FIRST AT SNOW CAMP
Fred Hatfield's fears might have been well-founded had the mules not
been so winded. They had run at least four miles from the railroad
and even with the fear of the snarling panther behind them they could
not continue much farther at this pace.
But over this rougher and narrower road the timber cart jounced more
than ever. In all its life the panther had probably never received
such a shaking-up. The mules had not gone far on what Fred called the
Rattlesnake Hill Road when, with an ear-splitting cry, the huge cat
leaped out from the flying wagon and landed in the bush.
"We're saved!" gasped Ruth. "That dreadful beast is gone."
Fred immediately tried to soothe the mules into a more leisurely
pace; but nothing but fatigue would bring them down. Thoroughly
frightened, they kept starting and running without cause, and there
was no chance in this narrow road to turn them.
The fact that it ascended the side of the hill steeply did more
toward abating the pace of the runaways than aught else. The track
crept along the edge of several abrupt precipices, too--not more than
thirty or forty feet high, but enough to wreck the wagon and kill
mules and passengers had they gone over the brink.
These dangerous places in the winding road were what had so
frightened young Hatfield at first. He knew this locality well. But
to Ruth the place was doubly terrifying, for she was lost--completely
lost.
"Oh, where are we going? What will become of us?" she murmured,
still obliged to cling with both hands to the jumping, rocking reach.
The mules could gallop no longer. Fred yelled at them "Yea-a! Yea-a!"
at the top of his voice. They began to pay some attention--or
else were so winded that they would have halted of their own
volition. And as the cart ceased its thumping and rumbling a light
suddenly blazed up before them, shining through the dusk, and higher
up the hill.
"What is that? A house?" cried Ruth, seizing Fred by the shoulder.
Not more than half an hour ago the girl from the Red Mill had
slipped out of the private car at the Emoryville Crossing, in pursuit
of the runaway youth; now they were deep in the wilderness and
surrounded by such dangers as Ruth had never dreamed of before.
The baying of a hound and the angry barking of another dog was
Ruth's only answer. She turned to see Fred Hatfield sliding down off
the cart.
"You sha'n't leave me!" cried Ruth, jumping down after him and
seizing the runaway desperately. "You sha'n't abandon me in this
forest, away from everybody. You're a cruel, bad boy, Fred Hatfield;
but you've just _got_ to be decent to me."
"What did you interfere for, anyway?" he demanded, snarling like a
cross dog. "Lemme go!"
But if Ruth was afraid of what terrors the forest might hold, and of
her general situation, she had seen enough of this boy to know that
he was just a poor, miserable coward--he aroused no fear in her heart.
"I'm going to just stick to you, Freddie," she assured him. She was
quite as strong as he, she knew. "You are going home. At least, you
shall go back to Mr. Cameron--"
Just then the flare of light ahead broadened and a gruff voice
shouted:
"Hullo! what's wanted? Down, Tiger! Behave, Rose!"
The dogs instantly stopped their clamor. The light came through the
open door and the glazed window of a little hut perched on a rock
overlooking the road. The mules had halted just below this eminence,
and Ruth saw that there was a winding path leading up to the door of
the hovel. Down this path came the huge figure of a man, with the two
dogs gamboling about him in the snow. The occupant of this cabin in
the wilderness carried a rifle in one hand.
"Hullo!" he said again. "That's Sim Rogers's team--I know those
mules. Are you there, Sim? What's happened ye?"
"Who is it?" whispered Ruth, again, still clinging to Fred's jacket.
"It's--it's the Rattlesnake Man," returned the boy, in a shaking
voice.
"Who is he?" asked Ruth, in surprise.
"He lives here alone on the hill. He's a hermit. They say he's
crazy. And I guess he is," added Fred, with a shudder.
"Why do you think he's crazy?"
But before Fred could reply--if he intended to--the hermit reached
the road. He was an old but very vigorous-looking man, burly and
stout, with a great mat of riotous gray hair under his fur cap, and a
beard of the same color that reached his breast. He seemed to have
very good eyes indeed, for he immediately muttered:
"Ha! Sim's mules--been running like the very kildee! All of a sweat,
I vow. Two young folks--ha! Scared. Runaway--ah! What's that?"
