CHAPTER X
GOOD LUCK AND BAD
There was not much sleep that night. The beds were too uncomfortable. Tim, lying awake, had lots of time to think, and as he tossed in the darkness, the voice of his conscience reproached him sternly. He wondered what would happen in the morning. So great was his concern that he forgot that his was a forest bed and that all around him were strange noises of the night.
At the first gray light he was out of bed. Last evening the trail had crossed running water. He went back, filled his canteen and washed. The water was like ice. The early morning air had a biting edge. Shivering, he rolled down his sleeves, buttoned his collar snug and wished that the sun was up.
Don was about when he got back to camp. One of the patrol leader's lips was puffed. Tim looked away quickly. A cup of hot coffee would have put the early morning chill to route, but not for anything would he have suggested a fire. He pretended to poke through his things, trying to kill time, trying not to look at his companion, trying to figure out how they were going to get through breakfast. That Don was sore on him for keeps he did not doubt.
Don pulled a towel from his haversack. "How's the water?" he asked. His voice was forced, as though he had strained himself to speak.
Tim's mouth dropped. Gee! was this—was this real? He caught Don's eyes.
"Cold," he gulped.
"Look for dry pine. Pine doesn't make much smoke."
Tim gathered wood, and his face burned. He saw what the patrol leader meant—a fire stood a good chance of passing unnoticed now. Flame would not reflect and smoke would mingle with the rising mist. Last night a fire would have been madness. He could see it all now and he could see, too, the sorry part he had played.
"I always was a bonehead," he told himself bitterly. The feeling that he had been brought into the woods for some selfish purpose dwindled and died. Perhaps what had happened in the signaling test had been an honest mistake, just as Don said. He began to sense dimly that in all the troubled weeks of the contest the patrol leader had been working for something big, something clean.
He had everything ready for the match long before Don came back from the brook. They made a small, cautious fire. The water came to a boil. They hastened to fry bacon before the fire died out. There was still some heat when the bacon was done and they dumped their beans into the hot pan.
Then, quickly, they killed the fire with dirt and water, and the discovery from that source was over. The hot coffee routed the morning chill. Not once were last night's happenings mentioned. Tim breathed with relief as the minutes passed. They took the trail. Before they had gone far the sun broke over the horizon and faintly touched the tops of the trees.
There was still some restraint between them. The scars of last night's fight could not heal in a moment. But as they hurried among the trees, Don gave thanks that he had forced himself to speak and had broken the ice. For Tim was almost pathetically eager to show good will—picking the hardest tasks and the roughest paths, and squirming unbidden into doubtful corners to sound them out.
Every step now increased their chances of encountering the other patrols.
They passed the fourth blaze since leaving camp, and then the fifth. The
trees became thicker, the foliage denser. The sun was almost shut out.
Even the sounds of the birds were hushed.
Don halted. "We must be getting near the end of the trail. We've come about a mile."
Tim's voice trembled. "Let's make a rush for it."
Don shook his head. "Too dangerous. We'll go ahead, stop and listen, and go ahead again."
"Gee!" said Tim. "Like stalking an Indian in Colonial days."
Now listening breathlessly, now darting forward, now creeping, they slowly forged ahead. Two more blazes were passed. They found the next. It was marked:
-O-
"The end of the trail," said Don in a whisper.
"Maybe we're here first," said Tim.
But they dared not take the chance of haste. Rival scouts might be waiting, hidden, to pounce on them. They listened, while their hearts beat heavily.
"I'm going forward," said Tim at last, and edged out. Soon they knew that neither the Eagles nor the Foxes had yet reached the goal.
Then began a frantic search. They wanted to find the treasure and away. Not a sound broke the stillness but bird calls and their own footsteps. Yet they knew that, from some place among the trees, scouts were stealing toward them. They went out in a wide circle, worked in, and found nothing.
"Mr. Wall wouldn't make this too hard," said Tim. "He's left some sign.
How could he hide it?"
"Among tree branches," said Don, "or in a tree hollow, or in the ground—"
"That's it," cried Tim. "Burying would leave a sign—freshly turned earth. Come on."
They searched again in nervous hurry, and kept looking over their shoulders as though trying to peer through the veil of trees. Don saw no earth that looked fresh, but he did see a suspicious mound near a tree. He put his feet on the spot. His heel sank softly.
"Tim!" he called.
