THE BEGINNING OF THE JOURNEY
Early the next morning Tom and Hervey hiked down to Catskill.
"I don't see why we don't hike straight for the mountain," Hervey said;
"it would be much nearer."
"Didn't you ever sail up the Hudson?" Tom asked him. "All the trails up
the steep mountains are as plain as day from the river. If you want to
discover a trail get a bird's-eye view. Don't you know that aviators
discover trails that even hunters never knew about before? If the
kidnappers went up that mountain, they probably went an easy way,
because they're not scouts or woodsmen. See? It would be an awful job
picking our way up that mountain from camp. If those men are up that
way they knew where they were going. They're not pioneers, they're
kidnappers."
"Slady, you're a wonder."
"Except when it comes to climbing trees," Tom said.
At Catskill they hired a skiff and rowed out to about the middle of the
river. From there Hervey was greatly surprised at what he saw. His
bantering mood was quieted at last and he became sober as Tom, holding
the oar handles with one hand, pointed up to a mountain behind the
bordering heights along the river. Upon this, as upon others, were the
faintest suggestions of lines. No trails were to be seen, of course;
only wriggling lines of shadow, as they seemed, now visible, now half
visible, now fading out altogether like breath on a piece of glass.
It seemed incredible that mere paths, often all but undiscernible close
at hand, should be distinguishable from this distance. But there they
were, and it needed only visual concentration upon them to perceive that
they were not well defined paths to be sure, but thin, faint lines of
shadow. They lacked substance, but there they were.
"That's old Tyrant," Tom said. "See?"
Hervey would never have recognized the mountain. The side of it which
they saw was not at all like the familiar side which faced Temple Camp.
That frowning, jungle-covered ascent seemed less forbidding from the
river, but how Tom could identify it was beyond Hervey's comprehension.
It was apparent that by following a road which began at Catskill they
would skirt the mountain along its less precipitous ascent, and Tom
assumed that the trail, so doubtfully and elusively marked upon the
height, would be easily discoverable where it left the road, as
undoubtedly it did.
Deduction and calculation were not at all in Hervey's line; he would
have been quite satisfied to plunge into the interminable thicket on the
side near camp and get lost there.
"You see there is more than one way to kill a cat," Tom observed. "I was
thinking of the kidnappers while you were thinking about the mountain.
As long as they went up I thought I might as well let them show us the
easy way."
"You're a wonder, Slady!"
"There are two sides to every mountain," Tom said.
"Like every story, hey?"
"You're a good scout only you don't use your brain enough. You use your
hands and feet and your heart, I can't deny that."
"The pleasure is mine," said Hervey. "We're going to sneak up the back
way, hey?"
"No, we're going up the front way," Tom smiled. "Llewellyn came down the
back way."
"He's a peach of a scout, hey?"
"The best ever."
Hervey had soon a pretty good demonstration of the advantage of using
the brain first and the hands and feet afterwards. And he had a pretty
good demonstration of the particular kind of scout that Tom Slade was--a
scout that thinks.
They hit into the road about fifty yards from the boat landing and
followed it through a valley to where it ran along the foot of the
mountain.
"Are you sure this is the right mountain?" Hervey asked. "They all look
alike when you get close to them."
"Yop," said Tom; "what do you think of it?"
"Oh, I'm not particular about mountains," Hervey said. "They all look
alike to me."
Following the road, they watched the bordering woods on the mountainside
carefully for any sign of a trail. Several times they clambered up into
the thicket supposing some tiny clearing or sparse area to be the
beginning of the winding way they sought.
Hervey was thoroughly aroused now and serious. Once they picked their
way up into the woods for perhaps a dozen yards, only to find themselves
in a jungle with no sign of trail. Tom returned down out of these blind
alleys, his hands scratched, his clothing torn, and resumed his way
along the road doggedly, saying little. He knew it was somewhere and he
was going to find it.
Suddenly he paused by a certain willow tree, looking at it curiously.
"What is it?" Hervey asked excitedly.
"Looks as if a jack-knife had been at work around here, huh? Somebody's
been making a willow whistle. Look at this."
Tom held up a little tube of moist willow bark, at the same time kicking
some shavings at his feet. "Looks as if they passed this point,
anyway," he said. "Ever make one of those willow whistles? I've made
dozens of them for tenderfeet. If you make them the right way, they make
a dickens of a loud noise."