THE END OF THE TRAIL
Dirk’s momentary outburst passed as soon as it had come, leaving him
heartily ashamed of his despair. He should not be the one to lose hope;
now, if ever, he must show the manhood that was in him.
He clapped Brick Ryan on the back, and tried to summon a smile. “There,
old man, it’s all right. This whole mess is really my fault—I was dumb
enough to let myself get kidnaped in the first place. If you think that
crutch of yours will work, take a good drink and let’s hike.”
Brick set off eagerly, stumping across the creek and manfully following
Dirk’s leadership through the forest, trying not to drag his
tightly-bound foot or to knock it against the stumps and boulders that
littered the earth. Dirk kept looking backward to see how his friend was
progressing, stopping now and again to lend an arm in crossing some
marshy bog or climbing a steep bank. He tried to keep his bearings and
follow a straight line that eventually would bring them out upon high
ground from which he hoped to spy the lake, the only landmark that
either of them knew.
He forced Brick to stop frequently, for otherwise the red-haired lad
would have gamely plodded on until he dropped. During one of the pauses,
Brick asked: “Say, since it looks like we’re lost for certain, what
about buildin’ a smoky signal fire? Maybe if the gang is around, they’ll
see it and come to help.”
“I thought of that. But we don’t know that they are still around. Don’t
forget they think we’re drowned. And we do know that Mink will be
looking for us. A smoke signal would give us away—he’d get us before
anybody else could find where we were.”
On, on they went at the maddeningly slow pace that made their journey
seem like a dream, one of those nightmares in which the sleeper is
pursued by unknown terror, but must stagger onward like a man walking
under water. The sun dropped lower and lower above the endless tree
tops.
Brick sank down, and threw his crutch away from him with a groan.
“It’s no use!” he panted. “I can’t go on, Van. My foot’s achin’ like it
was stung by a million bumblebees. If I had somethin’ to eat, maybe I
could get a little further, but gollies, this hike is too much for me.
You go on,” he pleaded, “wherever you can go, and leave me—leave me——No
half-breed in any old canoe will ever turn me over and shoot me in the
leg——” His crazy jargon trailed off into a feverish moan.
It was painfully clear to Dirk that his friend’s strength was completely
gone, and that he was already on the fringes of delirium. The shadows
were lengthening on the mountainside where they lay; during the last
hour they had been climbing steadily. Soon it would be dark.
The boy looked about him helplessly. Was this the end? The end of that
long trail the two comrades had followed together, through capture and
fire and flight and injury——He stood on a rocky shoulder of mountain in
trackless wilds, with his hurt friend huddled at his feet. If he had a
part of the skill of Sagamore Carrigan, he might, even with only his
jack-knife to help him, rig up some sort of shelter against the coming
cold night, might find some wild food or trap a small beast. But he
could lean on no other person now; he was alone with his helpless
charge. A keen wind swept up from the valleys below. It was Dirk Van
Horn’s dark hour.
As he stared out over the gently waving tree tops, he could see only
endless ridges of hills, one beyond another, above which the red torch
of the sun blazed like a burning ship. They must have circled around too
far, until now they were on the other side of the slopes that guarded
Lake Moosehorn. He turned his face upward, where the summit of the
mountain showed against the sky. As he looked, a pale spark came into
being against the dimming sky. It was a star. No! Could it be——
He cried out, and shook Brick’s shoulder in a sudden frenzy. “It’s not a
star!” he screamed. “It’s—it’s a light! A light up there, Brick!”
“Never get back,” moaned the injured boy drearily. “It’s a long way from
Lenape we are——”
“Wake up, Brick! I tell you, I see something up there. It looks like a
tower of some kind. Brick, we’ve got to get there now!”
But Brick Ryan was beyond caring. He did not even stir as he was lifted
in the arms of a haggard, wild-eyed lad whose heart burned with new
hope. Saving his breath, Dirk made no further effort to speak. The body
of his comrade hung in his arms, a leaden weight, as he stumbled
forward, his muscles crying out in weariness, his teeth clenched in a
last despairing endeavor.
A few hundred yards up the slope his feet touched a worn path, along
which was strung on tree-trunks a line of black wire, leading upward. It
was a telephone line. Somebody was up there, somebody who could give
them food, and fire, and a place to lie in peace and safety!
