CHAPTER I—Springtime and Aunt Martha_Tom Slade at Bear Mountain

TOM SLADE AT BEAR MOUNTAIN

[Illustration: THE LITTLE CAR DELIVERED A MASTERLY ASSAULT UPON AN OAK

TREE.]

TOM SLADE

AT BEAR MOUNTAIN

PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH

Author of

THE TOM SLADE BOOKS

THE ROY BLAKELEY BOOKS

THE PEE-WEE HARRIS BOOKS

THE WESTY MARTIN BOOKS

ILLUSTRATED BY

HOWARD L. HASTINGS

Published with the approval of

THE BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS : : NEW YORK

Made in the United States of America

GROSSET & DUNLAP

CONTENTS

I. Springtime and Aunt Martha

II. Past and Present

III. A Stranger

IV. The Obscure Trail

V. Rattlesnake Gulch

VI. Out of the Past

VII. June and December

VIII. Tom and Brent

IX. End of the Trail

X. The Storm Blows Over

XI. News from Another Quarter

XII. On the Scene

XIII. Down-Down

XIV. In the Circle of Light

XV. The Trap

XVI. In the Darkness

XVII. Seen in the Twilight

XVIII. Shining Eyes

XIX. Oblivion

XX. End of the Struggle

XXI. Going Up

XXII. At Home

XXIII. Footsteps

XXIV. Alias Spiff

XXV. The Little Rascal

XXVI. Watchful Waiting

XXVII. A Visitor

XXVIII. Three’s Company

XXIX. The Old Elm

XXX. A Loss and a Gain

XXXI. Just the Two of Them

XXXII. A New Foe

XXXIII. David and Goliath

XXXIV. The Sign of the Four

XXXV. The Knock-Out

XXXVI. Christmas and Aunt Martha

TOM SLADE AT BEAR MOUNTAIN

CHAPTER I—Springtime and Aunt Martha

I have often reflected that if it had not been for my long promised

visit to my aunt up in Kingston, New York, these very extraordinary

events which I purpose to narrate would never have occurred. To be sure,

the silent stranger, as we called him, would still have pursued his grim

course in the tragic business. But I would have been none the wiser for

that. And Tom Slade would not have had the thrilling experience (dear to

his adventurous heart) of participating in it.

I have found some amusement in speculating on just what might have

happened if I had not stumbled into the prelude of that black drama; or

rather, I should say, plunged my young friend headlong into it. For to

tell you the truth I was either sitting in my wicker chair on the porch

or playing golf while the whole strange affair was unfolding.

More particularly have I derived amusement from thinking how my Aunt

Martha was, as one might say, remotely involved in the story. Not that

she ever defied an outlaw or dug for buried treasure, for she is one of

the mildest and sweetest old ladies that ever lived. But if she had not

insisted on my making good the old, neglected promise to visit her in

her little cottage in that quaint old city up the Hudson, why there

would have been nobody to confront Slick Somers and send him sprawling

to the ground. I am fond of telling my Aunt Martha that she was really

the one who did that. Then she always lays down her knitting and tries

gently to show me how my reasoning is defective.

Well, in any case, I started to spend a quiet, restful week with her,

and I landed plunk in the middle of the eighteenth century. For here you

shall find outlaws quite as bold as Jesse James or Robin Hood, and

treasure too, if those are the kind of things you care about. And it all

began with my trip to see Aunt Martha up in Kingston.

So I shall begin the tale of these adventures with a certain fair

morning in the springtime when I set forth from my home in New Jersey

and drove up the state road past the picturesque old water wheel at

Arcola, and so on through Allendale and Ramsey to Suffern, which is just

across the New York state line. North of this point the Ramapo Hills

close in about the road and soon the highway takes a winding course

among rugged mountains. Now the road is shadowed by precipitous heights,

now a fair expanse of rolling country unfolds before the eye.

I think it must be in the neighborhood of Sloatsburg that the country to

the east thickens into a mountainous wilderness. Beyond that flows the

lordly Hudson whose general course I was following. I suppose those

intervening wooded heights are what they call the Hudson Highlands. I

knew that zigzagging in and out among those dense hills, this way and

that, was the freakish boundary line of the Interstate Park, which

forever sets a resolute limit against the sneaking advance of

civilization.

As I glanced over that way I said to myself, “Master Progress, with all

your fine claptrap, you may not enter here.”

For in those magnificent wilds a holy circle has been drawn where trees

and trails and wild flowers and all the beauteous furniture of nature

are eternally safe. “That is a fine thing in this twentieth century

turmoil,” I reflected.

The birds were making a great chorus in the trees as I drove along, and

I noticed a hawk poised in air above the woods. I wondered whether he

was in fact within the limits of the reservation.

Then, suddenly, the spirit of the spring and the outdoors caught me and

I was glad I was off on my visit. I was glad, particularly, because I

had decided to drive to my destination. For you know my Aunt Martha had

never in her life been in an automobile and I was thinking what an

adventure it would be for her to have a ride at thirty miles an hour or

so in the fragrant, blooming country.

Little I thought how that trip would mean real adventures--adventures

dark and perilous. Little did I dream of the secret which lay hidden

among those neighboring hills. Little did I dream of the dark story

which the region to which Bear Mountain has given its romantic name, had

to tell.