Kiddie the Scout

by Robert Leighton

"Frizzle me if it ain't Kiddie of the Camp!" cried Kearney.

"I'm in sure luck by your happening along," responded Kiddie, trying with difficulty to move. "Say, if you c'n rip open that boot and disentangle my sprained foot from that rotten saddle, I shall be obliged. Then I reckon I c'n lie here while you ride along the trail with your mails and send help, see?"

Alf Kearney demurred to the suggestion, but at once proceeded to liberate Kiddie's foot, first cutting the stirrup-strap and then ripping open the stout leather boot.

"Couldn't you manage ter mount behind me?" he questioned. "My pony's fit ter carry us both, I guess. Like as not, Broken Feather and his gang'll come back. You ain't anyways safe lyin' here, rain comin' on; an' the sooner a doctor sees you the better."

"Broken Feather?" Kiddie repeated. "If that's the rustler wearin' the war-bonnet and ridin' a piebald broncho, then he ain't liable ter come back—not with my bullet in him. I didn't catch sight of his face—didn't savee it was Broken Feather. No, Alf, thank you, I ain't able ter mount. Leave me right here, hustle along with the Express, and send help from your first relay station."

The long, weary night that followed was very dark, and the two men sent along the trail to give help searched in vain for Kiddie in the driving rain. They had brought a buckboard cart with them in which to carry him home to Sweetwater Bridge.

They searched for hours, but even when they discovered some rain-washed hoof prints it was too dark for them to follow the tracks. It was not until daybreak that they found Kiddie asleep under his blanket, with the saddle for a pillow and his arms, with their red shirt sleeves, folded over his chest.

He awoke when they whistled. They ran up to him, afterwards bringing along the buckboard, into which they tenderly lifted him. The jolting of the cart was painful to him, but when at length they arrived at Birkenshaw's camp he declared that he wasn't at all badly hurt.

"Just leave me alone, boys," he said, "I don't want you ter make any fuss over me. There's nothing serious the matter—a few bruises, a sprained ankle, a kinder gen'ral shakin' up; that's all. I shall be ready to go with the Express again before Jim Thurston, even now."

"No occasion ter worry any 'bout the Express, Kiddie," said Abe Harum, massaging the injured ankle with embrocation. "I'm notionin' ter take a spell at it myself fer a while, a kinder change for me, see?—good as a holiday. Besides, thar's two individuals I'm anxious ter meet. One of 'em's the rooster as palmed off that rotten saddle on you. The other's Broken Feather. You'd a legitimate chance of puttin' his light out, Kiddie. Nobody e'd have blamed you any if you'd aimed at a vital section of his anatomy; but you let him off with little more'n a scratch. And that ambush was all planned. Rube here's just hungerin' an' thirstin' ter tell you all about Broken Feather's friendly call along at your woodland cabin while he knew you was absent. Ain't that so, Rube?"

"Yes," Rube answered, coming forward to Kiddie's side.

Rube then told the whole story of Broken Feather's surreptitious visit to the forest clearing, of the discovery that it was he who shot the poisoned arrow and of his threat that Kiddie would never come back.

"So you see, Kiddie," supplemented Abe Harum, "the skunk meant ter do you in. When he quitted the clearin', 'fore the hound struck his trail, he went right away ter put his rascally plan into operation. He an' his braves lay in wait for you ter gallop along. As I remarked before, it's a pity you didn't plant that bullet of yours where it would sure be fatal. It's your way, I know. You'd sooner cripple than kill. You show mercy even to a Injun—even to your deadliest enemy. An' Broken Feather's your enemy. You're what's called hereditary enemies, if I knows the meaning of the term."

"That's so, Abe," said Kiddie. "His father, Eye-of-the-Moon, shot my mother dead. It was Eye-of-the-Moon who killed my father, Buckskin Jack, in the Custer fight. On the other hand, it was my maternal grandfather, Spotted Tail, who killed Eye-of-the-Moon in their duel on horseback that I've so often told you about. And now it seems Broken Feather and I are at enmity."

"Yes," put in Gideon Birkenshaw, "but I ain't figgerin' as Broken Feather's takin' heredity inter consideration; not a whole lot. He don't keer a brass button who his father killed, or who killed his father. 'Cordin' ter Redskin reckonin' they've all gone on the long trail to the Happy Huntin' Grounds, an' they're no longer objec's in the scen'ry. Broken Feather's got his own pussonal reasons fer enmity agin your lordship. He knows as you're a long sight cleverer'n he is as an all-round scout; he's some afraid o' your cleverness. He knows you're wealthy; he covets your wealth. He knows you're honest; an' the one pusson as a rogue most dislikes is the man who acts allus on the straight. Moreover, Kiddie, you've already got the better of Broken Feather on several occasions, an' he ain't liable ter forget it."

