Boy Scouts on the Trail

by John Garth

The trail, which was scarcely more than a track, followed the rocky edge of a deep ravine. There was a glint of water down below, but in those depths already shadows were creeping up, filling the hollows, smoothing over the rough slopes, obliterating one by one each separate detail of tree and rock and brawling stream. On the other side the slope swept steeply upward, covered with close-set ranks of pines, whose long branches spread out over the trail itself.

Presently the road curved sharply to the right around a mass of fern-covered rock, twisted erratically for a space amongst the trunks of tall, straight pines, turned again, and ended abruptly on an open shoulder of the mountain.

“There she is,” announced Cavvy.

Before them, at the top of a gentle slope a long, low, structure of logs nestled against a background of trees. Close to one side towered a giant pine, its feathery branches overhanging the sloping roof of slabs. The closed door was almost hidden in the shadow of a wide, projecting roof, and to Furn Barber the whole place fairly breathed desertion and loneliness. But he would have perished rather than reveal that feeling to the others, and he was one of the first to dash up the slope and cluster around the door.

This was merely on the latch, and in a moment they had swarmed inside and were staring about in eager curiosity. Opposite them yawned a great stone fireplace, cavernous and empty. On the left was a shuttered window and on the other side stood a double tier of wooden bunks. There were some rough shelves at one side of the chimney, and a couple of empty boxes on the floor, but that was all.

For a moment no one spoke. The silence, the bare emptiness, the shadows in the corners, undoubtedly gave the place a gloomy look, and there was a damp chill over it all which was not exactly pleasant. McBride was the first to speak.

“Why, it’s a dandy place, Cavvy,” he said cheerily. Micky was one who always made the best of everything, and there were moreover, possibilities about the cabin which he sensed before the others. “All we need is a fire and some lights to make it as homelike as can be.”

His words broke the spell. Candles were quickly produced and lighted, and then the whole crowd hustled out for wood. There was plenty about in the shape of dead limbs and fallen trees, and each scout worked with a will cutting it up and dragging it in. In an hour a roaring fire blazed on the hearth and there was a pile outside the cabin door which would easily carry them through the night.

The transformation was surprising. The firelight flickered cheerily on the log walls, driving out the shadows and brightening every corner. Blankets spread out in the bunks, and a litter of cooking utensils around the hearth, took off much of the bare appearance. And when cooking operations began the place resounded with the clatter of dishes, with jokes, laughter and noisy but good natured disputes, until it would have taken a powerful imagination indeed to detect anything “spooky” about it.

Nevertheless, Furn Barber’s mind was not entirely at ease. To be sure, he thoroughly enjoyed cooking and eating supper, and the fun which went on then and afterwards. But when bedtime came and the bustle of turning in was over, his thoughts returned to the weird tales he had heard of old Morford’s “ghost” and lingered there with growing apprehension.