THE BEWITCHED COMPASS.
Nevertheless, “game” as he was, Michael Flynn was destined not to take
part in any more “iligant adventures” with the noted scout; at least,
for several weeks. Buffalo Bill’s next commission took him far afield,
and, when he was returning from its successful conclusion, caused him to
lose his way while out on the Mexican desert near the border.
Holding his compass in his hand, Buffalo Bill looked at a round hill
before him, which was very high and almost a perfect cone.
“This is queer!” he said, and, keeping the compass level on the palm of
his hand, he walked slowly to the right for a dozen steps. He saw the
compass needle swing slowly, pointing straight at the hill.
That there might be no mistake, the scout retraced his steps, studying
the compass, and now he saw the needle swing steadily back. When he
walked farther around, the needle swung still more, always pointing at
the hill.
The sky was gray, so that the sun could not be seen. The ground under
the scout’s feet, and for a considerable distance around, was hard-baked
clay or stony, so that not a footstep showed in it. His feet had left no
tracks.
“So it’s that which has made the compass act so strangely!” he said,
looking at the hill. “This is unpleasant, and it might be serious. Here
I’ve been walking hours, trusting to the compass, and find that it has
been pointing to this hill. Now, where is north? The compass can’t tell
me, for that hill has bewitched it. The hill must be full of magnetic
iron.”
Stowing the compass in his pocket, he took out his knife and set it
upright, with the point of the blade on his thumb nail.
There are few days so gray and cloudy that a knife so placed will not
throw a shadow on the thumb nail; and opposite that shadow, of course,
is the direction of the sun. When the time of day is known, together
with the direction of the sun, north can be approximately ascertained.
But the air was filled with a smoky haze, and this, in addition to the
cloudiness and grayness, made the sky so dark that the knife blade
refused to cast its shadow.
“This is a go!” said the scout. “If I were in a northern forest I might
find north by a study of the moss on the tree trunks, which is heaviest
and reaches to a sharper point on the north side. But I’m in Old Mexico;
there are no trees near me, and I suppose in this dry land moss hasn’t
much chance to grow on tree trunks, or anywhere else.”
Cody took out the compass again and placed it on the palm of his hand.
As a matter of curiosity, he walked toward the cone-shaped hill, and he
studied the compass as he went.
“Straight at the heart of that hill it points!” he said, watching the
needle. “And when I walk to one side or the other the needle shifts. I
suppose if I should walk round the hill the compass would make a
complete circle. I’ll try it.”
Accordingly, he set out along the base of the hill, holding the compass
level.
As he expected, the needle continued to point at the hill.
By and by the scout walked up to the hill and inspected it. He saw that
it was almost a solid mass of ore, and the compass showed him that it
was magnetic iron.
As the scout continued on his way around the treeless hill, he heard
voices. Instantly he sank down behind a screen of cactus, sliding the
compass into his pocket and drawing a revolver.
“Some one here ahead of me, eh? White men, I think. And possibly
outlaws.”
Soon he saw two men come in sight round the curve of the hill. The one
who walked in front was tall, thin, and severe looking. He wore a high
hat much out of place in that region, and black, dust-stained clothing.
The man who followed him was short and squat, with a ponderous stomach.
This man was dressed in dirty plaids, and his face had a worried look.
He carried a large hand bag.
“Brofessor,” the scout heard him say, “uff de gompass tvist its head off
in dot vay, vot ve going to do? Ve can’t neffer fint our feet tracks vat
ve made in coming here yit.”
The man in front stopped, and the stumpy man behind came near running
into him.
“Henselman,” said the tall man, “this is a most peculiar mountain. It
is, as you see, of iron—magnetic iron. Truly a wonderful phenomenon!”
“Unt de grazy gompass dinks it vos de Nort’ Pole, eh?”
“Just so, Henselman. The compass thinks this is the North Pole. We
shouldn’t blame the compass. We——”
“Nein? Vot shall I plame? Me? I follow de gompass. It say: ‘Dis is de
nort’!’ It dell me de lie. Am I to plame?”
Henselman dropped the hand bag and energetically hammered his breast.
“Dose gompass is a shackass!” he said. “Uff ve foller heem some more,
efery dime we shall come right back to dis hill uff iron. T’ree dimes ve
haf tried it alretty yet. And now we iss back here again. What shall ve
do? Smash de gompass? Dot don’t fint us de vay nort’!”
“It would do no good to smash the compass. Let us rejoice, rather, that
we have been led to such a phenomenon as this singular hill of magnetic
iron. I observe from here that the top of the hill splits into two parts
that slightly resemble horns. I shall have to add that detail to the
notes I have taken.”
The tall man brought from an inner pocket of his black coat a
leather-bound book, which held a pencil, and after squinting through his
eyeglasses at the top of the hill, he began to write in the book with
the pencil. Meanwhile, the rotund German stood looking about, with
ill-concealed displeasure.
“Honest men, I take them to be,” thought the scout. “Like me, they have
been fooled by that magnetic hill, and have lost their way.”
When the scout rose into view behind the cactus the taller man stared at
him blankly, while the stubby German tumbled backward with a sort of
howl.
“Mein gracious!” he exclaimed. “Who iss dis?”
“I observe that the magnetic mountain has fooled you, the same as it did
me,” said the scout, smiling at the German and speaking to the tall man.
“And so we meet here, guided to this hill by the crazy antics of our
compasses.”
