A BATTLE IN THE DARK.
AS OUR three friends and their backwoods companion were old campaigners,
they did not spend much time in getting ready for the night. A roaring
fire was started, the jack-lamp hung upon a neighboring tree, and by the
aid of the light thus afforded them, Joe Wayring, who had by this time
got into a suit of dry clothes, cleaned the fish which Arthur and Roy
had captured during his absence; Arthur Hastings fried them and made the
tea; Mr. Swan prepared the bacon and pancakes; and Roy cut the balsam
boughs and arranged the beds. In less than three quarters of an hour
after they drew their boats upon the beach, they sat down to a supper
that would have tempted any healthy boy to eat, no matter whether he was
hungry or not.
“Now, Mr. Swan,” said Joe, when the dishes had been washed in the clear
waters of the pond, and the tin bucket, which contained the supply of
fish for breakfast, had been hung up by a string so that the minks that
were sure to come around during the night could not steal them, “tell us
a story, please.”
“About what?” inquired the guide, as he filled his pipe.
“Oh, about the first panther you ever shot.”
“Or about the bear you killed with a club while he was running off with
one of your pigs,” suggested Roy.
Mr. Swan was always ready. After he had taken a few pulls at his
brier-root to make sure that it was well-started he began and told not
one story, but a dozen or more. He kept his little audience interested
until ten o’clock, then the lamp was turned out, the fire replenished,
and the campers sought their beds of balsam-boughs. Lulled by the
rippling of the waves upon the beach at their feet, and by the low music
of the breeze as it toyed with the branches over their heads, their
slumber was deep and dreamless. Even the usually watchful Jim seemed to
think that there was no responsibility resting upon him for this
particular night, and that the mere presence of the guide was all the
protection the camp needed, for he too slept soundly, and snored while
he slept. Consequently he did not see the uncouth object which drew out
of the darkness that covered the surface of the pond, and slowly and
cautiously approached the camp. The object was Matt Coyle’s scow, and in
it were the squatter and both his boys. The latter were plying their
paddles with noiseless motion, and Matt was kneeling in the bow, waving
first one hand and then the other to show them what course to take.
It must have been long after midnight, for there was nothing left of the
fire but a glowing bed of coals; but still there was light enough to
enable the robber to see the outlines of the skiff, but not sufficient
to show him the trim little canoe that had been hauled out on the bank
and turned bottom side up. If he had seen that, he would have lost no
time in getting away from so dangerous a neighborhood; but believing
that the boys were alone, and that they had forgotten their usual
caution in spite of the warning events of the afternoon, he kept on
until he was close enough to the skiff to take hold of it. I saw the
whole proceeding, but of course could do nothing to arouse the
slumbering campers.
“Now, turn about on your seats and give way the best you know how,” I
heard Matt whisper to his boys. “We must pull her off into deep water
before them fellers can wake up an’ get a holt on her.”
“Say, pap,” whispered Jake, in reply. “Ain’t we goin’ ashore to give
them a good larrupin’ before they make up?”
If the guide had not been there, these words would have horrified me;
but as it was, I did not feel at all uneasy. I knew very well that Matt
and his boys were no match for our party, and that they would all be
captured as surely as they put their feet on shore; but I did not want
to see them steal that skiff. Oh, why didn’t Jim wake up and alarm his
master!
“We’ll ’tend to them after we get the skiff an’ all the nice grub an’
things that’s into it,” said the squatter, as he tightened his grasp.
“Now be you all ready? Then give way.”
Jake and Sam laid out all their strength upon their paddles, and the bow
of the skiff grated harshly as it moved over the sand. The noise, slight
as it was, awoke Jim, who was on his feet in a twinkling. He took just
one glance at the marauders, and then danced about the camp in a perfect
ecstasy of rage, barking and yelping with all his might.
His first note of angry remonstrance alarmed the boys, who were off
their fragrant couches in less time than it takes to tell it. The moment
they arose to a perpendicular, they were wide awake and ready to act.
