THE FIRST CAMP
“White man and Indian are brothers,” remarked Wandering Bear, solemnly,
on the following morning. “Indian always friend of white man. White man
give him much presents; Indian show him big game; where fish is plenty.
Yes, always much friend now.”
Breakfast was over. The crowd, with the exception of Larry, to whom the
situation was so novel as to prevent him from sleeping with any degree
of soundness, had spent a comfortable night.
To Tom Clifton’s great satisfaction, Teddy Banes announced his
intention of remaining at the Cree village.
“Good! That old sour-face would be enough to take all the fun out of
the trip,” said the aspirant for football honors. “Acts awful queer,
doesn’t he?”
“At times he did hand out a few awful knocks, if that’s what you
mean,” grinned Larry.
He glanced at the sky, in the vast expanse of which not a fleck of
cloud could be seen. Every indication pointed to another sunny,
sizzling day; and, anticipating the discomfort before him, the lad made
a wry face.
“What’s up?” demanded Tom.
“I am,” responded Larry, rising to his feet. “Isn’t it time to skip?”
“Yes! Fool’s Castle is a long way from here,” said Bob. “We shan’t
reach it even to-night, eh, Thunderbolt?”
“To-morrow,” answered the young Indian.
“But for stern duty,” remarked Dave, “I’d refuse to leave the
delightful shade of these hills.”
At Thunderbolt’s direction several young braves departed for the
horses, soon leading them up to the teepee. They had been well fed and
cared for, so were in a mettlesome mood. A mass of tribesmen gathered
around as Wandering Bear bade them a stately adieu.
“White man come again,” he invited. “Always welcome.”
“How you do,” said Sulking Wolf, shaking hands with each. And, as they
sprang into the saddle and started off, they heard him utter the same
words as a parting salutation.
Thunderbolt, mounted on a brown-patched nag, led the advance.
Soon after passing the break in the rugged hills they reached a narrow
stream which rippled and bubbled and sang its way over a rocky bed.
“We go across,” announced the Indian.
“It looks jolly inviting,” said Larry. “If I could find any excuse I’d
fall off my horse and take a swim.”
“Did you ever think how curious a fish’s life must be?” began Dave.
“No! But I’ve often thought how curious the Rambler Club’s life must
be,” grinned Larry.
The cool, clear water splashed over stirrup leathers, while the hoofs
of the ponies scattered showers of shining drops.
Crossing the marshy strip of shore, with the imprints of many
longhorns’ hoofs upon it, they struck off in a westerly direction.
The further they progressed the more Larry Burnham became convinced of
the silliness of the whole proceeding. Frequently, when the pace was
not too great, he was observed to take a folder from his pocket and
scan it intently.
“Wonder what that chap’s doing?” remarked Tom Clifton to Dick Travers
on one occasion.
“Ask him,” laughed Dick.
“And get some kind of mean answer?” snapped Tom. “No--I don’t think.
But I’ll find out, just the same.”
At noon a halt for lunch was made in a little patch of timber, and
upon resuming the march the seven lads pushed steadily ahead, at long
intervals skirting around or crossing ranges of hills, and seeing on
many occasions great herds of grazing cattle.
“Where are we going to stop, Thunderbolt?” asked Dave, when it came
time to look for another camping ground.
The young Indian pointed to a patch of woods in the distance.
“Good place,” he announced. “Water. White boys much pleased.
Thunderbolt know all good places.”
“Well, there’s one lucky thing,” mused Larry to himself. “As far as
I can make out, this jaunt has taken me in just the right direction.
I wonder if the fellows will be mad? But what in thunder do I care if
they are?”
As their guide had said the timber seemed to be a most excellent place
for a camp. There were plenty of fragrant balsam boughs for couches,
all the fire-wood necessary, and a tiny creeklet flowing through the
center.
“Simply jim dandy!” cried Tom, enthusiastically. “Everything we
need--except ice-cream sodas. How about it, little ‘Fear-not’?”
Larry, feeling that his tribulations were almost over, grinned.
“It’s perfectly lovely, Tom,” he said. “I don’t know what kind of
an insect bit me on the cheek just now, but I’ll bet they have an
enthusiastic reception committee waiting to receive us.”
“Don’t forget I carry with me all sorts of medical stuff,” said Tom.
“For instance?”
“The first aid to the injured kind.”
“Try to use any o’ it on me, an’ there’ll be a scrap,” snickered Larry.
