The Boy Scouts of Woodcraft Camp

by Thornton W. Burgess

Flat on his back, he could see little but the star-sprinkled heavens. It seemed to him that never had he seen the stars so bright or apparently so near. By straining up and forward he caught the shadowy outline of the bow man’s back, but the second time he tried it he was warned to desist. Out of the tail of his left eye he sometimes caught the arm and paddle of the stern man on the forward reach. But thus far there had been nothing to give him the slightest idea whether he was in the hands of members of his own tribe or a captive of one of the rival tribes.

Swiftly, silently, save for the light splash of paddles and the gurgling ripple at the bow, the canoe sped on. Never will Walter forget the spell of that mysterious night ride on that lonely lake in the heart of the great north woods. His gag had been removed and, but for inability to move hand or foot, he was not uncomfortable. All the witchery of night in the forest was enhanced an hundredfold by the mystery of his abduction and the unknown trials awaiting him.

A mighty chorus of frogs denoted low, marshy land somewhere in the vicinity. Strange voices of furtive wild things floated across from the shore. Once a heavy splash close to the canoe set his heart to thumping fiercely until he rightly surmised that it was made by a startled muskrat, surprised at his nocturnal feast of mussels. Again, as they slipped through the heavy shadows close along shore, there was a crash in the underbrush which might or might not have been a deer. It was weird, uncanny, trying in the extreme, yet sending little electric thrills of fascination through the nerves of the city boy.

How long the journey lasted Walter could not tell, but he judged that it was at least half an hour before there suddenly broke out ahead a cry, so human yet so wild, that he felt the very roots of his hair crawl. Once more it rang over the lake, a high-pitched, maniacal laugh that rolled across the water and was flung back in crazy echoes from the shores. In a flash it came to Walter that this must be the cry of the loon, the Great Northern Diver, of which he had often read. This time it was answered from the rear. A few minutes later the canoe grated on the shore. Walter was lifted out, his eyes bandaged, the bonds removed from his legs and, with a captor on either side, he was led for some distance along what seemed like an old corduroy logging road.

On signal from the leader a halt was made and the bandage was removed from the captive’s eyes. Curiously he glanced about, but in the faint light could make out little. Apparently they were in the middle of a small opening in the forest. On all sides a seemingly unbroken wall of blackness, the forest, hemmed them in. In a half circle before him squatted some two dozen blanketed forms.

One of these now arose and stepped forward. He was tall and rather slender. In the uncertain light his features appeared to be those of an Indian. A single feather in his scalp lock was silhouetted against the sky. A blanket was loosely but gracefully draped about his figure. Standing in front of the captive he drew himself up proudly to his full height and, leveling a long bare arm at the prisoner, addressed him in a deep guttural.

“Paleface, dweller in wigwams of brick and stone, it is made known to us that your heart turns from the settlements to the heart of the great forest, and that you desire to become a child of the Lenape, whose totem is the tortoise, to be adopted by the Delawares, the tribe of Uncas and Chingachgook; that you long to follow the trail of the red deer and to spread your blanket beside the sweet waters; to read the message of the blowing wind, and interpret aright the meaning of every fallen leaf.

“You have come among us, paleface, not unheralded. Our ears have been filled with a tale of valor. It has warmed the hearts of the Delawares and their brothers, the Algonquins. Our young men have had their ears to the ground; they have followed your trail, and they yearn to make a place for you at their council fire. But, lest the tales to which they have listened prove to be but the chirping of a singing bird, it has been decided in secret council that you must undergo the test of the spirits.

“Alone in the wigwam of the spirits, where, it is said, on the fifth night in every month the spirit of a departed brave, stricken in the prime of his manhood, comes seeking the red hand of his slayer,—here alone you shall keep watch through the black hours of the night. Thus shall we know if your heart be indeed the heart of the Lenape; if you are of the stuff of which Delaware warriors are made; if our ears have heard truly or if they have indeed been filled with the foolish chatter of a Whisky Jack (Canada jay).

“If you meet this trial as a warrior should, making neither sign nor sound, whate’er befall, then will the Delawares receive you with open arms, no longer a paleface, but a true son of the Tortoise, a blood brother, for whom a place in the council chamber is even now ready.”