SWAMP TACTICS.
“Back water, fellows!” called out Step Hen, who could be cautious at
times, as well as bold.
It was ludicrous to see how quickly the scouts did dip their paddles in
again, and not only stay the forward progress of the two canoes, but
cause them to retrograde so that almost like magic they had succeeded in
putting a tongue of land, on which trees grew densely, between
themselves and the danger zone.
This did not apply so much to the alligator hunter, who still sat there
in his boat, fingering his heavy rifle, and with bent head eying the
distance, as though it would please him exceedingly to just catch a
single glimpse of something moving, at which he might discharge his
weapon.
If Tom Smith were anything like the sharpshooter he made out to be, the
result must certainly have proved disastrous to that unknown party who
had just given the little expedition such a start.
“Do you see the coward, Mr. Smith?” called out Bumpus, who was highly
indignant at their receiving such a warm reception; just as though this
unknown person meant to claim the whole swamp as his preserves, and
intended to serve warning on the scouts that they had better clear out,
if they knew what was good for their health.
“Sorry tuh say I don’t seem tuh git the least sign o’ the measly
critter!” came the reply, in a tone that told of mingled disgust and
disappointment.
Saying which the alligator hunter picked up his paddle in one hand, and
still holding on to his gun, as if hope were not quite extinct, he urged
his canoe backward, as though meaning to join the boys.
Thad understood that this was not done from the same motives of caution
that had caused them to retreat under fire. Tom Smith must have some
other object in view, which would presently be made apparent.
And as it turned out Thad’s guess was pretty close to the bull’s-eye;
for hardly had the guide joined them than he was saying hurriedly:
“I’m gwine tuh leave you fo’ a leetle time, boys; but make shuah tuh
stay right hyah till I comes back agin, which I calc’late ain’t meanin’
mo’n harf an hour at theh most.”
“What’s up, Tom?” asked Giraffe, who had easily become familiar with the
lanky hide hunter; just as though the fact that both were tall and thin
had served to draw them closer together than was the case with Bumpus,
who, being built on an altogether different plan, could not be expected
to sympathize with one who was all bone and muscle.
And as like draws like, Tom had even come to calling Giraffe by his
nick-name, because he heard the others doing so; though possibly the man
did not know what such an animal looked like, as most of his life had
been spent in the swamps; and while Louisiana boasts many queer animals
and birds within her borders, no one ever yet ran across a giraffe
running wild there.
“Why, yuh see, Giraffe, I’m ameanin’ tuh slip ’round back thar, an’ see
now if I couldn’t git a squint at thet sneak. So-long, boys, an’ don’t
take snap judgment on me, if yuh sees the bushes amovin’ when I kim
back.”
He immediately bent to his paddle, and the rough boat started away at a
furious pace, showing that Tom Smith was deeply in earnest in his desire
to pay back the unseen marksman who had given warning of his hostile
intentions by that shot over their heads.
They watched him for the space of about a minute, and then boat and
paddler had vanished amidst the thick green screen of bushes.
“Whew! but didn’t he send her along like fun, though?” Bumpus wanted to
know.
“Well, he’s been using the paddle for a good many years, and knows every
little wrinkle of the business,” returned Thad.
“Yes,” added Allan, “I’m never through watching the way he manages that
clumsy canoe of his. I’ve seen Penobscot Indians up in Maine who could
do wonders with their boats, but they weren’t in the same class with
him; because in the first place their canoes were either made of light
birch-bark, or else canvas, painted and varnished until the sides were
as smooth as glass; whereas, look at the tub he handles like a flash.
He’s sure a wonder; and while I thought I could do a few stunts along
the line of canoe work, I take off my hat to Tom Smith.”
“But what did he mean by saying like he did, that he hoped we wouldn’t
take snap judgment on him?” Bumpus asked. “That sounded mighty funny to
me, because of course we ain’t thinking of doing the least thing to
annoy our own guide. Why, whatever could we do without him now, I
wonder?”
Giraffe chuckled, as he often did in his aggravating way whenever Bumpus
exposed his ignorance; but all the same, in spite of his affected
superiority, the lanky scout was seen to pay particular attention when
Thad started in to explain; just as though he might after all not be
quite so sure himself what Tom Smith did mean by that expression.
“Why, it’s this way, Bumpus,” said the scoutmaster, always willing to
enlighten the other, “he knows that we are more or less excited over
this unexpected happening; and as boys are apt to act first, and think
afterwards, Tom Smith wanted to kindly request us not to shoot at the
moving of a branch, and look up the cause later on. The chances are that
it would be him coming back, and he didn’t feel like being peppered by
our fire.”
