Kiddie the Scout

by Robert Leighton

"I've got him, sure; he ain't goin' ter wriggle away."

Rube passed the revolver and watched. He expected Kiddie to discharge the weapon close to the rattlesnake's head. To his surprise, Kiddie removed his right foot, drew away the forked stick, and stepped back a couple of paces. The snake, now at unhindered liberty, raised its head several inches from the ground and coiled round, with jaws wide open, ready to strike. Kiddie then pressed his trigger, and the bullet, entering between the two poison fangs, came out at the back of the serpent's skull.

"Say, what in thunder did you let it go loose for?" questioned Rube. "It might have escaped! It might have bitten you!"

"Which means that you figure I might have missed my aim?" said Kiddie. "Not very complimentary to my shootin'. Why did I let it go loose? Well, I jest notioned it would be some cowardly ter shoot while I held the brute that way. Beside, I didn't want ter shatter the skull too much. Biggest rattler I've seen—seven feet long if it's an inch, and worth preservin'. Say, those bees look like givin' us trouble. Best hustle through with breakfast, and then get along to the traps. The honey c'n wait. That sulphur of yours is goin' ter do the trick."

They went together to make the round of the traps, first going some way up the creek to the willows where Rube had set his beaver traps in the midst of a colony of these busy animals. Rube was in hope that every trap would be filled; but there were only two beavers—one of them quite young and small, the other, a large male in prime condition.

"Best let it go, as it ain't hurt any," Kiddie advised, liberating the smaller one. "You c'n take the bigger chap and we'll cook the tail. Where did you set your snares?"

"In amongst the scrub, thar," Rube pointed.

There was a fine jack-rabbit in the first snare they came to. Rube gave the animal a sharp knock on the back of the head, killing it instantly.

"Guess we'll have this yer feller for dinner," he said; "stewed with plenty of onions an' some taters."

"You see," observed Kiddie, "we're already beginnin' ter be self-supportin'. Fish, meat, honey—there wasn't any occasion t' bring a butcher's shop along with us. We c'd even make our own bread at a pinch. I'm plannin' ter make a fruit pudding. Thar's a bush 'most breakin' down with its weight of ripe and juicy thimbleberries, back of the old cedar tree. Bees have been at 'em."

The next snare they visited was empty. In another a woodgrouse was caught, and in yet another a fox cub. Kiddie's steel traps were set farther away. He went first to the one about which he had been so particular.

"Gee!" he exclaimed. "It's sprung! Bait's taken. Remains of that rabbit have been eaten, too!"

"Lynx is a cunnin' critter," said Rube. "You gotter wear two pairs o' moccasins t' git level with a lynx."

"I ain't just sure that it was a lynx," mused Kiddie, searching the ground for signs. "You never happened on a jet-black lynx around here, did you, Rube?"

"Nope," Rube answered. "They's allus the same tawny colour. Why d'you ask?"

Kiddie looked down at the tight shut jaws of the gin.

"Thar's a tuft of black fur in the teeth of the trap," he pointed out. "An' look at them claw marks! Guess that critter's some bigger'n a lynx. May's well stay another night in this camp an' try ter git the critter, eh?"

"Dunno 'bout that," Rube demurred. "Might be a whole fam'ly o' rattlers lyin' around. 'Tain't just healthy."

"Guess that rattlesnake we killed had done with family life a long while ago," said Kiddie. "Anyhow, I'm curious to know what critter it was that sprang this trap."

"Mebbe he shoved his nose inter one of the others," suggested Rube.

Kiddie led the way unerringly among the forest trees. His traps had all been visited by wild animals. Two of them had been sprung ineffectually; in others he found a raccoon, a cross-fox, a musk-rat and an otter. One had been dragged away, and was found some hours afterwards with part of a fox's tail between the teeth.

Rube Carter rather prided himself on his skill in cooking, and he was particularly anxious to make a good rabbit stew. Kiddie helped him only so far as to skin and dismember the rabbit and peel the onions. He was himself a capable camp cook, but he did not wish to interfere with Rube's personal satisfaction in doing the work.

"Say, Kiddie," said Rube, when he had fixed the saucepan firmly in the fire; "if we ain't goin' ter quit this yer pitch 'fore ter-morrow, you'd best sleep to-night along o' me in the wigwam. That rattlesnake wasn't many yards away from you, an' if you'd bin bit I dunno what I should ha' done. Thar ain't no good in hangin' around after that lynx, whatever its colour. Why shouldn't we quit?"

"Where would you go, Rube?" Kiddie inquired.

Rube looked out across the lake.

"I got a idea of paddlin' across an' makin' camp in one of them cañons," he said.

