THE GAME POACHERS
Meanwhile, the woods boy was in trouble.
He had walked for several miles through the pines, packing that dandy
little Marlin repeater belonging to Teddy, and really wishing he might
run across a fighting wild cat, or even a panther, though these latter
animals were seldom seen in the Michigan woods in late years. Anything
in the shape of game that the law did not protect, but paid a bounty
for killing—that was the height of Amos’ ambition as he stalked along.
For he wanted to see how it felt to use the gun he had always admired
so much; and even a fierce lucivee would have been welcomed.
Of course, Amos did not forget for one minute what especial object had
lured him abroad on this morning. He kept on the alert to discover
traces of wild flowers, and their busy attendants, the little honey
gathering, pollen scattering bees.
Strange to say there seemed to be a wonderful dearth of the insects
right around that particular section. Amos was at first surprised, and
then nettled. He disliked to give any object up so easily; and when
noon came it found him with his head still turned away from the camp,
and without having met with any success.
Thinking he had better not go further in that direction, Amos began to
circle around to the left. This movement would allow of his covering
much new ground. Better still, if he kept on, he expected to eventually
strike the shore of the lake, at a point, say a mile or two from the
camp.
It was a nicely arranged plan, but circumstances which he had never
forseen, and over which he really had no control, caused it to miss
fire.
There was undoubtedly a whole lot of luck or accident in the way things
came about; but then that can be said with regard to nearly every
event that occurs. Think of the western railway train that was five
minutes behind time, arriving in sight of the station just so that the
horrified passengers saw the cyclone tear that building at which they
should have been stopping, into a thousand bits. That happened just the
other day, out near Omaha, Nebraska.
All of a sudden Amos, sitting on a log and resting, heard a deer
jumping. Then came two shots, one close on the heels of the other.
A wounded doe ran out of the scrub and fell dead on the ground not
twenty feet away from the boy. Then he heard voices approaching. Amos
would have shown his good sense by taking to his heels just then, and
vanishing. He did nothing of the kind, only stood there, and waited to
see who it was shooting deer out of season, and a doe at that. And like
as not Amos would quickly repent him of this unwise, even foolish lack
of caution.
Two men came hurrying forward. The first one Amos recognized as Big
Gabe Hackett and he guessed that the other must be Jared Crawley—yes,
he remembered the fellow, though some years had passed since last he
saw him.
Just as they reached the deer they discovered Amos, and both men showed
signs of confusion, which quickly changed to anger.
Almost before the surprised Amos realized what was happening, the giant
poacher had leaped over to his side, and snatched the precious Marlin
out of his hands.
After that they could not have driven the woods boy away, for he
simply must have refused to return to camp minus Teddy’s pet gun.
“What ye doin’ hyar, ye game warden spy?” growled Big Gabe, lifting his
fist, as though tempted to strike the boy; but at least Amos did not
quail; he looked the other straight in the eye as he replied:
“I was trackin’ around in hopes of findin’ a bee tree for the boys;
but just concludin’ to give it up and head for camp, when this deer
dropped. Somebody shot her, but I didn’t see who fired, so it ain’t any
of my business.”
“Oh! it ain’t, hey?” roared Gabe, “wall then, I’ll make it yer
business,” and with that he placed the repeating gun so close to the
deer that when he fired the sound was so muffled that it could not
possibly have carried any great distance; which was why those in the
camp heard no third discharge.
“What’d ye do that for?” demanded Crawley, who was a tough looking old
customer, weaker in disposition, perhaps, than Big Gabe, but, Amos
believed, every inch as much a rascal.
“So he’d have a hand in downin’ the deer,” said the big poacher, with
a cunning leer. “Now he dasn’t peach on us, Jared, ’cause Amos, he’s
in the same fix himself. And say, this leetle gun handles great. I jest
been a lookin’ fur somebody ter make me a present o’ a six shooter like
this.”
“Well,” said Amos, stoutly, “I guess you’re off your trolley about that
gun. Nobody ain’t giving it to you. It belongs to my friend, Teddy
Overton, and he’s carried it so long he wouldn’t let it go for a heap.”
“Oh! he wudn’t, eh?” growled Big Gabe, frowning.
“And you know what his father is; he ain’t afraid of any man or any
Lumber Trust on earth. Well, the boy’s a chip of the old block. You try
to keep his gun, and see what happens to you. I guess you’ll think some
black hornets are singin’ around your head in no time.”
Perhaps it was wrong for Amos to taunt the poacher after this fashion.