“Huh! he ought to have known that all scouts learn never to shoot until
they’re good and sure of what they’re firing at,” grunted Step Hen.
“Well, lots of people you’d think ought to know better, allow themselves
to get so flustered when deer hunting, that they’re ready to bang away
if they see anything brown moving among the bushes. And every year
dozens of hunters are killed up in the Adirondacks, in Maine, and
Wisconsin, by just such fool actions; so that they’re even talking of
making every hunter wear either a white or a red suit, so he can’t be
mistaken for a deer.”
“That’s a fact, this dun-colored khaki cloth is mighty near like a deer,
and the dead leaves too!” declared Bumpus.
“It may have been when it was new and _clean_,” interjected Davy,
bitterly; “but it’s anything but brown now. I’d call it a pretty fair
shade of dirt color approaching black.”
“P’raps, now, that’s why the sportsmen in Old England wear red coats
when they go into the brush?” suggested Smithy.
“Oh! that’s only the fox hunters, and they carry no firearms, so they’re
in no danger,” Thad informed him; “their grouse shooters wear just the
same kind of togs our hunters do over here; but they shoot in the open,
and so you seldom hear of an accident over across the ocean.”
All this conversation was carried on in low tones, and while the boys
were constantly peeping out from their leafy covert, as though expecting
to catch a glimpse of either the mysterious marksman, or else Tom Smith
searching for him beyond.
But there was not a single sign of either. The trailing Spanish moss
continued to wave majestically to and fro in the light air; a gray
squirrel ran down the trunk of an oak tree close by, to bark saucily, as
though questioning their right in his quiet domain; a bittern flew past
with winnowing wing, and quickened its flight when discovering the
presence of human beings in that retreat; but there did not seem to be
the first indication that either enemy or friend could be hidden beyond
that other tongue of land.
Thad had figured it all out in his mind, and fancied that he knew about
what the quickly-formed plan of the alligator hunter might be.
Of course Tom Smith knew every rod of this place, and he realized that
by taking a certain channel leading back of the point that now screened
the boys, he could manage to come up behind the place where that rifle
had sounded.
If the marksman had remained in his bushy retreat there was a chance of
his being surprised; but Thad hardly hoped for any such result; because
it stood to reason that the hidden man must be keen-witted, and he would
naturally suspect some such move on the part of the swamp hunter, whom
he undoubtedly knew.
The minutes dragged along, with the boys exchanging opinions every
little while, and then looking around again. They felt under something
of a strain, because of this singular happening; and many were the
conjectures as to who the party could be back of that gun.
Some were inclined to believe that he might turn out to be a desperate
escaped convict who had managed in some fashion to get possession of
firearms; and seeing those deceptive khaki suits of the scouts, at once
jumped to the conclusion that they must belong to the State militia, and
were even then looking for a fellow answering his description.
Others declared that if this had been the case he would surely have sent
his whistling lead lower, and not stopped at simply warning them to
clear out. And it was even hinted by Giraffe that the unseen party might
be the counterfeiter of whom they had heard Tom Smith speak, and who
would naturally believe the Government had sent an expedition after him
at last, tired of his persistent efforts to inflate the currency of the
country at the expense of his fellows.
“Why, Thad, don’t you know, over half an hour’s gone already, and not a
sign of our guide coming back?” observed Bumpus, who had remained quiet
for a long stretch of time, for him, because the fat scout dearly loved
to express his opinions on every subject. “I only hope nothing can have
happened to Mr. Smith, because we would be up a tree then. I just know
even you haven’t kept track of how we got here; and if there ain’t no
trail, however would we get out again?”
“There you go again, Bumpus,” asserted Step Hen, “borrowing trouble. Why
don’t you wait till you get to a bridge before you start crossing over?
Now, as for me, I’m ready to just take things easy-like, till Tom shows
up.”
“There he is now, and beckoning to us to come along!” asserted Old Eagle
Eye, who had kept on the alert all the while, so that he might be the
first to announce a pleasing discovery.
When Giraffe had thus announced his discovery, the two canoes were
immediately put in motion, and the boys hastened to paddle along until
they arrived alongside the boat of the guide, which was close to the
spot where that mysterious shot had sprung from.
“Reckon you didn’t find our friend, Tom?” remarked Giraffe, familiarly.
The old alligator-skin collector shook his head grimly in the negative.
“He slipped out all right,” he observed, “an’ so slick thet I never did
git even a look-in at him. But I found his blank brass shell on the
ground, whar he tossed the same outen his gun, which I knows real well.
It war Ricky, the moonshiner, as guv yuh thet warnin’ not tuh bother
with him; an’ I reckons as how he means hit, too.”