"Gee!" exclaimed Rube Carter. "Never know'd th' Old Man make sich a long an' logical oration in me life before!"

"You've got yer own remedy, however," resumed Gideon. "It's agin th' law fer Injuns ter come outer their reservations, same as Broken Feather an' his braves have been doin' lately. The hull thing 'ld be stopped if you'd only appeal t' th' law fer pertection."

"But suppose I don't approve of the Indians being herded like sheep in fenced reservations?" Kiddie objected. "Suppose I'm of opinion that in a free land like this all men should be equally free, Redskin and Paleface alike? No, Gid, I ain't figuring to appeal to the law. If I need any protection against a man such as Broken Feather, I'll do the business on my own, and a gun, a fleet horse, and my own common sense are good enough for me, without the interference of the law."

CHAPTER IX

KIDDIE'S "SELFISHNESS"

Kiddie's fall had been violent, and might easily have been fatal; but it had been neither sudden nor unexpected, while his experience with bucking bronchos, and his great skill as a horseman, had helped him to avoid serious physical injury.

He was bruised, he was shaken; but no bones were broken, and his worst injury was his sprained ankle. This gave him acute pain and inconvenience for many days, requiring care and rest.

Naturally he fretted under the forced inactivity; he became impatient, and when at length he could limp from his room to the veranda, he wanted to mount a horse and ride along to the forest clearing to superintend the building of his cabin.

"There's no need fer you ter go an' see things," Rube Carter insisted. "Jus' you have a good rest until you're quite well. Everything's goin' on famous. We've gotten the roof on, an' we're now fixin' up your bedroom, so's you kin occupy it while the rest of the shanty's bein' finished."

"Yes," pursued Kiddie. "But I want to be there right now. I'm hankerin' badly to see how it looks, ter judge what it'll be like when all the work's done and we've got the fixings in—the books and pictures and all that. I'm envying you terrible, Rube, being there every day and watching the thing grow. I'm envying you being able to see the wild critters while I'm kept a prisoner here on account of a fool saddle that was broken and mended with rotten string. I guess you've seen heaps of things this morning—new birds, new insects, new beasts, and wild flowers that you couldn't put a name to, eh?"

"Dunno 'bout that," said Rube. "Dunno as I saw anythin' as I hadn't seen before."

"Ah, you've got a heap to learn yet, Rube," Kiddie rejoined. "Why, when I'm out and about there's never a day, never an hour, hardly a minute, but I see something new, learn something fresh in woodcraft and scoutcraft. You don't go along with your eyes shut and your ears and nostrils closed, do you? What did you see early this mornin', for example, when you went across the grass patch, the dew still lying?"

"Say, now, how d'you know I saw anythin'?" Rube asked. "You was in bed."

"Yes, but I could see you from my pillow. You went aside from the straight trail."

"That's so," acknowledged Rube. "I was tryin' ter foller a track in the dew—some biggish animal, I guess; but thar wasn't no footmarks—not in the long grass—an' the track didn't lead to nothin'—only a root of dandelion with the leaves chewed off."

"Perhaps you went the wrong way," suggested Kiddie. "Was the track lighter than the rest of the grass, or darker?"

"Um! Now you puzzle me," demurred Rube. "I ain't just sure; but I guess it was darker. Yes, it was sure darker. Why? What's that gotter do with it?"

"Why? Well, a scout would sure know that grass blades bent towards him look dark; bent away from him, light. If the trail of your biggish animal this morning was darker than the grass, then you didn't follow him, you were going away from him all the time. He was probably a stoat on the track of a jack-rabbit. If you'd followed the other way, you might have seen where that stoat chased his victim into its burrow, and you might have seen where he came out again alone, after his feed underground. There's a heap of information in a track, Rube, altogether independent of plain footprints."

Rube rested his chin in his hands, listening.

