A Forest Terror
"A dandy day for fishing," remarked Bert as he was dressing a few
mornings later.
"Just right for the speckled beauties to bite," acquiesced Dick as he
looked out of the window and saw the clouds that obscured the sun.
"What do you say to trying it?" suggested Tom, who was an enthusiast on
the subject. "I'd like nothing better than to whip some of these mountain
streams for trout."
"Or troll for pickerel in the lake Mr. Melton was telling us about,"
amended Bert. "He says there are some whopping big fellows up there.
We'll find plenty of bass, too, and they're fighters from way back."
At breakfast the matter was broached and met with the hearty approval of
Mr. Melton.
"I don't think it will rain before night," he said, "and on a hazy day
like this they'll keep you busy pulling them in. How about tackle? Did
you bring any along?"
"Plenty," answered Bert. "Each of us has a rod and reel. The pike and
pickerel will bite at the spoon, and we can get plenty of bait for the
bass right out here in the garden. Let's hurry up, fellows, and get
busy," he continued, pushing his chair away from the table. "Won't you
go along, Mr. Melton."
"Like to," said their host. "Nothing would suit me better than to pull
in some of the sockdolagers you'll find in that lake. But I've got a
date with a horse dealer to-day, who's coming up to look at some of my
bronchos, and I can't get off. Don't catch them all to-day," he laughed,
"and some day soon I'll go with you. Of course, you'll take your guns
along."
"Why, yes, if you think it necessary," replied Bert. "But we'll be pretty
well loaded with tackle and fish if we have any luck."
"Never mind the load," he adjured emphatically. "Never go into the
mountains without your gun. Of course, you may have no use for it.
Chances are that you won't. But it's a mighty wise thing to have a good
rifle along wherever you go in this country. And if you need it at all,
you'll need it mighty bad and mighty quick."
So that when the boys left the house a half hour later, they took with
them not only all that was necessary to lure the finny prey from their
lurking places, but each as well carried on his shoulder a Winchester
repeating rifle and around his waist a well-stored cartridge belt.
Mr. Melton gave them explicit directions as to the route they were to
follow to find the lake, which lay in the hollow of a broad plateau about
five miles back in the mountains.
"You'll find a canoe hidden in the bushes near a big clump of trees on
the east shore," he said. "That is, if nobody has swiped it. But I
covered it up pretty well the last time I was there, and I guess it's
safe enough. If not, you'll have to take your chance in fishing from the
shore. There's an island a little way out in the lake, and you'll find
the pike thick around there if you can get out to it. And don't wait too
long before starting for home. That mountain trail is hard enough to
follow in the daytime, but you'd find your work cut out for you if you
tried it in the dark."
They promised not to forget the time in their enthusiasm for the sport,
and, stowing away in their basket the toothsome and abundant lunch put up
by Mrs. Melton, they started off gaily on their trip.
For a little distance from the house the road was fairly level. Then it
began to ascend and soon the trees that clothed the slopes shut them in,
and they lost sight of the ranch and of everything that spoke of
civilization.
"'This is the forest primeval,'" quoted Dick.
"'The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,'" added Tom.
"Primeval's the word," said Bert as he looked in awe at the giant
trees, towering in some instances to a height of two hundred feet.
"I suppose this looked just as it does now ten thousand years ago.
The only thing that suggests man is this trail we're following, and that
gets fainter and fainter as we keep climbing. This is sure enough 'God's
out-of-doors.'"
The balsam of the pines was in their nostrils and the path was carpeted
by the fragrant needles. Squirrels chattered in the trees and chipmunks
slipped like shadows between the trunks. As they were passing a monster
oak, Bert's observant eye noted something that brought him to a sudden
halt.
"Look there, fellows," and he pointed to a place on the bark about
fifteen feet from the ground.
"Well, what about it?" demanded Tom.
"Those scratches on the trunk," said Bert. "What made them?"
They looked more closely and saw two rows of scratches that had torn
deeply into the bark. Each row consisted of five marks at an equal
distance apart. It was as though two gigantic rakes had been drawn along
the rough surface, each tooth of the rakes peeling off a long vertical
strip.
The boys looked at each other in wonder. Then they peered into the
surrounding woods a little uneasily.
"Some animal made those marks," said Bert at last. "And, what's more,
there's only one animal that could have done it."
"And that's a grizzly bear," said Dick.
Again the boys looked at each other, and it almost seemed as though they
could hear the beating of their hearts. Then Tom measured again with his
eye the distance from the ground to where the scratches began.