“Cheer up, F. X. A. Ryan, my son!” Dirk murmured. “You’re safe now, old
lad! Up we go!”
In the deck-house of the fire tower at Lookout, young Ugly Brown was
staring through the gathering twilight, scanning the slopes below
through a pair of field glasses lent to him by the young warden who
stood at his side. He was startled to hear a ringing cry from below,
among the trees bordering the trail. He could not make out the words,
but the tone was desperate. He was out through the trap-door in an
instant, and was half-climbing, half-sliding down the iron ladder that
hung from the steel cross-pieces of the tower.
“Hey, go slow there, youngster!” the warden shouted down after him.
“You’ll break your monkey neck!”
Ugly did not answer. He had a feeling that he knew the voice that had
uttered the cry that had come floating up to him through the dusk.
He leaped the last few feet at the bottom, and raced down the trail.
From the dimness of the woods, a strange pair staggered toward him—one
ragged, stumbling ghost bearing another, a limp form in his arms,
marching onward with the high valor that will not admit defeat.
“It’s Van Horn!” Ugly shouted joyfully. “Say, what’s the matter with
Brick? We thought you guys were drowned, but Sagamore Carrigan wasn’t
sure, and all the bunch has been huntin’ for you all day——” He broke off
sharply, and rushed forward to support the tottering figures.
The young fire warden, who had only delayed in his tower to snatch a hot
thermos bottle and a pair of blankets, came to his assistance, and
together they knelt over the two exhausted wanderers where they had
slipped to the ground.
Dirk felt himself lifted up. The steaming aroma of hot coffee was under
his nose, and a strange voice was ordering him to drink. The hot fluid
burned his tongue, but sent new life coursing through his veins.
He pushed away the mouth of the bottle, and sat up. “I’m all right,” he
croaked. “Look after Brick. His ankle’s hurt pretty bad, and it got
worse because we had to hike.”
“He’ll be all right,” came an answer. “The fire warden will fix him up
pretty quick. Do you know me, Van? It’s Ugly Brown. Gee, this has sure
been an exciting trip! I bet none of the other gangs that went on the
Long Trail ever had as much fun as we’re havin’!”
“It may have been fun to you, Ugly, but Brick and I have had a tough
time of it. Last night and today—I don’t want to think about it! Every
minute we thought that half-breed Indian, Mink, was going to jump out on
us and take us back to be held for ransom.”
The fire warden, who had been working over Brick and making him as
comfortable as possible on a blanket, looked up from his task.
“I was sure that’s who it was, when the hut caught fire this morning,”
he put in. “That is one bad Indian—or maybe I should say was. There’s a
pretty good chance that he may not be in the land of the living
tonight.”
Dirk sat up suddenly. “You mean—he was—killed?”
The man shrugged his shoulders. “That was a pretty bad blaze they had
down there at his shack. It would have been worse, only thank goodness
the woods were damp after the rain; otherwise our outfit would have had
a nice crown fire to fight today. Collins was patrolling down by the
lake, and had to call a general alarm. By the time he got there, the
whole clearing was burned over, and all that was left of the trapper’s
cabin was a heap of cinders. The men are still on guard down
there—several acres were burned over.”
“And Mink—what happened to him?”
“Nobody knows. If he wasn’t burned to death, you can bet he’s cleared
out of this country for good. You’ll never be bothered with him again.”
Dirk laughed feebly. “And to think that all day we were running away
from a danger that didn’t exist! We thought he was trailing us.”
The warden looked at him curiously. “You must be pretty done in.”
“We got lost, and couldn’t find our way back to the lake.” The boy
looked about him. “Where is this place, anyway, and how is it that
you’re here, Ugly?”
“This is the Lookout, where the fire tower is,” explained the other boy,
alive with excitement. “If you get up on top of the hill here, you can
see for a million miles all over these mountains. The lake is right
below. You must have come around from the other side. Mr. Carrigan
looked at the canoe we found turned over. When he saw that all the stuff
was gone, he said he thought somebody had captured you. Then he found
where the bushes were tramped down, over on Flint Island. We couldn’t do
much last night in the dark, but he got the chief warden to give us some
grub and a tent. Then, since early this morning, all of us have been
scoutin’ around these woods, lookin’ for signs of you. They ought to be
comin’ in pretty soon. Boy, won’t they be mad when I tell ’em I was the
one to see you first!”
