Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
THE BOY SCOUTS THROUGH THE BIG TIMBER
Or
The Search for the Lost Tenderfoot
by
HERBERT CARTER
Author of "The Boy Scouts First Camp Fire," "The Boy Scouts
in the Blue Ridge," "The Boy Scouts on the Trail,"
"The Boy Scouts in the Maine Woods,"
"The Boy Scouts In the Rockies"
Copyright, 1913
By A. L. Burt Company
[Illustration: "Look out for it, Davy, and grab the noose when it
comes near," shouted Thad.
_The Boy Scouts through the Big Timber._ _Page 17_]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Camp. 3
II. What Frightened the Pack Mules. 13
III. When the Foxes Took to the Trees. 26
IV. Bumpus Takes a Chance. 38
V. The Missing Tenderfoot. 50
VI. Forced to Think for Himself. 62
VII. Turning the Tables. 78
VIII. A Scout Should Always be on the Alert. 87
IX. The Mean Trick Of The Timber Cruisers. 96
X. The Bob-Cat. 106
XI. Bumpus' Stock Above Par. 115
XII. The Swoop of the Storm. 123
XIII. The Bolt of Lightning. 131
XIV. Step Hen Looks Out for the Provisions. 139
XV. Through the Big Timber Again. 147
XVI. The Snake Bite. 155
XVII. More Trouble Ahead. 164
XVIII. Still in Pursuit, with the Trail Growing Warmer. 172
XIX. Another Shock. 181
XX. Finding Out How Bumpus Did It. 189
XXI. Caught in a Trap. 198
XXII. The Cripple Business Seems to be Contagious. 206
XXIII. The Way Blocked. 219
XXIV. The "Little Lightning." 227
XXV. "Catching a Tartar;" and a Fat One at That. 235
XXVI. "Tenderfoot? Well, Hardly, After This." 243
XXVII. Well-Earned Rest--Conclusion. 250
THE BOY SCOUTS
THROUGH THE BIG TIMBER
CHAPTER I.
THE CAMP.
"Call the roll, Mr. Secretary," said the acting scoutmaster.
Of course this was a mere matter of form, because everybody knew that the
entire membership of the Silver Fox Patrol, connected with the Cranford
Troop of Boy Scouts, was present. But nevertheless Bob White gravely took
out his little book, and made each boy answer to his name.
"Thad Brewster."
"Present," said the patrol leader, and assistant scoutmaster.
"Allan Hollister."
"Here," replied the second in command, a Maine boy, now living in
Cranford, the New York town from whence these boys had journeyed to this
far-off region along the foothills of the great Rocky Mountains.
"Bumpus Hawtree."
"Ditto," sang out the fat youth, looking up with a wide grin; for he was
about as good-natured as he was ponderous.
"Giraffe Stedman."
"More ditto," answered the tall lad, with the long neck, and the quick
movements, who was busying himself over the fire, being never so happy as
when he could feed wood to the crackling blaze.
"Step Hen Bingham."
"On deck," replied the boy mentioned, who was busy with the supper
arrangements.
"Davy Jones."
"O. K." came from the fellow who was walking on his hands at the moment,
his waving feet being high in the air, where his head was supposed to
appear; because Davy was a gymnast, and worked off his superfluous energy
in doing all manner of queer stunts.
"Smithy."
"Present," and the speaker, a very natty chap, brushed off an imaginary
insect from the sleeve of his coat; because it happened that Edmund
Maurice Travers Smith, as he was known in his home circle, had been born
with a horror for dirt: and it was taking his comrades a long time to
bring him down to the ordinary level of a happy-go-lucky, care-free boy
like themselves.
"Robert White Quail."
And the last named being the secretary himself, he merely put a cross
down, to indicate the fact of his being in the line of duty on that
occasion.
"You neglected two other important members of the party!" called out
Giraffe, who, of course had gained his peculiar name on account of the
habit he had of often stretching that unusually long neck of his, until
the boys likened him to an ostrich, and then a giraffe.
