GORDON INTERFERES IN FAMILY MATTERS
At six o’clock that night the two boys stood on the summit of Bulwagga
Mountain, or on one of the summits, for Bulwagga has two peaks. It was
the hardest afternoon’s work they had ever undertaken. Long before they
threw down their burdens, two thousand feet above sea level, Gordon had
ceased to talk and devoted his breath to panting. It was a tough,
tedious climb, but the game was well worth the candle. They looked off
upon an endless landscape, dotted here and there with toy houses and
pigmy villages.
“What’s the use of sawing wood and laying bricks and building houses and
churches,” said Harry, “if that’s all they amount to?”
Indeed, Bulwagga, standing silent and serene, close to the shore of the
great lake, seemed to belittle everything. There lay Crown Point, a
modest little cluster of tiny buildings. There lay the lake, almost
under them, with all its little juttings and indentations plain to view.
There was the Crown Point peninsula curving out into the middle of the
lake and pointing northward like a great, clumsy thumb. Inside it was
Bulwagga Bay.
Once upon a time, more than three centuries ago, the adventurous
Champlain sailed up this great lake which bears his name, with an
exploring party of merry Frenchmen. Instead of turning their prows
eastward into the narrow channel formed by the peninsula, they sailed
gayly into Bulwagga Bay, supposing that an open path lay before them.
But the bay proved to be a trap. Down out of the fastnesses of the old
mountain came the Mohawk savages, and the gay little company was caught
like a rat. Harry, who knew the history of the lake, now saw just how it
had happened. Many a time and oft had the bloody Mohawks made good use
of this deceptive bay, and many who were caught and slaughtered there
supposed they had reached the end of the winding sheet of water, for
there was no sign posted on the end of the peninsula informing the
explorer to turn to his left.
But now the old mountain, which had so long been the secret ally of the
bloody Mohawk tribe, gave up the secret, as if to say: “You see how we
worked it. Wasn’t it a great scheme?”
“Harry,” said Gordon, “I’m all in—let’s rest.”
“Your motion is unanimously carried,” said Harry, sitting down on a
rock. “If I saw the camp ten feet in front of me now, I wouldn’t budge.
Now that’s just about where I think the smoke was,” he continued,
pointing down into the woods which extended from the base of the
mountain to the lake; “and if I’m right, we’ve got a grandstand view on
them, provided there’s a moon. Just as soon as they get their old logs
blazing, we’ve got them. If—”
“Now you spoil it all when you say _if_, Harry. It isn’t necessary to
say that. We’re sure to see them from up here. We’ve got them, sure,
Harry.”
There was some reason for his hopefulness. Bulwagga Mountain is, indeed,
a mighty grand stand built on the shore of Lake Champlain. It is long
and narrow, its length running parallel with the lake. There are two
peaks, precisely placed, one at the northern, one at the southern, end
of the ridge. By reason of Bulwagga Bay, the northern half of the
mountain actually forms the shore, descending sheer like a great wall,
as if to crowd the railroad into the water. The southern half sits back
like a dress circle in a theater, or rather the lake flows wide of it,
leaving a stretch of flat, wooded country between. Here the mountain
slopes down from its southerly peak, admitting of a descent, if you are
cautious and care to undertake it; but there is no way to descend from
the northern peak eastward except to go to the edge and jump off, a
method which has never been popular with tourists.
On his western extent old Bulwagga is more amiable. There is a road
which works its way up toward the northern peak, as many a tired horse
knows, but it does not get to the top; and you alight and plod on till
you look straight down into the bay and can see the ruins of the Crown
Point fortress on the end of the chubby peninsula. The southerly summit
looks down with lofty scorn upon the touring parties that make the
ascent of his brother peak, for he encourages no sightseers to come too
near and trifle with his lonely majesty.
It is all very well for Bulwagga to raise his twin crowns proudly and
make a great show to summer boarders, but I can tell you that he might
better bow his heads in shame, for he has a most bloody and disreputable
history. I dare say there is not a mountain along the whole stretch of
Lake Champlain and Lake George that has gotten itself mixed up in so
many massacres. For years its fastnesses echoed with warwhoops and with
the cries of the dying. It was a favorite stronghold of the savage and
treacherous Mohawks. But all that is past.
