BART'S FIRST SHOT
Fenn made a dash for the shelter of a spruce tree, and watched the
descending shower of mud and water. It was soon over, and he stepped out
again, to view the curious volcano. He crossed the open space, free from
snow, and a number of turtles scurried away at his advance.
"That's how it is," remarked the lad, "that the turtles are so numerous
around here. It's as warm as toast around that mud volcano, and they
don't have to hibernate. The ones we found near our camp must have
wandered away in search of food, and were on their way back here. I've
solved part of the mystery, anyhow. Now to examine this curious place."
The boiling spring, or mud volcano, as such phenomenons are variously
called, consisted, in the main, of a large pool of muddy colored water,
lying at the foot of a hill. All around it were dead trees, and the
smell of sulphur, though not so strong as at the first spring Fenn had
visited, was plainly noticeable. The water had a dead, stagnant look,
after the eruption, and Fenn was careful not to approach too close, for
he could not tell when the spring would spout up again. He saw a number
of turtles on logs and bits of wood that extended out into the pool, and
others plunged from the bank into the water at his approach.
"They don't seem to mind the sulphur and the mud," said Fenn to himself.
The lad had read in his school books of the mud volcanoes. They are of a
type similar to the hot geysers of Yellowstone Park, though not so large
or numerous. Though called boiling springs in some parts of the country
they do not boil or bubble on the surface, as a rule, though there is a
constant supply of warm water from some subterranean source, so, that,
as in the case with the spring Fenn was viewing, the water ran over from
the pool, and trickled off through the woods.
Mud volcanoes or boiling springs, while not common, are to be met with
in New York and Pennsylvania. The writer recently visited a large one in
New York State, near Lake Ontario. It was around Christmas, and a cold
blustering day, yet the water from the spring was quite warm, and had
melted the snow for quite a distance in all directions. The water was
impregnated with sulphur and salt, and though there was not an eruption
when the writer was present, there were marks on surrounding trees
showing where mud had been hurled to a height of thirty or forty feet.
There are various theories to account for the action of the mud
volcanoes. One is that steam is formed away below the surface, and,
seeking an outlet, throws the mud and water with it. Another is that the
force of water, flowing from some mountain lake, by an underground
passage, spouts up through the boiling spring, being heated in some
manner in its passage.
But Fenn did not trouble himself much about these theories as he looked
at the curious spring. It was a gloomy, lonesome place, and the presence
of so many turtles, some of them very large, added to the uncanny
aspect.
"Well, there are turtles enough here to stock several collections,"
murmured Fenn. "Lots of different kinds, too. I will take some home I
guess. Now if I had that mysterious man's address I'd send him word.
This mud volcano will be a curious thing to show the other fellows. I
wonder how warm the water is?"
He approached, to thrust his hand into the edge of the spring, when an
ominous rumbling beneath his feet warned him. He jumped away just in
time, and, as he ran for the shelter of the trees, there was another
upheaval of mud, and he received a share of it. He remained in the
shelter until the spring subsided, and then made his way back to camp.
His chums were there when he arrived, and something in their looks
prompted Fenn to ask:
"Well, where's the bear steak, and the partridges for roasting."
"No luck," declared Bart in disgust. "Never saw a bit of game! I guess
we camped in the wrong place."
"Oh, no we didn't!" exclaimed Fenn in triumph, as he produced the two
plump birds from his pockets. "Here's what I got, besides bagging a
boiling spring for my morning's work."
"Say, where'd you get those?" asked Bart eagerly.
"Come on, show us?" begged Ned.
"Time enough," responded the stout lad. "I'm going to have dinner now,
and then we'll have these birds, roasted, for supper. There's more where
they came from. Now I'll tell you about the mud volcano," which he did,
graphically, so that his chums were eager to go and see it. But they
decided to wait until the next day, and to have a good supper of roast
partridge that night. Fenn cooked his game to perfection, and was given
a hearty vote of thanks.
A visit to the mud volcano was made the next day, and there were found
to be more turtles than on Fenn's visit. The volcano was observed in
action, much to the wonderment of the three lads, who had never seen
anything like it, and once Ned, who was too venturesome, was caught
under an unusually large shower of mud.
"Well, let's go hunting now," proposed Bart, after a pause. "I haven't
had a decent shot since we came to camp. I've got to get that bear
before I go back."
They tramped off through the woods, their eyes eager for a sight of
game, large or small. Each one had a compass, so that if they became
separated they could make their way back to camp, for the forest was
dense. The snow had ceased, and the weather was clear and cold.
Fenn and Frank had shotguns, and elected to try to bag some wild turkeys
or partridges, so they went off to one side, while Bart and Ned, with
their rifles, kept together.
Suddenly Bart, after an hour's tramping in the woods, with never a sight
of anything larger than a rabbit, which he would not fire at, came to an
abrupt stop. Ned, who was right behind him, halted also.
"What is it?" he whispered.
"What is that over there?" asked Bart, also in a whisper, and he
pointed to a black object near some bushes.
"A stump," replied Ned promptly.
"Do stumps move?" inquired Bart.
"Of course not."
"Well that one did, so it isn't a stump. I think it's a bear."
Bart's opinion was unexpectedly confirmed the next moment, for the
animal turned and uttered a loud "woof!" as it sniffed at the snow at
the foot of the bush, evidently in search of something to eat.
Bart dropped to one knee, and took quick aim. It was his first shot
since arriving at camp, and it was one worthy of much care, for bears
were none too common to risk missing one.
The rifle cracked, but there was no cloud of smoke, for Bart was using
his new smokeless cartridges. The lad pumped another bullet into the
barrel, and fired again, for the bear had not moved after the first
report.
Then, as the echoes of the rifle died away, the two lads saw the animal
quickly rear itself upon its hind legs, and swing around in their
direction.