"Who are they?" demanded Bob White, scenting some sort of joke.
"Mike, and Molly, the honest, hard-working mules here that we have for
pack animals," replied the tall scout, with a chuckle.
"Oh! I reckon, suh, they don't count on the roll call," remarked Bob
White, who was a Southern boy, as his soft manner of speech, as well as
certain phrases he often used, betrayed.
"Well," protested Giraffe, sturdily, "if you think now, that our pack
mules ain't going to make an impression on our camping through the big
timber, and the foothills of the Rockies, you've got another guess
coming, let me tell you."
"Mike strikes me as particularly worthy of mention in the log book of the
trip. He made a _distinct_ impression on me, right in the start; and left
a black and blue record of it that hurts yet," with which remark, fat
Bumpus--whose real name chanced to be Jasper Cornelius, began to ruefully
rub a certain portion of his generous anatomy.
A general shout went up at this.
"Well, what could you expect, Bumpus?" demanded Davy Jones. "When Mike,
out of the corner of his wicked eye, saw you stooping over that way, and
offering such a wide target, the temptation was more than any
respectable, well-educated mule could resist."
"Yes," put in Step Hen, who had divided his name in that queer fashion as
a lad first attending school, and it had clung to him ever since; "you
didn't know the strong points of pack mules, Bumpus, or you would never
have gone so close to his heels."
"And," continued Davy, humorously, "you turned over in the air three
times, before you struck that dirty pool of water. And that time, Bumpus,
I own up you beat me fairly at gymnastics; for try as I will, so far I've
only been able to do two turns backward in the air, myself."
Bumpus, being so good-natured, only chuckled and kept on rubbing, as in
imagination he saw the "cartwheels" he made in the air on that memorable
occasion.
"Only thing I deeply regret," continued Davy, "was that I didn't have my
camera focussed at the time. That picture would sure have been the gem of
our collection."
Bumpus presently sat himself down again, to watch those who were serving
as cooks for that occasion, get supper ready.
And while it is preparing, with the fragrant odor of coffee in the air,
making the hungry boys almost frantic with suspense, perhaps, for the
benefit of the reader who has not made the acquaintance of these lively,
wide-awake boys in earlier stories of this series, a brief explanation of
who and what they were, may be deemed appropriate at this point.
The Silver Fox Patrol had been organized for quite some time now, and the
boys who made up the membership had been fortunate enough to take two
long trips, with the idea of adding to their knowledge of woodcraft, and
such qualities as all good scouts are supposed to desire to possess.
The first one had been to the region of the Land of the sky. Robert Quail
had come from the Blue Ridge, in North Carolina, and it was mostly
through his influence and persuasion that the scouts had gone thence. And
while there, they had met with many adventures that have been faithfully
chronicled in their log book, and portrayed in a previous story.
Their next trip came in very fortunately. An epidemic breaking out in
Cranford, the school trustees closed the doors of the places of education
until after the Christmas holidays. This gave the boys the chance they
had long wanted to take a run up into Maine, and do a little camping, and
hunting of big game; several of their number being very fond of handling
a gun; and Allan having told them thrilling stories of the sport to be
found in his native State after the law had been lifted.
And while enjoying themselves hugely, the scouts had had the good fortune
to recover some stolen bonds and other valuables belonging to a bank that
had been robbed. The reward offered for their restoration was paid over
into their treasury, and was of such a size as to admit of their taking
this long-desired journey into the mountain region of the Great
Northwest, when vacation time came around.
During the balance of the winter, after their return from Maine, the
story of the wonderfully good times they enjoyed there had so enthused
other boys of Cranford, that a second full patrol, called the Eagle, had
been organized; and a third addition to the troop, to be called the Gray
Wolf, was in process of forming.
But of course none of these lads had any share in the reward that had
come to the members of the first patrol; so that accounted for their not
being present on his occasion.