"Suppose a bicycle or an automobile car had gone along a dusty or a muddy trail," continued Kiddie, "and you wanted to know which way it was travelling, what 'ld you do ter discover? You'd look at the rut the wheel had made. You'd see that the loose dust or the wet mud feathered out from it in the direction in which the wheel was going. No need ter search for footprints. It's the same with drops of blood from a wound, drops of water splashed from a jug or a bucket—any drippin' liquid; the drops splash forward in the direction in which the person splashing them was movin', the splashes being longer or shorter according to the person's pace. If you aim at being a capable scout—a good tracker—don't study the obvious things alone: look as well at the smaller signs, which often tell you more. And wherever you are, whatever you're doing, keep your senses busy—your sight, your hearing, your senses of smell and touch. At the present moment my senses tell me there's a mosquito in this yer veranda: I c'n hear the critter humming away back of me. I know that we're goin' to have bacon and eggs for dinner; I c'n smell them bein' fried. The kitchen's some warm; your mother has opened the window; I c'n feel the draught from it."

In the days of Kiddie's convalescence, Rube learnt many a lesson in scoutcraft; lessons which he hastened to put into practice. It was afterwards, however, when Kiddie was well, and they could go camping out together in the wilds, that he learnt most. In the meantime, there was the work of building the woodland cabin to attend to.

He had at first intended that the cabin should be constructed by his own hands alone, of rough, unhewn timber; that it should contain only one room, and that of the simplest. It was to be merely a trapper's log hut in the forest, and he was to live as a simple trapper, quite alone, forgetting that he was a wealthy English nobleman.

But gradually his ideals had developed, and he had decided to make the place comfortable and convenient as well as simple and solitary—to make it, as it were, his headquarters, where he could store his trophies of the chase and keep his guns and books and pictures.

If he wished to go away on hunting trips, he could leave the cabin in safety, and take his pony and his tent and knapsack and live as a lone trapper in the woods, moving from place to place, always having a home to come back to if he wished. What he had always to fight against was an inclination towards luxury and labour-saving convenience. He had bought a patent camp cooking-stove in New York. It was capable of cooking anything, from a sirloin to a savoury. But when he unpacked it he saw how incongruous such a thing was with the domestic economy of a shanty in the forest.

"What does a plain trapper want with fancy fixings like this, anyway?" he asked himself. "If he's hankerin' after delicacies an' dainty cookery, he'd best quit right back to London. My food's goin' ter be frizzled over an open wood fire, and that dinky, high-class kitchen range is goin' right away to the bottom of Sweetwater Pond."

He allowed himself to stain the outer planks of the dwelling, but not to use any decorative paints which an ordinary trapper or an Indian could not procure. A garden, with flowers as well as vegetables, and creepers for the veranda, he considered necessaries, just as frames for pictures, shelves for his books, racks for his guns, and cupboards for his crockery were necessary.

There were three rooms in the cabin—a large living-room, which was also kitchen, a workroom, and a bedroom; and they were all three very simply furnished. Not far behind the cabin were the sheds and outhouses, the stables, cow-house, and barns; and down at the lakeside was a boathouse, in which to keep his canoes and fishing materials.

This was the secluded home which Lord St. Olave was making for himself, in preference to a grand house in London and a great mansion on his vast estate in Norfolk, with innumerable servants to wait upon him, and crowds of fashionable friends to enjoy his hospitality. He was realizing his wish to abandon the social whirl of London and to return to his native wilds. But he was not yet wholly satisfied with his choice.

He entered the living-room one afternoon looking weary and untidy, and flung himself into an easy-chair, giving a curt nod of greeting to Gideon Birkenshaw, who had strolled down from the homestead to have tea with him.

"Tired, Kiddie?" Gideon inquired. "Bin workin' too hard?"

"No," returned Kiddie, "I ain't tired. I'm never tired."

"Ankle still hurtin' you some, mebbe?" pursued Gideon.

"Ankle's gettin' along all right," Kiddie assured him. "Guess it'll soon be's well's ever. Shall we have tea? Rube'll get it ready."

Gideon did not respond to the invitation.

"Buildin's progressin' all s'rene," he observed. "I like this yer room. It's real homesome; and the view fr'm your front windows and the veranda's real elegant. Time you gets a collection o' choice flowers in your door-yard, you'll have 'bout the most desirable residence in the hull state of Wyoming. Ain't you satisfied? What's the matter?"

"I'm just some worr'ed, Gid," Kiddie answered, flinging a leg over the arm of his chair.

"My!" exclaimed Gideon. "What in creation 've you gotter worry about?"

"Just the cabin," Kiddie answered dreamily. "Just the cabin and my living in it all lonesome; enjoyin' it—enjoyin' it too much. It's just what I've wanted. Everything's all as I planned. But I've bin thinkin', Gideon; thinking hard."

