THE DIAGONAL MARK
Warde had always his wits with him. "_Shh_, don't wake up the
troop," he whispered. "Come outside."
"We'll need them all--alarm--" Roy whispered excitedly.
"Shut up and come outside," Warde whispered emphatically. He picked up
Blythe's coat and, tiptoeing, led the way out into the night. "He hasn't
gone away," he said more freely. "Don't you see this coat? Do you think
he'd go away without his coat? Stick your flashlight here, _quick_;
here's our chance."
Warde held the collar of the poor threadbare coat close to Roy's light.
There, on the inside was sewn a little cloth square on which was
printed:
DOMINION CLOTHING CO.
QUEBEC, CANADA.
"I see," Roy whispered, not knowing what he said.
"Give me the light and wait a second--shh," said Warde.
Before Roy knew it Warde had re-entered the shack and was folding and
replacing the coat where he had found it. In a kind of daze Roy saw the
bright spot near the empty balsam couch, saw his companion's quick,
silent movements, saw the scouts lying asleep in the dim light. Then all
was darkness within and he saw no more.
"Did you feel in the pockets?" Roy asked as they betook themselves
through the darkness to a safe distance. He still whispered, though
there was no need of it now. He was nervous, agitated.
"No, I'm not in that line of business," said Warde.
"I guess he's Claude Darrell all right," said Roy. "What shall we do?
Try to find him? There's that voice again. Do you hear it? It's over
there--west."
"Not find him but _follow_ him," said Warde. "If we can."
"You stay here," said Roy; "give me the light, I'll track him." Roy was
master here and Warde could only accede.
"What are we going to do when we find him?" Roy asked.
"We're going to find out what _he's_ doing," Warde said.
Nimbly, as silently as a panther, Roy retraced his steps to the shack.
For a few minutes Warde stood alone, waiting, conscious of Roy's
experience and superiority in those more active arts of the scout. He
had not the slightest knowledge in which direction Blythe had gone and
his patrol leader was going to wrench this knowledge from the darkness.
Off in the distance the unearthly voice crooning and whining in the
night. The very air seemed charged with something impending.
Presently Warde saw two quick flashes of the light, then two more. He
was glad that he knew the Silver Fox patrol signs well enough to know
the meaning of that one. It signified "_Come._"
"He went in his bare feet," said Roy; "look there. See?"
[Illustration: SUDDENLY OUT OF THE DARKNESS SPED A FORM.]
Upon the soft ground was the imprint of a bare heel with the additional
imprint of a diagonal mark upon it. Perhaps Warde would not have
recognized this for a heel print, nor the faint suggestions of another
print two or three inches distant, for a toe print. But these were
easily recognizable by Roy and they indicated the direction also.
"I'm glad he didn't have his shoes on," he said. "Now we know he's got
some kind of a scar on his foot. Come ahead, follow me."
Eight or ten of these prints, among many others which Roy did not pause
to distinguish, brought them to the concrete road which runs through the
old reservation, the Knickerbocker Road, as it is called. Here the
leader of the Silver Foxes was baffled. There was no following
footprints here.
They paused for a moment, considering. The white road stretched like a
ribbon straight north and south. The temporary makeshift cross streets
could be seen in black outline with their silent, ghostly, gloomy
buildings, standing in more or less regular order. Here and there was an
area of lesser darkness where some boarded side had fallen away
revealing the fresher wood of the interiors.
The two scouts moved northward a little way along this permanent,
central road, the backbone of the old camp. Still they could hear that
strange, unearthly voice.
Suddenly out of the darkness near them sped a form. It crossed the road,
entered one of the old buildings and hurriedly emerged, entering
another. It seemed like some lost spirit of the night. It passed within
ten feet of the scouts, never noticing them. It seemed intent with a
kind of diabolical intentness. Meanwhile the voice continued, now
mournful, now petulant, now clear, now modulated, according to the
rising wind.
The two scouts paused spellbound as if in a place haunted. The figure
had disappeared but they could hear the patter of its running, and once
or twice a fleeting dark shadow. The breeze was freshening and conjuring
every sound about the ramshackle buildings into spectral wailings. A
fragment of glass falling from a window startled the listeners.
Agitated, their nerves tense, they strained their eyes for glimpses of
the hurrying apparition and listened to the ghostly concert.
"It's he," said Warde; "we've got to catch him. Do you think that sound
is a tree toad? _Listen!_" He pulled his hat on tighter because of
the rising wind.
"First I thought it was," Roy said. "But it isn't. They make funny
noises but not like that. It's off there and up high. It's not any
animal--or loose boards or anything like that. Come on."
Suddenly out of the blackness arose a piercing scream. Its echo
resounded from the dried boards of some building and re-echoed from
another as if its terror-stricken owner had three voices. It mingled
with that wailing voice, distant, aloof. Then they heard human words,
sounding strange and unhuman.
"_I'm coming! Wait, I'm coming!_"
It sounded farther and farther off until it was drowned in the distant
moaning.
"_It's he,_" Warde whispered, his voice tense.
"I know where it is; come on," said Roy.