Tim came running. "That's it. Why didn't we bring a trowel?" He dug at the earth with his ax. Don unslung his haversack, pulled out the frying-pan, and scooped with the pan handle.
The sweat rolled into their eyes. They worked feverishly. All at once
Tim's ax hit something softer and more yielding than the earth.
"She's here, Don! Gee! she's here!" He dropped the axe and worked with his hands; by degrees the top of a pasteboard box appeared. They loosened the earth around the sides, found grips for their fingers, and pulled. The box came out. It was tied with string and could have been in the ground only a few days.
The prize was theirs. In their excitement they hugged each other joyously.
"You did it, Tim!" cried Don. "You get the credit."
"You found it," Tim said huskily. "You'd have found it without me. You—" Something he had kept bottled all morning, something he had never expected to say, tumbled from his lips. "You should have knocked my block off last night."
"Forget it," Don muttered lamely, but his eyes flamed with a new light.
He knew now that he had made no mistake in bringing Tim into the woods.
They stood with that queer awkwardness that moves boys when they bare their hearts. Tim fingered the string around the box.
"Say, if we could open this—"
The spell was broken. They cut the string and lifted the cover. Inside, packed in a soft bed of cotton, was a prize that shone out at them with a soft splendor—the Scoutmaster's Cup!
"One little beauty," breathed Tim. "Who ever thought Mr. Wall would hide it like that. If we lost it!"
"Let's get out of here," Don cried in fright. He ran for his haversack.
They took the back trail.
"We had better go easy," Tim said in a low voice, "until we're sure there's no chance of meeting the Eagles or the Foxes—"
"Sssh!" Don caught his arm.
Was that a noise? After a time it came again—the dry swish of dead leaves and the sharp crackle of dead wood under a weight.
Tim put his lips to Don's ears. "Over there—to the right."
Another silence. Then the noise again, farther off.
"They're at the last blaze," Tim whispered. "This is too close for comfort."
They made off with stealthy caution. Whenever they found clear ground they hurried, but for the most part it was slow work. All at once came a faint cry.
"They've found the empty hole," cried Tim. "Now they'll be after us."
"How will they know which way we went?" Don asked. Nevertheless, he hurried.
Ten minutes later they paused to listen. Far back of them they heard something which made them look at each other anxiously.
"Can't waste time here," said Tim.
At first, when they paused again, there was silence. Then came that which told them of pursuit. Don's pulse quickened.
"They've got our trail, Tim."
"They're following our blazes," said Tim. "We'll fool them. Let's strike off here to the east."
They swung off at a right angle. The blazed trail they knew, but necessity counseled that they face the unknown. Tim pulled out his compass.
When next they listened the sounds of pursuit were gone.
"We've shaken them," said Don, and drew a long breath of relief.
An hour later they came to a slight ravine with a brook flowing along the bottom. They squatted on the bank and opened their beans, but beans and pilot biscuit made dry eating, and soon the canteens were empty.
"I'll fill them," said Don, and scrambled down the bank. A stone slipped under his foot; he fell, cried out sharply, and rolled to the bottom.
When Tim reached him he was sitting up and unlacing one shoe. It did not take them long to know the truth. The ankle was sprained.
Tim dipped his scarf in the water and wrapped it around the hurt. Of course, it might be a slight sprain, or it might be severe. Don kept staring at the foot and frowning. Tim, whistling softly under his breath, changed the compress twice.
"It hasn't swollen much," said Don. "Maybe I could walk on it."
"Here," said Tim; "lean on my arm."
Don hobbled. The pain was slight. He could walk on the foot if he favored it carefully, but speed was out of the question. He let go of the supporting arm and sank to the ground.
He was a hindrance—just so much dead weight. Sooner or later the pursuing scouts would find that they were on a false scent, and would begin to scour the woods. Mr. Wall had said that the treasure had to be brought out safely, but he did not say that two scouts had to bring it out.
Don bent over the ankle. "You'd better make a run for it, Tim."
"What's that?" Tim's eyes opened wide. "How about you?"
"Bring the fellows back for me after you get out. Hurry."
But instead of hurrying, Tim stood still. "Nothing doing," he said. "You'd stick to me if I were in a fix. I'd be a fine scout to run away, wouldn't I?"
Don bent lower over the ankle. Once Tim would have gone off promptly and have taken glory out of individual achievement. Now he stuck. Oh, but scouting was a great game when fellows played it right!