It was the baffling, lonely, wild southerly peak of old Bulwagga that
the boys had succeeded in mounting. There was no road, no path, nothing
but their compass to guide them. They had come up from the west and the
spot where they threw themselves down commanded an unobstructed view of
the stretch of woodland between them and the lake. As they looked down,
a sudden jut of white smoke rose under the precipitous northern end of
the mountain, the column traveling diagonally across the base of the
peninsula toward the lake.
“Listen,” said Harry, and they heard the distant rattle of a hidden
train, as it rushed across the peninsula to regain the shore.
“My, but it’s lonely up here, isn’t it, Harry? When are we going to eat,
anyway?”
“As soon as little Gretchen brings in the firewood. I’ve got to sit
right here so as to keep that woods down there in view. It wouldn’t be
safe for me to move.”
“It wouldn’t, wouldn’t it?” said Gordon, pushing his staff against
Harry’s chest and toppling him over backward. “Get up and pitch camp,
you lazy thing!”
They set to work putting up their shelter, and in a little while the
frying pan sent forth its savory odor.
“Let’s have some more of those bacon sandwiches, Harry. Where are the
figs?”
“All gone. Want coffee?”
“I certainly do.”
“It’ll keep you awake.”
“Never! A brass band wouldn’t keep me awake up here.”
“All right, hand me over that egg powder. Could you eat an omelette?”
“Could I? Here you go, catch this—catch this chocolate, too.”
“What’s that for?”
“Scrape some into the egg powder, Harry. It’ll make a sort of chocolate
omelette.”
“Why not put some cereal in, too, while we’re about it?”
“Just the idea, and we’ll have a new breakfast food—choc-chocerealeg.”
“Reminds you of the Champastic Motor,” laughed Harry. “I wonder how the
little chap’s getting on with his model.”
“We’ll get him in the troop, hey, Harry?”
“By all means.”
After supper, to which both did full justice, they sat back to await the
darkness. They had hoped to see some smoke which might indicate a cook
fire, in the woods below, but supper time had come and gone and there
had not been the faintest suggestion of any. It was true their outlook
was by no means limited to the woods directly east of them. By shifting
their position somewhat they could scan the country far to the west and
south. But the woods to the east afforded an ideal spot for a camp;
there was the lake just beyond—it was just such a spot as Red Deer
would have chosen and near enough to show the trained vision of a scout
the smoke of its cook fire. But there was none, and both boys rather
dreaded the approach of darkness with, perhaps, its greater
disappointment. For Gordon enthusiastically, and Harry quietly, had set
their hopes all day on what a view from this old mountain might reveal.
“I know one thing,” said Harry, “and that is, if we stay here over
to-morrow, I’m going to find a place where little fishes dwell. Methinks
I could dally with a fried trout, Sir Gordon.”
“But why should we hang around here over to-morrow, Harry?”
“Because, my son, we don’t happen to be weather-vanes on the top of a
steeple. If we don’t spy anything down there, we’ve got to get over that
way till we can command the west,—savvy?”
“That’s a good expression, Harry, ‘command the west.’”
“You like it?”
“It’s all right.”
“If I happen to use an expression you don’t like, just mention it.”
“The pleasure is mine,” said Gordon.
Ten o’clock arrived—eleven. No sign of a camp-fire. Weary, sleepy, and
disappointed, they turned in for the night.
The morning broke damp and foggy, with a drizzling rain veiling the
country roundabout. The wind was east, the sky dull and heavy, giving no
promise of clearing.
“Rain before seven,
Clear before eleven,”
sang Gordon, cheerfully. “It’ll be a good day for fishing, anyway. I’m
going after minnows. We’ll see if that trickle of water doesn’t broaden
out some, hey?”
“I can tell you that without going,” said Harry. “It does. It flows into
the lake.”
“Rises in Bulwagga Mountain,” said Gordon, “takes an easterly course,
and flows into Lake Champlain. Correct; be seated, Master Lord.”
“A little south by east,” said Harry, looking at his map.
“Aye, aye, sir,” Gordon answered. “A sail on the weather bow, Cap’n.”
“Look here, Kid, we’ll have to stick it out up here to-day, and if
there’s any sign of clearing by afternoon we’ll move over through this
clump where we can command the west.”
