"Here we are, boys," came the Scoutmaster's cheery voice at last as the scouts reached a little clearing between two tall Norway pines. Not far from one of the trees a huge bonfire had been built. Mr. James struck a match, the flames ran quickly through the dry sticks and logs, and in almost no time the clearing was light as day.
With the lighting of the fire, the spell that had been cast over the boys by thoughts of Terrible Terry was partially broken, and they entered into the games and stunts that Mr James had planned for them with their customary spirit.
With their hands tied behind their backs they tried to bite apples suspended from the branches of the pine by long strings and bobbed for apples in a big tub of water. They had boxing and wrestling bouts, dug pennies with their teeth out of shallow pans partly filled with flour, held a war-dance around the fire and yelled as only hungry boys can yell when Mr. James produced a pail of steaming cocoa, a big box of "dogs", a pan full of doughnuts, and a box of red apples.
But in spite of all they could do to forget the stories of Death-Rattle Hill they could not escape a vague, uneasy feeling, and many a furtive glance was cast into the surrounding trees and bushes.
When the last drop of cocoa had disappeared and the last red apple had followed the "dogs" and doughnuts to their doom, the boys crawled close to the glowing embers of the fire and, following their usual custom, begged Mr. James for a story.
The fire was slowly dying, and the occasional flickering flames cast fantastic shadows on the hazel bushes and the trees.
"We have all heard more or less about strange sights and sounds in places where men have met with violent death," said Mr. James by way of beginning his yarn. "For instance, I have been told that in this very clearing there grows a peculiar red moss which traces in exact outline the spots on the earth where the old trapper Smith's life-blood dyed the sod. Hunters have told me that no animals ever cross this clearing—that in the dead of winter not even a rabbit track breaks the smooth expanse of snow which is marred only by a ghastly crimson stain where poor old Smith's body was found.
"But let me get on with my story. Thirteen years ago this very night an old hunchback peddler, who had been selling his wares in the backwoods settlements, lost his bearings in the forest and found himself at dusk in this very clearing. Being completely exhausted from his wanderings, he decided to make himself as comfortable as possible for the night. He built a fire in the early evening, and, as the embers slowly settled into ashes fell into a half sleep leaning against his pack.
"Just how long he dozed by the fire he could not tell, nor could he remember exactly what wakened him, yet suddenly he was startled into consciousness, every nerve a-tingle with a sense of impending danger. Some power he could not sense drew his attention irresistibly to a huge pine tree—that one right there!