Читать бесплатно онлайн книгу Hal Kenyon Disappears
HAL KENYON DISAPPEARS
By
GORDON STUART
THE REILLY & LEE CO.
Publishers . . . . Chicago
COPYRIGHT, BY THE REILLY & LEE CO.
Printed in the U.S.A.—1936
CONTENTS
I
Mummy CañonII
Something About Dr. ByrdIII
A Fall from the AirIV
The Wreck and the AviatorV
Lost!VI
The Scream in the WaterfallVII
A Badly Frightened BoyVIII
Hal’s DiscoveryIX
Hal a PrisonerX
The Mystery of the Leather BagXI
Convincing BadXII
Airship PlansXIII
The “Painter”XIV
Building the AirshipXV
Stolen WealthXVI
FlightXVII
Exploring the CaveXVIII
The Island in the AirXIX
The Rescuing AirshipXX
The Panther and the CaveXXI
To Flathead by Airship AgainXXII
Clearing HalXXIII
The Boy Scouts of the AirXXIV
Mountain Lion BridgeCHAPTER I
MUMMY CAÑON
“Mountain, pine tree, cañon, gulch,
Cookies, bacon!—like ’em much.
Canteen, hike-stick!
Hi-hi-hike-stick!
Lakefarm! mummy!
Flathead!—Ra-a-a!”
Thirty lusty juvenile throats, strong with frequent exercise, caused Mummy Cañon to ring with this school-yell. It was almost evening, and the boys of Lakefarm School were on their return from a day’s outing in the mountains. Clad in Boy Scout uniforms and wearing Rough Rider hats, they presented a picturesque appearance in that wild, rocky, mountain country, while their school-yell echoed among the hills, bright in the setting sun.
It was midsummer, yet thirty of the forty-four regular students were in attendance during the summer term, evidence of the popularity of the school, for they were all boys of the age that welcomes vacation time with cheers.
In spring this cañon was a beautiful place; in summer it lost some of its freshness, but was still beautiful; in fall it lost more of life, but beauty still clung to it; in winter, it was a picture that called for deep admiration. It also might well have been named Echo Cañon; indeed many in that part of Colorado often called it that. But Mummy Cañon it had been christened, and this was the only name by which it was known on the maps and in the guide books.
Interesting stories were told about this great mountain gorge. They had to do with the ancient inhabitants of the country, the cliff-dwellers, ruins of whose homes were to be found here and there high up in steep places. The boys of Lakefarm knew these stories by heart. They had been told over and over and added to until enough new and interesting details had been gathered around the original stories to fill a book.
Dr. Regulus Byrd, head master, Chief Scout, and owner of Lakefarm, was as peculiar as his name. Some called him eccentric, but the boys of the school and the friends of the doctor did not agree. The boys loved him as few schoolmasters ever are loved; the older people of the district declared that when it came to a pinch, Dr. Byrd never lacked judgment.
The doctor and the two instructors of the school, Mr. Frankland and Mr. Porter, were with the boys on the outing from which they were now returning. Mr. Frankland was a short, brisk, wide-awake man, who smiled frequently and shrewdly. Mr. Porter was an odd personage, dignified and very positive in all things, but an excellent instructor in manual training. After the procession had advanced well toward the heart of the gully and given two or three school-yells that raised the echoes, Mr. Porter said:
“Dr. Byrd, we’re only three miles from home. Why not stop here, build a fire, and sit around and talk a while?”
“That’s the stuff,” came from several of the boys at the same time. Dr. Byrd had a boy’s heart, and as there was no good reason for opposing the suggestion, he gave his consent.
In a jiffy the boys scattered in all directions in search of firewood; up the side of the hill and along the near bank of a noisy mountain stream, and soon were returning with armfuls of dead wood. Most of them were experienced in building camp fires in true frontier style, and the work progressed rapidly.
Two of the boys, Hal Kenyon and Byron Bowler, were delegated to the work of starting the fire. This was not done by striking a match and touching it to some dry leaves. The method employed was one more suited to the romantic scene. First, Hal and Byron searched until they found two serviceable pieces of dry cottonwood root. Having good, strong, sharp pocketknives, they proceeded to whittle and shave the roots. One was made flat and about three-fourths of an inch thick; the other was cut slim and round and sharpened at both ends. In one edge of the flat piece was cut a notch, and close to the notch was sunk a hole to fit one end of the slim piece. Then a small hand-piece with a socket for the other end of the drill was prepared by Byron, while Hal cut a section of a small green limb, two feet long, which with a thong made a bow.
All the material needed for starting a fire was now ready save a supply of tinder. This was obtained by rubbing a piece of dry cedar on a rough boulder, producing a handful of easily lighted shreds. The notched piece of wood was now placed on a flat rock, the drill was inserted in place and the string of the bow looped tightly over it. Then the top-socket-piece was set on the other end for a handle, and the bow was drawn back and forth, the notched piece being held in place under the foot of the operator.
Hal Kenyon operated the device. The drill revolved rapidly in the socket, and presently a fine brown powder was flowing into the notch. In a few seconds this powder was smoking densely and slight fanning with a hat brought a flame.
Some of the tinder was now applied and after a little blowing, a tiny flame leaped up. The rest of the tinder was then applied, followed by some cedar bark and small wood. Pretty soon the fire was roaring and crackling, while the boys piled on more fuel.
“Now for our camp-fire yell,” cried Hal when the last armful of fuel had been deposited on the burning heap. Immediately the cañon rang and echoed with thirty young voices chanting the following:
“Camp-fire, rah!
Smoke-punk, ha!
Tinder, Lakefarm!
Rah—rah—rah!”
This yell was repeated several times until it seemed as if the rocks poised aloft would be shaken loose and come crashing down on the reckless Boy Scouts. Then the boys scattered again, each returning presently with another load of fuel, which was deposited near the blazing pile.
“Well done, my lads, well done,” announced Dr. Byrd as the last load was dropped. “Now what are we going to do next?”
“Eat supper,” replied Allie Atkins, with a slap of his hand on his hungry region.
“Of course; I almost forgot that,” laughed the doctor. “I’m always forgetting my stomach. That’s the reason I haven’t dyspepsia. Always forget your stomachs, boys, until they remind you of their existence and you’ll be all right in that spot. But what are we going to eat? Nothing left, is there?”
“How about the fish?” inquired Walter Hurst, commonly known as “Pickles” because of his fondness for that table delicacy.
“That’s right. This is just the time and place to cook them.”
The suggestion was followed accordingly. The fish—two score of mountain trout—had been caught by the boys in the Rio Grande several miles to the east early in the morning. As they had enough other food for breakfast and dinner, their catch had been saved for the next morning’s meal at the school.
Of course the doctor had not forgotten the fish when he asked the boys what they would eat for supper. But he always appeared to have a poor memory and few ideas when on a trip with his Scouts. He made it a rule to compel the boys to suggest and do every useful thing within their power.
So they prepared the meal on this occasion, as they had done on others. Fireplaces were constructed with stones, frying-pans were placed over them, and the fish were soon sputtering appetizingly. Fortunately, they still had a moderate supply of bread, butter, jam and coffee, so that all appetites were fairly well satisfied.
The pans and coffee pots and cups were washed in the dashing stream, the remains of the meal were cleared away, more fuel was thrown on the camp fire, and all gathered before it for the next number of the unprepared program. For a few minutes the boys chatted on the incidents of their three days’ hike and exploration. Then one of them suggested:
“Let’s tell stories.”
A proposal of this kind under such circumstances is always favorably received by true Boy Scouts. There was a general note of approval, and Dr. Byrd inquired:
“Well, what shall it be first?”
“Flathead Mountain,” suggested Pickles.
“Good!” exclaimed Frank Bowler.
“And have somebody slam somebody in the face,” proposed Clayton White, the joker of the school. “That’ll suit ‘Bad.’”
Frank Bowler had been nicknamed “Bad” because he was continually talking about “clipping somebody on the jaw,” or “slamming some one in the face,” or “putting somebody to the bad.”
“I’ll push you one on the chin if you don’t close your face,” growled “Bad” in an undertone to the last speaker.
Clayton only grinned. He was not at all afraid, as he was a year older than Frank and thought himself stronger.
“Well, who has something more to add to the story of Flathead?” inquired the owner of Lakefarm.
“I have,” replied Hal Kenyon.
“Very well, Hal, we’ll listen to you first,” announced the doctor, and all became attentive with a readiness that indicated almost military training.
CHAPTER II
SOMETHING ABOUT DR. BYRD
It was well known how Mummy Cañon obtained its name. High up on the face of a bluff was a large rock, almost human in shape, in wrappings like a mummy. Mummy Cañon had not yet attracted the attention of sight-seers. No railroad ran near it, and only a rattling stage-coach line carried visitors between the nearest depot and the small settlement of Jamestown, or “Jimtown,” as it was popularly called, near which Dr. Byrd had located his boys’ school.