“Don’t talk about commanding the west, Harry. Last night you were going
to command the east, and now the east has got you rattled. I don’t see
us commanding this old country at all. It seems to me the country is
having a great laugh on us. Look at this game that we’re mixed up in
now. This rain wasn’t on the map, was it? You give me a pain with your
ridges and outlooks and things—and so does Red Deer with his blackboard
charts! You call this a peak? I don’t see any peak to it. It’s a
jungle—that’s what it is! Where’s the peak?”
“We’re on it.”
“Harry, you’re crazy. There’s no sign of a peak here.”
“Isn’t that other one a peak, Kid? Well, over there this one looks the
same.”
“All right,” said Gordon, as if to make allowance for his friend’s
peculiarities, “only don’t talk about ‘commanding the west.’”
“Getting discouraged, Kiddo?”
“No, I’m trusting to luck. I’m usually lucky. I found a quarter and a
dime and a gold ring and a watch charm last year, and I believe I’ll run
up against camp—that’s all.”
“Good for you! Well, now, give me your ear. I was just going to rise to
remark when you made your little speech, that we’ll go over to the
western side of this sharp peak, this tack point, this spire—”
“And the first and the last,
And the future and the past.
And the first and the last—”
sang Gordon, doggedly.
“Keep still!”
“Well, then, _you_ keep still.”
“Kid, all you need is an apple. Now listen to your patrol leader. It’s a
scout’s duty to obey his leader. You need to brush up on the law a
little.”
“I suppose that precipice over there is what you call a contour line,”
said Gordon, with deep sarcasm.
“That’s what Uncle Sam’s surveyors call it, but, of course, anything you
say—”
“And when it comes to the law,” continued Gordon, “you just want to read
up General Baden-Powell—what he says about chivalry. It’s a scout’s
duty to recount his adventures to maidens.”
“Well, if I’d recounted a thrilling adventure like a rescue, she might
have cried, Kid.”
“Maidens don’t cry—they weep.”
“Well, this mutiny has got to be put down, anyway,” said Harry. “I order
you to dig a hole and bury this refuse, as per camping regulations of
the Boy Scouts.”
The odds and ends of breakfast (and they were not many) were soon
disposed of “as per,” and Harry outlined his idea for exhausting all the
possibilities of spying which the mountain afforded, before, like the
famous Duke of Yorkshire, they marched down again.
Despite the drizzling rain, they made their way to where the little
neighboring rivulet formed a pool with a bright, pebbly bottom, and here
they scooped up minnows almost by the handful, until their pail was
thick with the little, darting, silvery fishes.
These Harry fried in cracker crumbs, and they sat under their little
shelter and enjoyed them, Gordon keeping up a running comment on their
tastiness and flavor. And I can tell you that if you happen to be on a
lonely mountain on a drizzly day, you cannot do better than arrange
yourself comfortably under your shelter, enjoy the remoteness, the
wildness, laugh at the weather, and eat fried minnows.
In the afternoon Harry, who was a true philosopher, took both camp
cushions, which they had filled with balsam the night before, spread his
blanket, pressed all available clothing into service to form a means of
reclining, and settled back comfortably with a paper copy of
“Kidnapped,” which he had taken the precaution to bring against the
possibility of just such weather as this.
“If any one calls, Kid, I’m not at home—office hours after six.”
Gordon knew what that meant. He hated Robert Louis Stevenson as a rival.
As sure as a rainy day came, Harry would double up in a corner
somewhere,—in his room, in the library, in the troop room,—and be dead
to the world. At such times Gordon was powerless, nothing could rouse
his friend. He had hoped that Harry might get through with this trip
without an attack of the kind. But now it had come. Stevenson, like
rheumatism, was always to be counted on in bad weather.
“Why don’t you tackle ‘Brave and Bold,’ Kid?” said Harry, as he settled
down. Gordon chose to interpret this as a cowardly and slurring attack
on Alger, and he disdained to reply.
“If you’re going to be knocking around in the Scotch Highlands all
afternoon, I might as well take a walk.”
“Don’t fall off the peak.”
Gordon scorned this shallow attempt at humor. “How near through are you,
anyway?”
“Eight more chapters.”
“That’ll take you two hours. Good-by.”
“Here, take the compass—and don’t trip over those contour lines.”
