A LOST PADDLE
A half-sob escaped Dan as he beheld the ruin of the beautiful sand
painting. The work of hours—completely destroyed! It was almost too much
to bear.
As he stood staring at the meaningless mess of mixed color, the boy heard
footsteps behind him. He turned quickly to see that it was Mr. Hatfield
and the Cubs returning from their hike to the ravine.
“Hi, Dan!” the Cub leader greeted him cheerily. “Picture all finished?”
“It’s finished all right.”
Dan pointed miserably to the mass of strewn sand.
“Someone wrecked it while I was down at the river washing my hands. It
makes me sick. All that work—gone.”
“Ross Langdon must have been here!” Chips cried furiously.
“Not while I was around,” Dan returned. “Fact is, I didn’t see a soul.”
“It’s unfair to blame Ross,” said Mr. Hatfield quietly. He had been
looking about the camp, making a few observations. “Don’t you realize
what happened to your sand picture?”
Dan shook his head.
“It was stolen by the wind.”
“The wind! That’s right, it did blow terribly hard here for a few
minutes! I was scared the hut would blow down.”
“Obviously, it was the wind that scattered the sand,” Mr. Hatfield went
on. “Too bad you didn’t cover the picture with canvas before it was
wrecked. Or, better still, you could have used a little shellac as a base
to hold the sand in place. I’m sorry I didn’t suggest it.”
“How long will it take to re-make the picture?” Brad asked with forced
cheerfulness. “I’ll be glad to help, only I’m not very artistic.”
Dan remained silent. At the moment he was too discouraged to think of
re-doing the sand painting.
Mr. Hatfield flung an arm about his slumped shoulders.
“Buck up, Dan,” he said. “Practice makes perfect, you know. You’ll make
an even better picture next time.”
“We’ll all help you,” Chips offered. “Maybe next time we can do the
picture Navajo style—all in one day.”
“We’ll almost have to, if we want to have it ready for the pow-wow
Saturday,” Dan said with forced cheer. “Okay, fellows. We’ll start in
again right after school tomorrow night. I’ll fix some more materials in
the meantime.”
“That’s the spirit, Dan, old boy,” Red approved.
“Show him what we found at the cliff,” urged Fred.
Dan now noticed for the first time, that Red was carrying a bulky, folded
object. It appeared to be an Indian blanket.
“You found Professor Sarazen’s blanket!” he cried jubilantly.
“No such luck,” Red corrected. “We did find this, though.”
He spread a tattered red, white and black woven blanket on the grass.
Plainly it was Indian in design and made on a hand loom. The pattern was
incomplete, for the blanket had been used until it was fairly in tatters.
“Where did you find that?” he asked the Cubs.
“At the ravine,” Red explained. “While the others were looking at the
carved face, I went poking around in the bushes back of the cliff. I
found this.”
“Say, maybe whoever left it, took our good blanket!”
“That’s my theory,” agreed Mr. Hatfield. “The blanket is worthless, of
course. We just brought it along to show you.”
Little more was said as the Cubs prepared to start home. They took care
to see that no items of value were left lying about. Mr. Hatfield
personally locked the canoe, the paddles and all tools in Mr. Halloway’s
cabin.
Dan was bitterly disappointed over the loss of the sand painting.
However, his spirits were revived by a good night’s rest. By the
following afternoon he had assembled new materials and was ready to start
work again on another project.
“This time I’ll outline the picture in a protected place,” he announced.
While Dan was making the preliminary layout, Brad and the other Cubs
busied themselves with canoe practice. At intervals the denner saw them
deliberately upset the craft, empty it of water, and scramble in. This
accomplished, they would paddle back to shore.
Dan worked doggedly, determined to keep at his task, though he had lost
enthusiasm for it. For the second sand painting, the boy had chosen a
more secluded spot, well protected by a wind-break of trees.
As he outlined geometrical figures with a sharp-pointed stick, he became
aware of a rather uncomfortable feeling. At intervals Dan would glance
over his shoulder, feeling that he was being watched.
“What’s the matter with me, anyhow?” he asked himself in disgust. “I’m
getting more nervous than an old cat!”
He tried to concentrate on the work before him. But he could not rid
himself of that strange, uncomfortable sensation that he was being
watched.
Glancing over his shoulder, he actually saw a shadowy face peering down
at him from the foliage on the slope above. Or did he imagine that too?
Dropping his stick, Dan glanced quickly about the camp. The Cubs were
still on the river, receiving instruction in canoeing.
“Maybe I am seeing things!” he thought. “Anyway, I’ll find out.”
Scrambling up the slope, Dan boldly entered the fringe of woods.
