A FRIEND IN NEED.
It was an hour after dawn when Sparwick returned to the cabin. Bogle was up preparing breakfast. The boys lay on the bed with wide-open eyes. They were delighted to see that Sparwick had come back alone, but their exultation was quickly changed to deepest sorrow, when the story of Jerry’s sad accident was told.
They pleaded with their captors to have Jerry’s body recovered—a request that was firmly refused. After breakfast Bogle and Sparwick held a long and earnest discussion. Then, much to the amazement of the boys, they began to prepare for a journey.
“Where are you going?” Brick ventured to ask.
“None of your business,” Bogle replied. “You’ll know in good time.”
“Come on! Lively, now,” added Sparwick.
“I guess they’re afraid that trapper will find poor Jerry and make trouble,” Brick whispered to his companion, as they passed out of the door. “So they are going to hunt a safer hiding-place.”
“That’s about it,” assented Hamp.
There was no chance to say more. A sled was given to each lad, and they dropped into line behind Bogle, who assumed the lead with a rifle over his shoulder.
In the rear came Sparwick, dragging the third sled and keeping a watchful eye on the prisoners.
All morning the little party tramped steadily to the east. At noon they stopped long enough for a lunch. Then they pushed on, through scenery of the most lonely and rugged description, until three o’clock in the afternoon.
A deep valley now lay before them. It was densely covered with trees and undergrowth. After traversing it for half a mile, Bogle turned toward the base of the hill. He pushed through a strip of heavy timber and huge, scattered bowlders.
A moment later the weary travelers were at their destination.
The Rock House was aptly named. It was a sunken depression in the base of the mountain—a sort of cave with an open front.
In a short time the place presented a cozy and cheerful appearance. The luggage was unpacked, and the red flames danced in the stone fireplace. Sparwick brought in a dozen loads of pine boughs and made a soft bed.
It was long past dark when supper was ready. In spite of their grief the boys were very hungry. They enjoyed the meal. Then Bogle ordered them to bed.
“You needn’t think of escape,” he said. “This place is harder to find or get away from than the cabin in the swamp. Make the best of things, and in good time you’ll be free.”
He strolled back to the fire and, lighting his pipe, sat down beside Sparwick.
The boys felt too wretched and heartbroken to sleep. In tearful whispers they talked about Jerry.
“I can hardly believe that he is dead,” said Brick. “He was an awfully good fellow.”
“No better ever lived,” replied Hamp. “He was murdered, Brick. Sparwick drove him over that cliff. I’ll never rest until both these scoundrels are caught and punished.”
“Nor I,” added Brick. “We’ll devote our lives to it. It won’t seem long now until we are free.”
“But it takes a good while to go to New York and back from here,” said Hamp. “Anyhow, will Raikes know where to find us now?”
“They must have left a message for him at the cabin,” replied Brick; “or perhaps it was all arranged beforehand.”
At this point Bogle and Sparwick came over to bed, and the conversation ended abruptly.
We must now return to the events of the previous night.
After shooting sixty feet downward from the top of the precipice, Jerry plunged into the bushy branches of a pine tree that jutted outward from a crevice in the wall of rock. He stuck for an instant, and then slipped through. He fell a farther distance of thirty feet, and landed in another pine tree.
This time the branches held him tight, and there he remained in a state of unconsciousness until daybreak.
About that time Jack Mowry, the trapper, happened along, in search of a brace of partridges for breakfast. Fortunately he glanced up and saw the lad.
The angle of the cliff was not so sharp at the base. It offered plenty of footholds. The trapper clambered up for ten feet. He reached the tree and succeeded in extricating Jerry, and getting him safely to the ground.
The trapper carried Jerry tenderly to his camp, which was less than half a mile distant—a cozy bark shanty in a wind-sheltered nook of the forest.
Mowry was one of nature’s own physicians, and knew just what to do. After satisfying himself that no bones were broken, he rubbed Jerry vigorously from head to foot, and dressed his bruises and scratches. Then he rolled him in blankets and dosed him with hot drinks.
This wise treatment undoubtedly saved the lad’s life, but it did not entirely counteract the effects of his fall and exposure to the bitter cold. He struggled out of his stupor to a sort of semi-consciousness. He talked in a rambling and incoherent manner, and tossed restlessly in a fever.
For two days he remained in this condition. Mowry tended him faithfully and constantly, never leaving his side for a moment.
On the third morning Jerry opened his eyes with a clear mind. He was puzzled to find himself in such surroundings. He remembered all that had happened up to the time of his fall. He listened with wonder to Mowry’s explanation. He was startled to find out how much time had elapsed. Then, in an eager voice, he told the whole story from beginning to end.
The trapper was vastly indignant to learn of the rascality of his old associates.
“Of course I’ll help you, lad,” he declared. “I knowed suthin’ was wrong when I run across the cabin, an’ they didn’t even ask me in ter warm my bones. An’ that was me you heard outside that night. I was tryin’ ter diskiver the mystery. I reckon I didn’t git back until arter you fell, else I’d a’ heard you screech. You see, I took a roundabout way so as to hide my tracks.”
“Then we must act at once,” replied Jerry. “If we don’t, we won’t save the money. Raikes may return from New York any day.”
“Time enough, lad,” assured Mowry. “The rascals think you’re dead, an’ they won’t dream of leavin’ the cabin. If you take keer of yourself ter-day, you’ll be able ter tramp down to Kingman an’ organize a party.”
Jerry insisted that he was as well as ever, and wanted to get up. But an effort satisfied him that this was out of the question. So he submitted to the inevitable as patiently as possible.
Mowry fed him on nourishing meat and broth during the day, and by evening all traces of fever had left him.
A hasty breakfast was eaten in the morning, and the camp was put in order. Then Mowry and Jerry started on their long tramp. The trapper took a hand-sled with him, and whenever the level ground permitted, he gave the lad a lift. Thus the journey was robbed of half its fatigue, and Jerry was comparatively fresh when the settlement was reached late in the afternoon.
Kingman was a straggling bit of a place on the Canadian Pacific Railroad. The inhabitants were bluff, honest folk, and Mowry happily knew most of them. He accepted the proffered hospitality of the station agent for himself and companion.
The news quickly spread through the village, and by the next morning a party of armed men were ready to start for the cabin in the swamp. Jerry reluctantly consented to stay behind. He had to admit that he was not in fit condition to make the long tramp.
“Thar’s one thing you’d better do while we’re gone,” said Mowry. “Telegraph to this here lawyer in New York ter have Silas Raikes arrested. It may save a heap of trouble.”
The station agent favored this suggestion. But, unluckily, Jerry had forgotten the name and address. He finally concluded that the former was Glenwood. So, while Mowry and his companions were heading northward through the woods, a message sped southward over the wires, addressed simply, “Mr. Glenwood, New York.”
It read as follows:
“Don’t make any deal with the man from Maine who demands $15,000. Have him arrested at once. Particulars later. Answer.”
The name of the station agent was attached. But noon brought no answer; nor yet evening. A second message was dispatched, and a third at midnight.
Morning came, and still there was no reply.
Jerry waited impatiently about the telegraph tower at the station. Then he went to dinner. As he and the agent were rising from the table, the operator arrived with a yellow paper. It contained the following reply from New York:
“Can’t find the man. Lots of Glenwoods in the city. No lawyers of that name.”