Produced by Georges T. Dodds and Roger Frank.
THE CAMP IN THE SNOW
By
WILLIAM MURRAY GRAYDON
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Copyrighted, 1902,
by STREET & SMITH
The Camp in the Snow
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A MERCILESS ENEMY. 5
II. INTO THE WILDERNESS. 12
III. A DOUBLE PERIL. 19
IV. THE FIRST DEER. 27
V. THE FACE IN THE TREES. 34
VI. BESIEGED BY WOLVES. 42
VII. THROUGH THE ICE. 48
VIII. MR. RAIKES OF PORTLAND. 55
IX. THE GREAT STORM. 62
X. A GREAT DISASTER. 69
XI. UNDER THE SNOWDRIFT. 74
XII. DECOYED TO DANGER. 80
XIII. THE LAST OF THE CATAMOUNT. 86
XIV. A HERD OF DEER. 93
XV. A SUCCESSFUL BATTLE. 100
XVI. ON THE TRAIL. 106
XVII. FOUND AND LOST. 111
XVIII. HAMP'S PERIL. 119
XIX. BOGLE SHOWS HIS HAND. 126
XX. BRICK'S DEFENCE 134
XXI. PLUNGED UNDER GROUND. 141
XXII. AN UNEXPECTED ALLY. 148
XXIII. BACK TO FREEDOM. 155
XXIV. A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE. 161
XXV. TORTURED INTO SUBMISSION. 168
XXVI. AVAILABLE PRISONER. 174
XXVII. THROUGH THE WOODS. 182
XXVIII. SPARWICK LAYS DOWN THE LAW. 189
XXIX. A MIDNIGHT DISCOVERY. 195
XXX. DRIVEN TO DEATH. 202
XXXI. A FRIEND IN NEED. 209
XXXII. JERRY'S JOURNEY. 216
XXXIII. A TREACHEROUS PLOT. 222
XXXIV. A VIAL OF CHLOROFORM. 229
XXXV. A PERILOUS RIDE. 235
XXXVI. CONCLUSION. 240
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CHAPTER I.
A MERCILESS ENEMY.
"All tickets, please!"
The blue-uniformed conductor, with a lantern under his arm, and his
punch in hand, entered the smoking-car of the Boston express.
It was between seven and eight o'clock on the night of the tenth of
December. The train was speeding eastward through the wintry landscape
of the State of Maine.
Among the passengers in the smoking-car was a well-dressed lad of
eighteen, with a ruddy face, and gray eyes in which was a lurking gleam
of humor.
Just across the aisle sat a middle-aged man with a clean-shaven,
cadaverous face and rusty black clothes. He was reading a small book,
and seemed to be absorbed in its pages.
As the conductor drew near, the lad fumbled hurriedly in his pockets. He
turned them inside out, one after another. He looked on the floor, on
the seat, in the folds of his clothing.
"Your ticket, sir."
The conductor had been standing by the seat for a full minute.
"I--I must have lost it," replied the lad. "Just my beastly luck! You
know that I had one, for you clipped it twice."
The conductor stared coldly.
"Find it, or pay your fare," he answered.
The lad put his hand into the breast pocket of his cape coat. He whipped
out a handkerchief, and a bulky pocketbook. The latter flew across the
aisle and under the next seat, where it burst open.
The clerical-looking man stooped and picked it up.
"Permit me," he said, handing it back with a low bow.
"Much obliged," answered the owner. "Hello! there's a wad of bills
missing. It must have fallen out."
The clerical-looking man pretended not to hear. He turned toward the
window and went on reading. The conductor and the lad peered under the
neighboring seats. They saw no trace of the money. The other passengers
looked on with interest.
"Lift your feet, sir," said the conductor, sharply, as he tapped the
clerical passenger's arm.
The man obeyed with an air of injured innocence, and the roll of bank
notes was instantly seen.
"Quite an accident," he protested. "I was not aware that my foot was on
the money."
"Of course not," sneered the conductor.
"No insults, sir," replied the other, in a dignified tone. "Here is my
card. I am a missionary from the South Seas. My name is Pendergast."
The conductor waved aside the proffered card.
"I see you are reading Hoyle's Games," he remarked, sarcastically.
"Is that the text-book you use among your heathen?"
The missionary looked discomfited for an instant.
"I have been perusing this evil work with horror," he replied. "Some
worldly sinner left it on the seat. Perhaps it is yours, sir?"
The conductor reddened with anger, and some of the passengers laughed
aloud. The missionary folded his hands with a smile of triumph, and
looked out of the window.
Meanwhile the lad had restored the roll of bills to his pocketbook, and
in one of the compartments of the latter he found the missing ticket. As
the conductor took it he leaned over and said:
"Keep an eye on that rascal yonder. He's no more a missionary than you
or I."
