moored a
flat-bottomed scow. Such was the ancient Skinner’s Ferry that dated back
to Revolutionary days. On the wharf lay the three Lenape canoes, ready
for their voyage into the wilderness. There was now no thought of
restraining the eager lads, and Dirk, with the rest, broke into a run
that ended on the narrow wharf. An old and bent ferryman came from the
house to announce that the equipment brought from camp on the wagon
awaited them within.
Now began a busy half-hour of packing and launching the light craft. It
was settled that Dirk and Brick Ryan would handle the _Sachem_, in which
would be stowed the cooking outfit, rations, and odds and ends of camp
outfit, while the other members of the party divided into two crews of
three campers each to manage the _Red Fox_ and the _Whiffenpoof_. When
the equipment had all been stowed inside the rubber tarpaulins and
lashed firmly to the thwarts, so that it would not be wet or lost in
case of an upset, Dirk and his partner each took an end of their vessel
and dropped it overside into the sheltered water below the wharf. As
Dirk climbed into his place at the bow, he took care to make sure that
his first misadventure with his canoe at Lenape should not be repeated;
and in the wake of the other two craft, they shoved forth into the
stream, shouted a farewell to the bent ferryman, and began paddling
swiftly.
Mr. Carrigan, in the stern of the _Red Fox_, led the way, with Megaro at
the bow paddle and Ugly Brown riding amidships. At a distance of a few
lengths followed the _Whiffenpoof_, carrying Cowboy Platt, Saunders, and
Steve Link. Dirk dipped and pulled his paddle in fast time, for their
course lay diagonally across the current, which at this place rippled
whitely over its stony bed.
“Make for the point!” shouted the councilor.
“That’s Kittahannock Lodge, where we sleep tonight!”
Ahead the broad river made a turn, and at the bend a tall white flagpole
rose from a clump of trees, tinged with sunset gold. Dirk gave it a
glance, and bent to his straining task, while Brick fulfilled the
delicate job of keeping the light vessel on its path. On flew the
_Sachem_, as if glad to be afloat and bearing her owner farther and
farther toward the northern wilds.
Once Dirk paused momentarily to catch his breath. He looked back to the
shore that they were leaving. A road wound along the edge of the river,
above the ferry, and along it crawled a small automobile with a plume of
dust rising behind it. Dirk saw it only for a moment before it
disappeared from sight behind a low hill. But he was sure, as he turned
again to his paddling, that the car was a blue sedan, and that he knew
the slight figure of the man that hunched over the wheel. It was the
mysterious fisherman they had surprised on the shore of Lake Lenape some
days before.