"Sixteen feet if it's an inch," he decided. "Nonsense," he went on, with
a tone of relief in his voice. "There's nothing that walks on four feet
could do it. A horse even couldn't stand on his hind legs and strike with
his fore hoofs the place where those scratches begin. Some of those
pre-historic monsters, whose skeletons we see in the museums, might have
done it, but nothing that walks the earth nowadays. You'll have to guess
again, Bert."
"They might have been made by some animal in climbing," suggested Dick.
"He might have slipped in coming down and torn off those strips in trying
to hold on."
"But grizzlies don't climb," objected Bert.
"Who said it was a grizzly?" retorted Tom. "It might have been a black or
brown bear. You've got grizzlies on the brain. The very biggest don't
measure more than nine or ten feet from the nose to the root of the tail.
Allowing a couple of feet more for his reach, and you have eleven or
twelve altogether. How do you account for the other four or five?
Unless," he went on with elaborate sarcasm, "you figure out that this pet
of yours is about fourteen feet long."
The argument certainly seemed to be with Tom, but Bert, although he had
no answer to it, still felt unconvinced.
"The scratches are too deep to have been made by any animal slipping," he
persisted. "The beast, whatever it was, had a tremendous purchase to dig
so deep. And he couldn't have got such a purchase except by standing on
his hind legs."
"Marvelous," mocked Tom. "A regular Sherlock Holmes! Perhaps he stood on
a ladder or a chair. I've heard that grizzlies carry such things about
with them when strolling in the woods. Come along, old man," he bantered,
"or these squirrels will think you're a nut and carry you off. There's
nothing this side of a nightmare that'll fit your theory, and you'd
better give it up and come along with us sensible people."
"But what did do it, then?" asked Bert obstinately.
"Search me," answered Tom flippantly. "I don't have to know. I'm not
cursed with curiosity so much as some people I could mention. What I do
know is that we're losing time and that I'm fairly aching to bait my hook
and fling it into the water. We've promised Mrs. Melton a big mess of
fish for supper, and we've got to get busy, or she'll think we're a lot
of four-flushers."
They picked up their traps that they had laid aside while they were
studying the bark. Tom and Dick kept up a steady fire of jokes, their
spirits lightened by the evidence that the "ghost" of the grizzly had
been "laid." But Bert answered only in monosyllables. He would have been
as relieved as they had he been able to convince himself that he was
wrong. He "hadn't lost any bear," and was not particularly anxious to
"meet up" with one, especially a monster of the size indicated. Suddenly
he dropped the basket.
"I've got it," he exclaimed eagerly.
"No, you haven't," contradicted Dick. "You've just dropped it."
"What have you got?" mocked Tom. "A fit?"
"The answer," said Bert.
"Prove it," challenged Dick.
"I'm from Missouri," said Tom skeptically.
"Why, it's this way," hurried on Bert, too engrossed in his solution to
retort in kind. "Sandy was telling me a little while ago about the habits
of grizzlies, and he mentioned especially the trick they have of standing
on their hind legs and clawing at trees as high as they could reach. But
I remember he said they did this only in the spring. They've just come
out of winter quarters and they feel the need of stretching their muscles
that have got cramped during their long sleep. In the spring, the early
spring. Don't you see?"
"Not exactly," confessed Dick.
"No, Sherlock," murmured Tom, "I don't follow you."
"Why," said Bert impatiently, "don't you boobs realize that up in the
mountains here the snow is often four or five feet deep in the early
spring? How could the grizzly reach that high? _Because he stood on a
snowbank._"
"By Jove," exclaimed Tom, all his self-assurance vanishing, "I believe
you're right."
"You've hit the bull's-eye," cried Dick. "Bert, old man, you're a
wonder."
"Of course," Bert went on, too generous to gloat over their discomfiture,
"that only proves that he was here then. He may be a hundred miles off
by this time. Still, it won't do a bit of harm to keep our eyes peeled
and make sure that our guns are in good working order. He's probably got
a perpetual grouch, and he might be peevish if he should turn up and find
us poaching on his hunting grounds."
They moved along, a little more soberly now, and their eyes narrowly
scanned the trees ahead as though at any moment through the forest aisles
they might discover a giant form lumbering down upon them. They did not
think it at all likely, as there had been no rumors for some time past
of a grizzly having been seen in the locality, nor had the mutilated body
of some luckless steer borne traces of his handiwork. Still it was
"better to be safe than sorry," and their vigilance did not relax until
they came out of the thicker forest onto a more scantily wooded plateau
and saw before them the shining waters of the lake that marked the goal
of their journey.