The tall, severe-looking man fitted his eyeglasses to his prominent
nose, and surveyed the scout.
“Do you belong here, my man?” he questioned. “Yes, we have lost our way.
This is a magnetic hill, and the compass deviates to it and refuses to
point to the magnetic pole. Hence, we were led out of our course, and
now must be far astray, as we think we have been going in a wrong
direction for a long time. If you can help us in our predicament we
shall be greatly obliged, I assure you. I am Professor Felix Bounderby,
and this is my servant. Fritz Henselman, a most estimable German, though
at times a bit excitable. We are here in the interests of scientific
knowledge.”
Buffalo Bill introduced himself, repressing the smiles he felt inclined
to indulge in.
“You are an American scout, over here in Mexico, eh?” said Bounderby.
“Or is this still Mexico? We’re not sure on that point. We’re not sure
of anything, having lost our way and wandered we do not know how many
miles.”
“I happen to be in the same boat,” said the scout, yet cheerily. “We
can, of course, sit down here and wait until we get some sunshine to
guide us, or we can make a guess at the direction we wish to go, and set
out, trusting to luck.”
Professor Bounderby turned to Fritz Henselman.
“Henselman,” he said, “just chip off a piece of that ore, will you, and
put it in the bag. I shall wish to use it in illustration of the lecture
I shall give on this mountain, when we return to the university.”
The German took a hammer from the hand bag and began to beat at one of
the small stones, trying to break it.
“I think I have heard that name—Buffalo Bill,” said Bounderby,
addressing the scout.
“Yaw! I heert heem,” said the rotund German, hammering the stone. “Id
vas in Yarmany, vhere I vas pefore I come to Unitet States.”
“This is a most remarkable hill,” remarked the professor. “I think it
affected our compass many miles away. We were on a dim trail across
there somewhere. We had been told to go north and to leave the trail at
a certain point. We thought we went north, but now I am not sure of the
direction which we followed. And you say that you were misled in like
manner? It is truly wonderful.”
“Vhat trouples me,” said Henselman, cracking off a piece of the ore and
throwing it into the hand bag, “is how are ve going to ged oudt uff dis?
Vhen ve haf noddings to show de vay nort’ hew can ve fint id?”
“As I said, we can camp down here until we get a sight of the sun,” said
the scout, “or we can set out and run the risk of not going in the right
direction. Does the light seem a bit brighter, professor, than a while
ago?”
“No, it seems even darker,” said Bounderby. “The atmosphere is very
peculiar. I shall not be surprised if I learn eventually that there have
been volcanic disturbances in this region, and that the darkness which
we observe is attributed to gases and smoke from some volcano.”
The scout produced his knife and set the blade on his thumb nail, in the
hope of getting a shadow, but failed again. He explained to Bounderby
and Henselman what he was doing.
To all appearances, they were just what they claimed to be, and he saw
that they were likely to get into all sorts of difficulties, in an
unfamiliar region. Bounderby was no doubt a highly educated man along
certain lines, but in the ability to meet such an emergency as this he
was helpless as a child. Henselman was no better.
“If we had left any tracks,” said Bounderby, “we might hope to trace
them back, and get out in that way. But the earth here is of volcanic
formation, you will observe. At one point we crossed a small sand plain,
and if we could find that, we could find the footprints we made in it.”
“Yaw! I made feet tracks in id more as a foot deep!” said Henselman.
“But the wind was blowing, you will recollect, Henselman, and those
tracks may be covered over. Besides, I doubt if we could find them, even
if they were not.”
The professor fitted his glasses to his nose and gazed at the hill, then
took them off and looked round in a helpless sort of manner.
Henselman held up his hand excitedly.
“Brofessor, I haf an itea!”
“Dear me, Henselman, you startled me! You have an idea? That is
remarkable. What is it, Henselman?”
“Gif me de gompass unt I vill illustration id to you.”
“It is in the hand bag, Henselman.”
The fat German extracted the compass from the hand bag, shook it as if
he would make sure it was in working order, and set it on the ground.
“You vill opserve, brofessor, unt likevise our frient here, dat dose
gompass iss now bointing to dis magnedic iron moundain!”
“Yes, that is true,” Bounderby assented.
“Vale! Ton’d you see?”
“I see the needle pointing to the mountain, if that is what you mean,
Henselman.”
“But de odder end uff de needle! Vere iss id bointing?”
“In the opposite direction, of course, Henselman.”
“Vale! Ven id vas bointing to de moundain ve follered id, unt id prought
us here to dis place. Unt now uff ve foller yoost back again de vay de
odder end uff de needle is bointing, we vill arrife at de blace vere ve
comed from. Dot iss yoost so easy I vhonder I neffer dinks me uff id
till dis minute.”
“But, see here, Henselman! On the other side of this hill the south pole
of the needle points in a direction the very opposite of what it does
here. Wherever the compass is placed, in going round this hill, the
needle points at the hill. Your plan might do, if we knew just where we
approached the hill, and could likewise be sure that in coming up to it
we had not deviated any from a direct line. But as we can’t do that,
your plan won’t work. We would be going away from the hill, it is true,
but in which direction we should be going we could not know. We might be
going south, when we wish to go north.”
The fat German dropped back to the ground with so heavy a thump that the
breath was knocked out of him.
“Dot iss true!” he admitted. “So long as ve don’t know, vichefer vay ve
go ve are sure to go wrong.”
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