Distinctly, he heard a faint rustling sound, and the crackle of a stick.
Someone _had_ been watching him! That person now was moving rapidly away.
Dan moved faster. Now deep among the trees, he could see no one. It was
as if he were chasing a will-o’-the-wisp!
Finally giving up, the boy returned to the slope directly above the site
he had selected for the sand painting.
A gap in the tree branches, he noted, permitted a perfect view not only
of the camp but also of the picture he had started.
“Someone was watching me, all right,” he thought. “Wonder if it was
Ross?”
Carefully, Dan inspected the soft, moist earth. At first he could find no
footprints or other sign of the watcher. But after he had pulled away a
pile of damp leaves from the trail, he discovered a print which appeared
to have been made by a moccasin.
“It wasn’t Ross,” he decided. “One of those Indians is watching our camp.
I don’t like it.”
Decidedly troubled, the boy returned to the sand painting. But he could
not keep his mind on it. What use, he thought, to go to so much work
again, with the ever present hazard that over-night the picture might be
ruined by a hostile stranger?
Presently, Dan sauntered down to the beach, intending to tell Brad and
Mr. Hatfield of his latest discovery. The Cub leader was still out on the
river giving Midge and his son a few advanced pointers on stroking.
Brad, he noticed, was talking to Red and Chips farther down the beach.
They were speaking rather loudly and seemed to be deep in some sort of
argument.
“Sure, I brought the paddle in when I got through with my turn at the
canoe,” Red said furiously. “Don’t try to accuse me of losing it!”
“I’m not accusing anyone,” Brad told him, holding his temper in check.
“No use getting your back up! I’m just checking on the paddles, that’s
all. We’ve lost one and we can’t afford to lose another.”
“Ask Mr. Hatfield then,” Red said peevishly. “He probably has the extra
one with him in the canoe.”
“I know he has one. I don’t think there were two spares.”
“Well, ask him,” Red insisted. “I know I didn’t have it.”
Coming up to the trio, Dan asked Brad what was wrong.
“Another paddle missing,” Brad answered briefly. “Or at least I think
it’s gone. I’m not blaming anyone. Only checking.”
Acting upon Red’s suggestion, he called to Mr. Hatfield to ask how many
paddles the Cub leader had in the canoe.
“Two,” came back the answer.
“Then we’re one short again,” Brad declared grimly.
“Think it was stolen?” Dan asked, instantly recalling the moccasin track
in the woods.
“No-o.” Brad spoke thoughtfully. “I remember when Chips, Red and I came
in from our practice session on the river, that paddle was laid down—”
“Right here where we’re standing,” Chips interposed. “It was fairly close
to the river.”
“I should have picked it up myself,” Brad said. “I guess I just didn’t
notice, that’s all. I’m as much to blame as anyone else.”
“The paddle should be here,” Red said doggedly. “How’d it get away?”
“It probably floated off,” Brad answered. “The waves pound up here
whenever a big cruiser passes.”
“Well, if the paddle floated off, it can’t be far away,” Red declared.
“That’s so,” agreed Brad. He turned to Dan. “Let’s go after it!”
“Afoot?”
“Not much chance of trailing it that way. Maybe Mr. Hatfield will let us
take the canoe.”
Brad had observed that the Cub leader already was paddling toward shore
with long, sure strokes.
The two Cubs went down to the water’s edge to meet him. Quickly, Brad
explained what had happened. As they had expected, Mr. Hatfield showed
immediate concern.
“We can’t afford to lose another paddle,” he said. “We’ll have to find
this one, that’s all.”
Motioning for Brad and Dan to exchange places with Fred and Midge, he
pointed the canoe down stream.
For the next twenty minutes, the three searched every cove and back-water
along the shore. The lost paddle could not be found.
“It beats all what could have happened to it,” Brad said, resting a
moment. “You didn’t see anyone in camp while we were out on the river,
did you, Dan?”
“Not on the beach,” the younger boy answered slowly. “I did see someone
watching me from the woods—an Indian, I think.”
“I guess it’s no use looking any farther for the paddle.”
“Wait. Let’s not give up just yet,” Mr. Hatfield said unexpectedly. He
had been studying the swift river current with deep absorption. “Maybe an
Indian stole our paddle, but I doubt it. Notice how fast this water
moves?”
“Only one little ribbon of it,” Brad replied. “I discovered that the
other day. This old river must have a lot of currents.”
Mr. Hatfield nodded. “On your toes, boys,” he said. “I’m going to try an
experiment.”
“What are you going to do?” Brad asked, puzzled.
Without answering, Mr. Hatfield deliberately dropped his paddle into the
river.