BOB'S WILDCAT
"Gone? It can't be!" gasped Dave. He rose slowly to his feet. "You're
joking, Dick."
"Not a bit of it. Sure as you're bigger than a grasshopper, somebody's
swiped it, eh, Bob?"
Bob nodded.
"It's gone, Chubby--and who could have taken it?"
"I told you, Dick Travers, that the worst is always ahead of us,"
grumbled Dave. "I had a place selected for that rug--wouldn't have sold
it for any money."
"Gee! Mighty hard luck, old man," commented Havens, sympathetically. "I
must take a look into this."
He hastily entered the cave.
The flaring pine torch revealed the fact that Old Ephraim's valuable
pelt had actually disappeared.
"Not a blessed thing to give us a clue," said Dave, gloomily. "No
handkerchief, no bit of paper, conveniently torn, so as to fit another
piece later found on the culprit, no bit of cloth hanging to a bush, no
footprints, because it's all rock. That's the way it is in real life."
He heaved a sigh, and extended his hand toward Dick Travers. "Partners
in misfortune," he said, and the two shook hands.
After one of the ducks had been dressed, Jim Havens took charge of it
and proceeded to make a record for speedy broiling.
Appetites having been sharpened by the long tramp and bracing air, the
meal was thoroughly enjoyed.
It was late before they turned in, and the sun had risen far above the
mountains when a breakfast of cold duck and coffee was disposed of.
"Our time is about over," said Bob Somers, regretfully, as they
prepared to leave. "Sam and Tommy must have their chance."
"We've had a bully trip," said Dick. "Glad that we're going to see old
Hank Merwin again."
"And if we could only run across the fellow who took that bearskin, I'd
feel better," murmured Dave.
"Don't think you'll ever lay eyes on it again," put in Havens, frankly.
The hunters kept a sharp lookout for game, and encountered plenty of
the smaller variety. A pair of gray wolves, skulking among the pines,
hastily left for other parts when Dick Travers sent a load of buckshot
rattling over their heads.
After lunch, beautiful Lake Cloud was sighted. About the same instant,
the four discovered several large white birds with long, graceful necks
swimming close in shore.
"Sh--sh!" said Havens.
"Sh--sh!" said all the rest in unison.
"Swans," whispered Jim.
"One of 'em might look well stuffed--a nice souvenir of our trip," put
in Bob.
Bob, Dick and Jim crept cautiously ahead. Afraid that the birds might
take wing, they decided to risk a long-distance shot, although Dick
felt sure that his would be wasted.
"Too far for buckshot," he whispered, "but never mind--here goes."
He fired, and then Jim followed suit. Bob Somers, whose foot had caught
in a trailing vine, looked up in time to see three white forms rising
against the background of greenish mountains. Neither shot had taken
effect.
"Well, well," muttered Havens, chagrined. "Hello!"
Bob Somers had raised his gun instantly, and fired. Scarcely believing
his eyes, he saw the flight of the nearest bird checked. With
fluttering wings, it dropped in shallow water, close to an ancient
cypress tree.
"Bully shot, Bob," cried Dick. "Simply stunning--well, what do you
think of that?"
As they started to run forward, a yellowish-gray animal suddenly
appeared in view from behind a thicket, and, with a growl, sprang
boldly out and grappled the still struggling swan by the neck.
"That's nerve for you," yelled Bob. "We'll teach the old robber a
lesson."
"Be quick," panted Dick; "he'll get away."
The wildcat speedily dragged the swan out of the water into the
thicket, and when the three boys arrived both were out of sight.
"Doesn't that beat all?" cried Bob, disgustedly.
"Hard luck, after making such a dandy shot," said Dick. "The rascal is
close by--we'll chase him out of the bushes. What are you going to do,
Bob?"
"Climb the old cypress; I'll find out where he is."
The thick trunk was gnarled, and, by the aid of a low branch, Bob
managed to reach a stout limb, bare of foliage. Sitting astride, he
worked his way carefully out over the thicket.
A harsh, rasping cry broke the stillness. Almost directly beneath, in
a tiny clearing, was the robber, with one paw on the swan. His ears
were thrown back, while the yellow eyes glared savagely and his tail
switched back and forth.
"I'll make short work of you, old chap," muttered Bob.
He unslung his rifle.
"Just one minute--all right, Dick, he's here. I'll----"
An ominous sound suddenly rang out, the limb shivered and shook, while
Bob Somers glanced wildly around. A cry came from his lips.
A crack in the limb had escaped his attention, and it was giving way
beneath his weight. His companions' startled exclamations joined in
with his own.
"Get over--quick," yelled Dick Travers, in dismay.
But, with another sharp crack, the limb broke in twain, and Bob Somers
shot downward.
