CHAPTER IX
THE FIGHT IN THE WOODS
Slowly Tim's eyes came away from the ceiling. His heart stood still. Was this a joke? Eager hands fell on him from the rear—Wally's, Ritter's, Alex Davidson's. There could be no doubt after that.
His heart began to thump. Chairs were pushed back, and patrols clamored around their teams. He found himself next to Don with one of Andy's arms around his shoulders.
"You fellows bring that treasure out," Andy threatened, "or you'll wish you had stayed there. Hear me?"
Tim's eyes were unusually bright, but his heart had begun to drop to normal. A sudden decision had come not to let this prospect run away with him. He knew the bitter taste of disappointment and he wanted no more of it. He had started for Lonesome Woods in high spirits the last time, and had come home in the dumps. There'd be an understanding before this start. There'd be an understanding tonight.
He stuck close to Don, waiting for the moment when they could be alone.
It came.
"Look here," he said sharply; "why did you pick me?"
Don was startled. "Why—why—" How could he tell the real reason without setting a new spark to the gunpowder in Tim's nature. "I thought you were the fellow to go," he ended.
It sounded lame even to Don. It sounded like an evasion to Tim. Why couldn't he be told the truth? What was there that had to be hidden?
He went back to the patrol. The thrill had begun to weaken. He tried desperately to call it back. He wasn't going to be cheated out of a good time. By and by, through dint of striving, he roused a new spirit of anticipation.
Don walked with him as the scouts crowded toward the door. "Better come around tomorrow, Tim, and talk over what we'll take," he said, and wondered if Tim would offer any objection.
"Right-o!" said Tim almost cheerily. Outside Don mopped his face. When he expected Tim to be all right, Tim was nasty; when he expected him to be surly, he was all right.
"Well," he said in relief, "it didn't last long that time, anyway."
But Tim wasn't over it. A new thought had caused him to change tactics. What was the use of his spoiling his own fun? He'd get his good time regardless of what Don had up his sleeve. He'd throw himself into this treasure hunt heart and soul. He'd work as hard as any scout could work. But once they were in Lonesome Woods he'd do what he thought was best. If Don tried to interfere with him there'd be trouble.
Next day he found the whole patrol, with the exception of Alex, at Don's yard. Ritter called him a lucky stiff, and Wally looked at him with envy. They made him feel, for the first time, that he was one of the "big" scouts.
There wasn't going to be much cooking stuff taken along. A little coffee and a little bacon—nothing else. Perhaps they would not have time to cook even that much. If they reached the treasure place and found the treasure gone, they would have to try to overtake the finders before they got out. That would mean hustle.
They decided on pilot biscuit and the always dependable beans. A blanket each and a poncho, a watch and a compass. Tim was for leaving the poncho out and taking a chance on rain, but Don said no.
"Ax," said Tim. "We'll need that, anyway. I'll go home and put an edge on mine."
He ground it until it was almost razor sharp. That night he dreamed that he was a scout of the old days and that Indians in their war-paint were stalking him through the forest.
Next morning he prepared his haversack, and rolled his blanket and strapped it. Several times he cocked his eyes at the sky. Finally he did the unheard-of thing of going down to the station and spending three cents for a city paper. On the first page was news that was worth many times three cents. It read: "Weather: Fair today and tomorrow; southwesterly winds."
There was nothing to do now but wait for dinner. Twenty minutes past noon he had his arms through the straps of the haversack and was on his way to headquarters.
The troop had already assembled. The scouts were feverish. It still lacked fifteen minutes of one o'clock when Mr. Wall appeared.
"All here?" the Scoutmaster asked. "Care to start now?"
The patrol leaders jumped to line up their patrols.
The treasure-hunting teams were treated as something precious on the way out. Scouts took turns carrying their packs so as to have them fresh when they entered the woods. Just as on their first trip, Tim wanted to leap and run. But he knew that would be folly. Besides, Mr. Wall held them down to a steady, even pace that ate up distance but did not tire.
In the general excitement the miles slipped away unnoticed. All at once the woods were ahead. Mr. Wall halted the column and called the teams.
"I want you to compare your watches with mine." The Scoutmaster's timepiece said ten minutes of three. Don and the others set their watches.