Dismounting, the boys led their ponies through the woods, coming to a
stop in a small, grassy clearing.
“Couldn’t be better,” exclaimed Bob. “Pitch in, fellows; we’ll have a
camp made in a jiffy.”
Setting the example, he quickly unsaddled his tired horse, whose shaggy
sides were flecked with foam. Then, tethering the animal to a near-by
sapling, he drew a hatchet from his belt.
“We’ll need lots of fire-wood,” he said.
“I’ll help you cut some,” announced Tom.
“Me too,” said Thunderbolt.
“My job will be getting the water, and things ready to cook,” declared
Dick Travers. “It’s your turn to-night, Tom, to play chef.”
“Guess I’ll gather a whole lot of balsam boughs for beds,” supplemented
Sam Randall.
After the horses had been cared for Dave Brandon, on looking around,
discovered a spot which promised to afford a delightful resting place;
and, in order to see if his ideas were correct, promptly tested it.
The result proved highly satisfactory.
Seeing this, the tired, hot and dusty Larry Burnham, after washing
his face and hands in the creek, and satisfying his thirst with the
fresh, cool water, sauntered back to the glade and imitated Dave with
considerable success.
There was no doubt that the blond lad, as Tom often declared, lacked
get up and go. He had everything in him to make a great success but the
willingness to hustle. His laziness differed from Dave’s; for while the
former editor of the High School “Reflector” often indulged in periods
of rest, it was more in order to allow his mental faculties full play.
Then, too, Dave could be very strenuous and determined when anything
called for such an effort.
And no one had ever seen Larry Burnham either active or strenuous,
although he was generally known to be determined--to exert himself as
little as possible on all occasions.
Presently the noise of the hatchets stopped, and Tom Clifton,
bearing in his arms an enormous quantity of brush and wood, was seen
approaching. He threw his burden down on the grass, then began to eye
Larry sternly.
“What are you sitting there for?” he demanded.
“Resting, thank you, Mr. Clifton,” responded Larry, sweetly.
“You’re a nice one, I must say.”
“Yes, as fellows go, I suppose I must be pretty nice,” chirped Larry.
“Why in thunder don’t you get up and hustle like the rest of us?”
“There’s no use in everybody working.”
“Oh, there isn’t, eh? Well, that’s a good one! There’s plenty for a
chap to do if he only wants to look for it. Come--get up, Larry. Start
the fire going.”
“No, thanks,” drawled Larry, with a shake of his head. “Don’t think
Dick Travers’d like it.” His eyes began to twinkle. “When Dick gets all
the kindlings together I won’t mind puttin’ a match to ’em.”
“You haven’t done a blessed thing since you’ve been with us,” stormed
Tom. “You’re always sitting around waiting for grub to be served.”
“Mercy! Just listen to the boss!”
“It makes me tired. On a camping-out trip the work ought to be divided
equally. Be sensible, Larry. I’m willing to do my share, but I want to
see every other chap do his.”
“Don’t waste so much time, Tom. Talk to Dave. He’s loafin’.”
“Aren’t you going to give us a hand then?”
“I sort o’ think it isn’t worth while.”
“You’re lazy, Larry Burnham!” cried Tom, hotly. “A fine football player
you’ll make if you don’t wake up and put a little ginger into that big
form of yours.”
“Softly--softly, Tom!” laughed Dave.
“I’ve been talking to a big softy, I know,” growled Tom, thoroughly
disgusted, “and----”
“Hold on!” interrupted Larry. His anger began to rise. “Fire off a
little more talk like that, an’ I’ll tell you what I think of you.”
“Go ahead, then!” snapped Tom.
“For goodness’ sake, fellows, cut it all out,” put in Dave. “I’ll
prescribe a good supper and a couple of hours rest----”
“Don’t be afraid, Larry,” persisted Tom.
“Afraid of what?” jeered Larry--“you? See here, Tom Clifton”--the big
fellow rose to his feet--“believe me, I’m tired of your always pitchin’
into me. Do you understand?”
“I should worry,” said Tom. “The idea of your talking like that after
all the mean things you’ve said about the Rambler Club! Didn’t you
nearly die with laughter when that idiot of a Teddy Banes made silly
remarks? Oh, no!” The color mounted to his face. “I’ve been thinking
about it ever since.”
“I don’t sport a chip on my shoulder, but I’ll take just so much an’ no
more!” exclaimed the blond lad.
