WHO RIDES A MOOSE
The small hydroplane was back at the dock. The captain had said, “We have
done what we could. We can only hope for the best.” A picture of woe,
Jeanne sat on the narrow dock. In an effort to save a good pal she had
sacrificed her beloved Plumdum. She did not regret the sacrifice if only
it saved her friend. But would it?
At times she felt an all but overpowering desire to dash away over the
trail in the vain hope of passing the fiery barrier. Twice she rose to
carry out the mad plan. Twice she resumed her seat on the dock.
When she rose for the third time the captain said, “Come on. Hop in.
We’ll fly over and see what’s happened.”
They did fly. And they did see. Jeanne had marked the spot where Florence
had stood. It was between three great rocks. Already the fire had come
that far. Three times they circled. No trace of their lost comrades did
they find. What had happened? Would they ever know? Jeanne sank back into
her seat.
She did not remain so for long. Of a sudden she sat up to clutch the
pilot and to scream in his ear, “Captain Frey please circle back over
that bare knob of rock.”
“Right.” The captain turned the wheel.
A crimson spot on that bare flat rock had caught Jeanne’s attention.
This, she reasoned must be the boy in the crimson sweater. He it had been
that had lured her good friend Florence into the fire trap. Well, he
should pay for that. He should have a warning this very moment. Deftly
forming a bit of string and her handkerchief into a tiny parachute, she
attached a bit of greenstone rock to it, then clutched it between her
knees while she scribbled a note. This note read:
“You are suspected of setting these fires. If you are guilty you shall
be caught. We are on your trail. _Gypsies never forget._”
Binding this note to the greenstone rock she waited. The plane soared
lower and lower. They would pass over the rock at a hundred feet.
Accustomed to judge the speed of planes, she leaned far over and waited.
Then, as she found herself all but looking into the eyes of the
mysterious youth, she allowed the tiny parachute to go drifting away.
Watching, she saw the white spot dropping lower and lower. “Good! He sees
it!” she exclaimed, “He can’t miss it.” Then she whispered low, “The
gypsies’ first warning.”
It was with trembling fingers that Florence unbound the pocket on
Plumdum’s collar. Together she and Mike studied the crude map which
Captain Frey had drawn.
“Let’s see,” the girl murmured. “That gap between fires must be in that
direction.” She pointed toward a low ridge.
“No,” Mike corrected. “This way more.” He was looking at his compass. “We
better scram. Dat note says no time to lose.”
“But, Tony? What about him?” the girl protested.
“Oh, Tony,” the boy’s brow wrinkled. Well enough Florence knew the bond
of undying friendship between these two boys.
“Oh, Tony.” There was a forced note of cheerfulness in Mike’s voice.
“Tony’s a Dago. He’s made out of tin cans, old asbestos an’ other scrap.
He wouldn’t burn.” The laugh that followed was far from real.
Florence was touched. She swallowed a tear, swayed a little, then said
simply,
“Al-all right, let’s go.” And what else was there to do?
“We’ll let out a yell now and then,” said Mike.
Gathering Plumdum into her ample arms, Florence led the way.
Their way ran across the dried-up bog. The ground was soft. For some
distance their footprints remained plainly marked. At last these prints
were lost on the rocky slopes beyond.
Now and again Mike paused to shout, “Yo-ho!”
Only the ridge echoed back faintly, “Yo-ho!” and yet more faintly,
“Yo-ho!” Mike’s feet seemed to drag but he kept doggedly on.
“If I stay behind,” he was thinking, “she’ll stay too. An’ that won’t do.
She’s worth the two of us.”
They came at last to a spot where, near the crest of the ridge, they were
between two fires. The heat here was intense, almost scorching. Plumdum
whined piteously.
“Come on,” Florence urged. “It’s our only chance.”
“I—I can’t,” Mike moaned. “It’s me pal, Tony. I—I gotta go back.”
