Frank Merriwell in Maine; Or, The Lure of 'Way Down East

by Burt L. Standish

He had been in the State penitentiary at Thomaston for four years, from which place he had only been released a short time. Caribou, however, did not know his half-brother was in the Moosehead region, or in fact out of prison, until he heard that familiar hooting of the owl. That was a call he and Penobscot Tom had used together in the woods in their boyhood days.

When afterward seen by Diamond talking to Penobscot Tom, Caribou had been vainly endeavoring to get him to say he would give up poaching or leave the country.

Straight for the brush hut in the heart of the woods, where he knew his half-brother was staying, John Caribou pushed when he left camp on that pretended errand for tobacco. He was resolved to again beg Penobscot Tom to leave the woods; and failing in that he hoped to frighten him away by telling him the game warden had found the head of the moose and was on his trail.

He had reached the hut, had made his plea, told his story, and again failed.

On his return trip to the camp, he had gone by way of the tree in which Tom had confessed he had hung the moose head and some meat.

There he had been seen by Hans Dunnerwust, and with his Indian instinct aroused by the exclamations and rush of the party, he had slipped for concealment into the hollow log, which was half buried in leaves and brush, but which he had noticed on coming to the tree.

The party of white men had remained at the tree longer than anticipated. One of his legs had been cramped, and in trying to ease it while Dunnerwust sat on the log he was discovered. Then he had dashed into the woods a great and manly resolve in his heart, and headed straightway again for the little brush hut.

He knew that Merriwell’s party was under arrest for killing the moose, a deed done by his half-brother. To his mind there was but one way to undo that wrong. He hoped that his identity was not know, but, regardless of this fact, he resolved to do what he now considered to be his duty, no matter what personal disaster it brought. On this he was determined, though it should send him to prison.

When a half mile from the tiny hut, he stopped and listened, then crept forward with stealthy, Indian tread. Advancing to the flimsy door he put an ear against it. He caught the odor of smoke. Penobscot Tom was smoking his evening pipe.