Dr. Byrd had served many years as a physician on English ships visiting the Orient, and, by both inheritance and good fortune, had become wealthy. When about fifty years old he found that the heat and dampness of the tropical climate were undermining his health and that he must heed the warnings of nature. So he returned home, but in London found that his throat still troubled him, and he decided that he most move elsewhere.
His children being grown and married, he and his wife sold part of their personal effects and came to America. Then they traveled about a good deal, trying to find a climate that would promote better health for the doctor, but every place they visited proved unsatisfactory until they reached Colorado.
The altitude of this state, second highest of all the states of the Union, together with the atmospheric conditions, proved “just the thing.” But where should they make their home? Denver was delightful as to climate, but the doctor was not contented there. He loved nature, to be out of doors; he had no patience with clanging street cars, smoking engines, and houses huddled together. So they began their search anew.
One day they stopped at Lake City and took a stage-coach ride over the La Garita Mountains. The vehicle was only a rattling two-seated open buggy, drawn by four horses that might have pulled a plow over any American field, but it was dignified with the name stage-coach. The driver was a young man who had a contract with the government for transporting mail to and from various mining points along the way, and he added to his profits by carrying passengers and all manner of light freight.
Along the foot of the mountains they rode for several miles, then up a grade and around a spur of a perpendicular hill, up, up, up, winding here and there, overlooking deep gullies, dashing downgrade into a ragged valley, with its noisy brook; then up again and on and around they wound to where the pines stuck in the mountain sides like toothpicks.
In the course of this journey they passed through Mummy Cañon. But this gorge had not yet received its name, and when the imaginative Dr. Byrd beheld the “swathed form” on the face of a lofty bluff, he called attention to it.
“That’s the mummy,” said the driver in a matter-of-fact way.
“It looks just like an Egyptian mummy,” declared the doctor. “Does everybody call it that?”
“Everybody around here does.”
“What’s the name of this cañon?”
“’Tain’t got none. I s’pose it’ll get a name one o’these days when more people settle ’round here.”
“It’s going to have one right now,” announced the doctor. “Its name is Mummy Cañon. I call you two as witnesses of the christening.”
“You’ll have to stay here a while and tell everybody or the name won’t stick,” laughed Mrs. Byrd.
“And that’s just what I’m going to do,” was the surprising answer. “I’m going to make my home right near here—with your permission, of course, my dear. This is just the country I want to live in. It’s good for my health. It’s good for my eyes; I like to look at it.”
That settled it. Mrs. Byrd was amiable and happy to live in any place where her husband’s health could improve. Moreover, she, too, was delighted with the scenery and praised it almost as much as did the doctor.
But there were other features of special interest in the cañon. This part of the state had once been inhabited by the cliff-dwellers, prehistoric Pueblo Indians. Ruins of their early dwellings and defenses were to be found here and there, although usually they were in such dilapidated condition that it was difficult to make out their character except at close range.
The “mummy bluff” stood out high on the side of a most remarkable mountain, especially noticeable because of its shape. The sides looked unscalable and the top appeared to have been cut off clean and level with a monster knife, a few hundred feet lower than the neighboring lofty peaks. Before leaving the cañon, Dr. Byrd gave a name also to this mountain. He called it Flathead.
The doctor was well pleased with “Jimtown.” In fact, he was pleased with everything now. The mining settlement was booming when he and Mrs. Byrd arrived. It was located close to the side of a mountain; a few of the houses, in fact, stood a short distance up on the steep slope. The place was so busy that nobody seemed to have time to notice the arrival of so humble a pair as a London physician and his wife, and they selected a site and built a home without attracting any particular attention.
The site was located near a pretty mountain-spring lake that fed a tributary of the Rio Grande. It was about three miles from Mummy Cañon. The scenery of course was beautiful, as it is in all of mountainous Colorado. The lake was clear and cold. It rested in a pocket more than a hundred feet above a delightful valley and behind it was a range of tall, steep, snow-capped mountains. The outlet was down several natural terraces that converted the little river into a succession of dashing cascades before it reached the valley.
This place was several miles from “Jimtown,” the nearest settlement. Dr. Byrd engaged servants and began the cultivation of a considerable farm. The beauty of the spot and the personality of the settlers soon attracted attention, and several others moved there and began the cultivation of farms. Before long a post office branch was opened and the stage-coach line ran two miles out of its way to deliver mail, groceries and general supplies.
Meanwhile the doctor made acquaintances rapidly. He was a most entertaining person to meet. He had traveled extensively and seemed to know the world. He had an excellent library and a magnificent collection of curios from many countries. Moreover, he had a delightful personality, tall, straight, athletic figure, kindly intelligent face, and a shock of curly iron-gray hair that commanded the admiration of all who saw it.
But the doctor’s best friends were boys. And there was a reason for this. The boys whom he met always found in him a best friend. He knew all about them, their likes and dislikes, their sports and their hardships. He had a vivid recollection of his own boyhood days, and he could reel off yarns by the hour. Just put him into a company of youngsters and let him begin: “When I was a boy,” and everybody was all attention in an instant. Of course there were not many boys living in the neighborhood of the new mountain home, but there were a good many in Jimtown, where the doctor soon became a familiar figure. And there was always company at “Lakefarm,” as he had named the place, and the “company” always was urged to bring the boys along. Frequently they would remain at Lakefarm after the grown-ups had departed, and every summer the place became “a regular boy ranch,” as one visitor called it.
Finally the doctor got so interested in “boy-ology” that he resolved to open a boys’ school. Manual training had become quite the fashion in the making of young men all over the country and this appealed to the owner of Lakefarm. So he let his ideas become known and was astonished as well as pleased at the indorsement they received.
Five years after settling at Lakefarm Dr. Byrd built a schoolhouse and a shop and a dormitory on his farm, engaged instructors and servants, and then announced that he was ready to receive pupils. It was surprising how rapidly the school was filled. In two weeks Dr. Byrd announced that he could receive no more, and the registry list was closed.
Most of the boys were of either wealthy or well-to-do parents. Naturally this was an almost necessary condition, as the tuition and living expenses at an institution of this kind were not the lowest. But to offset this, the doctor made arrangements for receiving a few pupils on nominal payments or free of charge. One of these poor boys was Hal Kenyon, whom Dr. Byrd found selling newspapers on a street corner in Denver. Hal proved to be such a bright lad that the owner of Lakefarm decided at once to do something for him. Hal’s parents were willing and he went to school in the mountains.
Three successful and happy years had passed since the opening of the school on Lakefarm. Meanwhile the settlement around the school grew until the census enumerator reported fifty families. Previously the town had been known as Byrd’s Place, or just Byrd’s, but now the subject of a permanent name arose and a meeting was called to settle the matter.
Flathead was the name selected. After this the name of the school was changed in the popular mind. Officially it bore the title of Lakefarm Institute, but soon it was spoken of frequently as Flathead School, while some humorously played on the idea suggested in the name and styled it the “School for Level-headed Boys.”
This latter pleased Dr. Byrd very well, for it expressed his purpose in a few words, to develop in his pupils a liberal supply of common sense.
CHAPTER III
A FALL FROM THE AIR
That was the history of Mummy Cañon, Flathead Mountain and Lakefarm Institute. The mountain was partly visible from the school. On their return to the farm from Mummy Cañon the Boy Scouts would have to walk on through the cañon, past old Flathead, and up the stream that came dashing noisily down from Lakefarm and joined Flathead River north of the big gorge.
The peakless mountain was located near the lower end of the cañon, and it was from a bluff on the mountain side that the “mummy” stood forth. Before the sun went down the Scouts could see the outlines of this freak of nature from their position at the camp fire, but as it sank beneath the high horizon and the cañon grew dark, both the bluff and the “mummy” were lost to view. But presently the moon rose over Old Flathead.
Under such circumstances Hal Kenyon began his legend of the cañon, relating it as follows:
“Flathead Mountain was once a giant. He was the biggest giant that ever lived. His name wasn’t Flathead then. His head ran up to a peak, and the people called him Sugar Loaf.
“But his heart was made of stone, the hardest kind, and his brains were all up in the peak of his head. And those brains didn’t amount to much, for they had such a small place to rest in that they were squeezed into half their natural size.
“And since he didn’t have much brains and his heart was made of stone, he was a cruel giant. He did all kinds of mean things. He killed and ate all the boys he could lay his hands on. There weren’t any Boy Scouts in those days, or they’d have gone out and killed him.”
“I’d have clouted him in the jaw,” interrupted Frank Bowler energetically. “Just one good swift punch on the chin—”
“Yes, you would, Bad,” jeered Pickles; “you’re all the time talking about clouting somebody—but you never do.”
“I don’t, eh?”
“Come, come, boys,” warned the doctor. “That’s not very dignified talk for a Boy Scout, Frank. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. It’s silly. Go ahead, Harry. We’ll let Frank tell us how he would have licked the giant after you’ve finished.”