“You can’t,” Florence hissed, seizing his arm. “Not now. You’re going on
if I have to drag you.”
“Oh, all right, I’ll come,” Mike replied miserably.
Fifteen minutes later they were past all danger. On the crest of a higher
ridge, where there were no trees, only rock, and where a cool breeze
fanned their parched cheeks, they watched the fire roaring on beneath
them.
“Ton-Tony!” A veritable roar of anguish escaped Mike’s lips.
To their unbounded astonishment there came an answer, “Here! Here I am!
What you t’ink?”
“I knew it!” Mike broke into a roar of laughter. “It’s Tony. My Tony.
Didn’t I tell you? You can’t burn up a Dago like him!”
Unashamed the two boys embraced each other. A moment later, with Plumdum
yip-yipping his delight at their heels, the three of them danced a jig
atop a great, flat rock.
Once more Mike went into the lead by declaring, “We’d better scram.”
And scram they did. Following the ridge until they were well beyond the
fire line, they came at last upon an ancient trail leading down. Turning
they went racing down this trail at a speed that must have spelled
disaster to a less hardy trio.
Fifteen minutes later they burst out upon the shores of silent waters.
“Good old Rock Harbor,” Florence breathed, almost as a prayer of
thanksgiving.
On the dock at the head of that same harbor a half hour later Jeanne sat
in the depths of despair. Florence was gone. Plumdum was gone. What could
she do?
Of a sudden, from the distance she caught a familiar sound, the shrill
barking of a small dog.
“Plumdum!” she exclaimed springing to her feet. “It must be. There is no
other such dog on the island.”
It was a wild looking Jeanne who burst through the brush to greet her
lost friends a short time later. Her dress was torn, her hair was flying
wild, but her eyes shone with a glorious light.
“Plumdum! Florence!” she screamed, gathering the dog in her arms and
being in turn gathered in by Florence.
It was only over a rich “Mulligan” stew prepared by Captain Frey’s cook
that Tony’s story was told.
“I saw you go down,” he said to Florence. “An’ heard yer breath go out. I
thought, ‘That moose will get her fer sure.’”
“And so he would have,” Captain Frey agreed. “A moose has hoofs that are
like steel chisels.”
“So-o,” Tony breathed, continuing his story, “I dropped on his back.
Swell luck. I grabbed his antlers. Then I ducked down to miss the
branches. And say-ee!” he breathed. “Talk about speed! He was worse’n an
airplane.
“And then—” he paused.
“Then what, ye dummie?” Mike demanded.
“It ain’t nice. I hate t’ tell ye.” Tony took in a long breath.
“Did he go toward the dry swamp?” Florence asked. Tony nodded.
“Then I know,” the girl said with a shudder, “the moose went into the
peat bog that’s on fire.”
“An’ stuck there fer a minute.” Tony agreed. “I swing off on a low limb
of a tree. Then I scram. Of course, I don’t know but I kin guess what
come of Mr. Moose.” He heaved a heavy sigh.
“But, Tony,” Florence said after a moment, “how did you know which way
the gap in the fire wall was?”
“Found yer tracks crossin’ t’ dry swamp,” said Tony with a grin.
“‘They’re goin’ straight,’ I says to meself. ‘That means they know which
way t’ go.’ And you did.”
“And I’m glad,” Florence put in warmly.
“That was great!” Captain Frey exclaimed.
“Wind has changed,” the captain announced a short time later. “That means
Rock Harbor shores don’t burn, not just yet. We may get a little rain
tonight.
“You better stay with us,” he added, turning to the girls. “We’ll run you
down to the lodge first thing in the morning. There’s a snug cabin which
Mrs. Frey occupies when she is here. You will have it all to yourselves.”
So it was agreed. And Florence was not sorry. Surely she had seen quite
enough of life for one day. Sleep would be sweet after such wild
adventure.
“What of the boy in the crimson sweater?” she asked herself dreamily as
she drifted off to sleep. Then, “I’ll get him yet.”