The dogs began to bay again. Far behind the boy and girl--down the
hill road--rose the eyrie scream of the disappointed panther.
"That cat-o'-mountain chase ye, boy?" the hermit asked, sharply.
But Fred had no answer. He stood, in Ruth's sharp clutch, and hung
his head without a word. The girl had to reply:
"I never was so scared. The beast jumped right on the cart and we
just shook him off down the hill yonder."
"A girl," said the hermit, talking to himself, but talking aloud, in
the same fashion as before. Without doubt, being so much alone in
these wilds he had contracted the habit of talking to himself--or to
his dogs--or to whatever creature chanced to be his company.
"A girl. Not Sim's gal. Sim ain't got nothing but louts of boys. Let
me see. What boy is this?"
"He is Fred Hatfield," said Ruth, simply. Fred jumped and tried to
pull away from her; but Ruth's hold was not to be so easily broken.
The hermit, however, seemed to have never heard the name before. He
only said, idly:
"Fred Hatfield, eh? You his sister?"
"No, sir. I am Ruth Fielding," she replied.
"Ruth Fielding? Don't know her. She's not belongin' around here. No.
Well, how'd you get here? And with Sim's mules?"
Ruth told him briefly, but without bringing Fred Hatfield's trouble
into the story. They had got aboard the timber cart at the crossing,
the mules had run away, the panther had taken a ride with them and--
here they were!
The hermit merely nodded in acknowledgment of the tale. His
questions dealt with her alone:
"Where do you belong?"
"The party I was with are bound for Snow Camp. Do you know where
that is, sir?" Ruth asked.
"Not ten miles away. Yes."
"They will be worried--"
"I will get you over there before bedtime. Go up to my house and
wait. This boy and I will stable the mules in my barn; it's just
along the road here. Sim will follow the beasts and find them; but
he'll be some time in getting along. He lives along this road himself
--not far, not far. Ah!"
The old man talked mostly as though he spoke to himself. He seldom
more than glanced at her, his eye roving everywhere but at the person
to whom he spoke. Ruth started toward the house from which the fire
and lamplight shone so cordially. The dogs stood before her--Tiger,
the big hound, and Rose, a beautiful Gordon setter.
"Let her alone," said the hermit to his canine companions. "She's
all right."
The dogs seemed to agree with him immediately. The hound sniffed
once at the hem of Ruth's frock; Rose gambolled about her and licked
her hand. Ruth now realized how cold she was, and she ran quickly up
to the open door of the cabin.
On the threshold she hesitated a moment. A great lamp with a tin
shade, hanging from the rafters, illuminated all the center of the
room. At one end burned a hot log fire on the hearth; but the two
further corners were in gloom. Ruth had said she had never seen a log
cabin, and it was true. This one seemed to her to be a very cozy
place indeed, even if it was the habitation of a hermit.
As she entered, however, she found that there was a rather
suffocating, unpleasant odor in the place. It was light, yet
penetrating enough to be distinguished clearly. In one of the darker
corners was what appeared to be a big green chest, and it had a
glazed window frame for a cover. Something rustled there.
The dogs followed her in and she sat down in an old-fashioned, bent
hickory chair on the hearth--perhaps the hermit himself had just
risen from it, for there was a sheepskin lying before it for a mat
and a pair of huge carpet slippers on either side of the sheepskin.
The dogs came in and sat down by the slippers, just where Ruth could
rest a hand on either head, and so blinked at the flames while they
waited for the return of the hermit and the runaway boy.
So she sat when they came into the cabin, stamping the snow from
their shoes. The hermit led Fred by the arm. He had not overlooked
the care with which Ruth had retained him by her side.
"So you want to go over to Mr. Parrish's Snow Camp?" asked the old
man.
"It belongs to Mr. Cameron, now." said Ruth. "I know that there is a
telephone there, and I can get word to Mr. Cameron and Helen and Tom
at Scarboro that we are safe."
"I'm not going," said Fred "I'll stay here."
"You'll go along with Young Miss," said the hermit, firmly. "I'll
git ye a pannikin of tea and a bite. Then we'll start. We'll go
'cross the woods on snowshoes--'twill be easier."
"Oh, can I do it, do you suppose?" cried Ruth. "I never wore such
things in my life."