They made a simultaneous rush for the beach, and while Arthur and Joe
seized the skiff and pulled her back where she belonged, in spite of all
that Jake and his brother could do to prevent it, Roy caught up the
painter and deftly took a turn with it around a convenient sapling.
“Now, haul away and see how much you will make by it,” he exclaimed.
“That’s once you got fooled.”
“Wal, I’ll bet a hoss that I ain’t fooled yet,” said the squatter, in
savage tones. “Pull ashore, Jakey, an’ we’ll get out an’ lambast them
fellers till their own mammies won’t know ’em when they go hum. Human
natur!” he ejaculated a moment later, as the tall form of the guide came
between him and the smoldering fire. “Who’s that? If it ain’t Swan, I’m
a Dutchman.”
“Come on, you miserable scoundrel,” cried the guide, shaking his huge
fist at the astonished and thoroughly frightened robber. “I have been
looking for you, and now that I have found you, I am going to take you
back to Indian Lake with me.”
But Matt and his boys were not as anxious to go ashore now as they had
been. Without saying a word in reply they bent to their paddles, and
made all haste to get out of sight in the darkness.
“Now, Joe,” said Mr. Swan, who never got excited even under the most
trying circumstances, “shove off and take after them. You can go faster
than they can, so if you will get ahead of them and keep them from
reaching the opposite shore, I will come up on this side, and we will
have them between two fires.”
Joe and his companions were prompt to act upon this suggestion. He and
Roy pushed the skiff into the water, and when she was fairly afloat
Arthur sprang aboard with the jack-lamp in his hand. A moment later its
strong light flashed out over the pond, telling the fleeing squatter in
language as plain as words that the darkness could not conceal his
movements.
“There they are, not more than forty yards,” said Arthur, who stood
erect on the stern locker, steadying himself with the boathook. “Roy,
let me have that oar, and you stand here with the lamp and open fire on
them with your potatoes.”
“I can’t,” was the answer. “I took the potatoes ashore to-night and
washed some for breakfast; and the bag is in camp at this moment.”
“Then we shall have to come to close quarters with them,” said Arthur,
“for I have no idea that they will give up when they find themselves cut
off from shore.”
“If we can only manage to detain them for two minutes, we shall have all
the help we want,” Joe remarked. “Look behind you.”
Arthur glanced over his shoulder, and was surprised to see the guide in
less than a stone’s throw of the skiff. How he had managed to put his
canoe into the water and get her under way with so little loss of time,
was a mystery.
“A fellow would have to look out for Mr. Swan in a hurry-skurry race,
wouldn’t he?” said Arthur. “Just see how he makes that little craft of
his get through the water! If you two don’t let out a section or so of
your muscle, he will overtake the scow before we do.”
Just then Matt Coyle’s hoarse voice was heard calling warningly to them.
“Don’t come no nigher,” it said. “If you think that we are sich fules as
to go down to Injun Lake when we want to stay here, you are the biggest
kind of fules yourselves. I’ll break the head of the fust one of you
that comes within reach.”
“Matt has crawled back to the stern of his scow, and is standing there
with his paddle in his hand,” said Arthur, who could see every move the
robber made. “I wonder if he thinks that we are ‘fules’ enough to give
him battle before Mr. Swan comes up to help us.”
That was just what Matt was looking for, and he did not know what to
make of it when the skiff dashed by his scow, keeping so far beyond
reach that he could not have touched any of her crew with his paddle if
he had tried, and deliberately placed herself across his path. Then his
eyes were opened to the details of the plan that had been laid to entrap
him, and the promptness with which he went to work to extricate himself
was surprising. He said a few words in a low tone to his boys, then put
his own paddle into the water, and the scow shot ahead with greatly
increased speed, never swerving from her original course by so much as a
hair’s breadth.
“Does the old villain mean to run us down, or does he intend to come
alongside and capture us and the skiff?” said Roy, who was alarmed as
well as amazed by the squatter’s offensive tactics. “Back water, Joe,
while I give way. It looks as though _we_ had got to run now.”
