THE HEAD HUNTER
When the searchlight from the water had been switched off, Florence saw
the dark gray power boat approaching the camping ground.
“Greta,” she groaned, “we should have gone up the ridge at once! There’s
no peace or privacy anywhere!”
As the boat came nearer they read in large letters across the prow one
word, “CONSERVATION.”
This brought momentary relief to the startled girls. Conservation men are
government men and these, Florence believed, could be trusted.
Pulling in close to shore, the boat dropped anchor. A sturdy, sun-tanned
man leaped into the small boat they had in tow, and rowed rapidly toward
land.
“Who’s the man who went into the bush just now?” he demanded the instant
his feet touched land.
“M—man?” Florence stammered. “There is no man.”
“So I see,” the newcomer grumbled. “There was one, though. Don’t try to
deceive me! I saw him! He’s short, stoutly built, rather dark, with a
week’s beard. Now then! Does that convince you?”
“Yes.” Florence found her knees trembling. “Perhaps,” she thought, “these
Conservation men have saved us from trouble without knowing it.”
“Yes,” she repeated, “I believe you are telling the truth. You did see a
man. But—but he doesn’t belong to us. Truly he does not! Wait! I’ll tell
you about him.”
“Tell me about yourself first. What are you doing here?” The man did not
smile.
“Why—we—we—we—” Florence was greatly disturbed. “We came over here from
the wreck. We—”
“Oh!” her inquisitor broke in as a smile overspread his face. “You’re the
girls living out there on the wreck. That—er—I owe you an apology. We’ve
heard of you. You’re O. K. You see, we’re the Conservation men on the
island, Dick and I. Got to see that no game is killed, no trees cut, no
fires started, all that.
“But tell me now—” His voice took on an eager note. “Tell me about that
man.”
Florence told him all she knew. He was, she felt quite certain, the man
who had intended murdering Old Uncle Ned, the veteran moose, and the man
who had fought with her that battle of oars. She trembled now as she
thought what might have happened had not these Conservation men happened
along.
“God seems to be keeping an eye on us,” she was to say to Jeanne some
time later. And Jeanne was to reply reverently, “He notes the sparrow’s
fall.”
“Excuse me,” the Conservation man said when the story was done. “My name
is Mell. As man to man, I’d like to shake your hand. The way you saved
the old moose was keen. You’re the right sort. I—I’ll get you a job on
our force.” He shook her hand warmly.
“But this fellow—” his brow wrinkled. “We’ll have to look after him. He’s
a head hunter, beyond a doubt. Fellow can get good money for a fine pair
of moose antlers. These rascals come over here and kill our best friends
of the wildwood, just for a few sordid dollars. Watch us go after him!”
Leaping into his boat, he was away.
“He’s—he’s all right.” Florence was enthusiastic. “Question is, shall we
camp here or try a return trip to the ship?” For a moment all thoughts of
the treasure hunt were forgotten.
“Moon will be out by ten o’clock,” she said after a moment’s thought. “Be
safer on the water then. We’ll make a fire and have something to eat.”
Their evening lunch over, the girls curled up side by side with the wall
of their small tent at their back and the glowing fire before them. All
about them was blackness. Not a gleam came from the surface of dark
waters. Not a break appeared in the wall of bottle-green that was the
forest at their back. For all this, they were not afraid. Swen’s rifle
lay across Florence’s knees. Their ears were keen. No intruder could slip
upon them unannounced.
“Gold!” Greta whispered. “We found a tiny bit. I wonder if there can be
much more.”
“Who knows?” Florence murmured dreamily.
Presently the big girl’s head fell forward. She slept, as the wild people
before her had slept, sitting before the fire.
Greta did not wake her. “I will hear in time if there is any danger,” she
told herself. She liked the feel of it all, the warmth of the fire on her
face, the little breezes playing in her hair, her sleeping comrade, the
night, the mysterious forest—all this seemed part of a new world to her.