“Well,” continued Hal, “I was going to tell how a boy like Bad did clout the giant in the face, or something worse, but he interrupted me. You see it was this way. A good many years ago, a boy called Smash lived near here. That was before the giant lost his peak. Smash went around smashing everybody in the face. The giant met him in the woods one day and nodded his head at him and said hello.
“‘Come off the heap; don’t talk to me,’” jeered Smash. ‘I’ll lay my mit on your mouth.’
“‘Ho, ho, ho!’ laughed the giant. ‘You’re the conceitedest kid that ever came to this cañon.’
“‘Where’s the best place to hit you?’ asked Smash.
“‘Right here on my ankle,’ replied the giant. ‘You can’t reach any higher.’
“‘Let me stand on your ear, and I’ll give you a nailer,’ said Smash.
“The giant picked Smash up with two fingers and stood him on his ear.
“‘Now, let me have your axe,’ said Smash.
“‘What!’ roared the giant.
“‘Let me have your axe.’
“‘Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!’ laughed the giant. ‘You couldn’t get your arms around the handle.’
“‘I can’t, eh? Just give it to me and I’ll knock your brains out.’
“‘All right, you conceited kid,’ said the giant. ‘Here it is. Bust away.’
“He always carried his axe with him to cut firewood, and he gave it to the boy. Smash’s fingers seemed suddenly to grow very long and very strong, for they seized the handle and lifted it up. Then, before the giant realized what was happening, Smash gave the axe a mighty swing and cut the top of his head off.”
“Hurrah for Smash!” exclaimed Bad.
“Wait a minute,” said Hal. “There’s more coming and you won’t be so happy over it.”
“Did Smash fall off his ear?” inquired one of the boys.
“Good guess,” replied Hal. “That’s just what happened.”
“Did he break his neck?” asked another.
“I don’t know; but it was just as bad. He fell faster than the top of the giant’s head and the giant’s brains spilt on top of him and drownded him.”
“Drowned him, you mean,” corrected Mr. Porter. But the correction was not noticed. The boys were loudly expressing their opinions of the story. Some liked it; others were displeased.
“Served him right for having the big-head,” declared Joe Moffett wisely.
“You bet it did,” agreed Vincent Pyle.
“Didn’t either,” shouted Frank Bowler. “That’s a crazy story. You can’t tell me. Why, do you think a boy who could stand on a giant’s ear and cut off the top of his head with a axe as big as forty trees would get in such a scrape?”
“No,” replied several. “Yes,” declared others.
“You’re crazy,” said Bad, addressing the latter. “Why, he’d ’a’ fell in the giant’s pocket, or caught hold o’ one of his whiskers, or hung onto his watch chain.”
“That’s a good argument,” pronounced Dr. Byrd. “What have you to say to it, Hal?”
“Bad’s wrong,” replied the story teller.
“I want you boys to quit calling Frank ‘Bad,’” said the doctor sternly. “He isn’t bad at all. He’s just extravagant in his talk.”
“I don’t care what they call me,” declared Frank, who was rather proud of his nickname.
“Just so we don’t call you down, eh?” Pickles amended.
“If you do, I’ll clean you up.”
Pickles was smaller than Bad and did not resent this threat. The doctor did not regard Frank’s talk very seriously and so did not remonstrate. He remembered similar experiences of his own and believed that hard knocks are a much better cure than constant preaching for the brag and bluff of a boy.
“Where’d you get that story?” inquired Byron Bowler, Bad’s one-year-older brother. “Make it up yourself?”
“No, Pepper helped me,” replied Hal. Pepperill Humphrey was an old servant of the doctor’s who had traveled with him much and followed his employer soon after the latter settled in Colorado. He was an interesting character, one of those old-style family servants who had grown up with the families for whom they worked.
“We worked it out together,” continued Hal.
“Did you put me in it or did Pepper?” inquired Frank.
“I didn’t know you were in it,” replied Hal with a mischievous grin plainly visible in the firelight.
“Oh, Smarty! You know what I mean. You meant Smash for me.”
“I put Smash in the story, yes; but you never did any such things as he did.”
Hal and Frank were very good friends, and Hal knew better than to take seriously Bad’s “fierce” attitude. He liked his warlike friend best when he was threatening to “clean somebody up.” There was something amusing about him when he was making one of his idle threats.
“Now, who’s going to tell us a story about the mummy?” inquired Mr. Frankland.
“I have one on that if nobody else has,” announced Dr. Byrd.
“Tell it,” cried several of the boys eagerly.
“It isn’t very long,” said the doctor; “but it fits in well with Hal’s story. The giant, by the way, had water on the brain: that’s why Smash was drowned.
“Well, Smash, by the way, was an Indian. And he had a brother whose name was Rash. This brother was continually doing the most outlandish things and performing the most wonderful feats. After the top of the giant’s head was cut off and his brains gone, the giant died. But as he was very stockily built, he did not fall over, but continued to stand there. Trees and bushes and grass and flowers grew all over and he became a mountain.
“Now, Rash was a witness of the death of Smash. He was sailing above in an airship—”
“What!”
“In an airship!”
“Yes, why not?” he replied.
“Who ever heard of Indians having airships!” said Bad in tones of disgust.
“This Indian was a real inventor,” explained Dr. Byrd. “But he kept the secrets of all his inventions to himself, so that when he died all his work died with him. When he saw the fearful accident that had befallen his brother, he glided down to offer assistance. The giant was dead, although standing erect; but Smash had disappeared, all but one foot. That was sticking out from under the hollow peak of the giant’s head, which had fallen over the boy and caged him in.
“Rash alighted and attempted to turn the peak over; but although he was very strong, he was unable to do this. So he flew away, and a few days later he returned with several other Indians. With the aid of some tree trunks for levers they elevated one side of the peak-prison and pulled out the body of the prisoner.
“The brain of the giant proved to have been a most remarkable substance. It had a strong odor of spices and chemicals and had converted Smash’s body into a mummy. The flesh was becoming hard as stone and it was evident that no decay could follow.
“Although Rash was a reckless and daring fellow, he had not the great fault that had brought Smash to a sad end. He appreciated the danger of such a nature and desired to warn all others against a like fate. So he wrapped the body in cloths, as some of the Indian tribes have done, and saturated the cloths with diluted giant’s brain to preserve them. Then he put the body on his airship and arose to the giant’s forehead, and landed with his burden on a beetling eyebrow. There he hewed out a shallow niche, into which, he set the mummified Smash and cemented him fast; and on the giant’s forehead he remains to-day as a warning not only to boys who are continually threatening to clean some one up, but also to giants who may be so foolish as to put great power into the hands of boastful youths.”
Everybody except Frank applauded this story. After the hand-clapping and shouts of glee had subsided, Bad remarked disdainfully:
“That story’s all bunk. The mummy on the mountain’s as big as a elephant. How could it have been a boy?”
“Oh, those Indians were giants themselves, though they weren’t anything like as big as Flathead,” exclaimed Dr. Byrd.
At this moment all were startled by a most remarkable noise. It was a heavy whirring sound and came from overhead. Instinctively they all looked up and beheld in the moonlight a very strange object. But, strange though it was, every one of the boys recognized its nature almost immediately.
“It’s an airship,” cried one.
“An aeroplane,” shouted another.
“He’s volplaning,” exclaimed Dr. Byrd in startled tones. “I wonder what he means. He can’t be going to land here.”
“He seems to be in trouble,” said Mr. Frankland. “Yes, he’s coming down.”
“Look out, everybody!” shouted Dr. Byrd. “No telling where he’ll land.”
There was no need of a second warning. Evidently the aviator was losing control of his machine. It acted as if one wing had been clipped. Suddenly, within fifty feet of the ground, the aeroplane plunged and fell with a crash and a thud less than a hundred feet from the camp fire.
CHAPTER IV
THE WRECK AND THE AVIATOR
For some moments all was commotion. The appearance of the aeroplane in that out-of-the-way place and at such a time had been so unexpected as to create no little confusion, but when it plunged to earth almost in the very midst of the camping Scouts, there was general panic, accompanied by a few screams of fright.
Every boy, as well as the doctor and the two instructors, ran for cover as the warning was sounded, but few of them found a satisfactory place before the aeroplane struck. Luckily nobody was hit, and soon they gathered around the wreck in true Boy Scout readiness to help the injured.
Fortunately the aviator had not been caught under the wreckage. He had managed to jump clear of his machine before it struck the earth, so that his body was not mangled. But he lay still as death, and there was little doubt in the minds of the campers that the fall had been fatal.
Dr. Byrd was soon kneeling over the unconscious form and examining it for signs of life. Two of the boys pulled burning brands from the fire and held them close to afford him light. The examination occupied several minutes, and finally the doctor announced:
“He’s alive, but he’s got some broken bones. One of you boys get some water. Some of you make some splints, and some make a coat litter.”
In a moment all was activity. Thirty boys cannot work together to great advantage under ordinary circumstances, but these boys were well trained and well managed. They were organized in Patrols with Patrol Leaders, while the two instructors acted as Scout Masters. All of them, even Bad, had learned to obey orders, and the work moved along quickly.