The scow was so close to them that they had no time to get out of her
way. They saw at a glance that all they could reasonably hope to
accomplish was to turn their boat slightly, so that if the scow struck
her at all, it would be a glancing blow. But they had miscalculated the
speed of Matt’s clumsy looking craft. She seemed to glide over the top
of the water instead of passing through it, as other boats do. On she
came with terrific force, and although Joe and Roy worked hard to slip
out of her way, she struck the skiff fairly in the side, ripping off two
of her planks, smashing in as many more, and making a hole that Mars
could have crawled through with all ease. At the same instant darkness
settled down over the scene as if by magic. Arthur Hastings had been
knocked off his perch on the stern locker, and he and the jack-lamp went
into the pond together.
“Whoop-ee!” yelled Matt, triumphantly. “Will you git outen our road the
next time you see us comin’? Take that fur your imperdence in gittin’
before your betters,” he added, making a vicious blow with his paddle at
the place where he had last seen Joe Wayring’s head.
Joe’s head was not there now, however, for he had been sharp enough to
put it somewhere else; but Matt was speedily made aware that the boy was
not far away, for as the blade of his paddle whistled harmlessly through
the air, he received a punch in the ribs with an oar that brought from
him a yell of pain, and came very near sending him into the water. At
the same moment, a howl of agony from the unlucky Jake announced that
Roy was taking a hand in the rumpus.
The fight that followed was a very short one, but it was warm while it
lasted, and gave Matt and his boys some idea of what a couple of brave
young fellows could do when they were cornered. Joe, while defending
himself against the muscular squatter, managed to get in several good
blows; Roy pounded Sam to his heart’s content, Jake having dropped out
of the contest at the very beginning of it; and Arthur clung to the side
of the skiff and called lustily for Mr. Swan.
“I’m coming,” replied the guide, who was doing all he could to bring
himself alongside the scow. “Keep them there just a minute longer.”
Roy and Joe would have obeyed if they could; but when Matt heard Mr.
Swan’s voice sounding so close to him, he pushed his piratical craft
away from the skiff, and the darkness shut him out from view. When the
guide arrived a few minutes later, he found the boys supporting
themselves by holding fast to the sides of their boat, which was full of
water. They had relieved her of their weight just in time to keep her
from going to the bottom of the pond. She would not sink now, for she
had no cargo aboard to speak of, and besides, the air that was
imprisoned in the lockers assisted in keeping her afloat.
“Well, if this don’t beat the world!” exclaimed Mr. Swan, as soon as he
had taken in the situation. “Somehow or other those villains always
manage to come out at the top of the heap, don’t they? Did you have a
fight with them? I heard sticks a clashing and somebody yelling. I hope
none of you ain’t hurt.”
“Don’t be uneasy on that score,” replied Roy. “Joe and I had a scrimmage
with them, but you didn’t hear either one of us yell. It was Matt and
Jake. Sam was good grit. He never said a word, although I punched him
with the blade of my oar the best I knew how. Arthur was standing on one
of the lockers when the scow struck us, and he and the lamp made a
plunge of ten feet in the clear before they touched the water.”
“Do you mean to say that they ran into you a purpose?” exclaimed the
guide.
“Of course they did. We cut them off from the shore, as you directed,
and that old scow of theirs came at us like a battering-ram. Matt heard
Joe tell us to-night to sink the canoe, and that was what put it into
his head to run into us.”
Meanwhile Arthur Hastings had worked his way around to the bow of the
skiff and secured the painter, one end of which he made fast to a ring
in the stern of the canoe. The chase was over, of course. They could not
continue the pursuit in the dark, for the squatter could easily elude
them in a hundred different ways, and neither would it be prudent to
follow him in the canoe. The little craft was intended to carry only one
person, with a very limited allowance of camp equipage, and the added
weight of one of the boys would have sunk her so deep in the water that
no speed could be got out of her. The only thing they could do was to go
back to camp and finish their sleep.
