MIDNIGHT MARAUDERS
After Connie’s frankness in telling Nick Apthorp where they were going
it was freely predicted that their old enemies would surely give the
Scouts new trouble.
Bluff Creek got its name from a high bank of clay at a bend in the
stream where small fossil forms were plentiful. The water cutting into
the bluff constantly presented new specimens――“crinoids” the boys’
teacher termed them. The second day of the outing a number of the
campers turned enthusiastic geologists. In their eagerness to secure
specimens the boys worked long and hard. When they turned in at an
early hour the Goosetowners were practically forgotten.
Art and Colly Craighead were on the first watch from nine until twelve
o’clock. They had taken station above and below the three tents,
meeting occasionally behind the camp in a grove of cottonwoods for
company. While they were on one of these absences from the creek bank
three naked forms dropped silently into the water from the opposite
bank, and concealed by the water, made their way quickly to the
shadow of an overhanging walnut tree in front of the camp. They then
disappeared within the gloom of the walnut’s spreading, cave-like roots.
As Art and Colly separated, the former passed between the tents, within
which his companions were loudly snoring. Then he stood for a few
minutes on the overhanging bank and glanced up and down the glimmering
creek, for the moon was nearly half full. With his love for the
romantic Art glanced at his watch, walked around the tents once more
and then, shouldering his staff, exclaimed in a low voice:
“Eleven o’clock an’ all is well.”
While he turned and walked down the stream, three naked forms crouching
just below him in the walnut tree roots, nudged each other. Almost
immediately, one water-glistening head of carroty hair rose cautiously
above the bank. Then two other water-dripping heads followed.
In front of the center tent a tall sapling had been set in the ground
with a little pulley at the top from which for two days the Wolf Patrol
pennant had snapped gayly in the breeze. These colors had been lowered
at sundown and were now tied about four feet from the base of the
flagpole. Against the same flagpole eleven of the precious scout staffs
were stacked in pyramid form.
Three pairs of eager but cautious eyes fixed themselves on the camp and
then three sinuous forms drew themselves, snakelike, over the grassy
bank. The carroty-haired form crawled forward and, the two figures
behind him watching in the directions of the receding sentinels,
the forward invader reached the flagstaff. One after another the
pennant-tipped Wolf staffs were silently caught and passed to the rear.
Without a sound all were hastily transferred to the bank of the creek.
Then Carroty-head drew himself up to the flagstaff and attempted to
loosen the gorgeous Wolf pennant. The cords seemed to hold fast.
Apparently the thief was trying to tear the colors from the lines.
Those behind him, emboldened by the silence, crawled to his side and
also got on their feet. There were quick and low whispers and then the
three grasped the coveted bunting.
At that instant two things happened. Colly Craighead, reaching the end
of his beat, where a willow thicket deepened the gloom, paused for a
few minutes’ rest. As he turned, he caught sight of the shadowy forms
before the camp. He saw them only dimly in the dark, for the half moon
scarcely pierced the night shadows beneath the trees. But what he
saw resembled moving bronzes. While he hesitated, a chance moonbeam
shot through the black trees, giving the indistinct group the silvery
outlines of human figures.
In the moment Colly hesitated, another thing occurred. Struggling and
straining with the pennant (for the invaders had no knife) they gave
the cord a yank and the dry pulley wheel squeaked like a whistle. Like
the snapping of a camera shutter the flaps of the middle tent flew
apart and Alex Conyers sprang through the opening. As he yelled “What’s
that?” a Wolf cry rang out from Colly’s station and almost instantly
came a signal from Art’s end of the beat.
As the Wolf pickets came crashing through the grass and dead timber,
Connie hurled himself on the nearest figure, and two naked bodies
dived headlong into the creek. There was a moment’s silent struggle in
the dark and then came the uproar of the arriving sentinels and the
commotion of the outpouring, half awakened scouts. It did not need a
light to reveal Carrots Compton as the leader of the midnight invaders.
With the torn emblem in Carrots’ clutch he and Connie rolled over and
over in each other’s embrace.
Art and Colly threw themselves into the fray. The struggling boys, no
one speaking, had edged toward the stream. As the two pickets sprang to
assist Connie the overhanging bank of the stream suddenly gave way and
the four boys tumbled into the creek. The camp had been located at this
point because of the deep “hole” and Carrots and his would-be captors
sank “over their heads” at once.