"At 3:30," Mr. Wall continued, "each team will enter the woods. Some place near where it enters it will find the first blaze. At 3:30. Is that clear?"
They said it was. He led them to a point a quarter of a mile on.
"Here's where the Wolves go in. Foxes and Eagles, follow me."
The other patrols went on, nervous, high-strung. The Wolves were left alone.
Tim tried to stretch off on the ground and lie there quietly. With his head pillowed on his arm he could see the group that followed Mr. Wall. On they went, on, on—and then a turn hid them. Everything from now on would be mysterious, unknown.
Lying there quietly became impossible. He jumped to his feet and walked up and down. Every few minutes he looked at his watch. Ten after, fifteen, twenty.
"Better get on our haversacks," said Don.
They waited. Twenty-five after. Tim felt the throb of his pulse.
"Another minute," said Ritter.
Don stood with his watch in his hand. All at once he put it away.
"Three-thirty, Tim." They walked toward the woods.
The patrol followed them to the edge and stopped. There were cries of good luck. They waved their hands and stepped among the trees. Twice they looked back; the first time the scouts were visible, the second time they were gone. The cries of good luck grew fainter and ceased. They were alone.
"There's one of two things to do," said Don, in a voice that trembled with excitement. "We do not know whether our trail crosses the others. We must either go cautiously, or go fast in the hope that they don't cross. If we go fast we may get to the treasure first."
"All right," said Tim; "fast. Let's find that blaze. If you get it, give a low whistle."
They separated and worked among the trees. A long time later, it seemed, Tim found the blaze. It pointed north. He whistled softly, cautiously. A whistle answered him. Don's footsteps sounded frightfully loud in the stillness.
They started north as fast as they could go. Three hundred feet on they found the second blaze. They lost the third and had to retrace their steps before finding it. The fourth was easy, but on the way after that they encountered a patch of dense undergrowth and a section of fallen trees. Here they had to separate and search once more. This time it was Don who found the mark. Their watches said ten minutes of five.
"Let's go on until almost dark," Tim whispered. There was a sound off on their right. He clutched Don's arm, and they stood like statues and listened, scarcely daring to breathe. By and by they relaxed.
"Must have been a squirrel or something," said Tim. They advanced cautiously.
The fright had thrown them out of their reckoning. They did not remember in which specific direction they had been heading. After a while they had the uncomfortable feeling that they had gone on farther than the ordinary distance between blazes.
"Have to search," said Don.
So they began again. They worked at a tension, running when they could.
It did not take long to get out of sight of each other.
This time it was Tim who finally found the blaze. He whistled—no answer. He whistled again—still no answer. He'd have to make a louder sound. It was growing dusky, and he did not want to become separated from Don for the night. He put his fingers between his lips.
He did not mean to whistle loudly but, in the quiet woods, his summons echoed shrilly. His heart gave a frightened leap. Gee! Suppose anybody was near?
Don came crashing through the woods. "For the love of Mike, Tim, why did you do that?" he asked sharply.
Tim bristled. It was one thing for him to blame himself; it was another for Don to find fault. "I wanted you to hear me," he answered shortly.
"I did hear you!"
"Well, why didn't you answer?"
"I thought I heard something else. You'll have every Eagle and Fox around us."
"I'll have every Eagle and Fox around us," Tim thought. "See! I'm the one who's spoiling things."
They started again. Don was sorry he had spoken so hastily. So far Tim had been a real partner. He made up his mind that he'd think twice before he spoke sharply again. You had to handle a fellow like Tim with gloves.
As for Tim, the hot, angry blood was still in his cheeks. What did Don mean by jumping on him? He wouldn't stand for it. He was to blame! How about Don being to blame for not answering the signal?
"Tim!" Don called from the rear. "How about making camp? It's getting late."
"Nothing doing," said Tim. "We're between blazes. In the morning we wouldn't know which way to start."
"We have compasses," said Don.
Tim was just stubborn enough to refuse to listen to reason. Besides, he felt that his judgment was questioned.
"We'll camp at the next blaze," he said. "Then we'll know where we are."
After a moment of hesitation Don followed. The easiest way was best.
They soon reached the blaze. Tim began to gather leaves and young twigs for his bed. Before long he knew that he had blundered again. It took time to make a camp bed properly, and the failing light would not give him the time. He had made camp too late.
