Boy Scouts on the Trail

by John Garth

The question pounded through his brain, and then suddenly was answered. Another blurred white patch showed in the darkness, larger than the other and higher up—much higher than Micky’s face would have appeared. And Cavvy staring with wide, straining eyes, seemed to glimpse the vague, shadowy outlines of a broad, bulky figure standing almost at his elbow. The head was thrust slightly forward, the face moved in a slow circle as if the man were making a stealthy survey of the yard.

It was too much for Cavanaugh. In that instant his self-control snapped like a taut rope when the strain becomes too great. The stick flashed up and fell, with every ounce of his young strength behind the blow. There was a grunt, a groan. He struck again, frenziedly, but already the tall figure was reeling. In another instant it thudded to the ground and, with a gasp of horror, Cavvy came to himself.

For a second he stood there shaking, the stick dangling from his laxed fingers. Then he drew a long, shuddering breath and one hand lifted mechanically to wipe the moisture, which was more than rain, from his face.

“I can’t have killed him,” he muttered in a frightened whisper. “It isn’t possible!” And then: “But suppose I have?”

Dropping swiftly on his knees beside the motionless body, he had another shock. He found one of the limp hands and was fumbling desperately for the pulse, when all at once he realized that the wrist he held wasn’t in the least fleshy. On the contrary it was lean and hard, and terminated in a big, muscular hand. The person he had struck down was not the fat man at all!

Cavvy gasped and dropped the hand. Then he reached for it again and deliberately forced himself to find the pulse. When he felt it fluttering beneath his fingers, he gave a sigh of relief and slowly his composure began to return.

At least the worst hadn’t happened. He was in a tight place, to be sure; the stranger might regain consciousness at any moment, and it behooved him to act quickly. But he could think and act now without the handicap of that numbing horror which had come so near to undoing him.

Crouching in the wet grass, he glanced swiftly over one shoulder through the open door. It was dark inside, though not so dark as out of doors. He made out dimly the shadowy proportions of a wide, empty hall which seemed to run straight through the house from front to rear. Part way down its length stairs ascended. He could just distinguish the upper portion of the banisters, as if a light from one of the rooms above was shining through an open door. And listening intently, he could hear the sound of someone stirring there, accompanied by a curious scraping clink of metal striking against metal.

Evidently the person above had failed to hear the fall, and, reassured, Cavanaugh felt in his pocket and drew forth a match box. There came with it some lengths of stout cord he always kept in his scout suit, but these fell to the ground unheeded. Cautiously striking a match, he cupped his hands around it until the wood was well alight. Then he bent forward, holding the flame close to the face of the man lying before him.

It was a square, powerful face with a heavy jaw and chin, and a hard curve to the wide, close-lipped mouth. Even with the eyes closed, there was a certain harsh ruthlessness about it which made Cavvy shiver apprehensively. What would happen when he came to his senses, as he was likely to do at any moment?