THE BOY SCOUTS
IN THE SADDLE
BY
ROBERT SHALER
AUTHOR OF “BOY SCOUTS OF THE SIGNAL CORPS,” “BOY SCOUTS
OF PIONEER CAMP,” “BOY SCOUTS OF THE GEOLOGICAL SURVEY,”
“BOY SCOUTS OF THE LIFE SAVING CREW,” “BOY SCOUTS
ON PICKET DUTY,” “BOY SCOUTS OF THE FLYING
SQUADRON,” “BOY SCOUTS AND THE PRIZE
PENNANT,” “BOY SCOUTS OF THE NAVAL
RESERVE,” “BOY SCOUTS FOR CITY
IMPROVEMENT.”
NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Sterling
Boy Scout Books
_Bound in cloth_ _Ten titles_
1 Boy Scouts of the Signal Corps.
2 Boy Scouts of Pioneer Camp.
3 Boy Scouts of the Geological Survey.
4 Boy Scouts of the Life Saving Crew.
5 Boy Scouts on Picket Duty.
6 Boy Scouts of the Flying Squadron.
7 Boy Scouts and the Prize Pennant.
8 Boy Scouts of the Naval Reserve.
9 Boy Scouts in the Saddle.
10 Boy Scouts for City Improvement.
_You can purchase any of the above books at the price you paid for this
one, or the publishers will send any book, postpaid, upon receipt of
25c._
HURST & CO., Publishers
432 Fourth Avenue, New York
Copyright, 1914, by Hurst & Company.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Superior Boy 5
II. Left on the Ledge 17
III. Surrounded by Perils 30
IV. Scouts to the Rescue 43
V. Seeing Things in a New Light 56
VI. Tracking from the Saddle 69
VII. The Sunken Road 82
VIII. At Raccoon Island Camp 95
IX. Over the Ridge 108
X. Lying in Ambush 121
XI. When the Rat Scratched 137
XII. What the Scouts Did 148
The Boy Scouts in the Saddle.
CHAPTER I.
THE SUPERIOR BOY.
“Hello! there, landlord, just put five gallons of gasoline in my tank,
and charge it to dad, will you? I forgot to fill up before leaving our
garage in town. I reckon there’d be a lot of trouble in the big granite
quarry we own if Gusty Merrivale failed to show up to-day.”
The speaker was a young fellow nattily attired, of about eighteen years
of age. As he nimbly jumped out of the dusty runabout car, it could be
seen that he was inclined to be rather arrogant in his manner. Indeed,
one glance at his dark, handsome face betrayed the fact that he was more
or less proud, and domineering.
Gustavus Merrivale was comparatively a newcomer in the pleasant town
around which many of the adventures contained in this Scout Series
happened. Somehow Gusty had not seemed to care to mix with the general
run of boys, picking up only a few choice companions from among the
“upper crust.” His father was said to be a very wealthy man, and among
other properties, he owned a logging camp far up among the hills
together with a valuable granite quarry where fully five score of
toilers were employed throughout the entire summer.
The landlord of the village tavern apparently knew his customer. Several
times before young Merrivale had motored through the village, and always
just two weeks apart. By putting two and two together, the tavern keeper
could easily surmise the nature of the errand that took Gus Merrivale up
into that wild country so often. Had he been in doubt before, these last
words of the boy must have enlightened him fully.
“Pay day in the quarry, hey?” he went on to say, as he unlocked the
reservoir that doubtless contained the supply of gasoline which he sold
to passing tourists and others. “Your pa’s got quite a plenty of men
employed up there, I understand, Mr. Merrivale; and just as you say,
they’d kick up high jinks if their pay didn’t show up on Monday twice a
month.”
“Why, hello! Where did that bunch of motorcycles come from, Mr. Tubbs?”
demanded the rich man’s son, pointing, as he spoke, to three up-to-date
twin-cylinder machines standing in a cluster in a safe corner of the inn
yard.
“Three young chaps from your town are sitting yonder on the porch
awatchin’ of us right now,” returned the landlord, softly. “Mebbe you
happen to know them, seeing as how they’re Boy Scouts, and that Hugh
Hardin has made somethin’ of a name around this section, I’m told.”
“Hugh Hardin, eh?” exclaimed young Merrivale with a swift glance toward
the side piazza of the tavern, where he now discovered several sprawling
figures occupying as many chairs, and evidently resting up while waiting
for dinner to be announced. “Yes, and his shadow, that Worth fellow, is
along with him, and also the chap they call Monkey Stallings, who came
to town just a month after I did. He fell in with that common herd right
away, and joined the troop, but none of that silly scout business for
me! I can see myself taking orders from a patrol leader, nit. What are
they doing away up here; and where did they get those expensive
machines, I’d like to know?”
“It happens that I’m able to supply the information, Mr. Merrivale,”
remarked the landlord quickly. Like most of his class, he enjoyed a
chance to gossip and disseminate news which he had picked up.
“Then I wish you’d be so kind and condescending as to inform me right
away, sir. I was just speaking about getting a motorcycle myself; and
even now I’m expecting a bunch of catalogues from which to select a
machine. Those things cost all of two hundred apiece, and I fancy few
boys have got as indulgent a father as I happen to own. So please go on
and give me the facts, Mr. Tubbs.”
“Why, you see, the Stallings boy has money of his own, and the others
have been laying aside dollars right along, most of them earned by
finding wild ginseng and golden rod roots in the woods. Besides, they
say that Hardin boy did something not long ago that brought him in quite
a fat reward, which he insisted on sharing with the chums who happened
to be with him at the time. I kinder guess that Worth boy was along, and
that helped _him_ out. Anyhow, they’re taking their first long run, and
have come something like seventy miles since breakfast at home. I’m
getting a dinner for them, you know. Perhaps you’d like to stay over a
bit and see what kind of a cook my wife is?”
