THE QUAGMIRE.
It was already late when the convicts departed, and our hunters
immediately began their preparations for their first trial with the
plume birds.
"I wonder where we had better strike in at first," said the captain,
"there seems a powerful lot of them islands, an' they 'pear to me
pretty much alike."
"I have been keeping a kind of eye out all day," Charley answered, "and
it seems to me that there has been a lot of birds flying around that
little island of dead trees in the marsh right across from us. Suppose
we try that first."
The others readily agreed, and, while Chris was cooking supper, the
boys prepared a number of torches from fat pitch pine and looked over
their fowling-pieces carefully.
As soon as it was dark, Charley and Walter entered one of the canoes
and the captain the other. Chris begged hard to be taken, but Charley
was firm in his refusal.
"We will have to take turn about at tending camp, and you'll have to
stay to-night, Chris," he said. "It won't do to leave the camp alone.
You'll have to keep a sharp lookout to guard against any possible
surprise from wild animals or men. Keep up the fire so we can find our
way back, and have some hot coffee ready. We'll need it when we get
back. Keep a sharp eye out, Chris," he concluded. "It isn't everyone
I would choose for such a responsible place."
"Golly, Massa Charley," exclaimed the little darky, the bald flattery
tickling his great racial vanity, "I jus' reckon nothin' goin' to get
past dis nigger, though I sure 'spects I'd ought to go along so as to
watch out for you chillens."
"We'll be careful," Charley assured him gravely. "If anything troubles
you or you see anything wrong, fire off your gun twice, and we will
hustle back. Shove her off, Walt."
Walter obeyed with a vigor that nearly upset their frail craft. "My,
but she's cranky," he exclaimed.
"She is pretty ticklish," Charley admitted, "but just the craft for our
purpose. She's so light she will float on a good heavy dew, and then
she's so easy to take to pieces and pack away. But we'd better stop
our chattering, for we are getting near the island now."
The moon was shining brightly, giving to the dead whitened trees on the
little island a peculiar ghostly appearance. The canoes soon grounded
in the marsh grass, and, fastening them to paddles, stuck down in the
mud, our hunters shouldered their fowling-pieces and trudged ahead
through the mire. They had prepared themselves well for the trip and
each wore a pair of rubber boots reaching to the hip drawn on over
their rawhide boots and legging.
"I guess we are on the right track," grinned Charley, ere they had
proceeded far.
"Goodness, it's awful," exclaimed Walter. "I wish I had a clothes-pin
on my nose. Smells just like as island of Limburger cheese set in a
lake of broken spoiled eggs."
"I reckon that's comin' it a little strong, Walt," chuckled the
captain. "I guess though we've stumbled onto a good big rookery for
sure. That smell comes mostly from the dead baby birds, broken eggs,
an' such like. But let's keep quiet, lads, we're nearly there now."
A few minutes more and the hunters entered the fringe of dead trees.
By the time they reached the center of the little island where the dead
trees were thickest, the little party was nearly overcome by the
horrible stench. At every step they crushed in nestfuls of decayed
eggs which sent up their protests to high heavens.
At last Charley commanded a halt. "We've gone far enough," he
whispered. "Let's light up our torches together and make as short work
of it as possible. Gee, but I'm sick for a mouthful of sweet, fresh
air."
The fat pine-sticks flared up as though saturated with oil, their
flickering blaze lighting up a weird scene; the gaunt, bare, white
trees, ghosts of a departed forest, the miry ground strewn with eggs of
all sizes, shapes and colors, and dead birds of many kinds, in amongst
which writhed and twisted dirty-looking, repulsive water moccasins and
brilliant yellow and black swamp snakes, while overhead on the whitened
limbs, roosted hundreds of birds partly roused from their sleep by the
glare of the torches.
"We'll have to shoot with one hand and hold our torches with the
other," said Charley.
The guns were very light fowling-pieces, and the birds were clustered
too thickly together to be easily missed. The three guns belched out
their deadly message almost together and a score of birds fell to the
ground. Again and again were the volleys repeated before the dazed
birds recovered their senses enough to take to their wings.
The hunters paused only long enough to pluck from the backs of the
fallen birds the long, silky plumes, which they carefully placed in a
stiff leather valise, then hastened on to another part of the island
where the same performance was repeated.
At first all three hunters stuck close together, but they soon
separated, each picking out for himself what seemed to be choice places
in the little wood. Yielding to the incessant firing the birds began
to desert their roosts in great flocks until at last but few lingered
on the barren limbs. Charley was about to call his companions together
and propose a return to camp when a sudden cry sent the blood tingling
through his veins. It was Walter's voice, and its tone was that of
fear and horror unutterable. Pausing a second to locate the direction
of the sound, Charley bounded away for it at the top of his speed. As
he passed a thick clump of trees the captain broke out from among them
and lumbered on in his wake.
"What's the trouble, Charley?" he panted.
"Something's happened to Walt," he shouted back, "something terrible,
too--just hear him calling."
The cries rose again with redoubled vigor, a world of dread in their
cadence.
The island was small, and in a few minutes Charley was close to the
scene of the cries with the captain right at his heels. Suddenly they
broke out of the underbrush into a small open space perhaps forty feet
across. Near the center of this place was Walter, waving his torch
frantically back and forth. He ceased his cries as their lights
flashed into view. "Stop, stop!" he shouted, "don't come a step
further. I am sinking a foot a minute. The ground is rotten here. I
guess it's up to me to say good-bye, chums," he continued in a voice he
strove vainly to make steady. "You can't help me, and I'm sinking
deeper every minute."
"Cheer up, lad, we'll find a way," declared the old sailor, with a
hopefulness he was far from feeling, for he knew well, by hearsay, of
the terrible swamp quagmires that swiftly suck their victims down to a
horrible death in the foul mud.
Already Walter had sunk to his waist, and it was only a question of
minutes ere the slimy ooze would close over his head. It was a
situation that demanded instant action. For a moment Charley stood
silent beside the captain gazing hopelessly at his doomed chum. Then
he turned swiftly and darted away like an arrow.
"Throw branches, boughs, anything that is light," he shouted back; "I
am going to get the canvas painters."
Frantically the old sailor tore down dead limbs and flung them to the
entombed lad. His labor was in vain, for as each branch struck the
quagmire its own weight sunk it out of sight in the liquid mud.
"Better give it up, Captain," advised Walter, cheerfully. "They are
doing no good, and Charley will soon be back with the ropes."
The captain measured the distance to the helpless lad with a practised
eye, and groaned in despair. "They'll fall short by a dozen feet," he
murmured hopelessly. "God forgive me, for bringing him to this plight."
In a moment Charley was back with the painters from the two canvas
canoes knotted together. His first toss confirmed the captain's fears,
the rope foil ten feet short.
Charley's face grew sickly pale under the torch light, and he stood for
a space like one in a daze. The captain near him was kneeling praying
fervently.
Of the three, Walter was the coolest. He had resigned himself to his
fate at the failure of the first cast of the rope. Already the mire
had sucked him down so that he had to throw his head far back to keep
the filthy stuff from entering his mouth.
"Good-bye, old chums," he called cheerfully, "we've made our last camp
together. Don't feel too down, Charley. Remember what the jockeys
say, 'There's nothing to a race but the finish.'"
Charley roused from his momentary trance. "You shan't die," he cried
wildly, "you shan't, you shan't,--you shan't."