Gordon caught the compass, but his scout smile was conspicuous by its
absence. The rain had held up somewhat, and he picked his way through
the thick brush, every stir of which shook water upon him, for old
Bulwagga was thoroughly soaked from the continuous drizzle.
Stumbling and creeping on, he soon found himself in a labyrinth which it
was impossible to pass through, so interwoven were the limbs and vines.
He retraced his path and was able to pick out a comparatively open way
around this tangled spot. Never had he seen such wildness. There was not
a thing to indicate that any human being had ever before set foot on
this rugged mountain top. Great bowlders, covered with tenacious vines
and sheltered by crooked sinewy branches, lay about in tumbling
confusion.
“This is a peak, I don’t think!” he sneered, and brushed the water from
his clothing. He came to a black pool in which broken twigs lay
motionless, and there was the pungent odor of rotting wood and wet
foliage. A few feet away stood a tall hemlock which seemed to rear its
head out of the pandemonium of rock and thicket, into the light of day.
As he looked about him in the silence of this untamed spot, it seemed as
if all the materials of creation, rock, water, trees, creeping vines,
had been thrown here in an indiscriminate heap.
It occurred to him that if he could get to the top of this big tree he
might obtain an unobstructed view of all the country, north, east,
south, and west. The trunk was large and the lowest branches a good
distance from the ground, but he noticed that a young spruce rose within
its spreading radius. He hung his hat and khaki coat on a projecting
bush, wet his finger and made a mystic circle on his forehead for good
luck, embraced the spruce, placed the wet soles of his sneakers against
it, and went up like a monkey. Transferring himself to the lowest branch
of the hemlock, he paused for refreshment, producing from his trousers
pocket a fishline, two sinkers, a jack-knife, an oval pebble, and a
lead-pencil eraser. An exploration of the opposite pocket proved more
successful, yielding half a handful of shelled nuts. He sat on the
bough, dangling his legs and eating these. Then up, stepping from bough
to bough.
He had not gone far when he was conscious of a slight movement on the
branch where his foot rested, and looking down he saw two little eyes
gleaming at him out of what looked at first like a knotty projection of
the wood. He moved his foot, and the little animal stirred
correspondingly. It was no bigger than a cat.
Gordon was a scout, and he had no wish to harm the animal, whatever it
was; but he was also Master Gordon Lord, and he was very curious. He let
himself cautiously down and straddled the branch, facing the two eyes.
The little creature, frightened at this move, backed out toward the end
of the bough and Gordon crept nearer. Presently, they were at close
quarters, and for a moment his quarry seemed undecided what to do. It
scanned the tree above, then looked to the ground, then backed another
inch or two—as far as it could go. Gordon’s next move decided it. It
gave a tremulous whine. Instantly there came from below a sort of
restrained howl, and Gordon saw, climbing up the trunk of the tree, a
good-sized gray animal with catlike eyes and a little bushy beard under
its chin. He suspected it was a lynx.
The boy was about halfway out on the limb, the frightened kitten
crouching ludicrously on the end, and its mother, presumably, coming to
its rescue. Gordon’s predicament was not a pleasant one, and again the
words of Red Deer came jumping into his head: _Always use your brains
first; then your hands and feet_.
A move in either direction would hasten the animal’s ascent. The three
participants in the affair paused motionless, staring at each other, the
large animal’s body flattened against the trunk. Then, with its cold
eyes fixed cautiously on Gordon, it resumed its climb, growling
irritably. Gordon fumbled for his jack-knife and opened it. The lynx
paused again with its narrow eyes fixed upon him. The kitten humped its
back and glared in a way that would have been amusing if the situation
had not been dangerous.
With as little stir as possible, Gordon pulled the fishline out of his
pocket, which, being unwound and somewhat tangled, brought one or two of
his precious possessions with it. He distinctly saw his lead-pencil
eraser strike a branch below and bounce off into the pool. Binding the
open jack-knife against the end of his stick, he had a spear long
enough, if effectual, to reach below the lowest branch and prevent the
mother’s gaining a vantage ground above. He moved inward, much to the
little animal’s relief. Growling menacingly, the mother stealthily
mounted, inch by inch. She was just making a quick movement to gain the
lowest bough when she encountered the large open blade of Gordon’s
jack-knife. Her mouth opened in a hissing growl as her paw cautiously
felt the end of the stick. Then she glided upward and Gordon pricked her
vigorously. With a howl that woke the forest, she crouched back and gave
a spring, her fore paws clutching the lowest branch.