"That ain't a new experience fer you, Kiddie," said Gid. "You was allus' a deep thinker. Guess it's the Injun blood in you assertin' itself. An' what's the matter wi' the cabin ter make you meditate an' worry?"

"Why," Kiddie responded slowly, keeping his Western manner of speech, as was usual with him when addressing Gideon Birkenshaw, "I've come to the conclusion as it ain't just right an' proper o' me ter live here with everything I most covet in the shape of personal comfort—a cosy home in beautiful scenery, with the perfumed pine trees all around, the woodland solitude, where I c'n study the wild critters, beasts an' birds an' insects; the creek an' the lake, where I c'n paddle an' fish; my time all my own, with no slavish duties, no tasks, no responsibilities. An' it's all selfish, Gid, real mean an' selfish."

"Selfish, Kiddie?" Gideon screwed up his eyes in wonder.

"Yes. It ain't anyways right for a man ter live for himself alone, shirkin' his duties ter humanity. What did I do this mornin' that was any good whatever to anybody in th' world but myself? I went out 'fore sunrise, when the blue mist was hangin' round the mountain tops an' in among the trees. It was like a fairy dream. I listened t' th' orchestra of the birds—the woodthrush, the veery, the scarlet tanager an' the rest of the thrillin' songsters—and the music was more delicious 'n any opera I've heard in London an' Paris. I wasted a full hour watchin' a fool centipede that had gotten himself tangled in a spider's web—watched th' manoeuvres of that spider for a full hour, I did."

"I allow you learnt suthin', too, since the spider was at home," interrupted Gid. "Them critters has wonderful skill in tactics. I'm figurin' as that hour wasn't a whole lot wasted, Kiddie."

"It was wasted in selfish enjoyment, selfish gratification," Kiddie insisted.

"Git!" exclaimed Gideon. "You dunno what selfishness means, Kiddie, an' you couldn't be selfish if you tried. You's allus doin' suthin' unselfish. Here's you comin' back to this yer camp an' the Sweetwater district, an' right straight away you starts helpin' other folks, pertectin' their homes from hostile Injuns, makin' their lives smoother an' safer. Is it selfish ter do what you've already done? What about your takin' Jim Thurston's place in th' Express, riskin' yer life, an' precious near losin' it? Was that a act of selfishness?"

"It was my fault that Jim was hurt. I couldn't do otherwise than take his place."

"You wouldn't ha' done it if you'd bin selfish. You'd ha' let somebody else carry on the job," argued Gideon. "You's allus thinkin' of others; doin' 'em good turns, givin' 'em pleasure. You've given me a gold timepiece, you've given Isa a hoss, you've given us new guns all round. Thar's not a housewife along the trail as hasn't gotten suthin' as you brought her from England—cloth for a frock, trimmin' fer a hat, a box of scented soap, a machine fer mincin' meat. An' the children—the boys an' gels—what about them, eh? You brought 'em toys an' dolls an' pictur' books, whips, boxes of paints, needlecases with scissors an' thimble all complete. You've filled their little hearts with a joy they never knowed afore. Selfish! Great snakes!"

"Tea's ready," announced Rube Carter, breaking in upon the conversation. "I've opened a new tin o' peaches, and thar's cream."

In spite of Kiddie's efforts to be homely and unassuming, Gideon Birkenshaw was not always entirely at his ease in his presence. The old man recognized that his own upbringing and education had been sadly deficient and that his roughness of speech and manners became painfully obvious in comparison with Kiddie's unvarying courtesy and refinement.

"Kiddie," he said now, as they sat at tea, "thar's a many things in you, I notice, as makes you a whole lot different from what you was in th' old days, 'fore you made the surprisin' discovery that you was a aristocratic nobleman. In a heap o' ways you's the same Kiddie. Nothin' c'n alter your natur' or wipe away th' effects of your early trainin' as a frontier scout. You've lost none o' your skill an' cleverness, but added suthin' to them that makes you inches taller an' bigger'n you was. I guess it's the things you acquired in England as makes you diff'rent. Rubbin' shoulders with them high-class friends o' yours over thar has kinder wore off the rough corners."

"'Twas high time I quitted, perhaps," mused Kiddie. "If I'd stopped over there any longer, I guess there wouldn't have been any corners left to know me by. I should have been worn round as a pebble, exactly like all other pebbles without character and individuality."