An awful screech came from the wildcat.
"He'll be torn to pieces," cried Havens.
"Jehoshaphat! This is terrible," gasped Dave Brandon.
In an instant Bob landed in the midst of a mass of underbrush and
tangled vines. His fall was broken by these, and he managed to hold on
to his rifle.
The wildcat crouched and emitted another blood-curdling screech; Bob
strove to regain his feet. Then, as he got on one knee, a lithe form
launched itself in the air.
It was a critical moment. Bob's arms trembled; he had no time to bring
the rifle to his shoulder, but managed to blindly point it upward and
pull the trigger. The cat dropped heavily in the bushes and lay quite
still.
The bullet had pierced its brain.
For an instant, Bob Somers could scarcely realize his good fortune.
Then, as his excited companions pushed their way toward him, he uttered
a cry of triumph.
"I've got him, Chubby," he cried, "and with one shot, too. And never
aimed, either--what do you think of that?"
"Hurt?" came a chorus of excited voices.
"Not a bit of it. Scratched up a bit by these plagued vines--that's
all. And the swan's most as good as ever. Hurrah! Got two souvenirs,
instead of one."
"Gee whitaker, but I was scared," said Dick Travers. "Thought sure
you'd be nearly chewed to pieces."
"You hold the record now, Somers--two bully shots," broke in Havens.
"But say--as you don't need any help, excuse me from pushing any
further into this mess."
"You're a lucky chap," came from Dave. "Mighty good your first shot
settled him."
Bob found it very hard to extricate himself from the thick mass of
underbrush and creepers. He touched the wildcat gingerly with his toe,
then stooped over and examined the wicked-looking head.
"You're an awful monster," he exclaimed. "Here, Chubby--catch a few
pounds of wildcat."
He picked up the animal, and with a hard effort managed to land it near
the edge of the thicket; then the swan followed.
By the time Bob got out of his unpleasant position, he was badly
scratched up.
The swan was not seriously damaged, although the marks of the wildcat's
teeth showed plainly on its neck.
"Fellows," said Bob, proudly, "I'll have both of these stuffed--make a
group of 'em--see if I don't."
"Good," approved Dave. "This counts as another little adventure which
is going to cause Sam and Tommy to open their eyes."
Hank Merwin was not at his cabin when the four arrived. But about
sundown his lanky form appeared in view. Over his shoulder he carried a
well-filled game-bag.
"Hello, Hank!" called Jim.
"Arternoon, lads," responded the trapper, quietly. "Back ag'in, eh?"
He glanced at the wildcat and swan. "Not bad, lads. The horns is fixed
fine; I'll show ye."
He opened the door, and the boys followed him into the cabin.
In one corner stood the great moose antlers, nicely cleaned and
prepared. Dick Travers' eyes sparkled with pleasure.
"I'm ever so much obliged, Hank," he cried, seizing the trapper's
brawny hand. "Isn't it great to have things like that to show the
fellows at Kingswood, eh, Chubby?"
"Got a lot of pelts, Hank?" questioned Jim.
"Not a bad haul, lad. Mink, an' otter, an' beaver, an' a fox. But I
reckon you lads 'ud like a bit of grub."
"We'll give you a hand, Hank," said Bob. "Come on, Dick--help get a
fire started."
Hank had a treat, in shape of several trout, and these, cooked between
hot stones, were declared delicious.
The boys had a great deal to talk about. Hank listened gravely, making
but little comment, until Dave spoke about the bearskin.
"Stole, eh?" he exclaimed, blowing a cloud of smoke in the air. "Tough
luck, lad. Only a pesky snake 'ud do a thing like that."
The firelight brought out the wrinkles and seams on his rugged face,
and for an instant his kindly eye flashed sternly.
"A bad business, lads," he continued. "A bad business." Then he gazed
at the smoke rings again, apparently in deep thought.
Early next morning, Hank prepared the wildcat's skin, as well as that
of the swan, and, loaded with these and the moose antlers, the boys
bade him good-bye.
"Look out fur yerselves, lads," he said. "Perhaps I may run acrost ye
ag'in."
"Certainly hope so, Hank," declared Dick. "I'll never forget you or
that jacklight trip. Three cheers for Hank Merwin!"
And the lusty shouts that followed made a faint smile play across the
impassive face of the trapper.
The moose antlers had been firmly attached to stout poles, each carried
by two boys. With such a heavy load, progress was slow.
That night they camped on the mountainside, and at noon the following
day reached the dugout.
An unpleasant surprise awaited them--the honey was gone.
"A bear's been here," declared Havens. "The old brute busted in the
door to get it."
"And I've been thinking about that honey for the last three days," said
Dave, dolefully.