But then Big Gabe, being at the time in a nasty, reckless humor, the
chances are he would hardly have backed down anyhow, once he put his
hand to the plow.
He looked at Amos reflectively.
“Say, them fellers think a heap o’ ye, I guess, mebbe, Amos?” he
remarked.
“They’re mighty fine boys,” admitted the other, falling into the trap.
“And like as not,” continued the poacher, a grim smile beginning to
creep over his red face, “if they thort as how you was hurted or lost,
now, that Overton boy and the Bradley one, son o’ Mark Bradley the rich
manufacturer, would sally out, and try to find ye. Ain’t thet so, Amos?”
Amos knew it was. But he declined to commit himself. Truth to tell, a
terrible fear had suddenly taken possession of him. Evidently these
two desperate lawless men had been talking over some wild scheme that
had for its main object the demand on Mr. Overton or Mr. Bradley, for
ransom money, after the two sons of the wealthy men had been made
prisoners.
Once the ransom was in their hands no doubt the two men had in mind an
asylum across the lake in Canada.
That was why a dreadful fear suddenly sealed the lips of Amos. But Big
Gabe read his answer in the look of alarm that shot athwart the boy’s
face. He laughed harshly, and then went on to say:
“Git busy an’ cut up the deer, Amos, none o’ yer puttin’ on airs now
or I’ll be tempted to use that on ye,” and he lifted one of his
tremendous fists that had knocked scores of men down in the days when
Big Gabe “ruled the roost” as the bully of the logging camp.
Amos was no fool. He could be discreet as well as brave. And truth
to tell, a wild desire now began to seize upon him to learn in some
fashion just what the plans of these two conspirators might be, in
order that he could make them come to naught, and save his chums.
By running away he would lose all chance of finding this out. And
besides, he was apt to take unnecessary risks, because he honestly
believed Gabe would shoot after him, using the shot gun in order to
simply lame him.
And then, there was Teddy’s prized gun—how could he have the face
to go back to camp and tell how that had been plucked from his hands
without his being able to make the least resistance?
So Amos making the best of a bad bargain, took out his knife, got down
on his knees beside the slain deer, and started to cut the carcass up.
The two men sat there on the log Amos had recently vacated, watching
his labors, and occasionally exchanging a remark, generally to the
effect of how enjoyable it was to have some one to do all the dirty
work.
This was no new business to the woods boy. He pretended not to pay any
attention to what was said by the men. But he saw that Hackett kept the
Marlin gun across his knees all the while, allowing his own old weapon
to lie unheeded on the ground.
“Now tie up all them parts in the skin, so ye kin tote ’em, Amos,”
ordered the despot, when the boy announced that he had taken all the
choice portions.
There was nothing to do but grin and bear it, though Amos doubtless
thought his lines had fallen in anything but pleasant places.
“Pick her up!” ordered Big Gabe, as he arose, tucked Teddy Overton’s
gun under one arm, and his own under the other. “We got about two miles
ter kiver; an’ me ’n Jarda here, bein’ kinder rusty in the j’ints,
ain’t as well able ter pack loads acrost kentry as when we was young
an’ nimble guides. Head straight into the south, Amos. And I hopes as
how ye’re too sensible ter think of tryin’ ter run away, ’cause I’d
hate to pepper ye with this ere scatter gun; but I swear I will if so
be he tries to skin out.”
Amos knew the man, and he believed him. So for various reasons he
decided not to make any attempt at flight—just then, at any rate.
He wondered where they were taking him. Somewhere or other they must
have a camp. Then he remembered Big Gabe mentioning the fact that
Crawley had a cabin somewhere.
“I wonder if it could be that old place they used to say was haunted?”
Amos was whispering to himself, as he walked along, now turning a
little to the right, and again to the left as his captor directed, and
often the butt of coarse ridicule on the part of Big Gabe, who thought
the boy was only a little coward, after all.
He did not dream what was passing through the mind of Amos.
After a while the boy felt sure they must be making for the cabin of
which he had heard more or less talk, but which he had never seen.
And sure enough, when the sun was only half way down toward the horizon
they came in sight of an old cabin, nestled in the midst of the wildest
growth of bush; as though Nature was trying hard to heal the scar made
by man’s hand.
“Hello! thar, Sallie, open up!” shouted old Crawley; and somewhat to
the astonishment of Amos, the cabin door opened to reveal the slender
figure of a girl about the twelve years of age—a girl with tawny
golden hair, a rather small, pallid face, and the biggest blue eyes he
had ever seen in any one.