“We must tell my father,” said Dirk. “Can anybody get word?”
“Don’t worry,” answered the warden. “Soon as I get back up the tower,
I’ll telephone to Yanceyville, and they can wire from there. He’ll be
glad to hear. There was a chance that you two might have been caught in
the fire. Ever since Riccio was caught, we’ve had orders to hunt for
you.”
“Who’s Riccio?”
“Why, that’s the name of the man that kidnaped you! You see, he turned
up at the telegraph office in Yanceyville this morning and sent a funny
message to your father. The telegraph man was suspicious, and as soon as
he left, he put the sheriff on his trail. It turned out that this Riccio
had a police record, and a bad one, too. He was arrested, and finally
admitted that he’d caught you and that Indian Mink had you in his shack.
He must have been a fool to try and get ransom money by telegraph. Well,
perhaps a fat jail term will teach him a lesson.”
“Then—then——” Dirk was bewildered. It seemed as if all their troubles
were ended. The half-breed dead or flown, his master in jail, and soon
the Lenape trailers would again be united. “Then everything’s all right,
and tomorrow we can go on to the top of Mount Kinnecut——” He stopped,
for Ugly Brown could not conceal his amusement, and was laughing loudly.
“Say, Van, how do you get that way? You’re right on the top of Mount
Kinnecut at this very minute!”
At the words. Brick Ryan stirred among his blankets and tried to sit up.
“Mount Kinnecut?” he mumbled. “Gollies, that’s the place we got to find.
Dirk will help me get there, won’t you, Dirk, my boy? Dirk’s the best
guy that ever hit the trail, and I’ll lick the bird that says he’s not!”
Dirk Van Horn leaned over and patted his friend’s arm. “There, take it
easy, Brick! We’re there, old chap—we’re right on the top of old
Kinnecut, and you can go to sleep now.”
“Can’t go to sleep! Got to do somethin’—can’t climb, though, because I
got a bum leg. You’ll do it, though, won’t you, Dirk?” He fumbled at his
breast.
“Do what?” the fire warden asked gently. “What must he do? Listen, you
come along with me now, and you’ll soon be stowed away in bed.”
“No, I won’t. Dirk’s got to do it first! And it’s right he should, too.
He’s the best of all of us. I wanted to quit, but he fought along, game
as a bull-pup, and carried me. I won’t move till I see him do it!”
“I think I know what he means,” said Dirk gently. “Shall I? I guess he
won’t rest easy until it’s done.” He reached out and took the crumpled
bit of cloth that Brick was clutching. “Ugly, where is the tree that has
all the Lenape trailers’ flags nailed to it?”
“Why, it’s right up the trail about a hundred yards. A big old dead
pine—you can’t miss it. I’ll go with you.”
“No, you stay here with Brick. I won’t be long.”
Brick fell back, watching Dirk’s face. “It’s the honor of Lenape, Dirk!”
he whispered. “You brought us through. There’s a couple nails in my
pocket. Good luck to you, pal!”
Dirk clasped the outstretched hand, and ran up the trail alone. There
was the tall pine. A few wooden cleats were fastened on the lower part
of the trunk, leading up to the thick branches. As he swung himself
upward, all his weariness fell away from him like a cast-off garment of
care. Up, up he climbed, until he was among the smooth limbs of the
pine. Upward, above the tree tops that swept down before his eyes to the
sunset-dyed waters of Lake Moosehorn, that lay in a curving sweep far
below, with the red spark of a campfire on its banks to mark the
rallying place of the Lenape clan. Still he climbed. Now he was at the
very top of the world; in all directions stretched the unbroken
wilderness that he and his comrades had conquered. And now his hand
touched the lowermost of a string of tattered pennons that were nailed
to the peak of this mighty tree that others of the Lenape brotherhood
had scaled before him, in years gone.
Dirk Van Horn smiled to himself, and waved a hand at his watching
partner far below. Then, still smiling, he drew a stone from his pocket,
and with a few resounding blows, nailed a bit of green and white bunting
in its place. A finger of light, the last ray of the dying sun, tipped
the little banner with gold, as the honor of Lenape fluttered bravely in
the evening breeze.
THE END
Transcriber’s Notes
--Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public
domain in the country of publication.
--Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and
dialect unchanged.
--In the text versions, delimited italics text in _underscores_ (the
HTML version reproduces the font form of the printed book.)