Pickles went to the stream and got some water in a coffee pot, and Hal led a company into a clump of cottonwood near by to cut some splints, while others busied themselves with the preparing of the litter.
The splints were made of small green limbs cut from some of the trees and shaved flat on two sides with the boys’ strong jackknives. In a short time Hal and his followers were back on the scene of the accident, watching proceedings eagerly and waiting for further orders. Meanwhile the work on the litter progressed with equal rapidity. Two strong poles were cut, trimmed and thrust through the arms of two of the boys’ coats. Then the fronts were drawn around over the poles and buttoned, and the task was finished.
Dr. Byrd was a surgeon as well as a physician and he worked rapidly. He laid the injured man flat on his back, with head low, opened his clothing to aid respiration, then bared the injured parts and bathed them with water. In a few minutes the man groaned, and it was evident that he was in great pain. A further examination disclosed the fact that his right leg and two ribs on his right side were broken.
Dr. Byrd did not set the leg at once. He merely straightened the limb and bound it with handkerchiefs and pieces of torn garments so as to make it firm at the broken point. Around the broken ribs he pinned a wide bandage.
“You boys are now having your first lesson in the treatment of a victim of a serious accident,” remarked the doctor after he had finished his work. “Sometime one of you may be in a position where you’ll have to set a broken bone, and it will be well for you all to make note of everything connected with this case. First, never set a bone when the flesh around the fracture is swollen. Treat it to reduce the swelling, and then set it. This man’s wounds are badly swollen because of the violence of his fall. I have bound them so that they will not be irritated while he is being carried to Lakefarm. Now, we’ll put him on the litter and start. But first put out the fire.”
The boys quickly obeyed, for they had been taught never to leave a camp fire unattended in a place where there was a possibility of the blaze reaching woods or prairie grass. There was little danger in this instance, but the doctor insisted on following the rule. Water was carried in pails and pots and pans from the stream and poured on the fire until the last spark was gone. Then the camping utensils were gathered up and the journey toward the school was resumed.
Mr. Frankland and Mr. Porter carried the injured man, and Dr. Byrd walked beside the litter and kept watch over the patient. The latter had said little thus far, for the doctor had instructed him to lie still and not try to tell his story, as he evidently wished to do.
The aviator was about thirty years old, and one look into his pain-drawn face was enough to inspire confidence and deep sympathy. He was not particularly handsome but he looked pleasant and straightforward. His body seemed well-knit and powerful.
“I’ll give you boys a half holiday to-morrow morning,” announced the doctor as they started up the cañon toward Flat Head Pass. “You may come back here and get the wreck of the airship and bring it back to the school.”
This announcement delighted the young Scouts, who expressed their glee variously. The prospect of making a thorough examination of an aeroplane with such a history as this, was enough to excite their imaginations.
As they proceeded, the doctor gave the boys further instructions regarding the care of an injured person. He called their attention to the manner in which the man on the stretcher was being carried in order that he might ride with the greatest possible care and comfort.
“Notice how Mr. Frankland and Mr. Porter are walking,” he said. “They break their step so that while one moves his right leg the other moves his left and vice versa. This makes an easy pace. By walking in this manner, Mr. Frankland and Mr. Porter carry the patient along gently and without jarring.”
It was after ten o’clock when they arrived at the school. The aviator was taken into the “Hospital,” put into bed and made as comfortable as possible. The boys went to their dormitory, visited the shower baths and then turned in.
Next morning, in spite of their late retirement, the boys were up bright and early. Several of them had dreamed of airships and awoke in the midst of various tragic situations. Hal Kenyon narrowly escaped being hit by the wing of a falling biplane and awoke as the machine struck the ground with a crash. Those who were slow at waking were pulled out of bed by their more eager schoolmates or were driven out of slumberland with showers of pillows. But they were not angry in the least at this rough awakening and made all possible haste to prepare for breakfast.
There were few servants at the “Level-Headed School.” Dr. Byrd did not permit any of the boys to wear expensive clothes, even on Sunday. For the week days he had selected the Boy Scout uniforms, which were worn constantly. This uniform, in fact, was what attracted him to the Boy Scout idea.
In the absence of a corps of servants, the young Scouts learned to perform many useful duties. They aired their own rooms and made their own beds, sewed on their own buttons, and, in shifts, helped the cook to prepare their meals.
So they had various “chores” to perform both before and after breakfast on the morning following their “hike” in the mountains. For an hour and a half they were busy, sandwiching their breakfast between the tidying of the dormitory and the washing and wiping of dishes. But finally all such duties were done, and the boys were free to go to Mummy Cañon for the wrecked aeroplane.
Meanwhile they had been told that the victim of the accident was not fatally injured. Aside from his broken ribs and leg he had suffered only a severe shaking up. A thorough examination had convinced the doctor that he would recover as soon as his broken bones could mend. The swelling on his leg was rapidly going down, and the doctor announced that he would probably set the limb in the afternoon.
A team of horses was hitched to a wagon, and one of the boys got in and drove, while the rest walked ahead or behind. Mr. Frankland accompanied them. The journey was uneventful and in less than an hour they were in the cañon.
The aeroplane was so thoroughly a wreck as to require almost an expert to determine what it had been originally. It had struck on a level grassy spot and had torn up the sod as if to make the earth as much a wreck as itself. A misshapen mass of splintered wood and bent struts and braces was about all that the Scouts could make out.
“It’s hardly worth while to take that junk back with us,” said Mr. Frankland as he gazed on the sorry-looking heap. “But since we came after it we may as well obey orders. Perhaps he’ll want to hold a funeral and bury his dead pet.”
“Who is he?” inquired Ferdinand Sharer, commonly known as “Fes” because of his fondness of carving or inking his initials, “F. E. S.,” on all his personal property. “What’s his name?”
“I don’t know,” Mr. Frankland replied. “He hasn’t done much talking yet.”
“Gee! such a fall as that’s enough to shut anybody up,” exclaimed Frank Bowler.
“Yes, anybody except you,” answered “Fes” wisely. “You never close your face till after the chickens go to roost.”
“I don’t, eh!” began Frank; but Mr. Frankland put a stop to this sort of dispute by saying:
“Tut, tut, boys. None of that. That isn’t clever.”
Several of the boys now took hold of the wreck and lifted it into the wagon. It was a strange looking sight as they carted it over the rock road.
They arrived back at Lakefarm earlier than they had expected, but the boys were not required to return to their class work until afternoon. The wreck of the aeroplane was stored away in an empty shed, and the incident was closed pending an explanation from the injured aviator.
CHAPTER V
LOST!
Next day Dr. Byrd related an aeroplane story to the boys in the assembly room. It was the story of Mr. Johnson Miles, the aviator who lay on a bed in the “Hospital” striving to help mend his broken bones by thinking hopeful thoughts. It was a story of absorbing interest to the young Scouts and afforded material for much excited conversation for several days thereafter.
Mr. Miles had related his experiences in detail. He said that his home was in Indianapolis and that he had flown all the way from that city in his aeroplane. He had already spent several weeks among and over the mountains, his purpose being to visit the Rockies as a bird would visit them, and to collect specimens.
“I was on my way to Flathead Mountain when I fell almost at its base,” he told the doctor. “It was moonlight and I thought I would fly awhile, as it is really mighty pleasant to sail through the air with the moon and stars overhead. It’s like racing along a lonely road in an automobile and seeing a ghost behind every post.”
“You have an odd idea of enjoyment,” remarked the doctor.
“Oh, it’s thrilling,” declared the aviator. “The ghosts can’t catch you in an automobile, and you just cut right through them in the air.
“But I was forced to stay up longer than I wanted to. The country was so rough that I could find no place to land. Then I found my gasoline almost gone and I knew I must glide and take my chances. The engine began to jerk and sputter and gasp, warning me of immediate danger.
“That was a bad miscalculation I made regarding my gasoline. I thought I had enough to last me several hours. I had intended to fly only an hour or two by moonlight. I was right over the mountains when I discovered the condition of my gasoline, and you can imagine the state of mind it threw me into. All the ghosts I had cut through in the air hadn’t begun to chill me the way this did. Fifty thousand icicles stuck down my back wouldn’t have been a circumstance to this.
“It was so dark down on the earth, in spite of the moon, that I could hardly distinguish mountains from valleys. I was flying five hundred feet over the highest peaks, and began to glide as soon as I discovered my predicament.
“Presently I saw a large gulch that you call Mummy Cañon right below me. So I banked and circled around without realizing that I was so near the mountain I was searching for. But when about fifty feet from the ground a couple of my stay wires broke and warped the left wing. I worked my ailerons in an endeavor to balance the machine, but it was no use. Down she flopped, and I leaped. I don’t know how I managed to get clear of the struts and the planes, but I did, and—well, it was mighty lucky you folks were near, or I’d have died a lonely death. Probably nobody would’ve come that way until I was food for the crows.”