She smiled as she thought of her own soft bed at home with its bright
covers and downy pillow. “Who would wish to live like that always?” she
asked herself. “Who—”
Her thoughts snapped off like a radio singer who had been cut off. Wind
was beginning to come down the bay and, wafted along by it was a sound,
faint, indistinct but unmistakable.
“The phantom violin!” she whispered.
This time the sound came from so great a distance that it was but a
teasing phantom of sound.
She wanted to slip away into the forest and follow the sound. But she
dared not.
* * * * * * * *
Petite Jeanne was with her wild, free friends of other days. In the pale
light of Japanese lanterns she danced with the bear the old fantastic
dances of those other days. When it was over and she passed the
tambourine for Bihari, a great weight of silver coins thumped into it.
For a moment she was deliriously happy. When it was all over and she had
rowed alone in a small boat out to the center of the narrow bay, her
feelings changed. For one short moment she wished herself back on the
wreck with Florence and Greta.
“But I must not!” She pulled herself up short. “Bihari and his people
have done much for me. I must not fail them now.
“Ah! But this is beautiful!” she breathed a moment later. “And I shall
see it all—all this marvelous island!”
The scene before her was like some picture taken from a fairy book. A
dark circle of forest with only a pale light gleaming here and there like
a star, and at the center of all this the lights of a long, low room
casting mellow reflections upon the water.
Figures moved about like gay phantoms in this light. To her ears came the
low melody of guitar and violin.
“It is so beautiful!” She felt her throat tighten with the joy of it all.
“And yet—”
She was thinking of the black schooner that had slipped away into the
great unknown lying away beyond the shrouds of night.
“The diver was on that schooner,” she assured herself. “What if they
return to our home, our poor wrecked ship! They may set fire to it! They
may blow it up with dynamite!” She shuddered. “They came there to look
for something. I wonder what it could be? Florence is a famous diver.
When we are back at the wreck—if we ever are,” she murmured dreamily,
“she shall dive into that place and see. She—”
But someone was calling her name. She must return to the shore. Her brief
hour of revery was at an end.
* * * * * * * *
On the camping grounds at Duncan’s Bay for two hours Florence slept. When
she woke the moon was out. The wind too had risen.
“Waves will be too high,” was her instant decision. “We must stay here
for the night.”
“And tomorrow,” Greta whispered eagerly, “tomorrow at dawn we will go up
the ridge.”
“Why so soon?”
Greta told of hearing that faint thread of music.
“We shall see,” said Florence, and began preparation for the night.
Their tent was small, only seven feet square. It had a floor of canvas.
Once inside with the flap buttoned tight, they were as securely housed as
the caterpillar in his chrysalis.
Greta was not slow in creeping down among the blankets. She went to sleep
at once.
As for Florence, she drew on her heavy sweater, thrust her feet under the
blankets, propped the rifle against the tent wall and, folding her arms
across her knees, sat at half watch the night through.
The sun had not cleared the tree tops when the Conservation boat
appeared. It had a small black power boat in tow.
“We waited for him all night, that head hunter,” Mell explained. “Didn’t
show up. Hoofed it back into the hills, I guess. The boat was stolen.
We’re taking it back.
“No good, his hiding in the forest,” he concluded. “We’ll get him, you’ll
see. Tell every ship captain to watch for him.”
“I hope,” said Florence when they were gone, “that they get him very
soon.”
A half hour later, with packs on their backs, the two girls headed up the
rocky slope.
“Treasure hunt can wait,” was Florence’s comment. “We can go after that
when Jeanne is back. Now we’re going to explore Greenstone Ridge.”
This course, she had thought during the night, might seem a bit dangerous
with the head hunter still at large. “But the ridge is a trackless
wilderness,” she had reassured herself. “He will never come upon our
trail.” Which, as you will see by what follows, was a fair conclusion.
The events that followed the climbing of Greenstone Ridge on that bright
and beautiful day were strange beyond belief.