The Golden Boys at the Haunted Camp

by L. P. Wyman

“Jack.”

There was no answer and, after he had repeated the call several times, he decided that it had been a dream. He saw that the darkness was less intense and knew that daybreak was close at hand. Slowly the light grew as he leaned back against the tree, impatient for the time to come when he could see clearly enough to pick up the trail of whoever had been responsible for Jack’s disappearance.

As soon as he felt that there was light enough he set to work. He knew that he had gone but a short distance from the place where he had missed his brother, although he was not sure in what direction the spot was. For an hour he searched, going around in ever widening circles examining every foot of the ground. He knew that he had to deal with a man or men who were versed in forest lore for none other would have been able to sneak up on them in the darkness unheard and he knew that such a one would leave but a slight trail at the best. Another half hour passed before he found it. There was no sign of a struggle but several foot prints, barely discernible in the soft leafy mold, told the story to his trained eye. There had been two of them he read, but how they had succeeded in preventing him from even crying out was as big a mystery as ever. The trail led down the lake in the direction of the dam. Now that the sun was creeping up he was sure of the direction. The thought of first going back to the camp for help never occurred to him. Jack was in danger and he must get to him with the least possible delay.

The trail, once found, was not so difficult to follow as he had feared. To be sure there were many stretches where the foot prints failed to show in the pine needles, but the growth was thick and a broken twig here and a slight abrasion on the trunk of a tree there, led him rapidly on. Once he feared he had lost it but kept on in the same general direction, and after nearly a mile had been left behind, he picked it up again where the damp mold had preserved the foot prints.

The trail sheered off to the left as he neared the dam and presently he struck a fairly well defined path.

“I’ll bet they’ve taken him up to that cave on Katahdin,” he thought as he hurried along no longer looking for signs.

It was a little past eight o’clock when he reached the foot of the mountain and sat down for a short rest on a log. He had hurried so since he struck the path that he was about winded and knew that he would save time in the end by taking a rest before beginning the climb. In a few minutes he was ready to go on and, to his joy, found that the path continued up the mountain making it much less difficult than they had found it on their previous trip. Still it was rough and in places very steep and before he had gone far he was puffing and nearly out of breath.

“Guess I’d better take it a bit more easy,” he thought as he stopped again for a much needed rest. An hour later he figured that he must be nearly there and stopped every few minutes to listen. It wouldn’t do to be caught unawares, he told himself. Suddenly he heard the sound of voices and, as they seemed to be coming nearer, he quickly stepped out of the path and crouched in a thick clump of bushes.

Soon he saw two men, both well above the average in size, pass only a few feet from where he was hiding. They were talking Canuck but, although he was familiar enough with the language to follow an ordinary conversation, they were talking so rapidly that he was only able to catch a word or two, not enough to afford him a clue as to the subject they were discussing.

“Reckon those are the fellows who nabbed us in the cave,” he thought as they passed out of sight down the mountain. “And that probably leaves only that slim guy,” he added grimly.