And here you have Tom Slade all over. He was not in the least bit angry.
But he was curious. Instead of hurrying straight back to the Gulch, he
hit into the Hawkeye Spoke trail of the scouts. Just north of him it met
the encircling or White Bar Trail. Already he knew this interesting
trail system like a book. There is something uncanny about the way Tom
gets the lay of strange country.
Well, he slipped the coil of rope over his head, laid one side of it on
his shoulder and started up along the Hawkeye Spoke to Kanawauke Lakes.
He said he met two Boy Scouts on this spoke trail who, seeing that he
was not in khaki regalia, asked him playfully if he didn’t think he’d
get lost. I have always been amused at this, and if those youngsters
chance upon this narrative they will be interested to learn that the
young fellow whom they so blithely “kidded” was Tom Slade of Temple
Camp, who came out of Barrel Alley in my own home town and is the hero
and idol of every scout in the big camping community in the Catskills.
_Tom Slade lost!_ It is to laugh.
At Scout Headquarters, which was seething with business now, this scout
of another region inquired for a Scout or Scout official who might
possibly have lost his hat. No one knew of such a one. Then he asked if
there was record of any such official or scout who lived in Buffalo. No
such entry could be found.
“Well,” said Tom, “I’m camping over in the wilds and I found this hat.
If anybody claims it, give it to him and tell him he’s welcome in my
flivver any time and no questions asked. So long.”
He did not tell who he was, and I think no one up there knew anything
about him or Brent until the climax came. They are so busy with their
own affairs up there. And Tom is so modest and unassuming.
First and last, Tom probably lost an hour by his attempt at trail-making
and by his visit to Scout Headquarters. He told me that he had wanted to
see the place in full swing and that the scout hat gave him the
incentive to go. He greatly enjoyed the woodland exhibit there, so he
told me. I wish they could have known who he was. He has every award for
heroism known to scouting, and a pile of badges and things as well. When
he was a Scout it was an act of his which prompted Mr. John Temple to
found Temple Camp of which Tom is now assistant manager. I dare say they
would have given him a rousing welcome at Bear Mountain Scout
Headquarters if they had known. But that is Tom all over; he blew in and
he blew out and no one was the wiser.
To be sure, he knew that Brent intended to make a pretty thorough search
of Conner’s well. And he knew that hurrying was not one of Brent’s
weaknesses; he was always leisurely. Still, he had intended to return
before dark, and he might still have done so if a most unfortunate
attack had not intervened.
His journey back took him south along the Hawkeye Spoke and then (for
variety’s sake, I suppose, or perhaps in the hope of shortening the
journey an inch or two) he followed the White Bar Trail (rim trail)
south till he hit into old Buck’s trail from Sandyfield. He had not been
on this trail since the time he was there with me, which was early
spring, and now he found it very much overgrown; or, to be exact, he did
not find it at all.
Still, Tom does not need a trail; how he finds his way in strange woods
at night is beyond my comprehension. He said he could hike through the
woods from the country club above Bridgeboro and get home quicker than I
could drive home by the road. And he did it. But of course, I do not
drive as he does.
Well, he left the White Bar Trail about where he thought old Buck had
been accustomed to crossing it, and plunged into the thicket. By now it
was dark, but he said he had the stars to guide him. Still, I think he
could not have been too sure of his way, for he went to the trouble of
climbing a tree to see if he could catch a glimpse of a light in the
Gulch. If Brent had grown tired of waiting and managed to get out of
that earthy dungeon, the light would prove as much.
Anyway, Tom climbed a tree and was not able to distinguish the faintest
spark anywhere. He moved out on a limb so that his view might not be
embarrassed by the heavy foliage, but not a glimmer could he see in all
that wild, desolate country. Then, suddenly, he heard a menacing sound
beyond him on the limb and was aware of two savage eyes fixed upon him,
alert to his every move. Advancing farther out on the limb was out of
the question. Even retreating to the trunk seemed likely to give action
to the wrath which was blazing in those two shining eyes. A move in
either direction seemed fraught with peril.