His belligerent attitude and the look which came into his mild blue
eyes quite astounded Tom Clifton. Here was a chap whom he sometimes
thought belonged in the overgrown baby class actually threatening a
member of the Rambler Club. To retreat would never do.
“Are you going to start a scrap?”
For a few seconds the two tall boys, but a few paces apart, eyed each
other so angrily that the “historian” felt compelled to literally step
into the breach.
“That will do, fellows,” he said, quietly.
“He needn’t think I’m afraid of him!” cried Tom.
Dave gently urged him away.
Thereupon Clifton, with a snort of disgust, seized a water pail and
went off toward the creek. Larry then resumed his former position.
“A conceited dub!” he remarked, kicking lazily at the turf.
“No,” answered Dave; “Tom really isn’t conceited. He’s simply terribly
in earnest.”
“Oh, I don’t know!” growled Larry.
The stout boy smiled.
“I’ll admit that sometimes he’s a little too free in expressing his
opinions; but he’s fair and square as a chap can be. You’re lazy,
Larry--so am I.” He ended the sentence with a good-natured laugh.
By this time the workers were coming back. Enough wood had been
gathered for the entire night, and a sufficient quantity of balsam
boughs for the beds was only waiting to be dragged into the glade.
Whistling cheerily, Dick Travers returned with pails of water, closely
followed by Tom.
“Say, Dave, would you believe it,” remarked the former, “there’s a big
bunch of longhorns grazing on the other side of these woods. Some of
them have just crossed the creek a bit further down.”
“Gee!” exclaimed Larry. “Suppose they should come upon us while we’re
asleep!”
Feeling sorry he had given way to his temper, he addressed this remark
to Tom. Tom, however, preserved an icy silence.
“Cattle no hurt,” said Thunderbolt, reassuringly.
The meal was prepared in a surprisingly short time. Luscious slices of
bacon sizzled away in the frying-pan; potatoes were baking on red-hot
embers; while coffee-pots sent up clouds of hissing steam. Then there
were crackers and cheese and preserves.
Any boy who could not have enjoyed the “spread” which Chef Tom Clifton
prepared would have been in a pretty poor condition.
But every boy did enjoy it, even though the insects, both flying and
crawling, persisted in making themselves unduly conspicuous.
Thunderbolt proved a most agreeable guide and companion. He related
stories, told them secrets of woodcraft which even Tom admitted he had
not heard before, and helped to drag the balsam boughs into the glade
and arrange them in neat, smooth piles.
“He’s a crackerjack,” laughed Sam Randall. “After this, don’t let
anybody talk to me about lazy Indians.”
“Thunderbolt certainly isn’t one,” said Tom, with strong emphasis.
When preparations for the night’s rest were finished the fire was
sending a wide circle of dancing light over the darkening woods. And in
this little oasis of light amidst a vast desert of gloom the boys sat,
often conjecturing about Jed Warren’s strange disappearance.
“I’m going to turn in,” remarked Dave, finally.
“I think we’d better all do the same,” said Bob. “We want to make an
early start for Fool’s Castle to-morrow morning.”
Thereupon the crowd unstrapped their blankets and betook themselves to
the fragrant balsam boughs--that is, all except Sam Randall, whose duty
it was to stand first watch.
“And don’t you dare to wake me up a minute before time, Sam,” warned
Dave, laughingly.
So the lone sentinel began pacing to and fro. The occasional comments
from the recumbent forms ceased, and the soft pat, pat of Sam Randall’s
feet, the never-ceasing rustling of grass and leaves, and the noises
made by the horses moving about were the sounds which reigned supreme.
Sam was too “seasoned a veteran” to have his emotions stirred.
Mechanically, he watched the light flashing over tree trunks, tinging
deep recesses with its ruddy glow, and the smoke rising high and
drifting slowly out of view.
Every now and again he replenished the fire, until the flames shot up,
and crackling sparks, like a miniature fire display, dropped about him.
His lonely vigil neared an end.
“Poor old Dave,” he reflected, glancing at the round face of the
sleeping “historian.” “I almost hate to do it.”
He was about stepping over to awaken him when a series of
blood-curdling yells from a point not far distant, followed by the
sharp cracking of pistol shots, gave him the start of his life.
Then came the neighs of frightened horses, the stamping of hoofs, and
the sound of a heavy crashing through the underbrush.
Before the astounded Sam Randall had time to even voice a warning the
camp was astir.