“But what shall we do to-morrow?” was the question that Joe and his
comrades asked themselves and one another. “Our boat is badly stove, and
if we can’t patch her up, how are we going to get back to Mount Airy?”
Mr. Swan towed the disabled skiff to the shore, her crew swimming
alongside or trying to assist him by pushing behind, and the fire was
started up again to aid them in making an examination of the injuries
she had received. They were fully as severe as the boys expected to find
them, and it was a wonder to them that she was so long in filling.
“There’s plenty of guides down to the lake that can fix her up for you
in good shape,” said Mr. Swan.
“Of course,” replied Roy. “But the lake is twenty-five miles from here,
and there’s no way to get her down there.”
“Mebbe there is,” answered the guide. “For a shilling I’ll agree that
she shall go down there, and carry you into the bargain. But we can’t do
nothing with her to-night. You boys get on some dry clothes and go to
bed again.”
Joe and his companions were quite willing to act upon this suggestion,
but they were in no hurry to go to sleep. Neither was Mr. Swan. They sat
around the fire for a long time, talking over the incidents of their
battle in the dark, and as I listened closely, I have been able to give
you the story in the same way that it was told to Mr. Swan. The
squatter’s extraordinary luck and the skill he exhibited in eluding
arrest seemed to astonish them all. How I longed for the power of speech
so that I could tell them that robbing camps and smoke-houses was not
the only business to which Matt Coyle intended to devote himself, now
that the offer of his service as guide and boatman had been declined by
the managers of the Indian Lake hotels. But they found it out for
themselves, and before long, too.
It was three o’clock before the campers again sought their blankets. The
boys slept much later than usual, but the guide was stirring at the
first peep of day. He piled fresh fuel on the fire, put Roy’s potatoes
into the ashes to roast, made the coffee and pancakes, and took time
while the fish were frying to give the skiff another good looking over.
Then he picked up Joe’s camp ax, and disappeared among the trees,
returning a few minutes later with several large slabs of birch bark. By
this time the fish were done, and the guide announced the fact by
calling out—
“Tumble up, you sleepy heads. You’ve just two seconds in which to take a
dip in the pond and get ready for breakfast.”
Having had as many “dips” as they wanted already, the boys contented
themselves with washing their hands and faces; after which they sat down
to their homely breakfast with appetites to which the dwellers in towns
and cities are, for the most part, strangers. Of course the squatter was
still uppermost in their minds, and he and his exploits formed the
principal topic of their conversation.
“By the way, Mr. Swan, you forgot to tell us what Matt stole at those
camps,” said Arthur, suddenly.
“Did I? Well, in my camp he took a Lefever hammerless that cost the
owner three hundred dollars; and from a gentleman who had Bob Martin for
a guide, he stole a Winchester worth fifty dollars. Not satisfied with
that, he took every thing in the shape of grub that he could lay his
hands on, and me and my employer had to live on trout while we were
making a journey of more than a hundred and fifty miles. Trout’s good
enough once in a while; but I swan to man, if I want it for a steady
diet. Bob Martin said he eat so much of that kind of food that he wanted
to snap at every fly that came near him.”
“Matt and his family are always on the look-out for grub, and I should
think that the sharp edge would be taken off their appetites after a
while,” Arthur remarked. “Did you try to follow his trail?”
“Bless you, no. There ain’t a country in Ameriky that is so well
provided with water courses as this Indian Lake country is, and what’s
the use of trying to follow the trail of a boat? You might as well think
of tracking a bird through the air.”
“What do you suppose Matt intends to do with those guns?” inquired Roy.
“Of course he wouldn’t be so foolish as to offer them for sale around
here, and they certainly will be of no use to him unless he took a big
supply of cartridges at the same time he took the weapons.”