"Thar you are!" nodded Gideon, "'without character an' individuality,' says you, as if you'd lifted the phrase outer a printed book. You wouldn't ha' used sich choice an' dainty langwidge 'fore you went away. Your speech has growed more c'rrect, more elegant, same as your dress."

"My dress, Gid? What's the matter with my dress?"

"Oh, yes," pursued Gideon. "You wears buckskins an' flannels an' a frontier hat; you goes about with your shirt-sleeves rolled up an' a scarf 'stead of a stiff starched collar; but you takes care that thar's allus elegant underclothin' nex' yer skin. You've gotten surprisin' clean habits, too: washes yourself three or four times a day, allus shaves yerself mornin's an' oils an' brushes yer hair. You don't go ter bed wi' yer boots and breeches on; you sleeps in a dinky suit o' pyjamas with stripes on 'em, an' braid, an' fancy buttons. I ain't complain'n' none, mind you. I gotter tremendous admiration fer all these yer signs of gentlemanhood. Only they makes me feel ter'ble humble, Kiddie. I feel 's if I oughter be sayin' 'sir' or 'your lordship' all the time."

"I'm glad you never commit such an outrageous mistake, Gid," said Kiddie, helping himself to preserved peaches with the spoon especially provided for them. Rube had just used his own spoon for the same purpose.

"An' thar's another thing—your manners at table," went on Gideon. "You're that dainty in your ways of eatin' an' drinkin', you make me feel like a brute animal 'stead of a well-brought-up human. Allus uses yer fork, you do; never shovels th' food inter yer mouth with a knife; never touches a bone wi' yer fingers. Seems ter me, Kiddie, if you was livin' on a desert island, same's that chap Robi'son Crusoe, you'd still show a example of perlite table manners t' the poll parrot an' the nanny goat."

Kiddie smiled in amusement.

"Well, well, Gid," he said, "you just wait until Rube an' I come back from our camp in the forest. I shall have dropped all the objectionable politeness by then. We shall take no forks or plates, but will tear our food with our teeth. We will sleep in our boots under blankets of balsam branches, and forget the comforts of pyjamas and hot shaving water. We're going to live like a pair of primitive savages, talkin' in the sign language, killin' an' cookin' our own food, takin' with us nothin' that you c'd buy in a city emporium, except, of course, our guns and huntin' knives. An' even then we shall be a heap better off than Robinson Crusoe, for, although he had his shot gun an' the fixin's he'd gotten from the wreck, yet he had ter build his own boat, while we shall have our birch bark canoe, and I guess the things we shall carry in the canoe an' in our pockets and haversacks 'll give us an enormous advantage over the shipwrecked mariner."

"An' when d'you purpose startin' on this yer outlandish trip, abandonin' the delights o' civilization?" Gideon inquired. "It's the fust I've heard of it. You ain't bin makin' no preparations. When d'you reckon on startin'?"

Kiddie glanced aside at Rube.

"As soon's Rube's ready," he announced.

"Why, I bin ready fer days an' days," said Rube. "I ain't thought o' nothin' else ever since yer told me it was goin' ter happen!"

"What about the weather prospects?" Kiddie asked.

"Weather's all right," answered Rube. "I've had me eye on it a lot. It's plumb sure t' be fine. Birds are flyin' high; flowers ain't got much scent in 'em; the sheep are grazin' with their heads to the wind; cattle are quiet. Mother's clothes line's saggin' betwixt the poles; spiders' webs are slack, too, an' thar's crowds of 'em on every bush. This mornin', when I looked out, great white mountains of cloud were banked up in th' sky. 'Fore I'd dressed an' got out, the clouds had melted clean away. All them signs mean fair weather, I reckon."

"That's so," agreed Kiddie, "especially the spiders' webs an' the quickly meltin' clouds. Guess we may's well start right now."

"Some sudden, ain't it?" said Gideon in surprise.

"No advantage in delay," returned Kiddie, rising from his seat and signing to Rube to begin at once. He went methodically about the cabin collecting things—a sack of potatoes, a bag of flour, some tins of milk, supplies of lard, salt, onions, rice, bacon, tinned fruit, and eggs, tea, cocoa, sugar, and butter, with various cooking utensils, his medicine chest, a hurricane lamp, candles, and a can of oil. Rube had made out a long list of their requirements, and busied himself collecting them.

"How many blankets?" he inquired.