Then he hurried on to the next car.
A few moments later scattered lights appeared through the frosty
windows, and finally the vague outlines of houses and streets.
"Bangor!" shrieked the brakeman.
The announcement created a stir and bustle among the passengers. The
train soon rolled into a lofty station. The lad gathered up his traps,
hurriedly left the car, pressed through the crowd, and gained the
lighted street.
Here he paused for a moment, remembering the conductor's warning. But he
could see nothing of the clerical-looking individual, though he
carefully scanned the passers.
"I've seen the last of that chap," he muttered. "Perhaps he was a
missionary, after all. Well, I can't lose any more time here. Thanks to
Tom Fordham, I've got my bearings pretty straight. I'll bet Tom wishes
he was with me now. I fancy I can see him grinding away at old Herodotus
by lamplight."
With a smile that showed his white teeth, he strode down the street of
Maine's most thriving port and lumber town. He entered the Penobscot
House, a block and a half from the depot.
He gave his luggage to a bellboy, and wrote his name on the register:
"Brick Larkins, New York City."
The clerk looked at the inscription and smiled.
"Done it again, have I?" exclaimed the lad. "Brick is only a nickname.
Shall I write it James?"
"Let it stand," replied the amused clerk. "Will you have supper, Mr.
Larkins?"
"Thanks, but I have dined on the train. Send the traps up to my room,
please."
Brick fastened a button or two of his cape-coat, and strolled out of the
hotel.
He did not see the missionary standing across the street. If he had he
would probably have failed to recognize him, for Mr. Pendergast now wore
a tweed steamer-cap, gold glasses, and a short gray overcoat with the
collar turned up.
Brick little dreamed that he was being followed as he pushed steadily
across town to the banks of the Penobscot River.
Turning parallel with the river, Brick went on until the lights of the
town were some distance behind. By the dim glow of the starlit sky he
could see that the beach sloped upward to a pretty steep bluff, and that
tall stacks of lumber lay in all directions. The sullen slapping of the
waves drowned his crunching footsteps.
"It's all as Tom described it," he said, half-aloud, as he paused to
look about him. "The dug-out ought to be near by, but I can't see a
glimmer of light. Hullo! what's that?"
A sharp sound had fallen on his ear, and he wheeled around in time to
see a dusky figure within ten feet of him.
"Hold on there," cried a stern voice. "Stop!"
Brick, having started forward, only ran the faster, and in the darkness
he collided with a tall stack of lumber. He grabbed the projecting slabs
and climbed to the top.
He was now eight or ten feet from the ground, and looking down he saw
his pursuer standing directly beneath.
"No use, my lad," whispered the man. "I've got you safe. Pass down that
pocketbook."
With a thrill of surprise, Brick recognized the voice.
"This is nice missionary work, Mr. Pendergast," he replied. "I'm willing
to donate five dollars to the heathen if you'll be satisfied with that."
"No chaffing, young feller," growled the ruffian. "I'm not in the
missionary line now. If I don't get your pocketbook and watch and chain
in about ten seconds, I'll fix you."
Brick hesitated, and glanced toward the distant lights of the town.
There seemed no chance of saving his money. An idea struck him, and he
said, boldly:
"I've got friends at hand. You're making a big mistake to stay here."
"That bluff won't work," was the cool reply. "There's not a soul within
half a mile. Fork it over, quick."
Just then the pile of lumber began to tremble and sway, and down it came
with a crash.
Brick escaped injury by an agile leap that landed him on his enemy's
back. They went to the ground together, and rolled clear of the
avalanche of planks and snow.
The lad was almost a match for his wiry antagonist, and by a desperate
effort he tore loose and ran. Pendergast overtook him, and snatched the
collar of the cape-coat. Brick twisted out of the heavy garment and sped
on. He had the pocketbook buttoned safely under his jacket.
Threats rang behind him. A pistol cracked shrilly, and the ball whistled
by his head. He dashed on through the gloom, panting hard for breath,
and shouting hoarsely for aid. Nearer and nearer came the crunching
footsteps of his enemy.
Unluckily a boat lay right in the path. Brick spied it at such close
quarters that he had no time to swerve aside. He pitched roughly over
the gunwale and fell inside. The next instant Pendergast was kneeling on
him, and shaking him with savage anger.
"I'll fix you," he snarled, as he lifted his shining weapon. "I'll pay
you for this."
"Don't!" pleaded Brick.
He threw up his hands, and struggled to ward off the threatened blow.
"Take that," cried the ruffian.
Brick felt a stunning pain, and immediately lost consciousness.