THE HAYSTACK VS. GORDON LORD
A little farther on they came to a road branching off from the one they
were traveling, and Harry found on examining his map that it made a loop
of a couple of miles and reëntered the straighter road.
“There must be houses along that road,” said Gordon.
“Why?”
“Else what would be the good of the road at all?”
“Well, then,” said Harry, “what’s the use of this one, if you come to
that? There are no houses on it so far.”
“Well, if they both lead to the same place, if the other one just forms
a loop, it must be to take in some houses, don’t you see?”
“Maybe,” answered Harry.
“And I believe it would be a good thing for me to go along there and see
what I can learn. We’ll meet at the other junction. The troop must have
gone along one or the other of these roads, unless they went in another
direction altogether. And if there are any houses along there, as there
_must_ be, why, somebody must have seen them pass.”
“You seem to be more anxious for tips than you were,” said Harry.
“No, only I think they may have started down that road and cut up into
the hills before it joins this one again. What’s the use in just
marching right past them?”
The idea struck Harry as a good one; so it was agreed that he should
keep to the straight road while Gordon covered the loop. They had not
traveled to this point, where they were now to part for an hour or so,
without keeping a keen watch for any signs of the troop which the
roadside might reveal. But an afternoon shower had obliterated any
tracks, if such there were, and the road had yielded no hint of those
who had gone before. But Harry, still hopeful despite the gathering
dusk, now took his way alone, making careful scrutiny of the right-hand
border of the road for any intentional signs that might have been left,
although he had no reason to anticipate finding any.
The two boys were to meet where the roads again came together, which was
at the foot of Dibble Mountain about two miles ahead, their plan being
to camp somewhere under the shadow of the mountain and to climb to the
summit in the morning for a bird’s-eye view of the surrounding country.
The light was fast fading as Gordon left his companion and started along
the loop road. It was instinctive with him to keep his eyes wide open,
and his training as a scout, under Harry’s special tutelage, had
developed this trait until it was said of him by his friends, and
especially by Red Deer, that his habit of finding things, of picking up
pennies, collar buttons, and so forth, was little less than uncanny. His
pockets were a veritable junk shop of miscellaneous trifles, the
trophies and mementos of his pedestrian tours.
Now, he had not gone a hundred yards along this road when something
caught his attention and he paused to examine it closely. It was nothing
more than an arrow, possibly three inches long, chalked upon a rock at
the roadside. As nearly as he could judge in the dusk, the color of the
chalk was pink, but the arrow pointed neither up nor down the road, but
across it toward the west. So he crossed the road, examining the
bordering trees and land, but could find nothing. He sat down on a rock
and thought. To the average boy a mark of this kind would have meant
nothing. To a scout it might mean many things. But, unlike most of the
scout signs, its meaning was not manifest. It was not the good road sign
nor the bad road sign, nor was it the sign that a message was secreted
near. Yet it pointed a direction; but the direction showed no path nor
trail and was fast wrapping itself in darkness.
He rubbed his fingers over the arrow, making a powdery blur upon the
rock and causing his fingers to feel smooth and powdery as he rubbed
them together.
“This hasn’t been here long,” said he. Then he pondered, for he knew the
rule that Dr. Brent was so fond of repeating. Use your brains first,
then your hands and feet.
Gordon knew all the signs, Indian and otherwise, that scouts might
employ, but he had never seen a scout mark made with chalk before, and
it jarred upon his romantic sense to see this schoolroom material used
for purposes of woodcraft. Yet there was the arrow, pointing directly
across the road, apparently at nothing. He did not know what to make of
it. Perhaps it was only a tramp’s mark. Perhaps—perhaps—then,
suddenly, a thought came jumping into his head which gave him a thrill
of joy. Three nights ago, in the club room, Dr. Brent had sketched Lake
Champlain on the blackboard _in pink chalk_. That settled it. “I’ve
found them,” he shouted, which was very much like him, for he was apt in
his enthusiasms to anticipate his triumphs.
Leaping across the road, he got down on his hands and knees, lighting
match after match, and searched the ground. Presently he noticed a log
spanning the little marshy gully at the side of the road. This he had
not seen before, for it was well hidden amid the weedy roadside growths.
