CHAPTER XXVI
A CALL FOR HELP
Again Gus approached the cabin, feeling sure now of the outcome of the plan. He reached the clump of thick pines below the tall one and turned to make the bee-line in, not a hundred yards from the building, when the alarm notes of a ruffed grouse reached his ears. It was just ahead, the angry, quick, threatening call of a mother bird, disturbed with her young, quick to fight and to warn them of danger. Might not this be a weasel, fox or mink that had sneaked upon her? But if so, it would be the note of warning only, to scatter the little ones into hiding-places while the hen sought a safe shelter just out of the reach of the marauder and after she had, pretending a hurt, led it to a distance from the brood.
But this was different. The grouse had played her usual trick of decoy, no doubt, and failing in this had returned to attack something regarded as a larger enemy. She would know better than to include deer, or the wandering, half-wild cattle of the peninsula as such. There were no puma and few bear in these woods, and surely none here. What then could the disturber be but a man? Gus well knew the ways of these knowing birds.
The boy’s advance now became so cautious as to make no audible sound even to himself, such being possible over the pine needles. Slowly he gained a vantage point where again the roof gable was visible against the sky. No sound ahead, except the mother grouse making the sweetest music imaginable in calling her young ones together during a half minute. The coast must be clear,—but just as the boy was about to go boldly forward, a flash of light shone about him and his staring eyes discerned, not thirty feet away, the three watchers standing together. They had returned, probably by pre-arrangement and had met in the roadway. Now they were silently listening for the fourth fellow—himself. One chap, thinking that they were not observed, had struck a match to see the time, or to light a cigarette. Had they been looking in Gus’s direction they might have seen him. Presently, mumbling some words, they all went on again toward the cabin, and Gus, sick at heart because seeing now no chance for a renewal of his effort, turned back after an hour to where Bill waited.
“Why, Gus, they came out here, all of them together and went part way over to the beach, then returned almost right away. I could hear only their voices at first, but when they came back they passed close enough for me to hear a little of what they said, I think it was the Malatesta that we know. He was declaring that ‘he,’ and I guess he meant you, must be the same. Do you think he knows you, Gus?”
“I don’t know. They must be suspicious of my story, or my purpose, anyway, or they would have stayed out and watched. Perhaps one of them followed far enough to hear me head out this way. Anyway, they think the cabin is the safest place. We can’t do anything now, so let’s go back and hit the hay.”
They went back, Gus to throw himself on old Dan’s couch and sleep like a dead man and Bill to take up the receiver phones, nodding over the table, to be sure, but remaining generally awake. For two hours he kept catching odd bits of no importance through long intervals. Then suddenly he sat up and, reaching over, poked Gus with his crutch. After two or three hard pokes Gus opened his eyes.