"None," Kiddie answered. "Two ground sheets an' our sleepin' bags 'll be enough. An' we'll take the Indian teepee. It's better 'n a canvas tent. Shift all these fixin's inter the garden, an' then we'll start puttin' back everything we c'n do without. What d'you want the books for? You'll have no time fer readin'; we'll talk instead. You c'n do without a lookin' glass. Put tin dippers in place of the china cups an' saucers. Where's the fryin'-pan? Don't ferget soap an' towels."

In the garden he rejected a surprising number of things which Rube had thought necessary. He reduced the equipment to the smallest possible bulk. Nevertheless, he forgot nothing that was essential and included nothing which did not afterwards prove indispensable. The whole outfit occupied only a small space in the canoe.

They were carrying the bundles down to the lakeside when Rube, who was leading, stopped and looked back. Kiddie had come to a halt, and, still with the wigwam poles over his shoulder, was staring curiously at the ground at his feet.

"You passed by without noticin' that, Rube," he said, when the boy went back to him. What he was staring at was the stub of a cigarette. "It wasn't lyin' there when I went along here this mornin', I guess. You c'n see by the ash that it hasn't been here long. Less'n an hour, I'd say. Who dropped it, I wonder? There ain't anybody in this yer camp smokes cigarettes."

He searched for footprints, but could discover none; a newly-broken twig was all the sign that he could see. He glanced around among the trees, but there was no visible movement, and a whip-poor-will was singing undisturbed from a high bough of a balsam tree close at hand.

"No occasion ter worry about a trifle like that," he remarked, as he went on in the direction of the lake. "All the same, I'm some curious."

He did not look back while carrying the long teepee poles through the narrow ways between the closely-growing trees. Had he done so, even the sureness and quickness of his eyesight might still have missed the cleverly hidden form of Broken Feather, who lay at full length in the midst of an elder bush, stealthily watching him.

CHAPTER X

THE GUARDIAN OF THE HONEYCOMB

"And we're really goin' ter make a start right now?" questioned Rube, as he watched Kiddie packing their fishing gear on top of the rest of their equipment in the canoe. "We shall not get very far if you're notionin' ter make camp 'fore dark."

"All the better," said Kiddie. "If we find we've forgotten anything, there'll be the less distance for us to come back for it, see?"

"Thar's nothin' as you're liable ter have forgot," observed Rube, confident in Kiddie's forethought. "Seems ter me you must have had a schedule of the things already fixed up in your head. Anyhow, I don't reckon as we shall have any occasion t' come back—unless it's for the big dog. Why ain't we takin' Sheila along of us, Kiddie? Wouldn't she have been useful?"

"In some ways, yes; in others, no," Kiddie answered decisively. "I'm leaving her to mount guard up at the homestead and down at the cabin. She'll be better fed here at home, and she won't be running wild. If we took her along with us, she'd sure be foolin' around among our traps, scarin' the wild critters away from 'em; and I ain't in favour of keepin' her on the chain. Besides, I don't calculate on your havin' a hound ter help you in trackin' and scoutin'. You must learn to do it all on your own. Ready? In you get, then, while I shove her off."

Kiddie himself took the paddle. The water was extremely calm, and as the canoe rippled out from the shore, every tree and bush and boulder was clearly reflected in the glassy surface.

"No," he said, after a long spell of silence, reverting to Rube's remark. "Thar's no advantage in going far this evening. We've made a start; that's the great thing. I ain't greatly in favour of a long-prepared programme, or of doin' things accordin' ter plan, like an ordinary tourist. Guess we'll make camp back of that point that juts out in front of us. But 'fore we land, we got ter catch a fish or two for supper. That's why we packed the rods an' lines on top of the outfit. May as well begin right away. Be careful how you move. Don't stand; crawl."

Rube got the two rods ready, while Kiddie paddled onward for a couple of miles. Here and there the calm surface was dimpled by rising fish.

They drifted slowly into the shadows of the trees. Rube was the first to cast his fly, and the first also to make a strike, but it was a catfish that he caught, and, gently removing the hook, he threw it back.

Kiddie caught a small trout, and then a larger one. Both Rube and he were expert fishers, and between them they soon had enough for a good supper.

They entered a sheltered bay, into which flowed a little creek of pure, sparkling water, overshadowed by great, low-branching cotton-woods and tall, feathery silver spruce trees.

"No use in goin' far up the creek," said Kiddie, letting his paddle drag. "What d'ye say to here?"

"Right," agreed Rube. "Thar's a nice level bit o' ground, middle of them four cotton-woods. We couldn't do better."