“What became of your specimens?” inquired the doctor. “Didn’t you have any with you, or hadn’t you gathered any yet?”
“Oh, my, yes!” replied Miles. “I’d been in the mountains several weeks. Didn’t you find them?”
“No. Where did you drop them?”
“They were in a leather bag tied to one of the struts near my seat. It’s mighty funny you didn’t find them.”
“Maybe the bag was broken loose when the machine struck the ground, and was thrown some distance away,” suggested the doctor.
“That might be, but I should think one of all those boys would have found it when they went after the aeroplane.”
“Yes, I should think so, too, unless it fell into a hole or behind a big rock. Were the contents of the bag valuable?”
“I wouldn’t have taken one thousand dollars for them,” said the aviator sadly. “In fact, I regret their loss more than the wreck of the biplane.”
“We’ll make a thorough search for them,” assured the doctor as he left his patient.
This conversation took place shortly before noon. After dinner the boys were instructed to meet in the assembly room. There the doctor retold Mr. Miles’ story in detail and then said:
“I’m going to give you another half holiday, boys—”
“Hooray!” exclaimed Ferdinand Sharer in a loud whisper.
“Hold on, Ferdinand. Shut off your enthusiasm, for this isn’t going to be an occasion of play. You have a very serious duty to perform, and I want you to go about it seriously.”
“We will,” assured several of the boys.
“Yes, I know you intend to be serious,” said the owner of Lakefarm, with a wise shake of his iron-gray locks. “But I want you to be more than serious. I want you to use your wits, too, a little. A treasure has been lost and I want you to go in search of it; and if you don’t find it, I want you to furnish a clew as to what has become of it.”
Dr. Byrd’s Boy Scouts could no longer contain themselves. Most of them just had to give vent to their feelings with loud-whispered “hoorays!” or other characteristic expressions of glee.
“Remember, now,” insisted the master of the school just before he instructed the troop of Scouts to file out; “I want you to use your heads and do some good work. That bag of relics is valuable and must be found. If it isn’t lying on the ground near the place where the aeroplane struck, I want to know why. Mr. Porter will go with you.”
This was rather a large task to impose on any number of boys. To be sure, if the bag were lying near the spot in question, they ought to find it, or rather they should have discovered it already; but if it had mysteriously disappeared, how were thirty boys to conjure an explanation of the mystery?
Naturally this question, variously phrased, occurred to a number of the Scouts as they listened to the doctor’s latest words, but they were too young to ponder very deeply over the difficulty of any problem and soon dismissed this one from their minds.
“You may stay until dark if it takes that long to find it,” concluded Dr. Byrd. “Now, everybody go to the kitchen and get some sandwiches that you’ll find all ready. You’ll all be hungry before you get back.”
There was no need of further urging. The boys filed eagerly out of the room, hastened to their lockers and got their drab coats, drill hats, haversacks, and hike-sticks, and then went to the kitchen for their sandwiches. In twenty minutes they were on their way.
The course from the school to Mummy Cañon is pretty and interesting. It follows the bed of the river most of the way. This stream, named Lake River by Dr. Byrd, varies from thirty to forty feet wide and carries considerable volume of water. It runs southward a mile and a half along the foothills, then turns westward after receiving the water of Flathead River from Mummy Cañon. The rest of the way is up-hill, along the bank of the latter river or near it.
Mummy Cañon is more than two miles long, its greatest width, near the center, being nearly half a mile. It is almost entirely hemmed in by mountains, there being a narrow pass at either end, north and south. Flathead River has its source, or sources, high up in the mountains, and dashes down in a series of noisy cascades and cataracts, making a graceful curve for a quarter of a mile along the base of Flathead Mountain, from there leaping down a very rocky course to and through the northern pass.
The young Scouts and Mr. Porter walked halfway through the cañon before they reached the place where the aeroplane struck the earth. To the west arose Flathead Mountain, considerably lower than the other mountains bordering the cañon. From the “forehead” of Flathead the mummy stood forth conspicuously. The bottom of the cañon was strewn with bowlders of every size and description. On the east, exactly opposite Flathead, was a steep ascent so rocky as to permit of little vegetation save a pine or fir here and there growing from a crevice that seemed not to contain a trace of soil. High up on the ascent were poised several huge bowlders, and hence its name of Bowlder Mountain.
On a level and treeless spot several acres in extent between Flathead and Bowlder Mountain, the Boy Scouts and Mr. Porter began their search for the missing bag of specimens. Almost in the middle of the grassy plot, the sod had been torn and rooted up by the plunging machine, and it did not take the searchers long to decide that the object they sought was not there in the open.
“Well, what do you think of it, boys?” inquired Mr. Porter. “Remember, you’re to do all the work and furnish all the ideas. Who has an idea now?”
“I have,” announced Fes Sharer.
“All right. We’ll listen to Ferdinand first.”
“I think this is all a pipe dream of the airship man’s,” declared Fes, who was an extremely practical youth and always demanded evidence before he would believe anything. “I think he struck his head on a rock and hasn’t come to his senses yet.”
“Don’t you believe he had a bag of souvenirs?” inquired the instructor.
“Naw,” was the skeptical answer. “If he did, what became of it? It’d had to fall with the airship.”
“Yes, if it was tied to it,” conditioned Juan Del Mar.
“He says it was tied to the aeroplane,” reminded Mr. Porter.
“I think he’s dreaming,” insisted Fes. “If he had a bag of specimens with him, it wasn’t tied to the airship; or if it was, it broke loose or came untied while it was falling.”
“I think it came untied,” declared Pickles.
“What do the rest of you think?” inquired Mr. Porter.
As any thought on the subject must be largely a matter of guess, none of the boys besides Fes and Pickles were inclined to be very positive. All, however, were willing to accept Ferdinand’s explanation.
“Then it’s up to us to search the whole cañon, or a good piece of it, around here,” declared Hal Kenyon.
Several others agreed with him, although a few of the more doubtful said they were just as ready to believe that the bag had been dropped outside of the cañon.
“I bet it dropped right on the peak of Bowlder Mountain, or maybe on the top of Flathead,” one boy even declared.
It was now half past three o’clock, and as it would be dark early in the cañon, the boys set to work diligently to cover as much ground as possible before daylight failed them. They divided up the territory, and each boy tried to confine his search to his assignment.
Hal had a stretch of several acres along the creek at the base of Flathead Mountain. In the course of an hour he went over it thoroughly, without finding the treasured bag and hearing no joyful cry of discovery from any of the other boys. Meanwhile it occurred to him that the bag might just as well have fallen into the river as any other place, and he determined to search in the water also.
This required a good deal of time. In some of the wider places the stream was shallow and he could see the stony or pebbly bottom. But in other places he found it necessary to exercise greater care. He took off his shoes and stockings and rolled up his trousers as high as he could; then he waded in and began a thorough search. Where the water was too deep for wading, he used his hike-stick to feel the bottom.
In the meantime other boys, to whom had been assigned other sections along the creek, observed what Hal was doing and followed his example. The search went along quietly, for all of the Scouts were too widely separated to engage in much conversation. When they became hungry, they ate their sandwiches and drank spring water and then returned to their work.
But at last it grew too dark for further hunting among the rocks, trees and bushes, or even in the open, and Mr. Porter called them together. The search seemed to have been in vain. The leather bag of the aviator was still lost, and nobody believed that it would ever be found, unless by accident.
“Well, we did our best anyway,” said Byron Bowler.
“You bet we did, Bun,” agreed Pickles, following the general boy habit of shortening Byron to “Bun.” “I’m tired.”
“So’m I,” declared several others.
“We’ll start home now,” announced Mr. Porter. “Everybody here?”
“All here,” replied one of the boys, assuming that everybody had answered Mr. Porter’s whistle.
The walk back to Lakefarm was quiet. The boys were all tired and found little of interest to discuss in their fruitless search. On the campus they were met by Dr. Byrd and Mr. Frankland, who inquired as to their success.
“Nothing doing,” replied Roy Hendricks. “We searched pretty near the whole cañon and come back with empty hands.”
“Yes, and we searched the river, too,” repeated Bun. “Hal Kenyon started that. We waded through the shallow places.”
“Where is Hal?” inquired Pickles. “I ain’t seen him all the way back.”
There was no answer.
“What’s that?” inquired the doctor. “Kenyon missing? Hal, step forward.”
There was no answer and no stepping forward. All was excitement soon. Hal’s name was called, then shouted by a dozen throats, and still no reply.
Young Kenyon had disappeared as mysteriously as had the bag of specimens of the injured aviator.
CHAPTER VI
THE SCREAM IN THE WATERFALL
“How did this happen, Mr. Porter?” demanded Dr. Byrd sternly, yet with an unmistakable quaver in his voice.
“I—I don’t know, sir,” stammered the manual training instructor. “I thought I heard his voice among the others on the way home.”
The fact was, Mr. Porter thought no such thing. He was merely frightened lest he be held responsible if anything serious had happened to Kenyon while the boy was in his charge. He felt guilty. He knew that he ought to have called the roll to determine if all were present before starting back for the school.