Now he saw that several reeds which had inclined across the path of this
rough bridge had been broken, and hung limply over to one side. The log
ran into a floor of pine needles, where no sign of footprint showed. But
there were the arrow and the ford and the broken reeds, and these meant
that somebody had crossed—crossed and flown up in the air, for all that
he could discover. Nervous with expectation, he hurried about the grove,
felt of the trees, knelt and examined rocks, and avoided kicking the
smallest stone until he had observed its position in regard to other
stones. Stealthily, silently, alertly, he moved about. His scout
instinct was aroused. But he found nothing, and the long summer twilight
was now almost at an end. Peeling some bark from a tree and pulling off
a quantity of the sticky resiny substance from others, he hastily
kindled a small fire. In a few moments this blazed up, showing him an
illuminated area with a ground as smooth as a ballroom. There was not a
sign of track or trail. He paused a moment, thinking. Then he pulled up
his stocking, which was an indication that he meant business—a sort of
challenge.
Thus, with all his spirit of adventure and scouting instinct, he stood,
baffled but thoughtful, in the vast, strange country, with his eyes
fixed on his little fire. For a moment he forgot Harry, forgot
everything but the pink arrow, the log ford, and the broken reeds, and
stood there, his brown eyes fixed on the dancing flame, his staff stuck
in the ground beside him and his duffel bag thrown over it. Presently,
he went back to the log, knelt down, and examined the end of it which
rested on the bed of pine needles. On the near side of the log was a
very slight oval depression in the ground in which the pine needles were
rotted, and where a little red lizard lay contentedly in the dampness.
On the side of the log nearest this depression several slugs crawled
distractedly about. Gordon reached his arm across the log and rolled it
back into the depression where it belonged. Then he sat down upon it and
thought.
“Some one must have lost his balance in the middle of the log,” said he,
aloud, “and in falling pushed it out of place.” And that could not have
been long ago, for the slugs were still moving confusedly here and there
and had not yet found the under side of the log. Gordon examined the
muddy incline which led from the gully up into the grove. The dank,
reedy foliage did not seem to have been disturbed, but in the brighter
glow of his growing fire he presently noticed a well-defined, muddy
imprint upon a flat rock. If he had discovered a diamond he could not
have been more elated.
Now he thought to himself that the person who had met with this trifling
accident was either not a scout at all or a scout in a great hurry. For
such a thing as a scout calmly falling off a log was preposterous, and
Gordon would not entertain the thought except on the theory of great
haste. But how had both patrols, sixteen boys, gotten through this grove
leaving never a sign? For the pink chalk identified the travelers as the
Oakwood troop.
He gathered up a few pieces of bark and some leaves, and putting out his
fire made his way hastily up through the grove. Presently he stood at
its edge and looked across a spacious stretch of meadow land, beyond
which were the grim, dark hills. He kindled another fire on a huge,
convex piece of bark and, kneeling, crept along the edge of the grove,
endeavoring to discover where the trail came out. But he could find no
sign. It was now time to pull up his stocking again and take a long
“think,” as he called it.
The result of his “think” was that he walked out into the field about
one hundred and fifty feet, placed his little portable fire on the
ground and enlarged it with a fresh supply of fuel from the grove. He
watched it till its volume satisfied him, then returning to the edge of
the grove he “shinnied” up a tree, but was careful not to embarrass his
vision by looking directly at the fire. He looked about halfway between
it and the grove and there, thrown into bold relief by the neighboring
fire and his own high position, there ran a little straight trail across
the meadow which died away short of the further side. He slid down from
the tree, planted his staff in the ground near his fire, and shook a few
burning twigs a yard or two from it. Then he carried his fire as best he
could, for its bark tray was now ignited, still farther across the
field, as far as the point where he thought the trail had become
invisible to him from the tree. Returning to the edge of the grove, he
climbed up the tree again. Sure enough, there was the trail visible
farther on in the glow of the second fire, and entering the thick woods
beyond the meadow. It was barely discernible at that point, yet Gordon,
from his high position and by concentrating his gaze, could determine
the faint, shadowy line, flickering between visibility and invisibility,
as it wound into the silent forest. When he took his eyes from it for a
moment, he lost it, and picked it out again with difficulty.
The idea of following it was out of the question; so, looking steadily,
he picked out a certain tree near which the trail entered, studying as
best he could its height, size, and conformation. Climbing down from the
tree and keeping this beacon constantly in view, he ran across the
field, stamped out the few remaining embers of his first fire, took his
staff, and made a bee-line for his beacon. When he reached it he could
not, for the life of him, discover the faintest indication of the trail
across the field, but there, opening before him, was a well-defined,
beaten path up through the forest. He saw it in the glow from his second
fire, a few yards back, which was now dying fast. Leaning against the
big tree which had guided him across the meadow, he looked back over the
trailless space which he had forced to give up its secret. He looked at
the tall, black trees of the grove beyond, whose smooth floor of pine
needles had tried to baffle and confound him. Then he threw his duffel
bag over his shoulder, and feeling his way cautiously with his staff,
started up into the thick forest.