“I’ve got my own idea about that,” replied the guide. “It’s only an
idea, mind you, but I have good reason for holding to it. A year ago
last spring, Matt got to acting just as he’s acting now, because the
hotels wouldn’t send him out with their guests, and me and the rest of
the guides tracked him down, and told him that he’d got to clear
himself. He allowed he wouldn’t do it, and that he’d make it hot for the
fellers that tried to make him go, so we went to work and burned up
everything he had, except his clothes and we’pons. Then he had to dig
out; but before he went, he sent us word that if he couldn’t do guiding
for the hotels none of us should, for the reason that there wouldn’t be
nobody to hire us.”
“What did he mean by that?” exclaimed Joe.
“You’re pretty sharp fellows,” said the guide, in reply. “What’s your
opinion of his meaning?”
“He doesn’t intend to kill off the guests as fast as they arrive, does
he?” said Arthur.
“Probably not,” said Joe. “But he means to steal them poor, and bother
them in every way he can, so that they won’t come here to spend their
summer vacations.”
“That’s the very idea,” said the guide, approvingly. “That’s what he was
up to, and that’s what he is trying to do now; but we ain’t going to let
him stay. Now, then,” he added, as he arose to his feet and produced his
ancient brier-root, “if one of you will help me while the others tend to
things about the camp, we’ll be on our way to the lake in less’n half an
hour by Joe’s Waterbury.”
“Are you going with us?” asked Arthur, who was delighted at the prospect
of spending the day, and perhaps another night in the company of so
famous a story teller.
“I reckon I might as well,” replied the guide. “I know where to find
Matt’s trail now, but I can’t do nothing with him and his family all by
myself, so I will go back and get some of the boys to help me.”
“Well, see here, Mr. Swan,” said Joe. “If you have to burn him out
again, don’t forget to save my canoe from the general destruction. I
know it isn’t a very valuable thing, having seen its best days long ago,
but still I shouldn’t like to think that I had lost it for good.”
“I’ll bear it in mind,” said the guide. “Now, don’t let the fire go out.
We shall need it to toast the bark.”
“What do you want to toast the bark for?”
“Why, to make it straighten out and stay somewhere. Don’t you see how it
curls up in all sorts of ways? Summer bark isn’t as good as winter bark
for this sort of work, but I reckon we can make it keep the water out of
the skiff till we get to the lake.”
Arthur and Joe made all haste to wash the breakfast dishes and collect
their “duffle”, so that there would be no delay in loading the skiff
when the repairs were completed, and then sat down to keep the fire
going, and to watch the guide, in whose proceedings they were much
interested. They wanted to learn how it was done, so that they might
know what to do in case a similar misfortune befell them when there was
no accommodating backwoodsman near to help them. Fortunately they never
went into the woods without taking with them some strips of canvas, a
supply of tallow and rosin, and a paper of copper tacks. By the aid of
the tacks, the birch bark, after it had been toasted over the fire so
that it would “stay somewhere”, was fastened upon the gaping wound which
the sharp corner of Matt’s scow had made in her side, the seams were
thickly coated with melted rosin and tallow, then the canvas was tacked
on, and Mr. Swan declared that his task was finished.
“She’ll leak a little water, of course,” said he, as he filled up for
another smoke, “but not much after the bark has a chance to swell a
trifle. Now I reckon we are ready to be off.”
It was the work of but a few minutes to pack the provisions and cooking
utensils away in the lockers, and as soon as that had been done, the
boys shoved the skiff into the water and followed Mr. Swan, whose canoe
was moving toward the creek which connected the pond with Indian Lake.
The boat didn’t leak as much as they thought it would. Five minutes’
bailing every half hour kept her comparatively dry.
The boys camped that night within less than five miles of the lake, and
of course had the pleasure of listening to more of the guide’s stories.
They made an early start the next morning, Mr. Swan being impatient to
obtain assistance and resume the pursuit of the man who had despoiled
the camp of his employer, and at seven o’clock the two boats were run up
on the beach in front of the Sportsman’s Home.