"Tut!" objected Kiddie. "You want to do some exploring, eh? Want ter get into some lonesome place where nobody has ever been before? What's the matter with this forest? I reckon we're the first civilized humans that have ever spent a night in it. Prowl around in it; search in whatever direction you like, you'll find no sign of any sort that a human being has been here in front of us to leave his mark on a tree, to drop a button or a chip of crockery, or to lift a stone from the bed of the creek. It's all as Nature meant it to be, centuries and centuries ago. Growth and the weather alone have changed things."

"All right," nodded Rube; "so long's you're satisfied, so am I. Suppose we get at that honey 'fore the bees come back."

The sulphur fumes still lingered in the hollow tree, and scores of bees had fallen stupefied among the roots. Rube, being the smaller, entered the hollow and looked up.

"Thar's pounds an' pounds of honeycomb here, Kiddie," he called out; "but I can't reach it without somethin' ter stand on, an' we shall need that biscuit tin ter hold it."

Kiddie fetched the biscuit tin, and a spar of firewood, and stood by while Rube handed out to him the dripping combs of honey.

"Thar's heaps more, higher up," said Rube, standing on tip-toes and reaching upward.

Then somehow his foot slipped, the decayed substance of the tree crumbled under his weight. He screamed in terror as he fell in a heap at Kiddie's feet, followed by a shower of dust and strange, dry rottenness that was mingled with the syrup from the honeycombs.

"What is it?" cried Kiddie. "What made you scream? Another rattler?"

"No." Rube shivered. "That!" And he turned over and pointed with an agitated finger at a human skull and a heap of crumbled bones. "It's a man's skeleton. And you notioned as nobody 'd ever set foot in this forest before!"

CHAPTER XI

LESSONS IN TRACKING

"Queer!" ejaculated Rube, standing up and contemplating the gruesome remnants of the skeleton. "Mortal queer it is. Can't make it out. How'd he come ter be fixed up thataway in the middle of the tree, dyin' thar all lonesome, like a poor critter caught in a trap? How'd it happen, Kiddie?"

He appeared to expect Kiddie to tell him off-hand exactly how the thing had occurred.

"Dunno," returned Kiddie, with a grave headshake. "It's a mystery. I'm trying t' think it out. What way was he fixed?"

"Can't just say," Rube answered slowly. "Inside the tree's like a chimney. You c'n see daylight if yer looks up, as I did. I couldn't see that it was a man—a skeleton. Thar was a mass of honeycomb an' wax below what was left of his feet. I reached up an' seized hold o' somethin'. Guess it was one of the poor chap's legs. I was pullin' at it, an' pullin', when my foot slipped, an' the whole concern came down on top o' me, crumblin' into dust. How d'you reckon he got thar? Kin y'u explain?"

"Seems to me," said Kiddie, after a long pause, "that there are three possible explanations. First, that he was killed by some enemy and shoved in there out of sight: which ain't at all likely, since it would have been much easier to fling the body into the lake, and quite as safe from discovery to leave it lying here in the forest glade. Second, that he was escaping from some other Redskins, or even from some dangerous wild animal, and went into the hollow tree for safety."

"Climbin' too high, an' gettin' fixed so as he couldn't wriggle out again either up or down?" suggested Rube.

"Exactly," nodded Kiddie. "But, if that was the way of it, why didn't his pursuers get on his tracks and find him? I'm not of opinion that he had any pursuers, either animal or Indian. I believe he was just a lone scout—a trapper, maybe, but a lonesome wanderer, anyway—and that he was taking shelter from a storm. Perhaps he knew of that hollow tree: perhaps he came upon it by chance. It was a convenient shelter in either case. That's my third point."

"An' a reasonable one," commented Rube. "But it don't account fer how he came t' be fixed in so high above the ground. If he was only shelterin', why didn't he walk out again when the storm was through?"

"I'm supposin' it was a snowstorm, or else a fierce blizzard," Kiddie went on. "As the snow got deeper an' deeper, it would block up the hole that he entered by, and he'd work his way higher an' higher to get at the purer air. Maybe he'd wait till the storm was over, and then the snow might have been so deep that he'd think it easier to climb higher still and escape that way rather than attempt to go back feet foremost and burrow a passage through the drift. And then he got so wedged in that there was no movin' and no means of escape either way, and he just had to stay there and die a lingerin' death."

"Yes," said Rube. "I guess that's th' explanation of the whole thing. Wonder where he come from. Pity thar's none of his clothes left: no gun, or knife, or watch, or pocket-book ter tell us who he was, an' all that."

"He wouldn't be carryin' a gun or a watch," observed Kiddie, "and Injuns ain't in the habit of keepin' pocket diaries."

"Injuns?" repeated Rube questioningly. "D'you reckon this yer chap was a Injun, then?"

"Certainly," Kiddie answered, "an Injun, young an' tall."

