THE WINNING OF THE GOLDEN CROSS
The wind had become so strong that it was necessary to move the mess
boards around to the leeward side of the pavilion. Several fellows
remarked on the pungent odor which permeated the air and a couple who
had been stalking spoke of the woods fires over beyond Tannerstown.
Garry was not at supper, nor the little sandy-haired fellow, but the
others of his patrol came down before the meal was over.
"Guess we'll cut out yarns to-night," said Jeb Rushmore, "and hike out on
a little tour of inspection."
"There are a couple of tramps in the woods this side of the cut, right
up the hill a ways," said Tom.
"We need rain, that's sure," said another scout.
"Maybe we'll get some with this wind," remarked another.
"No, I reckon it's a dry wind," said Mr. Rushmore, looking about and
sniffing audibly. "Gol smash it," he added, rising and sniffing still
louder. "Thar's somethin' in the air."
For a minute he stood near his place, then strode off up the hill a
little way, among the trees, where he paused, listening, like an animal
at bay. They could see his dark form dimly outlined in the darker night.
"J. R.'s on the scent," remarked Doc. Carson.
Several fellows rose to join him and just at that minute Westy Martin,
of the Silver Foxes, and a scout from a Maryland troop who had been
stalking, came rushing pell-mell into camp.
"The woods are on fire!" gasped Westy. "Up the hill! Look!"
"I seed it," said Jeb. "The wind's bringin' it."
"You can't get through up there," Westy panted. "We had to go around."
"Ye couldn't get round by now. B'ys, we're a-goin' ter git it for sure.
It's goin' ter blow fire."
For a moment he stood looking up into the woods, with the boys about
him, straining their eyes to see the patches of fire which were visible
here and there. Suddenly these patches seemed to merge and make the
night lurid with a red glare, a perfect pandemonium of crackling and
roaring assailed the silent night and clouds of suffocating smoke
enveloped them.
The fire, like some heartless savage beast, had stolen upon them
unawares and was ready to spring.
Jeb Rushmore was calm and self-contained and so were most of the boys as
they stood ready to do his bidding.
"Naow, ye see what I meant when I said a leopard's as sneaky as a fire,"
said Jeb. "Here, you Bridgeboro troop and them two Maryland troops and
the troop from Washin't'n," he called, "you make a bucket line like we
practiced. Tom--whar's Tom? And you Oakwood b'ys, git the buckets out'n
the provish'n camp. Line up thar ri' down t' the water's edge and come
up through here. You fellers from Pennsylvany 'n' you others thar, git
the axes 'n' come 'long o' me. Don't git rattled, now."
Like clockwork they formed a line from the lake up around the camp,
completely encircling it. The fire crept nearer every second, stifling
them with its pungent smoke. Other scouts, some with long axes, others
with belt axes, followed Jeb Rushmore, chopping down the small trees
which he indicated along the path made by this human line. In less than
a minute fifty or more scouts were working desperately felling trees
along the path. Fortunately, the trees were small, and fortunately, too,
the scouts knew how to fell them so that they fell in each case away
from the path, leaving an open way behind the camp.
Along this open way the line stood, and thus the full buckets passing
from hand to hand with almost the precision of machinery, were emptied
along this open area, soaking it.
"The rest o' you b'ys," called Jeb, "climb up on the cabins--one on each
cabin, and three or four uv ye on the pavilion. Some o' ye stay below to
pass the buckets up. Keep the roofs wet--that's whar the sparks'll
light. Hey, Tom!"
As the hurried work went on one of Garry's troop grasped Jeb by the arm.
"How about our cabin?" said he, fearfully. "There are two fellows up
there."
Jeb paused a moment, but shook his head. "They'll hev ter risk jumpin'
int' th' cut," said he. "No mortal man c'u'd git to 'em through them
woods naow."
The boy fell back, sick at heart as he thought of those two on the
lonely hill surrounded by flame and with a leap from the precipice as
their only alternative. It was simply a choice between two forms of
awful death.