They beached the canoe, and while Kiddie began to unload her, Rube went about collecting twigs and fir cones and as much dry wood as he could find to start a cooking fire. He built a fireplace of stones from beside the stream, lined it with dry grass and light twigs, and soon had a crackling blaze going from which to kindle the larger billets of wood broken up with his axe.

By the time he had cleaned the fish a glowing red fire was ready. Like a wise trapper, he put aside the offal to serve as bait for the traps. Thoroughly drying the cleaned trout, he soused them in flour, and laid them gently into the frying-pan of boiling lard. Then he gave himself time to cut bread and brew a dipper of tea.

Kiddie paid no regard to the cooking, excepting occasionally to sniff at the odorous air that came to him from the frying-pan. He knew that supper would be quite ready before he had finished his own work of unloading the canoe and setting up the teepee.

In this latter work he needed no help. There were no tent-pegs to drive into the hard ground. He had only to erect the tall poles in pyramid shape, and then enclose them in the buffalo-skin cover, lacing the latter together down to the door flap.

It looked extremely Indian when it was up, even to the smoke-grime round about the vent and the picture-writing in many colours that decorated the outer surface. The two trappers themselves looked Indian also, in their fur caps, fringed buckskins, and moccasins. Kiddie had even stuck a pair of white eagle feathers in his cap, and his tunic was richly decorated with silk thread-work and coloured beads.

When he moved away from the wigwam, Rube saw him go up to a gnarled old cedar tree and stand looking at it curiously. He seemed to be peculiarly interested in the rugged trunk. Presently he took a piece of white chalk from his belt pouch and made a mark upon the tree.

"Guess you've got some p'ticlar reason fer blazin' that thar old tree," said Rube, as Kiddie strode towards the fire; "I ain't just able ter make it out, unless you're figgerin' t' have the tree cut down for timber. It's your own property, of course. You goin' ter have it felled?"

"No, the tree's not comin' down," explained Kiddie, seating himself on his rolled-up sleeping bag within easy reach of the food. "Go an' have a squint at where I chalked the mark. Guess you'll soon understand."

Rube strode to the tree, walked round it, and then stood for a while, with his thumbs in his belt, opposite the chalk mark.

"Yes," he nodded wisely, when he returned. "We oughter git a considerable store of honey in the mornin' when we smoke them bees out. Thar's a rare procession of 'em goin' in at that little hole. Tree's hollow. Dunno why th' critters don't go in by the big doorway on the far side. Takin' a short cut, I expect. Else they goes in one way an' out th' other."

"That's it," said Kiddie. "Say, these trout are just top-notch. You've cooked 'em to a turn. I haven't tasted better since I was in Russia. They keep 'em alive in big tanks in the hotels in Moscow. You c'n choose your breakfast while it's swimmin' round; so it's served fresh. Keep the scraps all together. We'll bait the traps with 'em, presently, soon's we've washed up an' covered the fire. I notice you've made it in a good place—not too near the trees. But we've still got to be some careful. This yer ground's thick with pine needles and cones, that might easily catch alight if a breeze came along. Best dig a trench round it an' fill it with water."

They washed their pans and plates in the creek, and then got out their snares and traps.

Rube laid the snares in rabbit runs, and set some beaver traps in the creek, while Kiddie, with his greater skill, laid spring traps for the larger animals of prey in places where there were signs that large animals had recently been hunting and killing.

He was particularly attentive to one special steel trap, which he carefully baited with fish and set close beside the gnawed remains of a rabbit, still fresh and blood-stained. He examined the surrounding ground, and discovered the spot where the rabbit had been killed. Light tufts of fur lay about, and in their midst were the deep scratches of large claws, as far apart as a man's expanded finger-tips.

"Guess there's a lynx been prowlin' around here lately," he said to Rube, who was taking a practical lesson in the laying of traps. "That fish bait 'll sure tempt him. Anything more need doin'? What about that trench?"

"I've done it," Rube answered. "Thar ain't nothin' else, except t' get our beds ready."

"Mine's going t' be in the open," Kiddie decided. "Your's 'll be in the teepee. Keep a candle and matches and your moccasins within reach, case you've got ter get up in the dark. May as well plant your six-shooter under your knees, too. Thar's where I allus keep mine. It's a good habit, anyway. Don't reckon you'll need it, unless the coyotes come nosing around. Take a good sleep. No occasion ter get movin' about 'fore six o'clock."

