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THE BOY SCOUTS IN THE BLUE RIDGE
Or
Marooned Among the Moonshiners
by
HERBERT CARTER
Author of "The Boy Scouts First Camp Fire," "The Boy
Scouts On the Trail," "The Boy Scouts In the Maine
Woods," "The Boy Scouts Through the
Big Timber," "The Boy Scouts
In the Rockies"
[Illustration: "Good shot, Bob!" cried Thad. "Get another stone, quick,
for he's coming after you." Page 146.
--_The Boy Scouts In the Blue Ridge._]
[Illustration]
A. L. Burt Company
New York
Copyright, 1913
By A. L. Burt Company
THE BOY SCOUTS IN THE BLUE RIDGE.
THE BOY SCOUTS IN THE BLUE RIDGE
CHAPTER I.
THE HIKE THROUGH THE SMOKY RANGE.
"DID anybody happen to see my knapsack around?"
"Why, you had it just a few minutes ago, Step Hen!"
"I know that, Bumpus; and I'd take my affidavy I laid it down on this
rock."
"Well, don't whine so about a little thing like that, Step Hen; it ain't
there now, and that's a fact."
"Somebody's gone and sneaked it on me, that's what. I'm the unluckiest
feller in the whole bunch, for havin' queer things happen to him. Just
can't lay a single thing I've got down anywhere, but what it disappears
in the most _remarkable_ way you ever heard of, and bobs up somewhere
else! I must be haunted, I'm beginnin' to believe. Do _you_ know
anything about my knapsack, Giraffe?"
"Never touched your old grub sack, Step Hen; so don't you dare accuse
me of playing a trick on you. Sure you didn't hang it up somewhere; I've
known you to do some funny stunts that way;" and the tall boy called
"Giraffe" by his mates, stretched his long neck in a most ridiculous
manner, as he looked all around.
Eight boys were on a hike through the mountains of North Carolina. From
the fact that they were all dressed in neat khaki uniforms it was
evident that they must belong to some Boy Scout troop; and were off on a
little excursion. This was exactly the truth; and they had come a long
distance by rail before striking their present wild surroundings.
Their home town of Cranford was located in a big Northern State, and all
the members of the Silver Fox Patrol lived there; though several of them
had come to that busy little town from other sections of the country.
Besides two of those whose conversation has been noted at the beginning
of this chapter there was, first of all, Thad Brewster, the leader of
the patrol, and when at home acting as scoutmaster in the absence of the
young man who occupied that position, in order to carry out the rules
and principles of the organization. Thad was a bright lad, and having
belonged to another troop before coming to Cranford, knew considerably
more than most of his fellows in the patrol.
Next to him, as second in command, was Allan Hollister, a boy who had
been raised to get the bumps of experience. He had lived for a time up
in the Adirondacks, and also in Maine. When it came down to showing how
things ought to be done according to the ways of woodsmen, and not by
the book, the boys always looked to Allan for information.
Then there was a slender, rather effeminate, boy, who seemed very
particular about his looks, as though he feared lest his uniform become
soiled, or the shine on his shoes suffer from the dust of the mountain
road. This was "Smithy." Of course he had another name when at home or
in school--Edmund Maurice Travers Smith; but no ordinary boy could
bother with such a high-flown appellation as this; and so "Smithy" it
became as soon as he began to circulate among the lads of Cranford.
Next to him was a dumpy, rollicking sort of a boy, who seemed so clumsy
in his actions that he was forever stumbling. He had once answered to
the name of Cornelius Jasper Hawtree; but if anybody called out "Bumpus"
he would smile, and answer to it. Bumpus he must be then to the end of
the story. And as he was musically inclined, possessing a fine tenor
voice, and being able to play on "any old instrument," as he claimed it
was only right that he assume the duties of bugler to the Cranford
Troop. Bumpus carried the shining bugle at his side, held by a thick
crimson cord; and when he tried he could certainly draw the sweetest
kind of notes from its brass throat.
Then there was Davy Jones, a fellow who had a sinuous body, and seemed
to be a born athlete. Davy could do all sorts of "stunts," and was never
so happy as hanging by his toes from the high branch of some tree; or
turning a double somersault in the air, always landing on his nimble
feet, like a cat. Davy had one affliction, which often gave him more or
less trouble. He was liable to be seized with cramps at any time; and
these doubled him up in a knot. He carried some pills given to him by
the family doctor at home, and at such times one of the other boys
usually forced a couple between his blue lips. But some of the fellows
were beginning to have faint suspicions concerning these "cramps;" and
that the artful Davy always seemed to be gripped nowadays when there was
a prospect of some extra heavy work at hand.