“What, me take pot luck with that crowd?” exclaimed Gus Merrivale with a
curl of his upper lip. “Well, I hardly know them enough to speak to at
home, and it isn’t likely that I’ll put myself out to improve the slight
acquaintance. This scout business makes me sick. I don’t understand what
the fellows see in it to strut around in their old khaki suits, and
salute whenever they meet some one who happens to be higher up in line.
Bah! catch me standing at attention and raising my hand when Hugh Hardin
chances to pass by. If I could be an assistant scout master in the
start, I might get a little fun out of the game; but to commence at the
lowest rung of the ladder—well, excuse me, that’s all.”
The landlord bent lower to hide the smile that flitted across his face.
He knew just what type of high-strung boy young Merrivale was; and also
had his own opinion as to how difficult it is to mix oil and water. From
what he had observed, he understood how thoroughly those three lads
lolling on his porch just then, were infatuated with the new life that
had opened up to them since they threw in their fortunes with the scout
movement. He had heard them talking, and found himself deeply interested
in what they told of discoveries. There was enough of the woodsman in
Uriah Tubbs to appreciate the sentiments they expressed. He, too, many a
time had listened to the voice of Nature when alone in the wilds, and
could understand how fascinating it must be to the right kind of boy to
be able to unravel many of her secrets.
Evidently young Merrivale would not bother investigating in order to
find out what it was that lured these scouts on day after day. He saw
only the surface indications, and resolutely refused to pry off the lid
that hid the wonderful truth.
The landlord did not attempt to enlighten him. There was something about
young Merrivale that he did not exactly fancy—a curl of disdain to his
upper lip, just as though he considered himself a superior person and
above the herd. So Mr. Tubbs simply applied himself to the task of
measuring out the necessary liquid fuel for which his customer had
asked.
When Gusty Merrivale chanced to look toward the porch, one of the three
loungers waved a hand at him after the customary free-masonry of youth.
The driver of the runabout made a careless motion as though meaning to
acknowledge the friendly salute, yet not wishing to allow any undue
familiarity. As the trio of scouts seemed to be very well satisfied with
each other’s company, it was hardly likely that any one of them would go
out of his way to scrape a closer acquaintance with so frigid and
reserved a person.
And yet, Hugh Hardin, the tall, agile chap who wore the badge of patrol
leader and assistant scout master on his khaki coat, had told himself
more than once that the new arrival in town might make a splendid
addition to the ranks of the troop, if only he could drop that superior
air, and meet others on a level. Several times had Hugh endeavored to
become better acquainted with Gus Merrivale, only to be rebuffed, and
made to feel as though he were thrusting himself in where he was not
wanted; so, in time, he had given the idea up.
When the required amount of gasoline had been placed aboard, the young
driver of the road car sprang into his seat. He knew that the three
scouts on the porch were watching him closely, but not for worlds would
he look that way, lest he be compelled to wave his hand again; and to
his mind that would seem too much like saluting.
His car did not need cranking, having a self-starter installed.
“Good morning, Mr. Tubbs. I expect to pass back this way later on in the
day. Those steep hills give my car quite a pull you know!” he sang out
as he threw on the power and started out of the inn yard, presently to
vanish amidst a cloud of dust up the road.
For some little distance young Merrivale made good time. He liked to
fairly fly along, being possessed of a rather nervous disposition. As
the ascent became more pronounced, his pace slackened considerably.
The country had changed also. Instead of farming land on either hand, he
looked upon dense woods, and hills that seemed to be composed of almost
solid rock, though trees managed to find lodgment in crevices, so that
they hid the rough conformation of the ground. It had been somewhere in
this neighborhood that members of the Boy Scout troop had come during
the previous summer when deeply interested in geological study; and,
indeed, they could hardly have found a place better fitted for the
purpose of yielding up valuable information.
Gus Merrivale, however, only considered his surroundings in a mercenary
way. His father owned thousands of acres of such land, as well as the
logging camp, located there when snow covered the country. Five score of
husky Italians labored in the granite quarry all through eight months of
open weather.
By degrees his car began to climb steep grades. It had evidently been
carefully selected with just this capacity for mounting hills in view;
and steadily it kept pulling the lone occupant upward.
Now and then he could catch splendid views of the lowlands, and from the
eager way in which Gus looked out at such opportune moments, it seemed
as though after all he had a touch of admiration for Nature.
In the course of half an hour he had arrived close to a peculiar spot
where the road ran along near a steep precipice. A stout railing had
been erected, under the supervision of the township freeholders who had
charge of bridges and roads, in order to lessen the chances of any
vehicle toppling over from that dizzy height. From this point, as Gus
well knew, he would be able to obtain a splendid view not only of the
road far below but of the distant country where several villages and
towns lay, with their church spires showing above the trees.
For a short distance before arriving at this place, the road lay level,
and here he naturally let out his car so as to make up for lost time.
As he turned a bend, and leaned slightly forward with the intention of
cutting down his rather reckless pace, he suddenly saw something that
gave him a severe shock.
This was nothing less than a fallen tree across the road, hardly more
than a sapling in fact, but enough of an impediment to have thrown his
car aside and brought about a wreck, had he not noticed it in time. And
even as he wildly threw on the brake, he saw the figure of a man,
bearing a massive shining tin star on the left breast of his faded coat,
spring out from the bushes waving his arms violently and shouting
excitedly:
“Hi! hold up there, mister! You’re exceeding the speed limit ahittin’ up
a pace like that! I’m the Squeehonk constable, and I kinder guess I’ll
have to run you in for breakin’ the law! This is an ortomobile trap,
understand?”