LITTLE DROPS OF WATER
The feeling now uppermost in Westy’s mind was that of anger at the
unknown person who had made it necessary for him to do what he had done.
He felt that he had been cheated out of keeping his promise about
shooting. He knew perfectly well that what he had done was right and
that only technically had he broken his promise to his father. But he
had done something altogether repugnant to him and it turned him against
guns not only, but particularly against the sneak whose lawless work he
had had to complete.
It must be confessed that it was not mainly the fugitive’s lawlessness
or even his cruel heedlessness that aroused Westy. It was the feeling
that somehow this work of murder (for so he thought it) had been wished
on him. It had agitated him and gone against him, and he was enraged
over it.
He had not been quite the ideal scout in the matter of readiness to kill
the deer; he might have done that job more promptly and with less
perturbation. But he was quite the scout in his towering resolve to
track down the culprit and tell him what he thought of him and bring him
to justice.
It was characteristic of Westy, who was a fiend at tracking and
trailing, that this course of action appealed to him now, rather than
the tamer course of going direct to the authorities. There was something
very straightforward about Westy. And besides, he had the adventurous
spirit which prefers to act without cooperation.
“_By jumping jiminies._ I’ll find that fellow!” he said aloud. “I should
worry about catching the train. I’ll find him all right, and I’ll tell
him something he won’t forget in a hurry—I will. I’ll track him and find
out who he is. Maybe after he’s paid a hundred dollars fine, he won’t be
so free with his blamed rifle.”
It was odd how he had balked at putting an end to the wounded deer, and
then had not the slightest hesitancy to pursue, he knew not what sort of
disreputable character, and denounce him to his face and then report
him. Westy would not show up with the authorities, not he; not till he
had first called the marauder a few names which he was already deciding
upon. They were not the sort of names that are used in the language of
compliment. It is not to be supposed that Westy was perfect....
He was all scout now. Yet he was puzzled as to which way to turn. It is
sometimes easier to follow tracks than to find them. No doubt the
fugitive had been some distance from the deer when he had shot it. Where
had he been then? Near enough for Westy to hear the patter of his
footfalls, that was certain. Also another thought occurred to him. The
man’s shot had not been a good one, at least it had not proved fatal. He
was either a very poor marksman or else he had fired from a considerable
distance.
Westy’s mind worked quickly and logically now. He had easily the best
mind of any scout in his troop. Not the most sprightly mind, but the
best. He tried hurriedly to determine where the man had stood by
considering the position of the wound on the deer’s body. But he quickly
saw the fallacy of any deduction drawn from this sign since the deer
might have turned before he dropped. Then another thought, a better one,
occurred to him. The animal had been shot below its side, almost in its
belly. Might not that argue that the huntsman had been somewhat below
the level of the deer?
The conformation of the land thereabouts seemed to give color to this
surmise. The ground sloped so that it might almost be said to be a
hillside which descended to the verge of a gully. Westy went in that
direction for a few yards and came to the gully. He scrambled down into
it and found himself involved in a tangle of underbrush. But he saw that
from this trenchlike concealment, the animal might easily have been
struck in the spot where the wound was.
His deduction was somewhat confirmed by his recollection that it was
from this direction he had heard the receding footfalls. A path led
through this miniature jungle and up the other side where the pine
needles made a smooth floor in the forest.
Presently all need of nice deducing was rendered superfluous by a sign
likely to prove a jarring and discordant note in the woodland studies of
any scout. This was a crumpled tinfoil package which on being pulled to
its original size revealed the romantic words so replete with the spirit
of the silent woods:
MECHANIC’S DELIGHT
PLUG CUT TOBACCO
The tinfoil package was empty and destined to delight no more. But it
was not even wet, and had not been wet, and had evidently been thrown
away but lately.
It was immediately after throwing this away that Westy noticed something
else which interested him. It was nothing much, but bred as he was to
observe trifling things in the woods, it made him curious. The rank
undergrowth near him was besprinkled with drops as if it had been rained
on. This was noticeable on the large, low-spreading plantain leaves near
by. Surely in the bright sunshine of the morning any recent drops of dew
or rain must have dried up. Yet there were the big flat leaves
besprinkled with drops of water.
Westy remembered something his scoutmaster had once said. _Everything
that happens has a cause. Little things may mean big things._ Nine boys
out of ten would not have noticed this trivial thing, or having noticed
it would not have thought twice about it. But Westy approached and felt
of the leaves and as he did so, he felt his foot sinking into swampy
water. He tried to lift it out but could not. Then, he felt the other
foot sinking too. He hardly knew how it happened, but in ten seconds he
was down to his knees in the swamp. Frantically he grasped the swampy
weeds but they gave way. He could not lift either foot now. He felt
himself going down, down....