"H'm!" murmured Rube, not satisfied. "You just guessin' all that, Kiddie, or have you figured it out?"

"I've figured it out," returned Kiddie. "Look at his thigh bone—the only bone that's left intact. It's longer'n mine, an' I ain't a pigmy. Must have been taller'n I am. Look at the teeth: they're not an old man's teeth. There ain't a speck of decay on 'em, they're not worn down any, an' they're well separate one from another, not crushed together like an old man's. Must sure have been young."

"Yes," said Rube, "but all that don't prove he was Injun. White men c'n be tall; white men c'n have good teeth. How d'you make out he was Injun?"

"By the shape of his skull for one thing," explained Kiddie—"the square jaw, the high cheek bones, the slopin' forehead. But more'n all I argue he was Injun because I calculate he was fixed tight in the tree, and was well on the way to bein' a naked skeleton long before any white man opened his eyes on the Rocky Mountains—yes, even perhaps before the Pilgrim Fathers landed in New England. That's why he didn't carry a gun. He didn't know there was such a thing as a gun, or a watch either."

"Git!" exclaimed Rube incredulously. "D'you expect me ter swaller a tall yarn like that? Why, the tree couldn't have bin more'n a seedlin' all them years ago!"

"Well," returned Kiddie. "I'm not prepared to declare that it was hollow, the same's it is now, in the time of the Pilgrim Fathers. But it was already an old tree. I guess it was an old tree even before Christopher Columbus discovered America. What's the girth of it, anyhow? Measure the girth of it, just above the base."

Rube made the tour of the forest veteran, estimating its circumference with outstretched arms.

"I reckon it's just over twenty-four feet," he announced, "allowing for the part that's missin' from th' open gap."

"Say eight feet in diameter," nodded Kiddie. "And it's one of the slowest growin' of all forest trees. I calculate that every inch of diameter represents at the very least ten years of growth. Eight feet equal ninety-six inches; an' that means nine hundred and sixty years. So you see the tree was quite a hundred years old at the time when William the Conqueror was King of England."

"Methuselah!" exclaimed Rube. "Then I ain't denyin' that it may have bin gettin' some ancient an' holler-hearted time of the Pilgrims. But even yet you ain't solved th' problem of just how long this yer trapper's bin dead."

"There's no way of tellin'," said Kiddie, "except by the condition of the bones. They crumble to dust at a touch, and as the protection of the tree was liable to preserve them rather than to hasten their decay, you wouldn't be a whole lot out if you argued, as I did at first, that he was dead before ever a white man set eyes on the Rocky Mountains."

"Guess thar's no occasion fer Sheriff Blagg ter hold an inquest, then," observed Rube, glancing round at the tin of honey. "Say, Kiddie, you gonner eat any o' that stuff—after where it come from?"

"Why not?" questioned Kiddie. "It's good, wholesome honey. We'll store it away in the teepee, where the bees an' flies can't get foolin' around it. That rabbit stew goin' along all right, d'ye think? See if it's seasoned enough. Onions are beginnin' ter flavour the woodland air, eh? Good thing we ain't goin' t' a fashionable West-end party this evenin'. I'd a heap rather smell of onions right here. Prefer bein' here in any case. You've never bin to a party, Rube; never seen me togged out in evenin' dress, wearin' a swallow-tailed coat an' a white bow an' patent leather pumps. But thar's a heap o' things you've never seen. You've never seen a locomotive engine, or a steamship, or a Gothic cathedral, or a Japanese cherry orchard in blossom; don't know what it means ter walk along an English lane, past cottages covered with roses. Thar's London an' Paris, thar's th' Atlantic Ocean an' the lone coral islands of the Pacific. Thar's pictures an' books an' theatres. Oh, thar's a whole world of interestin' things you've never seen!"

"Makes me feel ter'ble ignorant," Rube regretted ruefully. "I dunno nothin' o' what's beyond th' mountains that I see ev'ry mornin' from Birkenshaw's Camp. Don't know nothin'; can't do nothin'. I'm just as useless as I'm ignorant."

Kiddie put his arm affectionately round the boy's shoulders as they moved together towards the campfire.

"Not useless, Rube; not ignorant," he said, speaking now in his character of Lord St. Olave. "You know things that thousands of well-educated English and American boys do not know; you can do things which millions of clever boys are incapable of doing. I won't make you blush by telling you just what I think of you. I'll only say you're learning more and more every day, and that every day you're proving yourself to be a better and a better scout."

He left Rube occupied with the cooking and went off to bring together the animals that had been trapped.

"What d'yer say ter tryin' your hand at gettin' the pelts off en these critters?" he asked, when he returned and had placed the animals side by side. "It's best done while they're fresh."

"You're thinkin' of preservin' 'em, then?" questioned Rube.

