TRACKS AT THE CABIN.
At the corner of Washington Avenue and Twenty-fifth street Renfro
waited for a car. He shuffled his feet to keep them warm and rolled and
unrolled his paper bag while he watched the next corner for the first
glimpse of a headlight. The street light quivered and went out, came on
again and once more began to grow dim.
When out of Plum Street sprang a boy in uniform who rushed into
the middle of the street, caught at the long wire hanging from the
flickering light, gave it several jerks and was rewarded by the strong
white light which replaced the flickering one.
In its light Renfro recognized Jimmie Noel, dressed for a hike, his
provision bag swung over his shoulder, a stout stick in one hand and a
bulky bundle in the other. He gave a shrill whistle. The one which came
in return told that he was recognized.
The two boys met near the middle of the block. But before they
exchanged spoken greetings Renfro saw the squad of khaki clad boys who
were following Jimmie more than a half square away. They halted under
the street light to view the accomplishment of Jimmie. Two of them in
turn shook the same wire he had. The street light grew even brighter.
“Bill Larrison’s patrol,--the Black Bears,” Jimmie nodded at the boys
behind him. “They’re going out to Twin Cedar Cabin for the night. Some
of them are getting ready for their second class tests. Pete Northrup’s
going to cook.”
Renfro’s laugh was eloquent. Pete was the most awkward boy he knew.
Visions of Pete in a kitchen were too much for him.
“Gee, I’d like to see him,” he began.
“Come along then,” Jimmie invited. “I’m a sort of a visitor myself.
Going to give some of the tests for Bill. It’ll be exciting too, I tell
you. Queer things happening out at the camp recently, according to what
the scouts tell, who have gone out there on over night hikes. It’ll--”
But the presence of the eight other scouts, who had caught up with
them, put an end to Jimmie’s flow of confidence. Instead he turned to
the boy who seemed to be leader of the expedition. “Bill,” he began,
“this is Hooch Horn--a pal of mine. I’d like for him to go along.”
“Sure!” Bill was inclined to want all the company he could get. He had
heard much more about the queer happenings out at the camp than had
Jimmie. Another recruit to his crowd would strengthen its fighting
powers should they be called into use.
Renfro hesitated. Under ordinary circumstances he could have explained
the situation to his father so that he would have been willing for him
to go. But his mother’s mood, due to his carrying the Washington Globe
route, made him uneasy about his ability to do so now. However, Jimmie,
the quick witted, came to the rescue.
“Let Ted Bright explain things to your father,” he began. “He often
does that for me when I want to get out. He’s just like his dad--can
talk folks into doing anything he wants them to do.”
Renfro grinned. “All right,” he agreed, remembering his father’s
opinion of the elder Bright and how anxious he now was to stand in
that man’s good graces. “Dad’s still home I’m sure. He can call him up
from the corner grocery.”
While Ted was gone the boys told Renfro about the overnight hike they
had made the week before. The one before them tonight was a short
one,--out East Washington to the second road leading down to the river
road. Just beyond the land owned by Captain Pete Hall was that which
the city scouts had bought for a permanent camp site.
“You know the old cabin out there,” Ward Lane was the speaker now, “the
one with the two big cedar trees in front of it--just above the spring
where the Indian chiefs fought,” he talked rapidly, “we fellows went
out a few weeks ago and repaired it so we could use it for overnight
hikes. Now two patrols have used it but neither one of them will go out
again. They saw--”
“Oh, Hooch,” Ted’s voice several yards away, was happy, “It’s all
right. I had to talk like sixty tho. And I didn’t tell them we are
going to stay all night in the cabin.” He had reached the group now
and was laughing, “I think your mother believes we’re going to stay all
night in some sort of a hotel or other.”
“No doubt,” Jimmie laughed too. “With your explanations, Ted, and your
blarney, she might think anything.”
The patrol fell into regular order and took up its march. Jimmie and
Renfro followed the others. Back over the last part of Renfro’s paper
route they journeyed. Near Judge Wier’s house Jimmie remembered the
kidnaping and wanted to talk about it. Renfro listened, answering
the questions Jimmie asked but taking great care not to show unusual
interest sufficient to arouse Jimmie’s suspicions.
However, the lack of evident interest on the subject on Renfro’s part
disgusted Jimmie. And soon he began to talk about other subjects. The
deserted house on the Hall place, tall and dark and ghostly, reminded
him of Captain Pete’s skill as a hunter. Jimmie had gone with the old
hunter, whose boast was that he never shot his rabbits thru the body
“ef they had the least part of a head.”