“Did anybody see Hal or hear his voice on the way back?” called out the doctor addressing the crowd of boys now gathered closely around him. No one had.
“Maybe he’s gone into the dining-room,” suggested Mr. Porter in an unnatural tone.
“No, he didn’t do anything of the sort,” returned the doctor. “I’ve been sitting out here for ten minutes waiting for you. Not a boy has entered this building in that time.”
There was an uncomfortable silence for a few moments, and then the doctor continued:
“If anything has happened to that boy I’m going to find out who’s responsible.”
“He was working in the river some o’ the time and it’s over his head, lots of places,” piped one small boy in fearful accents.
“Oh, it’s impossible for him to have been drowned,” declared Mr. Porter. “I kept my eyes on the boys in the river all the time they were there.”
Dr. Byrd offered no reply to this assurance. He merely said:
“All you boys go in and get your supper; then go to bed early.”
“Can’t we go with you and hunt for Hal?” pleaded Charley Mason.
“No. I’m not going to run any risk of losing any more of you. Besides, you’ve done enough for one day. I know you’re all tired.”
“No we’re not,” responded several. The fact is, they were well tired from their afternoon’s work, but love for their lost schoolmate had a refreshing effect. But the master of the school would not yield and they were forced to do as he said.
By this time Mr. Frankland had appeared, and as the boys filed into the wash room to prepare for supper, he was informed of the situation that had caused such a commotion.
“We’ve got to go and look for that boy and stick to the hunt until we find him—dead or alive,” almost sobbed the doctor.
“Oh, it can’t be as bad as that,” reassured the hopeful Mr. Frankland. “Hal’s a pretty level-headed boy and will be showing up with an explanation before long. I haven’t known him to get into trouble yet, and nearly every other boy in the school has been in one sort of scrape or another.”
“I hope you’re right, Frankland, but I very much fear otherwise. I can’t conceive of an explanation of his disappearance unless some serious accident has befallen him. But you go and find Pepper and have him get the auto ready, Mr. Porter; and, Mr. Frankland, you get a couple of long-handled rakes and some lanterns. I’ll get my medical and surgical cases and we’ll be prepared for any emergency.”
Pepper was soon found and instructed. A few words of explanation served to put speed in his actions, and in fifteen minutes the large touring car was backed out of the garage.
No unnecessary delay was permitted by the doctor. The medical and surgical cases were put aboard and all climbed in. Mr. Frankland, with two rakes in hand, sat behind with Mr. Porter, who had charge of the lanterns, and Dr. Byrd took a seat in front with the chauffeur.
Pepperill Humphrey served as chauffeur as well as janitor at Lakefarm Institute. He was a wise old man, always ready with “home-remedy” advice and droll humor. He could tell “bad boys” what was going to become of them more forebodingly, some said, than could any other forecaster of human events.
He was peculiarly quiet on the present occasion. After receiving a twenty-word explanation from Mr. Frankland, he asked one or two questions and then said nothing more. His silence might have been construed variously. He was fond of Hal, as was everybody else at the school, and possibly he was stunned at the news received. But he was observed several times to nod his head vigorously and to mutter in a very positive manner.
The other members of the search party, however, were too much occupied with their own thoughts to ask for an explanation from the janitor-chauffeur. They rode along in silence for most of the way. The doctor had gained all the information that seemed obtainable. Mr. Porter, because of the criticism he had received, wished to draw as little attention to himself as possible, and Mr. Frankland appreciated the embarrassment of the situation.
There was a fairly good road from the school to the northern pass of the cañon, including a bridge over Lake River near its junction with Flathead River, which ran through the cañon, and along this they advanced close to the spot where the airship had struck. Here they stopped, and the search for Hal was started.
First they shouted his name again and again, permitting the echoes to die away after each shout; but no reply came. Then they lighted their lanterns, one for each, and started in pairs up and down the bank of the river.
Mr. Porter indicated the section of the stream along which Hal had conducted his hunt for Mr. Miles’ bag of souvenirs, and it was from a middle point in this section that search for the missing boy began. For a few hundred feet here the water was deep and comparatively quiet; but above this calmer stretch was a succession of falls so noisy as to make it necessary to shout in order to be heard.
The largest and noisiest of these falls was the lowest one. Dr. Byrd and Mr. Porter went upstream as far as this cataract, and stood a short time gazing into the water. There was little comfort in the feelings that possessed them as they gazed. The falling water glittered in the yellow moonlight, seeming to shine forth with a million ghost eyes, and in the noise of that tumbling flood every now and then they heard a strange sharp sound that seemed to pierce them through.
Mr. Porter took hold of the doctor’s sleeve and drew him away. They walked some distance down stream until their ordinary voices could be heard, and then Mr. Porter said:
“Let’s not begin by raking the river. If he’s drowned, we can’t do anything for him; but if he’s injured, he needs our aid.”
“Well, where would you suggest that we hunt first?” inquired the doctor.
“In the timber and thickets near the falls. He may have gone in there and got hurt.”
“All right. We’ll search every place you suggest before we rake the river.”
Mr. Frankland and Pepper were now observed coming up along the shore, and the doctor and Mr. Porter waited for them.
After the four were reunited, Mr. Frankland said:
“We’ve covered the ground pretty well down there. Everything’s open and fairly level. We measured the water with our rake, too, and it isn’t over a boy’s head any place, although it is swift as a millrace.”
“If he’s drowned, his body’s probably in this deeper part near the falls,” said Dr. Byrd. “We’re going up in the timber and hunt there first, and then come back here if we don’t find him.”
“It might be just possible that he waded over to the other side and was hunting along the steep base of old Flathead and fell in there,” suggested Mr. Frankland.
“We’ll hope not,” returned the doctor; “but we’ll follow that up after we’ve tried everything else.”
The timber they now proceeded to search consisted principally of spruce, pines and cottonwood growing on a slope that ascended with the bed of the stream. The soil was fairly good here, being comparatively free from small stones and gravel, but there were numerous large bowlders and rocky projections that the search-party had to climb over or around.
They spent an hour and a half, walking, crawling and climbing over this difficult ground, flashing their lanterns into every hole or depression, and stopping every now and then to call Hal’s name. At last, considerably disheartened, they returned to the bank of the river below the falls.
“Let’s go down to the rapids and work up,” suggested Mr. Porter. “He was working that way most of the time I think. I saw him down there and didn’t see him up here.”
This proposal was agreed upon, so they walked down stream two hundred yards from the largest and lowest fall and began to work up. Two of the men held the lanterns, while the others thrust the long-handled rakes into the water and felt along the bank.
They pushed the rakes out as far as they could and drew them in many times. On several occasions they were almost certain they had found the body of the missing boy, but their discovery proved to be only a log or a tangled mass of sticks and weeds. Finally they worked up to the lower waterfall and then moved away from the roaring noise to a distance where they could hear each other talk.
“The only thing that seems to be left to do is to go to the other side and rake the river bed over there,” remarked Mr. Frankland.
“Yes, and if he was drowned even on that side, it’ll be just our luck not to find him,” said Mr. Porter. “The body’s probably drifted into midstream and may be down past the rapids.”
“If we don’t find him to-night, we’ll come back again to-morrow and drag the river to its junction with Lake River,” the doctor announced determinedly.
“There’s something funny about them falls,” remarked Pepper, who had been strangely silent during the whole of the search thus far.
“What’s that?” inquired Mr. Porter, who was still nervous and easily drawn into almost any meaningless conversation.
“Don’t you hear it?” explained the chauffeur. “That noise every little bit. Sounds like a scream coming right out of the water.”
“Oh, that’s natural enough,” declared the manual training instructor. “It’s a twist or eddy sucking into some crevice in the rocks.”
“I don’t believe it,” insisted Pepper. “Many a time I’ve been here on Sunday afternoon and set here listenin’ to them falls, an’ never before heard that noise.”
“What do you think it is—a ghost?” inquired Mr. Porter with an uneasy laugh.
“No, sir,” replied the other indignantly. “But it’s something ’at ought to be looked into. We’re huntin’ for a missin’ boy, you know.”
“There is something strange in that sound,” put in Dr. Byrd at this point. “I wonder what it can be. Mr. Porter, your explanation doesn’t satisfy me.”
“Nor me either,” said Mr. Frankland.
Just then another and louder scream came seemingly right out of the tumbling flood, thrilling fearfully every member of the boy-hunting party. For a few moments everybody present stood as if frozen to the ground; then Dr. Byrd sprang forward exclaiming:
“Come on; we’ve got to find out what that means.”
CHAPTER VII
A BADLY FRIGHTENED BOY
“I told ’em so. I told ’em something would happen. I warned those boys they’d get into trouble if they didn’t quit gettin’ so gay. Hal isn’t a gay one, but he can easy be a victim of a trick of one o’ those careless, dare-devil kids.”