Bumpus was a musician, and had a fine mellow voice, which he often used
to entertain his mates while sitting around the roaring camp-fire. He
could play on any instrument; indeed, with merely his doubled-up hands,
and his melodious voice, he often imitated various calls on the bugle.
And of course he had been elected as bugler to the troop, though on the
present occasion they had induced him to leave his instrument at home,
not thinking a hunting camp the place for such noisy demonstrations.
The boys carried guns of various sorts, though until lately Bumpus had
never bothered himself about such a thing. But while in Maine the fever
seized him, and he had purchased a big ten-bore Marlin double-barreled
shotgun; because he always admired the twelve gauge of the same make
which Thad owned.
Step Hen had a little beauty of a thirty-thirty six-shot repeating rifle,
that had been given to him by his father on a recent birthday. Thad
sometimes borrowed it, and could use the same with considerable skill. It
carried those soft-nosed bullets that mushroom when striking, and thus do
all the work of a ball several times the size. If big game must be
killed, the quicker the thing is over with the better. Besides, that
little fire-arm was "just as light as a feather," as Step Hen always
declared, when disputing with Giraffe, who carried the large rifle owned
by his respected dad, also fond of the woods and game.
Davy managed to get along with a shotgun, while Allan had a rifle. Smithy
and Bob White had brought no weapons along, deeming the number on hand
amply sufficient to clean out most of the wild beasts inhabiting the
Rocky Mountain region. In fact, Smithy had never shot a gun in his life,
and was timid about trying; but on the other hand Bob was quite used to
working with a good retriever in the grain fields, where the bird he was
named after fattened, away down in the Old Tarheel State.
Davy seemed to be unusually full of animal spirits on this occasion. He
just could not keep quiet, but kept up his tumbling, and standing on his
head, even though no one paid much attention to what wonderful stunts the
athletic lad was carrying on.
Close by them ran a noisy stream. It came out from the foothills of the
great uplifts near by, and went brawling on its way. Indeed, it made so
much music that the scouts had to call out to each other at times; but
somehow the prospect of passing a night near such a rollicking stream
pleased them all. Besides, they were sure it must contain trout, and
several promised to get up at break of day to try for the speckled
beauties, so that they might have a mess for breakfast, before continuing
on their way.
"Say, has anybody seen my sweater around?" called out Step Hen, who was
busily engaged looking over the contents of his pack, having turned over
the control of the cooking meal to Allan and Thad. "I'm just sure I
stowed it away in this knapsack I carry, but it ain't there now. I'm the
unluckiest feller you ever did see, about having my things taken.
Everybody just thinks they're general property, and grabs 'em up. Please
hand it over, whoever's got it. I might want it to-night, if it gets
cool."
Step Hen was careless. He had a long-standing habit of never knowing
where he put his things, and hence, when he missed some object, loud were
his wails about being pursued by a "little evil genius," that was taking
the greatest delight in misplacing his possessions. Even when one of the
other scouts, taking pity on Step Hen, would show him where he had
himself left the article, he would pass it off as easily as a duck shakes
the water from its back.
The tents had been raised, and everything looked cozy and comfortable.
Several of the scouts lay around, being footsore and weary; only that
never-tired Davy was still exercising himself in all sorts of ways. In
due time he would work off his superfluous energy, and behave. They were
so accustomed to seeing Davy hang by his toes from the high limb of a
tree, or doing some similar act better fitted for the circus than a camp
of Boy Scouts, that little attention was ordinarily paid to his actions.
It came as a shock, then, when all of a sudden Thad started up with a
shout, and started on a run toward the edge of the high river bank, where
one could look down on the tumbling waters of the churning yeasty rapids.
"Hurry, boys!" the scoutmaster was calling at the top of his voice, as he
covered the dozen yards separating the camp from the edge of the little
bluff; "Davy went too near the edge, and took a header right over into
the river!"
Every one of the other six lads hurried as fast as possible to join their
leader on the brink of the bluff; and when they reached there, they saw a
sight that for the moment seemed to freeze the very blood in their veins.