The patrol slowed its pace and fell back to Jimmie and Renfro. They
were soon singing some lusty marching songs which put an end to the
conversation between the two boys. And Renfro was glad that it did. He
wanted to watch the landmarks along the road they were taking.
Just beyond the cabin they turned into a road leading to the river.
Six years before it had been kept in good repair for the people who
journeyed down to the fishing camp which was its terminus. But the camp
had been moved, the road was little used and had been allowed to fall
into a bad state.
Renfro stumbled over huge boulders in one place; in another he
went shoe top deep into a rut of snow. The scouts were having like
difficulties. Bill Larrison dropped his provisions and had quite a
scramble in getting them back into his bag again.
At the foot of the bluffs they climbed a fence, made of rails and wire,
crossed a field, hurried down a lane at the end of which loomed two
tall cedar trees. The dark blur back of them Renfro knew was the cabin.
Visions of a roaring fire in the big fire place the scouts had told
about building, began to cheer him when the patrol stopped.
“They’re going to pay their respects to Chief Wampum and Big Eagle,”
Jimmie gave the information.
He pushed Renfro close to a structure built after the fashion of a pig
pen. “The fellow built it around the graves so that the cattle and
horses couldn’t harm them,” Jimmie continued. “They’re real Indian
chiefs. Tell you about them tonight. The scouts who come out here
always have to pay their respects to them.”
A long wailing sound came from one of the boys, followed by Bill’s
heavy, gutteral, “Oh, chief, have you anything to say to your braves
tonight?”
Absolute silence answered his question. A few minutes’ wait and
Bill ordered his patrol to march on to the cabin. The march was
uninterrupted except for a large dog which moved near the boys. One of
them started to drive it away but Renfro intercepted him. “It’s a dog I
know,” he said, and called softy, “Lang Tammie.”
One minute the dog stopped, hesitated, sniffed, turned and ran back
up the hill. Renfro watched him out of sight. Then he went on to the
cabin, into which most of the boys had already gone.
Two coal oil wall lamps had been lighted when Renfro entered the room.
From their light he saw that the partitions had been removed and the
cabin thrown into one big room, a mammoth fire place was in the center
of the north wall. Bunks had been built along the south one.
Several times during the last two years when Renfro had gone on hikes
he had stopped at Twin Cedar Cabin to get a drink from the spring, its
water was noted as being the coldest and clearest in the vicinity.
Too, Renfro had been interested in the landmarks around the site. He
had heard, years before, the history of the spot and had seen the old
woman about whom they told the weird story which had made the site
famous. When she had been but fifteen years old two Indian chiefs had
seen her, both had wanted her for his squaw and they had fought a duel
at the spring, where both had been wounded.
Their braves had carried them away. Years afterward they had returned
and paid respects to the white girl for whom they had fought. She was
an old woman then, but had enjoyed the visit and recounted it ever
afterwards with much pleasure.
“And when they were dead,” Jimmie, as if reading Renfro’s thought,
suddenly said, “their braves brought them back and buried them near the
spring. Those were the graves you passed tonight.”
Renfro was inclined to be incredulous. “Queer I never heard about those
graves before,” he said.
“Yes, it is queer,” Jimmie grinned.
Bill was grumbling over near the fireplace. “Somebody’s been at the
provisions again,” he said. “The soap’s all gone. Why,” he shook an
empty bucket, “so’s the lard--” farther investigation--“and the eggs
you brought out yesterday, Hank, and--” he looked at some prints on the
floor--“whoever it was had a dog.”
Big prints on the floor made him decide it was a large dog. Except for
grumbling over the loss of the provisions, the other scouts paid little
attention to the prints, but to Renfro they held intense interest.
While they built a roaring fire in the fireplace he took his flashlight
to add to the light furnished by the coal oil lamps and examined the
prints closely.
Yes, they had evidently been made by an airedale dog. But close to them
were the muddy prints of a large shoe, the sort worn by a man who was
accustomed to hunting. Smaller tracks were confusing. They might have
been made by a small scout, but still they were narrow enough to have
been made by a girl’s sport oxford.
Renfro put some newspapers over one and on top of them put his paper
bag and mackinaw. The other boys had piled their mackinaws and
provision kits on the floor. In his heart was one hope--namely that
they would not remove his things. He had laid them down so carefully
that he was sure the footprints would remain intact and he could study
them more closely in the morning.
Yes, it was possible. Helen Wier’s kidnapers might have brought her to
this cabin the night they took her. They might have kept her there
until morning and then gone on down the river. They might--
“Out with the lights.” Bill Larrison’s voice became a low growl. “Out
with your lights, fellows and in a body move to the window.”