The knowledge of his second mistake increased his ill humor. He spread his poncho and sat on the bed. Don still gathered leaves.
"Trying to rub it in," Tim reflected. "Just like telling me, 'See, why didn't you camp when I said so?'"
Don turned from his bed, dived into his pack and brought out a can.
"How about eats, Tim?"
Tim was disgusted with the whole adventure. In this black mood he did not relish the thought of cold food in the dark. He wanted light, and a hot drink—something to chase away the gloom.
He kicked together some wood. He found small twigs, broke them and made a pile. Then he drew out matches.
Don was opening a can. "What's wrong, Tim?"
"I'm going to have a fire."
"Fire?" Don dropped the can. "Good night! do you want the Eagles and
Foxes coming down and gobbling us?"
"Piffle!" said Tim. "Do you think they'll sit around in the dark?
Anyway, I want a cup of coffee."
Don drew a deep breath. Why hadn't he brought Andy Ford! However, it was too late for regrets. Once Mr. Wall had said that sometimes a fellow had to brace his legs and stand firm. One of those times had come.
"There'll be no fire," he said in a voice he did not recognize as his own.
"There will be a fire," Tim retorted. "I worked as hard as you today. You can't say I didn't. But I'm not going to put up with crazy notions. Who ever heard of a night camp and no fire?"
Don's fingers twitched. He was the leader here and he had said no fire. The scout law read obedience. And yet, if Tim insisted, what was he to do? Oh, it wasn't fair for a fellow to get bull-headed and smash the rules.
Tim scraped the match. It burst into a tiny flame.
Don took a step forward. "Tim—"
"Oh, forget it," said Tim. He was going to light that fire, even if he put it out a moment afterward. He shielded the match with his hands and bent over the wood.
There was no other way—not if Tim was twice as big. Don's heart was in his throat. He was afraid. Nevertheless, without hesitation, he knocked Tim's hands apart and the match went out.
"You will, will you?" cried Tim. He scrambled to his feet and rushed.
There was not much light. What there was aided Don, for Tim could not make full use of his superior weight and strength. One rush followed another. Don kept striking out and stepping aside. Sometimes a fist came through his guard and stung him and made him wince. Always, ever since becoming patrol leader, he had feared that he and Tim would some day clash. Now the fight was on.
Slowly, as blows stung him, his blood quickened. The boy in front of him had spoiled so much scouting. If he could only give him the thrashing he deserved! If he only could! He set his teeth. He would thrash him. He swung, and felt a sharp pain in his knuckles.
"I'll get you for that," roared Tim.
Don, aroused now, scarcely felt the blows. A hard knock caught him off his balance and sent him sprawling.
"Got enough?" Tim demanded, breathing heavily.
Don, battle mad, sprang to his feet and rushed.
That rush was a mistake. Tim's fist caught him as he came in and staggered him. Another blow shook him up. And then a third blow sent him to the ground again. He was beaten, winded, and all but sobbing.
"I guess you've got enough now," said Tim. There was no answer. He turned away and found his matches.
The sound of the match box being opened brought Don to his knees. Tim, muttering, scraped the tip.
Don struggled to his feet. The tiny flame seemed to fill him with a new strength. If necessary he would fight again, and again, and again. An iron doggedness was in his blood—the same doggedness that nerves men to sacrifice everything for principle. The lot had fallen to him to face Tim on a matter of scout discipline. Tim might thrash him again—but he could not light that fire!
"Drop it!" he cried.
Tim guarded the match. "Want more?" he demanded.
"Drop it, or I'll fight you again."
"And I'll lick you again," said Tim. He touched the flame to the dry leaves.
Don sprang forward and scattered the fire with a kick. Tim leaped to his feet. He was furious. This time he'd see that he wasn't bothered again.
The scattered fire was burning fitfully in two or three clumps. There was just light enough to see things hazily. Tim, his fist drawn back, caught a glimpse of Don's white face. He stared, relaxed, and continued to stare, and his hands fell to his sides.
He was not afraid—and yet the fire went out of his blood. He felt suddenly uncomfortable, and small, and beaten. The fitful blazes dwindled and went out. The woods were in darkness.
After a time Tim turned away. He dropped down on his poncho and sat with his face in his hands. Gee! What wouldn't he give to have the last hour back again.