"You'll learn," said the hermit.
He bustled about, making the tea and warming a big pancake of
cornbread which he put into an iron dripping-pan down before the
glowing coals at one side. While they waited for the water to bubble
for the tea the old man went to the big chest, and began to talk and
fondle something. Ruth heard the rustling again and turned around to
look.
"Want to see my children, Young Miss?" asked the old man, whose eyes
seemed as sharp as needles.
Ruth arose in curiosity and approached. Within a yard of the old man
and his chest she stopped suddenly with a gasp. The hermit stood up
with two snakes twining about his hands and wrists. The serpents ran
their tongues out like lightning, and their beady eyes glowed as
though living fire dwelt in their heads. Ruth was frightened, but she
would not scream. The hermit handled the snakes as though they were
as harmless as kittens--as probably they were, the poison sacks
having been removed.
"They won't hurt you--harmless, harmless," said the old man,
caressingly. "There, there, my pretties! Go to bed again."
He lifted the glass cover of the chest and dropped them into its
interior. There was a great hissing and rustling. The hermit stepped
to the hanging lamp and turned the shade so as to send the radiance
of it into that corner. Through the pane Ruth saw a squirming mass of
scaly bodies, mixed up with an old quilt. More than one tail, with
rows of "buttons" and rattles on it, was elevated, and one angry
serpent "sprung his rattle" sharply.
"Hush, hush, my dears!" said the hermit, soothingly. "Go to sleep
again now. My children," he said, nodding at Ruth. "Pretty dears!"
To tell the truth, the girl from the Red Mill wanted to scream; but
she held herself down, clenching her hands, and saying nothing. The
kettle began to sing and she was glad to go back to the chair by the
fire and afterward to sip the tin cup of hot tea that their host gave
her, and eat with good appetite a square of the crisp cornbread.
Meanwhile, the hermit took from the walls three pairs of great,
awkward-looking snowshoes and tightened the lacings and fitted thongs
to them. The pair he selected for Ruth looked to the girl to be so
big that she never could take a step in them; but he seemed to expect
her to try.
They went out of the cabin as the moon was rising. It came up as red
and fiery as the sun had gone down. Long shadows of the tall trees
were flung across the snow. The hermit commanded Rose, the setter, to
guard the hut, while he allowed the hound to follow at heel. He
carried his rifle, and Ruth was glad of this.
"Haven't heard a cat-o'-mountain around here this winter," he said,
as they started up the hill. "Didn't hear nor see one at all last
winter. Neighbors will have to get up a hunt for this one that
troubled you, Young Miss, 'fore it does more damage."
At the top of the ascent they stopped and the old man put on Ruth's
snowshoes for her. Fred, always without a word and looking mighty
sullen (but evidently afraid of the rattlesnake man) tied his own in
place and the hermit slipped into his and they each gave Ruth a hand.
She stood up and found that her weight made little or no impression
upon the well-packed snow. There was no wind and, although the air
was very keen (the thermometer probably being almost to the zero
mark) it was easy for her to move over the drifts. With some little
instruction from the rattlesnake man, and after several tumbles--
which were of little moment because he and Fred held her up--Ruth was
able to put one foot before the other and shuffle over the snow at a
fairly good pace.
The moonlight made the unbroken track as plain as noonday. To Ruth
it seemed almost impossible that the hermit could find his way
through a forest which showed no mark of any former traveler; but he
went on as though it was a turnpike.
Two hours and a half were they on the way, and Ruth had begun to be
both tired and cold when they crossed a road on which there were
telegraph, or telephone poles and then--a little farther into the Big
Woods--they struck a well-defined private track over which sleds had
recently traveled.
"You say some of your party and the baggage were coming over to-night,"
said the hermit to Ruth. "They have been along. This is the road to
Snow Camp--and there is the light from the windows!"
Ruth saw several points of light directly ahead. They quickly
reached a good-sized clearing, in the middle of which stood a two-story
log cabin, with a balcony built all around it at the height of the
second floor. Sleigh bells jingled as the horses stamped in the
yard. The heavy sledges with the luggage and the serving people had
just arrived. Ruth Fielding was the first of the pleasure party to
arrive at Snow Camp.