"I'm thinkin' of mounting 'em," Kiddie answered, "but mainly for practice. I took lessons when I was in London, from the people who preserve animals for the British Museum, an' picked up a heap of wrinkles. I want ter show you how it's done."

"How d'you reckon you're goin' ter get the skin off that rattlesnake?" Rube was anxious to know.

"Well," said Kiddie, "'tain't just as easy an' simple as drawin' off your glove; but it's on the same principle."

They were engaged during the afternoon with the work of securing the skins and cleaning them. The carcases were cut up for use as bait for the traps, the traps being plentifully baited and very carefully set for the larger animals. Kiddie was again most particular in laying the gin for the same animal that had visited it and perplexed him on the previous night.

"Guess that'll sure get him, whatever he is," said Rube.

He looked round for a response in agreement with his comment, but Kiddie was not there.

"Which way've you gone, Kiddie?" he called.

But there was no answer.

Rube stood listening, but heard no sound. He called louder; there was still no answer.

Now, Rube knew Kiddie well enough to be assured that there was some special meaning in this sudden disappearance. It was not a mere playful fancy. Kiddie had gone away intentionally, making no sound, leaving no sign. Clearly he wanted to test Rube's skill in tracking.

Rube remained standing where he was, but his eyes were alertly searching around amongst the shrubs and trees and along the ground for some mark or sign that might tell him in which direction Kiddie had gone. He knew that success in following him depended entirely upon his true start, and that a false beginning would only land him in difficulties, if not in his being actually lost.

Rube knew also that Kiddie would not play him any childish pranks, but would give him fair play all through, even helping him by leaving some "scent" in his trail—not handfuls of torn-up paper, as in an English schoolboys' game of fox and hounds, nor by so obvious a method as that of blazing the trees. It would be a test in which every faculty of the searcher's scoutcraft would be brought into active exercise.

Sniffing the warm air, listening keenly, looking with sharp scrutiny over every foot of the ground from where Kiddie had stood behind him, Rube at length fixed his gaze upon a tuft of grass where some of the blades had been bent over as by the tread of a moccasined foot. He went closer to it and saw that some of the frail blades were fractured. Now he had his starting point. He did not rush forward, but carefully estimated the probable direction, listening the while.

Presently there came to him the harsh cry of a jay, which told him of Kiddie's whereabouts, or at least of the line of Kiddie's course through the forest solitudes.

And now he went on in pursuit, picking up the faintly-indicated tracks one by one; often going far astray on a false scent and needing to return on his own back trail to the point where he had gone off the line that had been so cunningly laid for his guidance or his confusion; but always coming upon some new clue that lured him on and on.

Many times he stood still in serious perplexity. Everything around him was wild and unfamiliar, with no slightest trace or sign, either new or old, of human presence.

He might easily have allowed himself to be alarmed at the utter loneliness, and afraid lest he should lose himself. But he knew all the time that if he should be lost, Kiddie would come out in search of him and quickly find him.

In his moments of deepest despair, however, he always discovered some obvious sign which he had previously overlooked, and at last he perceived that he had been led round in an exact triangle, for through the green meshes of the trees he caught a glimpse of the lake and a thin blue column of fire-smoke, and then in the surrounding silence he heard Kiddie's well-known voice singing a snatch of a Scots ballad—

"Late, late in the gloaming, Kilmeny cam' hame."

"Hullo, Rube; got back inter camp, eh? Been wanderin' about the forest all on your own, have you? I've waited for you; got tea ready, you see—all but boilin' th' eggs. Guessed you'd relish a couple of eggs."

Kiddie did not turn to look at Rube as he spoke. He was reclining between the teepee and the fire with his open note-book on his knee and a blacklead pencil in his fingers. Beside him was a newly-cut birch stick with part of the bark whittled off.

"Yes," Rube responded, halting near him and standing looking him up and down in curious examination. "Yes, I allow I'm some hungry. Say, your moccasins are wet. Spilt some of the tea-water on 'em? Pity ter spoil a nice pair of moccasins by wettin' 'em. You ain't written much with that pencil. The point's still sharp since you sharpened it after dinner."

Kiddie glanced at the pencil point and smiled.

"Might have sharpened it again, while I've been waitin'," he said.

"But you didn't," returned Rube. "There ain't no chips lyin' around—unless you've put 'em in your pocket, same's you did before."

Kiddie smiled again. He had moved to the fire to put on the eggs.

"You're becomin' quite observant, Rube," he said. "See anythin' special on your solitary wanderin's?"

"Guess I found this here scrap of paper," Rube answered. "Looks as if it had been tore outer that note-book you was pretendin' to be writin' in—same size, same colour, an' thar's writin' on it, too. Looks like your own fist, don't it?"

Kiddie reached for the square of paper that was handed to him and examined it as if he had never seen it before.