Mr. Frankland and Mr. Porter both heard Pepper mutter thus to himself as they followed the doctor toward the waterfall whence the scream of a human voice seemed to come, but they paid little attention to his words, for they knew his peculiarities and attached little importance to his grumbling. Nevertheless, Pepper believed all he said, and more. Only a few days earlier he had observed some of the boys engaged in tying the long grass across the path that led from the stables to the west timberland on Lakefarm. Then he lectured them, promising that they would come to no happy end.
“You boys will be the death of somebody one o’ these fine days, and then you’ll begin to do some thinkin’,” he declared, as he strode along, breaking with a strong kick each of the “trips” that the mischievous youngsters had prepared. “And you, Frank Bowler, are well nicknamed ‘Bad.’ If you don’t end on the gallows, I’m dreamin’.”
Frank seemed to be the leader in this escapade. He would have liked to have made a smart reply to this direful prophecy, but for once in his life he thought twice.
This was only one of many occasions of which the old Englishman took advantage to hand out his advice. He was really a good-hearted and well-intending fellow, and no doubt did some of the boys considerable good. But there were a few of the latter who couldn’t “go the old geezer,” and Frank Bowler was one of them.
Why it was, he could never tell; but Mr. Humphrey had a “feeling in his bones” that one of the mischief makers of the school was connected with the disappearance of Hal Kenyon. And this was what he meant when he muttered the words overheard by Mr. Frankland and Mr. Porter. Although he was the one who called particular attention to the strange sound that seemed to issue from the waterfall, he did not regard it as seriously as did the others. He was thinking more of certain boys back at the school than of the mystery close at hand. True, his wonder was aroused at the sound issuing from the cataract, but his reason would not permit him to connect that with the disappearance of Hal. He was wishing that he were now back at Lakefarm closeted with “some of those bad boys and sweating the truth out o’ them.”
“I’d get it out o’ them, I’d get it out o’ them,” he told himself over and over again after the first thrill of awe at the shrill sound from the waterfall. “Whether there’s anything serious happened to Hal or not, I believe some o’ those boys know something about it. Wait till to-morrow morning, and I’ll find out.”
Pepper nodded his head and shook his fist determinedly as he spoke. He was talking vehemently now, articulating his words without reserve, for they had approached so near the noisy falls that he could not hear himself speak.
But he was interrupted by another scream from the cataract. This was no louder than the last preceding, but it was more thrilling, for they were closer. Every member of the searching party would have declared that only a human throat could send forth such a sound.
They approached close to the cataract and gazed helplessly into the water. What could they do? It was a most astonishing and unfathomable mystery. All they could do was stand and look and listen.
Presently Dr. Byrd pulled a sleeve of each of his companions and motioned them to follow him.
They started down the stream again, but soon they were halted involuntarily by another wailing cry from the same source. Dr. Byrd did not turn back, however, but went on after a moment’s hesitation. The others followed.
Beyond the reach of the deafening noise of the waterfall, the doctor stopped and began to discuss the affair with trembling, hollow voice, his face showing white in the rays of the lanterns. He was not frightened, but the circumstances were unusual enough to unstring his nerves.
The rest were similarly affected, even Pepper experiencing a weakening of his knees as a result of the last two screams.
“What in the world does that mean?” gasped the doctor. “There it goes again,” as another scream, somewhat fainter than the last two, reached their ears. “Can’t one of you offer a possible explanation?”
“Maybe it’s a mountain lion or a lynx,” suggested Pepper. “You know there’s said to be a few in the mountains around here.”
“That’s a brilliant idea,” exclaimed Dr. Byrd enthusiastically, “or rather, it’s a commonsense explanation that ought to have occurred to any blockhead. Hence, what are the rest of us? I feel better all of a sudden. But no! If it is a panther—”
He hesitated.
“What then?” inquired Mr. Frankland.
“It may explain, may it not, what became of Hal?” replied the doctor slowly.
“You mean that the beast killed him?” inquired Mr. Porter.
“Yes.”
“No, no, that would have been impossible. Such a tragedy could not have escaped the notice of some of us. Moreover, there’d have been some traces left—blood, broken bushes, and maybe torn-up sod.”
“Yes, that’s true,” admitted the doctor. “But what’s become of the boy? I’d face a hundred panthers to get Hal back safe. My! there’s that scream again. It doesn’t sound like a wild animal. It’s almost human.”
“If it’s a panther or a lynx, where do you suppose it is?” inquired Mr. Frankland, addressing Pepper.
“In the rocks near the waterfall somewhere,” replied Pepper.
“I should think we’d have seen him or have been able to locate him when we were up close,” reasoned the doctor.
“It’s too dark up there—the fall’s right in the shadow of the mountain. And the noise o’ the water confuses things so you can’t tell just where the scream comes from.”
“I can’t believe any wild animal makes that noise, and I’m in favor of making further investigation,” said Dr. Byrd.
“I’m with you on that,” Mr. Frankland announced; “but before we proceed, I propose we arm ourselves against a possible encounter.”
“How?” Mr. Porter asked.
“With clubs. Four of us ought to beat off a panther with good strong heavy sticks.”
“It’s a wise precaution,” the doctor approved. “Let’s get busy.”
They proceeded to a near-by thicket and there found a number of young trees that suited their purpose admirably. Like the Boy Scouts, they too were supplied with large sharp jackknives, and in ten minutes each was armed with a club that seemed formidable enough to break the skull of a lion.
Then they turned again toward the cataract, advancing close to it and flashing their lanterns over the big tumble of water and the adjoining piles of rocks. But they discovered nothing that suggested an explanation of the mystery. The screams continued to come, seemingly from the fall, but it was ridiculous to believe that any living being, human or beast, could exist in that flood and, with clear, strong lungs, emit such wailing sounds of distress.
For fifteen minutes they watched and listened, while the cries continued to come at intervals of a minute or two. Finally, since the examination of the fall and the rocks near it produced no result, Dr. Byrd began to give all his attention to the cries themselves.
After close and careful listening he was certain he could distinguish a feature in the cries that had not attracted his notice before. He strained every nerve in order to catch the sounds more distinctly. Observing his attitude as he leaned forward and put his hand cup-shaped behind his ear, the other men followed his example and soon they too were certain they could make out a single word uttered by a human voice.
“Help!”
It seemed to come more clearly now and was repeated several times in rapid succession. The eager listeners turned to each other and nodded their heads significantly; then they listened again as the call was repeated. But only the one word could they make out.
“Where are you, Hal?”
Dr. Byrd shouted this answer to the appeal, but his voice was heavy, attuned almost to the noise of the waterfall, and could hardly have been heard by the person in distress. Then Mr. Frankland and Pepper measured the strength of their vocal organs against the noise of the cataract with little better result. But Mr. Porter had a high, shrill voice, and when he sang out with all his strength “Oh, Hal, where are you?” there was a general feeling among them that the boy must have heard it. Then they listened again.
A reply was surely coming. It was not a single word, but several that issued from the waterfall this time. They seemed to come in the form of a sentence, but only one was heard distinctly enough to be recognized. That word was understood by all. It was “behind.”
“Behind what?” was the question that naturally came to the minds of the listeners. But before they could conjecture an answer, there came a startling interruption that drove all thought of the mystery of the cataract momentarily from their minds.
Happening to turn his face away from the waterfall, the doctor beheld the dim outlines of a small human figure twenty feet away. Believing it to be Hal, he ran joyfully toward the boy and was followed by the other men. The object of their interest did not move. In a moment they were close to him and holding their lanterns before his face.
But the boy was not Hal. It was Frank Bowler, supposed to be back at Lakefarm and fast asleep in the dormitory. And his countenance could hardly have been whiter if it had been coated with white enamel. Moreover, he was trembling as if he had seen a ghost.
“Frank, Frank, what is the matter? What does this mean?” cried Dr. Byrd; but he forgot that he was too near the cataract to carry on a conversation, and the boy did not understand him.
Just then there came another scream out of the roar of the waterfall, and Frank, the boastful, fell on his knees, shaking with terror.
CHAPTER VIII
HAL’S DISCOVERY
Meanwhile, what had become of Hal Kenyon?
He had had a most remarkable adventure, and connected with it was an equally remarkable discovery.
During the search for the missing bag of specimens Hal and Frank Bowler worked in adjoining divisions of the territory that was being covered. As they finished the search on their divisions they met at the lower waterfall. They gazed a short while into the tumbling water and then moved down stream until they could hear each other’s voices.
“I don’t believe we’ll find the bag,” were Frank’s first words. “I don’t believe anybody’ll ever find it. I bet it’s in the deep part o’ the river where you couldn’t wade.”
“Maybe it’s on the other side,” suggested Hal. “There’s quite a little piece of ground over there along the river bank. It’s pretty steep, but we could walk on it if we’re careful.”
“Let’s go over there and hunt,” Frank proposed.
“All right. Come on.”