Under the cloudy sky the waters had the steel-gray luster of quicksilver.
It seemed to be about three miles in length, although this they could not
clearly determine, owing to a curve at the upper end, which concealed its
limits in that direction. It was not more than three-quarters of a mile
wide, and the expanse was broken by a small wooded island about half way
across. Nothing living was in sight, except a huge fish hawk that waited
expectantly on a dead branch overhanging the water. Even while they
looked, it darted downward, cleaving the air and water like an arrow, and
reappeared a moment later with a large fish struggling in its jaws.
Resuming its seat upon the branch it tossed the fish in the air, caught
it cleverly as it came down, and swallowed it at a gulp.
"Talk about juggling," laughed Tom. "That fellow would make a hit upon
the vaudeville stage."
"I'd like first rate to have him at the end of a cord," said Dick.
"Like those natives we saw in China, eh?" suggested Bert. "Do you
remember how they used to fasten a ring about the throat so that they
couldn't swallow them? It always seemed to me a low-down game to make
them fork over as soon as they caught the fish."
"Well, at any rate, that fellow has shown us that there are fish to be
had for the taking," said Tom. "I'll hunt up that canoe while you get
the rods and reels ready. What are you going to try for first, pickerel
or bass?"
"Suppose we take a hack at both," suggested Dick. "I'll get out the spoon
bait and try for pike and pickerel. You and Bert can use the live bait
and see what luck you have with the bass."
A careful search revealed the canoe, so cunningly hidden by its owner
under a heap of brush and sedge-grass, that only the explicit directions
they had received enabled them to find it. It was in good condition,
about eighteen feet in length and two paddles lay in the bottom. Tom got
in, pushed off from the shore, and with deft strokes brought the slender
craft down to where his friends were waiting.
Bert eyed the frail boat dubiously.
"A canoe is a dandy thing for cruising in, especially if you want to get
somewhere in a hurry, but it was never meant for a fishing party," he
commented. "We'd have to be so careful in moving about that we couldn't
keep our mind on the sport. You couldn't play a bass from one without
danger of upsetting. I tell you what we'd better do. Let one of us fish
from the shore for bass, while the two others in the canoe troll for
pickerel. Two lines can be put out over the stern and one can paddle
gently while the other keeps a sharp eye on the lines. Between us all we
ought to get a mess in less than no time. We'll toss up to see which
shall do the lonesome act while the others use the canoe. At noontime
we'll have a fish fry right here on the shore to help us out with the
lunch. The one who catches the first fish gets out of doing any of the
work. The one who gets the next will have to do the cooking and the one
that trails in last will have to clean the fish. What do you say?"
There was no dissenting voice, and the spinning coin decreed that Tom and
Dick should do the trolling, while Bert remained on shore and tried for
bass.
With the polished spoons twinkling in the water behind, the canoe shot
out to the center of the lake. Bert carefully baited his hook and cast it
far out from shore. Then, with the happy optimism of the average
fisherman, he settled back and waited for results.
Contrary to the usual experience, those results were not long in coming.
Tom was the first to score. The spoon at the end of his line dipped
violently, and, hauling it in rapidly, he yanked in a big pickerel. He
did not dare to shout, for fear of scaring the wary denizens of the lake,
but he held it up for Bert to see, and the latter responded with a wave
of the hand in congratulation.
The next instant he had to grab his own rod with both hands, while the
cord whistled out over the reel. He had made a "strike," and the frantic
plunges at the other end of the line told that he had hooked a fighter.
Back and forth he darted, until it seemed as though the slender rod would
break under the strain. Bert's fighting blood responded to the challenge,
and he played his opponent with all the skill and judgment in which he
was a past master. It was fully ten minutes before, carefully shortening
his line, he was able to land on the bank a magnificent striped bass.
From that time on, the sport was fast and furious. The lake was full of
fish, and it had been visited so rarely that they had not learned the
danger of the bait that trailed so temptingly before them. In half an
hour they had caught more than they could eat and carry home, and Tom,
whose appalling appetite was clamoring for satisfaction, suggested that
they wind up and pull for shore. Dick was nothing loath, and the canoe,
more heavily loaded than when they had started out, glided shoreward
until its nose touched the bank where Bert was standing, surrounded by
a host of finny beauties that bore witness to his skill.