As for Art and Colly, they were fully clothed and it was necessary for
them to look out for themselves. The gap in the bank was already lined
with scouts in pajamas. There was a play of moonlight on the water but
the shadows of the overhanging trees made it hard to tell friend from
foe. The shouting boys on the bank, who were waving staffs and trying
to secure lights, could make out only a thrashing about in the water,
exploding breaths as the floundering boys cleared their mouths, and
foam of rapid strokes as each tried to reach the bank.
Art and Colly were soon in safety, but as they were being drawn up the
bank, Art loosed his grasp on a staff and plunged into the stream again.
“There they go,” he shouted as he realized that the naked Carrots and
Connie in his pajamas were lunging across the narrow creek. Colly
followed Art but they were too late. As Connie, slowed up by his
clinging night garments, reached the shallow water, Carrots, the stolen
pennant in his grasp, had been joined by his two companions and all
were off on a dead run over the gravel and sand.
“They got to get their clothes,” yelled Connie. “Come on! We’ll see who
the other kids are.”
But the feet of the Boy Scouts were not as indifferent to the jagged
stones as were those of the Goosetowners. The open shore of the other
bank of the stream ran west a few hundred feet, skirting the clay
bluff, and then broadened out into a “bottom.”
“They went this way,” yelled Connie. “They got their clothes back there
in the willows.”
It was not an inviting looking place. As the bluff dropped down to
the low ground, sand covered with driftwood and overgrown by willows,
it gave way to a dark pathless “bottom”――the driftwood standing like
skeletons in the half luminous night. To add to the embarrassment of
the pursuers a wire fence, tangled into a rope of sharp spikes, lay
among the water weeds and drifted sand.
“Look out for that old wire fence,” called Art in reply, his soaked
shoes squirting water and his clinging pants rasping like a file
as he stumbled after Connie. His advice came too late. The excited
patrol leader had seen the shadows of the flying marauders pass into
the willow waste and he plunged ahead in the same direction. Then his
wet and dragging trousers caught in a half buried fence-wire barb and
Connie shoved his head into the wet sand.
When he was again on his feet, Art and Colly had joined him, and more
yelling scouts were swimming the creek. The breathless Connie was not
injured. With another shout that the fugitives would have to stop
somewhere to dress, he sprang ahead again into the black jungle of
river willows. In the midnight shadows the three boys were instantly
lost. They were not only lost as an expedition but, a little later,
they were lost from each other. Colly, forcing himself through the
tangle in one direction, soon found himself, scratched and bleeding,
again on the shore of the creek, completely turned around. The
reënforcements attempted to proceed no farther than the edge of the
willow swamp. Far in its depths Art could be heard calling, and guiding
calls were sounded in return. He had stumbled upon a little opening
where a shallow bayou was margined with swamp grass and deep-voiced
frogs. In the glint of the moon he had seen a moving eddy in the pool
and the thought of a snake sent him lunging once more into the thicket.
Connie had disappeared without further sound or signal. Five minutes
later, from a point east of the swamp, came a low, familiar call――the
cry of the Wolf. Before the excited scouts behind him could organize
an advance in that direction, the call was heard again, this time
down near the big bluff. Like sore-hoofed and drenched sheep the
water-soaked, and now shivering scouts made their way as rapidly as
they could in that direction. They were in time to see their leader
sliding down the clay bluff to the creek bank. His face was smeared
with swamp soil, the trousers of his pajamas he carried in his arms and
his legs were scratched and bloody.
“Well,” he shouted as he got his breath, “they’ve done the business!
They got the flag and they got our horse an’ wagon! They was six of
’em!”
“The horse and wagon?” roared a chorus.
The grocery wagon and the horse had been left in the corner of a
pasture on the road back of the bluff, by special arrangement with a
farmer who had also undertaken to feed and water the animal. The wagon
road did not cross the creek and this was the nearest point to the
camp where the horse could be cared for. When Connie had made his way
through the swamp he was in sight of the wagon camp and he could just
make out moving forms gathered about the wagon.
“They had it out in the road, all hitched up,” panted Connie.
“An’ the kids left their clothes in the wagon. I snook along the fence
till I got close enough to see some of ’em. They was only six. Carrots
Compton was one of ’em. He got the flag. An’ the two others ’at swum
the crick was Matt Branson and Buck Bluett. I think Nick Apthorp was
one o’ the others. One of ’em was already on the seat an’ I couldn’t
see him. But it was Hank Milleson all right, you bet you. There was
another one but I didn’t see him an’ he didn’t say nothin’.”
“They ain’t gone off with our horse and wagon?” repeated Art dubiously.