The fire had now swept to within a few yards of the outer edge of the
camp, but an open way had been cleared and saturated to check its
advance and the roofs of the shacks were kept soaked by a score or more
of alert workers as a precaution against the blowing sparks.
Tom Slade had not answered any of Jeb's calls for him. At the time of
his chief's last summons he was a couple of hundred feet from the
buildings, tearing and tugging at one of the overflow tents. Like a
madman and with a strength born of desperation he dragged the pole down
and, wrenching the stakes out of the ground by main force, never
stopping to untie the ropes, he hauled the whole dishevelled mass free
of the paraphernalia which had been beneath it, down to the lake. Duffel
bags rolled out from under it, the uprooted stakes which came along with
it caught among trees and were torn away, the long clumsy canvas trail
rebelled and clung to many an obstruction, only to be torn and ripped as
it was hauled willy-nilly to the shore of the lake.
In he strode, tugging, wrenching, dragging it after him. Part of it
floated because of the air imprisoned beneath it, but gradually sank as
it became soaked. Standing knee-deep, he held fast to one corner of it
and waited during one precious minute while it absorbed as much of the
water as it could hold.
It was twice as heavy now, but he was twice as strong, for he was twice
as desperate and had the strength of an unconquerable purpose. The lips
of his big mouth were drawn tight, his shock of hair hung about his
stolid face as with bulldog strength and tenacity he dragged the dead
weight of dripping canvas after him up onto the shore. The water
trickled out of its clinging folds as he raised one side of the soaking
fabric, and dragged the whole mass up to the provision cabin.
He seized the coil of lasso rope and hung it around his neck, then
raising the canvas, he pulled it over his head like a shawl and pinned
it about him with the steel clutch of his fingers, one hand at neck and
one below.
Up through the blazing woods he started with the leaden weight of this
dripping winding sheet upon him and catching in the hubbly obstructions
in his path. The water streamed down his face and he felt the chill of
it as it permeated his clothes, but that was well--it was his only
friend and ally now.
Like some ghostly bride he stumbled up through the lurid night, dragging
the unwieldly train behind him. Apparently no one saw this strange
apparition as it disappeared amid the enveloping flames.
"Tom--whar's Tom?" called Jeb Rushmore again.
Up the hill he went, tearing his dripping armor when it caught, and
pausing at last to lift the soaking train and wind that about him also.
The crackling flames gathering about him like a pack of hungry wolves
hissed as they lapped against his wet shroud, and drew back, baffled,
only to assail him again. The trail was narrow and the flames close on
either side.
Once, twice, the drying fabric was aflame, but he wrapped it under
wetter folds. His face was burning hot; he strove with might and main
against the dreadful faintness caused by the heat, and the smoke all but
suffocated him.
On and up he pressed, stooping and sometimes almost creeping, for it was
easier near the ground. Now he held the drying canvas with his teeth
and beat with his hands to extinguish the persistent flames. His power
of resistance was all but gone and as he realized it his heart sank
within him. At last, stooping like some sneaking thing, he reached the
sparser growth near the cut.
Two boys who had been driven to the verge of the precipice and lingered
there in dread of the alternative they must take, saw a strange sight. A
dull gray mass, with two ghostly hands reaching out and slapping at it,
and a wild-eyed face completely framed by its charred and blackening
shroud, emerged from amid the fire and smoke and came straight toward
them.
"What is it?" whispered the younger boy, drawing closer to Garry in
momentary fright at the sight of this spectral thing.
"Don't jump--it's me--Tom Slade! Here, take this rope, quick. I guess it
isn't burned any. I meant to wet it, too," he gasped. "Is that tree
solid? I can't seem to see. All right, quick! I can't do it. Make a loop
and put it under his arms and let him down."
There was not a minute to spare, and no time for explanations or
questions. Garry lowered the boy into the cut.
"Now you'll have to let me down, I'm afraid," said Tom. "My hands are
funny and I can't--I can't go hand over hand."
"That's easy," said Garry.
But it was not so easy as it had been to lower the smaller boy. He had
to encircle the tree twice with the rope to guard against a too rapid
descent, and to smooth the precipice where the rope went over the edge
to keep it from cutting. When Tom had been lowered into the cut, Garry
himself went down hand over hand.