They fastened the boat securely and spent a few minutes comparing their
catches. Then they gathered a heap of dry brush and burned it until they
had a glowing bed of embers. They had no frying pan, but Bert improvised
an ingenious skillet of tough oaken twigs, that, held high enough above
the fire, promised to broil the fish to a turn.
Tom, who, in accordance with the agreement, had nothing to do, stretched
himself out luxuriously and "bossed the job."
"See that you don't burn the fish, my man," he said to Bert, affecting a
languid drawl. "And you, my good fellow," he added, turning to Dick, "be
sure and clean them thoroughly."
He dodged just in time to avoid a fish head that Dick threw at him. It
whizzed by his ear, and his quick duck detracted somewhat from his
dignity.
"The growing insolence of the lower classes," he muttered, regaining his
equilibrium. "You're fired," he roared, glaring at Dick.
"All right," said Dick, throwing down his knife.
"No, no," corrected Tom hurriedly, "not till after dinner."
Before long the fish were sputtering merrily over the fire and the
appetizing smell was full of promise. It even induced Tom to abandon his
leisurely attitude and "rustle" the good things out of the basket. They
made a royal meal and feasted so full and long that, when at last old
Nature simply balked at more, they had no desire to do anything but lie
back lazily and revel in the sheer delight of living.
"If I've an enemy on earth, I forgive him," sighed Dick blissfully.
"Old Walt Whitman's my favorite poet," said Tom. "Isn't he the fellow
that tells you to 'loaf and invite your soul'?"
"Soul," grunted Bert disdainfully. "You haven't any soul. Just now you're
all body."
"Always pickin' on me," groaned Tom resignedly.
In complete abandonment to their sense of well being they drew their hats
over their eyes and stretched out under the shadow of the trees that came
down almost to the water's edge. A brooding peace enveloped them, and the
droning of insects and the faint lapping of the water on the shore lulled
them into drowsiness. Insensibly they lapsed into slumber.
A half hour passed before Bert started up and rubbed his eyes. It took
him a moment to realize where he was. His eyes fell on his sleeping
companions, and he made a movement as though to awake them. Then he
checked the impulse.
"What's the use?" he said to himself. "There's plenty of time before we
need to start for home."
He yawned and lay back again. But now the desire for sleep had left him.
After a moment he sat up again.
"I haven't tried the canoe yet," he thought. "I'll take a little spin
across to the island. They'll be awake by the time I get back."
Noiselessly he walked down to the water's edge, unfastened the canoe and
took up the paddle.
There was scarcely a ripple on the lake except that made by the sharp bow
of the canoe. There was an exhilarating sense of flying as his light
craft shot away from the shore. Almost before he knew it he had covered
the distance and was drawing up the canoe on the sloping beach of the
island.
It was larger than he had thought, at a distance, and toward the center
was heavily wooded. There was a dense tangle of undergrowth, and in order
to avoid this he skirted the shore, intending to make a complete circuit
before returning to the canoe.
His surprise was great when on reaching the further side he found that it
was not an island at all. A narrow strip of land connected it with the
mainland beyond. It was not over a hundred feet in width, but he noticed
that there was a very distinct path that had been beaten through the
undergrowth. The discovery for a moment startled him. Then he realized
that the woods were, of course, full of all sorts of harmless animals,
who had to come down to the water to drink. This would explain the beaten
path, and in some measure it reassured him.
Still his gait was quicker as he sped along, intent on regaining the
canoe. It would have perhaps been just as well if he had put his rifle in
when he started. He listened attentively now as he hurried on, but not a
sound broke the stillness of the woods.
And now his pulses began to drum with that subtle sixth sense of his that
warned of danger. Again and again in his adventurous career he had felt
it, and it had never misled him. It was something like the second sight
of the Highlander. His nature was so highly organized that like a
sensitive camera it registered impressions that others overlooked. Now
some "coming event" was casting "its shadow before," and the mysterious
monitor warned him to be on his guard.
It was with a feeling of intense relief that he came again in sight of
the canoe and saw that it was undisturbed. He looked across and saw his
friends waving at him. He waved back and stooped to unfasten the canoe.
Then something that struck him as odd in their salutation caused him to
look again. It was not simply a friendly greeting. There was terror,
panic, wild anxiety. And now they were shouting and pointing to something
behind him.
He turned like a flash. And what he saw made his heart almost leap from
his body.