“They ain’t done nothin’ else,” went on Connie. “An’ I reckon that’s
’bout the limit. That comes purt nigh bein’ stealin’. Somebody’s goin’
to sweat for this,” he continued, trembling with nervousness and
absent-mindedly wiping the blood off his bleeding legs with his wet
pajamas.
“Why didn’t you stop ’em?” spoke up Colly Craighead.
“Oh, I never thought of that,” retorted Connie ironically. “I might
have. They was only six of ’em. An’ besides, they started on a gallop
’fore I got plum to ’em. But I’ll get ’em to-morrow, don’t you forget
that,” he concluded significantly. “We’ve stood for enough from them
guys. We’ll have ’em took up an’ see how a good dose o’ calaboose goes
with ’em.”
With unanimous and enthusiastic approval the bedraggled, shivering boys
turned campward again, outwitted and humiliated. A cool breeze had
sprung up and the moon was waning. Led by Connie they crossed the creek
again in disgust. In default of dry night-clothes the camp fire was
fanned into new life and in a few minutes thirteen naked boys danced
around the crackling blaze to dry and warm themselves.
As their spirits revived, some one discovered that he must have food.
Others became suddenly as hungry. It was after twelve o’clock but
despite the cooler atmosphere the cheery camp fire seemed to turn
the crowd into Indians. With yells and posturing the scouts marched
and danced about the crackling flames. Connie joined in and when the
old sycamore grove began to resound with war whoops of defiance and
vengeance the leader lost his sense of discipline and ordered out the
big pot of beans baking overnight in a hole beneath the camp fire.
“Who cares?” he shouted. “It’s our last night in camp. To-night we’ll
merry, merry be an’ to-morrow we’ll go hungry.”
Just before two o’clock in the morning, satisfied that there was
no more to be feared from the enemy, after the camp fire had been
smothered, thirteen happy boys wrapped themselves in their blankets and
only an empty bean pot told of the midnight revel.
A telephone message from the nearest farm house at seven o’clock the
next morning to Mr. Trevor resulted in the arrival of old man Bristow’s
dray at the camp about noon. Everything eatable on hand was prepared
for dinner, and camp was struck about two o’clock and a last swim
taken. In the midst of this, out of curiosity Art and Colly crossed the
creek and made a daylight tour of the willow swamp.
There seemed nothing alarming about the place in the sunlight and its
wildest portions were penetrated with ease. A sudden yell from Colly
startled the boys in the creek. And when he came rushing out of the
willow wilderness with the lost patrol flag in his waving hand, another
naked war dance was held on a sand bar in the creek.
“Carrots lost it,” yelled Colly. “He dropped it. I reckon we was purty
close to him.”
Connie sprang forward and grabbed the pennant. The corners were torn
but otherwise the emblem was intact.
“An’ just for that,” exclaimed the young leader, “we’ll carry our
flagpole back to town; pole, flag, pulley and cord.”
The adventure of the stolen horse and wagon had apparently aroused new
feelings of enmity in every one of the Wolves. The old dray driver
went on ahead to town and when the Wolves reached Scottsville at five
o’clock, without a protest from Connie, with the lost and recovered
pennant flying from the tall sapling, the patrol marched defiantly
through the heart of Goosetown. Somewhat to the boys’ surprise, not
one of the enemy was in sight. Leader Conyers, with lips set, even
countermarched once through this section of the town. Not a boy
appeared. As the cavalcade crossed the railroad the last time, some one
caught sight of Tony Cooper. Tony had not been with the night raiders
but he had a worried look. Connie called to him:
“Where’s the gang? Tell ’em they’ll have to come again to get our flag.”
Tony seemed to know what Connie meant. But he made no reply and seemed
about to escape when Art added:
“You can tell ’em they’d better bring our wagon back. We know ’em all,
an’ don’t you forget it!”
“Your wagon’s back,” answered Tony meekly. “They was a-goin’ to take it
back anyway.”
“Who got it?” demanded Art.
“The marshal. An’ he made ’em take it over to Addington’s. But they was
goin’ to take it anyway.”
“Where’s the gang?” persisted Art.
“Why,” Tony mumbled, “Old Walter locked ’em up.”
“In the calaboose?” asked Connie.
Tony nodded his head.
“All of ’em?” went on Connie excitedly.
“All ’at was there,” answered Tony. “I wasn’t with ’em.”
“What’d he lock ’em up for?” added Art anxiously.
“Why, for horse stealin’,” whimpered Tony. “An’ they’re tryin’ to get
some money to hire a lawyer.”
While the scouts stood aghast――open-mouthed and silent――Tony added:
“The marshal says they’re all goin’ to the penitentiary.”