It was cool down there, but they could hear the wild flames raging above
and many sparks descended and died on the already burned surface. The
air blew in a strong, refreshing draught through the deep gully, and the
three boys, hardly realizing their hair-breadth escape, seemed to be in
a different world, or rather, in the cellar of the world above, which
was being swept by that heartless roistering wind and fire.
* * * * *
Along through the cut they came, a dozen or more scarred and weary
scouts, their clothing in tatters, anxious and breathing heavily. They
had come by the long way around the edge of the woods and got into the
cut where the hill was low and the gully shallow.
"Is anyone there?" a scout called, as they neared the point above which
Hero Cabin had stood. They knew well enough that no one could be left
alive above.
"We're here," called Garry.
"Hurt? Did you jump--both of you?"
"Three, the kid and I and Tom Slade."
"Tom Slade? How did _he_ get here?"
"Came up through the woods and brought us a rope. _We're_ all right, but
he's played out. Got a stretcher?"
"Sure."
They came up, swinging their lanterns, to where Tom lay on the ground
with Garry's jacket folded under his head for a pillow, and they
listened soberly to Garry's simple tale of the strange, shrouded
apparition that had emerged from the flames with the precious life line
coiled about its neck.
It was hard to believe, but there were the cold facts, and they could
only stand about, silent and aghast at what they heard.
"We missed him," said one scout.
"Is the camp saved?" asked Garry.
"Mostly, but we had a stiff job."
"Don't talk about _our_ job," said Doc Carson as he stooped, holding
the lantern before Tom's blackened face and taking his wrist to feel the
pulse.
Again there was silence as they all stood about and the little
sandy-haired fellow with the cough crept close to the prostrate form and
gazed, fascinated, into that stolid, homely face.
And still no one spoke.
"It means the gold cross," someone whispered.
"Do you think the gold cross is good enough?" Garry asked, quietly.
"It's the best we have."
Then Roy, who was among them, kneeled down and put his arm out toward
Tom.
"Don't touch my hand," said Tom, faintly. "It isn't that I don't want to
shake hands with you," he added. "I wanted to do that when I met
you--before supper. Only my hands feel funny--tingly, kind of--and they
hurt.
"Any of my own patrol here?" he asked after a moment.
"Yes, Connie Bennett's here--and Will Bronson."
"Then I'd rather have them carry the stretcher, and I'd like for you to
walk along by me--I got something to say to you."
They did as he asked, the others following at a little distance, except
the little sandy-haired boy who persisted in running forward until Garry
called him back and kept his own deterring arm about the boy's shoulder.
"I don't mind my own patrol hearing--or you. I don't care about the gold
cross. It's only what it means that counts--sort of. I let Garry save
your brother, Will, because I knew he needed to stay longer--I knew
about that kid not being strong--that's all. I can go through water as
easy as I can through fire--it's--it's easier--if it comes to that."
"Don't try to talk, Tom," said Roy, brokenly.
"But I wouldn't tell even you, Roy, because--because if he'd found it
out he wouldn't think it was fair--and he wouldn't have taken it. That's
the kind of a fellow he is, Roy."
"Yes, I know what kind of a fellow he is," said Roy.
"Anyway, it's no matter now. You see yourself Hero Cabin is burned down.
A fellow might--he might even lose the cross. It's the three weeks that
counted--see?"
"Yes, I see," said Roy.
"And tomorrow I want to go back with you fellows in the _Good
Turn_--and see Mr. Temple. I want to ask him if that kid can stay with
Jeb 'till Christmas. Then I'll come back up to camp. I've thought a lot
lately about our trip up in the _Good Turn_, Roy."
"Yes--so have I, Tom. But don't talk now. Doc doesn't want you to."
"We've got to find Harry Stanton," said Tom, after a few minutes.
"Yes," said Roy.
But whether they ever did find him and the singular adventures attending
their quest, are really part of another story.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's Tom Slade at Temple Camp, by Percy K. Fitzhugh