Before they turned in for the night, the moon had risen over the jagged mountain tops, casting a glittering path of silver across the lake. On the farther side of the water they could see the black openings of many cañons and yawning chasms that invited exploration.

The deep murmur of a distant torrent came to them. The hoarse croaking of frogs and the chirping of crickets were mingled with the hooting of owls and the nearer hum of mosquitoes. Bats and moths were flitting on silent wings among the trees, and there was a rustle of dry leaves, as unseen animals of the night moved in the undergrowth.

Rube was up and moving about the camp at sunrise, and he had stirred up the smouldering fire and put a kettle and a dipper of water to boil before Kiddie crawled out of his sleeping bag. Kiddie's first occupation was to launch the canoe.

"Fetch the towels and come along," he said. "We'll get t' the deep water for our swim. You won't be anyways afraid, will you?"

"Not when you're near ter keep an eye on me," returned Rube, with confidence. "Course you'll help me t' git back inter the canoe. 'Tain't the same's mountin' a pony."

"Well, no," smiled Kiddie. "You'll mount over her head or her tail. She'll roll over, sure, if you try ter get astride her by the middle."

Rube paddled out into the lake until he was told to stop. He shipped his paddle, and looked round in time to see Kiddie's beautiful muscular figure poised ready to dive from the high peak.

With an adroit movement, Kiddie leapt into the air and, turning, cut the water as cleanly as an arrow, making very little splash. Rube waited so long for him to reappear that it seemed almost that some accident had happened to him. But at length he came up in a quite unexpected place, swimming back to the canoe at a pace that was astonishing. Thereafter he devoted himself to giving lessons to Rube in swimming and diving and re-entering the frail canoe.

"Quite enough for one morning," he said, before Rube had been in the water nearly as long as he wished. "We'll get back to camp now and have a cracker and a drink of hot tea. Then we'll visit the traps, and you c'n get breakfast ready while I shave. I guess we may's well have eggs and bacon, eh?"

"Might have some o' that thar honey as well," suggested Rube.

"All right," Kiddie agreed. "But you'll be havin' the bees foolin' around while we're at breakfast, if you're not careful. What you goin' ter smoke 'em out with?"

"Sulphur," Rube answered promptly. "I got a chunk in me pocket; been usin' it t' put in my bear cub's drinkin' water."

Rube was in more haste than he need have been to disturb the bees. Kiddie, while waiting for his shaving water to heat, was making a toasting fork of a stick with a forked end for cooking the bacon. He had seen Rube carry away a flat slab of stone with crushed sulphur on it, and had watched Rube lighting the sulphur and shoving the slab within the hollow of the tree, as he might shove a dish into an oven.

Suddenly there was a cry of alarm.

"Kiddie! Kiddie! Quick! Come here!"

Kiddie ran to the tree, still with his knife and the forked stick in his hands.

"Keep back!" Rube cautioned him. "It's a rattler—a huge one—far in among the roots. Listen!"

Kiddie heard the unmistakable crackling sound. He went nearer, holding his pronged stick in front of him. He peeped into the hollow of the tree, and through the blue fumes of the burning sulphur he saw the snake's thick black body with its brown geometrical markings gliding and twisting round the exposed roots.

While he watched, the repulsive head, with its sinister, beady eyes and busily darting tongue, came out, rising slowly as it came. The wide mouth opened, and Kiddie could see the two protruding poison fangs outside the ordinary teeth. He stepped backward as the snake's neck and body began to curve in readiness to strike.

"Seems he don't intend us ter get that honeycomb, Rube," he said calmly.

"Do keep back, Kiddie!" pleaded Rube. "Them fangs 'ld go clean through your moccasins or your buckskins. What you gonner do—shoot him?"

"Ain't got my gun," Kiddie answered. "It's in my belt alongside my tunic. Fetch it, if you like; may as well."

Rube ran back to where Kiddie had slept, and returned with the loaded revolver. He was astonished and alarmed at what he now saw. The rattlesnake had come wholly out from the tree, and Kiddie stood directly over it with his right foot planted across the thicker part of its writhing body, and the toasting fork, held firmly in his left hand, gripping the reptile by the neck. The snake's mouth was wide open—it seemed almost to be snarling angrily; the long body was wriggling, and all the time came the ominous rattling sound from the ringed tail.

"Get round by the back of me, and give me the gun in my right hand," ordered Kiddie. "Don't be scared. I've got him, sure; he ain't goin' ter wriggle away."