A SCOUT IS THOROUGH
Scout though he was, Roy's hand trembled as he passed his flashlight to
Tom. He could not, for his life, point that flashlight himself at the
grewsome object which he had seen in the darkness.
Lying crossways underneath the trunk was the body of a man, his face
looking straight up into the sky with a fixed stare, and a soulless grin
upon his ashen face. Somewhere nearby, mud was dripping from an exposed
root, and the earth laden drops as they fell one by one into the ragged
cavity gave a sound which simulated a kind of unfeeling laughter. It
seemed as if that stark, staring thing might be chuckling through its
rigid, grinning mouth. Roy's weight and movement on the trunk
communicated a slight stir to the ghastly figure and its head moved ever
so little....
"No," said Tom, anticipating Winton's question; "he's dead. Get off the
log, Roy."
"Well, I wish that dripping would stop, anyway," said Winton.
Tom approached the figure, the others following and standing about in
silence as he examined it. They all avoided the log, the slightest
movement of which had an effect which made them shudder.
Raising one cold, muddy hand, Tom felt the wrist, laying it gently down
again. There was not even a faint, departing vestige of life in the
trapped, crushed body.
"Is it him?" Gilbert Tyson asked in a subdued tone.
"Guess so," said Tom, kneeling.
The others stood back in a kind of fearful respect, watching,
waiting.... Now and then a leaf or twig fell. And once, some broken tree
limb crackled as it adjusted itself in its fallen estate. And all the
while the mud kept dripping, dripping, dripping....
Lying on the dead man's open coat, as if they had fallen from his
pocket, were two cards and a letter. These Tom picked up and glanced
at, using Roy's flashlight. One of the cards was an automobile
registration card. The other was a driver's license card. They were both
of the State of New Jersey and issued to Aaron Harlowe. The letter had
been stamped but not mailed. It was addressed to Thomas Corbett, North
Hillsburgh, New York. This name tallied with the name of the child's
father in the newspaper.
Here was pretty good proof that the man who had met death here upon this
wild, lonely mountain was none other than the owner of the gray
roadster, the coward who had fled from the consequences of his
negligence, and turned it into a black crime!
"Are you going to open it?" Bert Winton asked.
"I guess no one has a right to do that but the coroner," Tom said. "We
have no right to move the body even."
"Well," said Bert Winton, his awe at the sight of death somewhat
subsiding at thought of the victim's cowardice, "there's an end of Aaron
Harlowe who ran over Willie Corbett with a gray roadster and----"
"And was going to send a letter to the kid's father," concluded Tom.
"And here's his footprint, too. I'd like to take his shoe off and fit it
into this footprint," Tom said.
"What for?" Roy asked.
"Just to make sure."
But Tom soon dismissed that thought and the others did not relish it.
Moreover, Tom knew that the law prohibited him from doing such a thing.
With the mystery, as it seemed, cleared up, there remained nothing to do
but explore the immediate vicinity for the sake of scout thoroughness.
Their search revealed other loose boards, a few cooking utensils and
finally the utter wreck of what must have been a very primitive and tiny
shack. This was perhaps a couple of hundred feet from the body and below
the highest point of the mountain. It was conceivable that a fire here
might have shown in a faint glare down at camp. The blaze could not have
been seen. Amid the ruin of the shack were a few rough cooking utensils.
The soaking land and the darkness effectually concealed the charred
remnants of any fire.
"Well, he'll never shoot any buffaloes and wild Indians," said Roy.
Tom replaced the cards and letter, or rather put them in the dead man's
pocket for fear the wind might blow them away, though being under the
lee of the trunk they had been somewhat protected. Then the party
retraced their path down the mountain and, circling its lower reaches,
found themselves at last upon the lake shore.
Thus ended the work of that fretful night, a night ever memorable at
Temple Camp, a night of death and devastation. The mighty wind which
smote the forest and drove the ruinous waters before it, died in the
moment of its triumph. The sodden, sullen heaven which had cast its
gloom and poured its unceasing rain, rain, rain, upon the camp for two
full weeks, cleared and the edges of the departing clouds were bathed in
the silver moonlight. And the next morning the bright, merry sun arose
and smiled down upon Temple Camp and particularly on Goliath who sat
swinging his legs from the springboard.