The last of the eight boys was a dark-haired lad, with a face that,
while handsome, was a little inclined to be along the order of the
proud. Robert White Quail was a Southern-born boy. He came from Alabama,
but had lived many years in this very region through which the Silver
Fox Patrol was now hiking. Indeed, it had been at his personal
solicitation that they had finally agreed to take their outing in
climbing the famous Blue Ridge Mountains, and tasting some of the
delights of a genuine experience in the wilderness. Among his
companions the Southern lad went by the name of "Bob White;" and
considering what his last name happened to be, it can be easily
understood that nothing else in the wide world would have answered.
Of course Step Hen had another name, which was plainly Stephen Bingham.
When a mite, going to school for the first time, on being asked his name
by the teacher, he had spelled it as made up of two distinct words; and
so Step Hen he was bound to be called by his comrades.
Giraffe also was known in family circles as Conrad Stedman; but if any
boy in Cranford was asked about such a fellow, the chances were he would
shake his head, and declare that the only one he knew by the name of
Stedman was "Giraffe," For some time he had gone as "Rubberneck," but
this became so common that the other stuck to him. Giraffe loved eating.
He was also passionately fond of making fires, so that the others called
him the fire fiend. When Giraffe was around no one else had the nerve to
even think of starting the camp-fire; though after that had been done,
he was willing they should "tote" the wood to keep it running.
The day was rather warm, even for up in the mountains, and if the signs
told the truth they might look for a thunder storm before a great while.
As the scouts had no tents along, and were marching in very light order,
they would have to depend upon their natural sagacity to carry them
through any emergencies that might arise, either in connection with the
weather, or the food line. But they knew they could place unlimited
dependence on their leaders; and besides, as Bob White had spent many
years of his young life in this region, he must know considerable about
its resources.
They were now in what is known as the Smoky Range, a spur of the Blue
Ridge Mountains, which borders on Tennessee. Not a great many miles away
was Asheville, a well-known resort; but few of the society people
frequenting that place had ever ventured up in these lonely localities;
for they did not have the best reputation possible.
Among these wild peaks dwelt men who, in spite of the efforts of revenue
officers, persisted in defying the law that put a ban on the making of
what has always been known as "moonshine" whiskey. Occasionally an
arrest might be made; but there was much danger attached to this thing;
and the country was so rugged, that it would take an army of United
States regulars to clean out the nests of moonshiners holding forth
there.
It would seem as though this might be a rather strange region for the
hike of a Boy Scout patrol; and had the parents or guardians of the boys
known as much about it as those living in Asheville, they might have
thought twice before granting the lads permission to come here.
But it had been partly on the invitation of Bob White that the
expedition had been planned and mapped out. He seemed to have a strange
yearning to revisit the region that had been his former home; and when
some one proposed that they explore some of the mysteries of the famous
Blue Ridge, Bob eagerly seconded the motion, in his warm Southern way.
And that was how it started. Once boys get an idea in their heads, it
soon gains weight, just like a rolling snowball.
And now they were here, with the grim mountains all around them, silence
wrapping them about, and mystery seeming to fill the very air. But
healthy boys are not easily impressed or daunted by such things; and
they cracked jokes and carried on as boys will do with the utmost
freedom.
The conversation between Step Hen, Bumpus and Giraffe having attracted
the attention of the scoutmaster, he called out at this juncture:
"Whose knapsack is that you've got strapped on your back right now,
Number Eight?"
A shout went up as Step Hen, quickly turning the article in question
around surveyed it blankly; but apparently both Bumpus and Giraffe had
known of its presence all the while, though pretending ignorance.
"Who strapped that to my back?" demanded the owner. "I don't remember
doing it, give you my word for it, fellers. Mighty queer how things
always happen to _me_, and nobody else. But anyhow, I'm ready to
continue the march, if the rest of you are."
Five minutes later, and the boys were straggling along the rough road
that wound in and out, as it pierced the valleys between the peaks
looming up on either side. There was no attempt at keeping order on the
march, and the boys, while trying to remain within sight of each other,
walked along in groups or couples.
Giraffe and Bumpus, a strange combination always, yet very good chums,
were at some distance in the lead. Bringing up the rear were Thad and
Allan, examining some chart of the region, which Bob White had drawn for
them, and talking over what the plan of campaign should be.
In the midst of this pleasant afternoon quiet there suddenly arose the
piercing notes of the bugle, followed by a loud and hoarse shout; and
looking up hastily, Thad Brewster was surprised to see Bumpus wildly
waving both his arms. Although he was at some little distance away, and
at the bottom of the decline, what he shouted came plainly to the ears
of the young scoutmaster, giving him something of a thrill:
"Hey! come along here, you fellers; Giraffe, he's got stuck in the
crick, up to his knees, and he says it's quicksand!"