By this time the kitten was thoroughly frightened, crowding back on the
end of the bough and whining piteously. This only served to make the
mother more frantic. Gordon stood on his branch, bracing himself against
the trunk, and fought back the infuriated creature. And with every prick
of his makeshift spear, it crouched back and advanced with renewed rage.
It was a difficult and perilous encounter for the boy, for should he
lose his foothold or pause but for a second the lynx would gain the
lowest branch and it would be hopeless to try to check it. As long as he
could keep it hugging the trunk, his chances were good, and this with
all his might and main he strove to do, manipulating his weapon with the
greatest dexterity to prevent the animal’s getting it between her teeth.
Each time he withdrew the stick, the beast gained an inch or two,
retreating with each fresh thrust. Its mouth was dripping blood and its
paws were stained, but it fought with increasing fury, howling in a way
to strike terror to the boy’s heart.
The jack-knife began to wobble on the stick, and presently it fell to
the ground. The animal seemed to appreciate this advantage to itself,
for it straightway made a savage onslaught. Gordon waited till its mouth
opened wide in a menacing hiss, then thrust his stick between its jaws
and pushed it vigorously from him. There was a moment’s terrific
struggle, the stick broke in the middle, and the lynx, clutching the end
of it, went to the ground.
Like lightning, Gordon moved out toward the little animal and shook the
branch desperately. But he could not shake it off. The mother was
halfway up the trunk again, howling and climbing rapidly. There was no
time to think. Neither was there another small branch which he could
quickly detach. In his desperate plight he stood above the infuriated
creature, clutching the tree and kicking wildly with one foot. But he
wore only sneakers, and presently he withdrew his leg, very much the
worse for the encounter. He had gained time, however, to perform the
acrobatic feat of tearing off his flannel shirt with one hand. Hastily
getting a match from his hat, he set fire to the shirt and held it down
above the animal’s head. Singed and howling, it backed away from this
new weapon. But the shirt was presently all aflame and Gordon could not
hold it. Reaching as far down as he could, he dropped it against his
enemy’s face.
Then arose such a howl as he had never heard. Backing down the trunk,
principally by means of its hind legs, the animal tried to rid itself of
the blazing garment by its fore paws. The result was that its claws
caught in it. Presently it bounded from the trunk to the ground, freeing
itself from the burning shreds. Gordon saw that he had but a moment in
which to act. If he failed now there was no other weapon available.
He moved rapidly out toward the little creature. It whined as he
approached, and an answering whine came from below. The mother, its
front hair singed, was again on the tree trunk. He feared if he went
farther the limb would break, but it was his only hope, for he could not
shake the little creature off. So he moved out, the branch crackling
ominously beneath him, and grabbed it by the nape of its neck. It whined
piercingly and clung to the tree. He wrenched it off just as the lynx
had reached the same branch. Holding it up so that its mother might
clearly see what he was doing, he threw it into the pool below. At this
moment the infuriated mother was within five feet of him. What she might
have done if he had thrown her baby to the ground is uncertain. Seeing
it in the pool, she did not hesitate. With the hatred of water which all
the cat tribe possess, she could not trust her kitten to its dangers.
With a shriek she sprang from the bough, and ran excitedly round the
pool. Then the necessity gave her courage and she swam to the little
one’s rescue. Dripping with the slimy water, her head woefully singed
and matted with blood, Gordon saw her bring the little one to shore in
her mouth and trot silently off into the thicket.
“If she had only known,” said he, “that I didn’t mean to hurt it.”
The creature had given him a great scare and called forth all the
agility and ingenuity that he possessed, but now that it was over he
felt nothing but admiration for his foe. And afterward, when he
“recounted the adventure,” he always made a great point of its plunging
into the pool and coming out, dripping and bloody, and trotting off with
the kitten into the forest.
He had lost all desire to climb the tree, his leg was badly scratched,
and his nerves on edge. He knew that he had come in a southerly
direction from camp and that he had only to work his way northward
through the woods to return. And though the way was tangled and
baffling, he could have managed it except for one trifling circumstance.
He had lost the compass.