They continued on down the river to a wide shallow stony place, and there took off their shoes and waded over. Arrived on the opposite side, they put on their shoes again, and as they were doing this Hal said:
“It’ll be getting dark before long and we don’t want to have to walk along this steep place when we can’t see plain. Let’s go up to the other end, at the fall, and work down this way.”
“All right,” agreed Frank.
So they picked their way over stones and through bushes and patches of stunted fir trees, sometimes finding it necessary to hold onto a bush or a rock in order to keep from slipping or losing their balance and plunging into the river. But they reached the cataract and then halted again to look around them.
There was little more than standing-room for them at this point. This standing-room, however, was level and comfortable. It was close to the fall, which proved even more magnificent from this side than from the other. The rocks were piled high and wonderfully poised, and the water fell from a lofty height and roared thunderously on the rocky bed in the deep basin below.
Both of the boys had a great desire to talk as they gazed on the beauty of this scenery, but the noise of the falls drowned out their voices. So they had to content themselves with gazing and pointing their fingers and nodding their heads eagerly. As they stood there they made a new and interesting discovery that caused them to forget their purpose in crossing the river.
At the near edge of the cataract the downpour of water was extremely thin, so that the boys could look behind. Hal’s notice was first to be attracted to this peculiarity. Soon he was standing as close to the fall as he could get with safety and was gazing wonderingly into a cavernous space beyond.
Observing his attitude, Frank stepped near and looked over his shoulder. Then Hal put his lips close to his companion’s ear and shouted:
“Bad, there’s a cave back there!”
Frank nodded understandingly, and Hal continued in the same manner as before:
“Do you see that thing on the floor of the cave? It looks like a leather bag. Maybe it’s the one we’re looking for.”
“It can’t be,” Frank shouted in Hal’s ear. “How would it get there?”
Kenyon pointed to a huge projecting rock just over their heads.
“It might have struck that and glanced off through the water,” he replied.
Hal was now convinced that they had discovered the object of their search. His first impulse was to run back and inform Dr. Byrd, but a boyish ambition made him hesitate, and that hesitation was perhaps to be blamed for much of the trouble that followed. As he lingered, this thought came to him:
“Wouldn’t it be glorious if we could get behind the waterfall, explore the cave, and come out and report our double discovery to the owner of Lakefarm and all the boys?” The idea was so tempting that he was unable to give it up. The ledge behind the fall was about nine feet from the edge of the flat rocky precipice on which they stood. Now, if he only had a plank nine or ten feet long, he could easily bridge the chasm and walk through the thin spray of water right into this wonderful cave.
Instinctively he looked about him for something that would serve as a bridge, and what was his astonishment to discover the very article he was wishing for. Projecting from a thicket near by was the end of a piece of lumber. He went over and pulled and found it loose. It was a plank twelve inches wide and ten feet long.
“My!” was his exclamation, drowned by the waterfall. “We’re not the first to find this place. Somebody else is using that cave for something and he’s had this plank here to cross over on.”
This certainly seemed to be the natural and only logical explanation of the presence of the heavy piece of lumber in the bushes. At least it would serve the desired purpose, and Hal prepared to thrust it across the chasm so that an end would rest on each ledge of rock.
Frank understood quickly what his companion had in mind and stood ready to help him. The plank was heavy, but Hal was strong, and with a well-calculated effort he placed it in position and kept his balance.
“Now you hold this end while I cross over,” he screamed into Frank’s ear. “But don’t you try to come over.”
Frank nodded eagerly. He had no intention of obeying, but said nothing. He got down on his knees and placed his hands on the plank. There really was no need of this, but it was a natural request for Hal to make, as he would feel safer with a pair of hands steadying the unanchored bridge.
It was now dusk in the cañon and rapidly growing dark. Probably this is one reason why the doings of these two boys were not observed by any of the other members of the searching company. However, the view of most of them was shut off by the high bluffs and rocks near the waterfall and the rest were at a considerable distance away or in hollows or depressions or beyond growths of timber.
Hal stepped onto the plank and moved out over the chasm toward the thin spray and the cave beyond. Meanwhile Frank’s brain was working rapidly. He was thinking of the glory that Hal was winning and he was losing. Why should they not share the glory alike? As soon as his companion reached the cave he also would cross on the plank, walk right through the roaring waterfall and maybe carry back the coveted treasure in his own hands.
“Oh, wouldn’t that be great!” he exclaimed exultingly. “How the other kids’d look at me. And if any of ’em got too fresh, I’d just clout ’em on the jaw.”
Frank actually executed the vicious swing of “clouting” some youngster as he spoke. The result was thrilling, but not what the youthful terrorizer would have wished. He was half kneeling, half sitting in an awkward and cramping position, and as he swung his fist on an imaginary jaw, he lost his balance, and his feet slipped from under him.
One heel struck the plank violently, and over it tipped, then with a swing, slipped under the waterfall and was shot down into the chasm. And Bad almost went with it, but he caught himself at the edge of the precipice. For a moment he lay there and looked over. Then he remembered Hal. He was gone. He must have followed the plank into the whirling pool below.
In an ague of horror he crawled back a few yards and staggered to his feet; then with one terrified look behind him, he started on a wild run along the steep shore, sobbing hysterically as he ran:
“Oh, my! Oh, my! I’ve killed Hal! I’ve killed Hal! Oh, what will I do? What will I do? I’ll be hung, I know!”
He arrived at the place where they had crossed and dropped down and pulled off his shoes and stockings. As he was thus occupied he continued his fearful forebodings:
“Pepper said some of us bad boys’d end on the gallows, and I know he meant me. He could look right through me. I always felt it. He’s the first one to call me ‘Bad,’ and then the kids did.
“Yes, I know I’ll be hung if—no, I won’t either. Nobody saw us. I won’t tell. I’ll keep it to myself, and nobody’ll ever find out.”
He crossed back to the other side and in the dusk saw the boys gathering a few hundred feet away. Mr. Porter had called them a few minutes before with a whistle blast, but Frank had not heard it.
Still resolved to guard his terrible secret, Frank hastened to join the other Scouts. Fortunately it was now almost dark and none of them could see his face plainly, or they would have noticed how pale he was. As a rule he was talkative, but now he did not speak at all, except to give the shortest possible answers when addressed. One or two of the boys, observing his unusual manner, asked him what was the matter and he made no reply.
All the way back to the school he walked by himself, lagging a little behind much of the time, as if tired, in order that he might not be forced to talk. He was afraid to talk. It was all he could do to keep from crying.
By the time they reached the school he had lost his nerve and decided that he must tell somebody all about it. He could not bear to keep the secret any longer. But no suitable opportunity offered itself to speak to the doctor or Mr. Frankland. He might have taken one of the boys aside and told his story to him, but Frank could not remember one of his schoolmates whom he had not threatened to “clean up” or “clout in the jaw” at one time or another. Even Bun his brother, whom he had threatened with a “paste on the blinker” only the day before, might censure him and tell him he ought to be hanged or be sent to jail.
So Frank did not tell his story when his strongest impulse to sob it out possessed him. He went with the rest of the boys into the wash room and then into the dining room and ate his supper in silence. His face was not so pale now, but his peculiar manner was observed by several. However, it was thought that he was dejected, as were many others, over the fate of Hal Kenyon, and nobody embarrassed him with questions.
After supper the boys were sent off to bed. Mr. Frankland and Mr. Porter usually had charge of this “good night” watch and slept in the dormitory, but on this occasion Mrs. Byrd and the matronly cook superintended affairs. Once or twice Frank almost yielded to an impulse to confide in the doctor’s wife, but his general dislike for both girls and women held him back.
Frank and Byron slept together. Dr. Byrd had not spared his money in constructing the buildings of this mountain school, and for every two boys there was a separate room, neatly and comfortably fitted.
They were all outside rooms, with a window for each, all on the first floor, so that it would be easy for the boys to escape in case of fire.
Byron was tired and could hardly keep his eyes open until he got into bed. He was so tired that he hardly noticed the unusual silence of his brother; or if he did, he attributed it to the same cause that made him sleepy. As for Frank, he never was more wide awake and had no idea of sleeping. He sat down on a chair and began to undress slowly, but there was a reason in his slowness. He was watching Bun constantly out of the corner of his eye and his nervousness was greatly relieved when he saw his brother fall into bed and to sleep almost instantly.
Then Frank stopped undressing and sat quietly for a few minutes watching the boy in bed. Soon the latter’s heavy breathing announced that he was fast asleep, and the young watcher drew on his trousers again. He worked rapidly now, drawing on his stockings and shoes, and putting on his coat and hat. Then he moved toward the window, which was open in accordance with the health ideas of Dr. Byrd.
With another hasty glance at his slumbering brother, Frank put both legs over the window sill and dropped to the ground, a distance of only a few feet. Then, like a flash, he straightened up and ran over the lawn toward the road.
The moon was shining and the boy concealed his flight as much as possible by keeping under a row of balsam poplars along the east edge of the campus. After leaving the shadow of these, he found it necessary to break into the open, and he ran down the road toward the river with all his speed.
It was a wild-looking figure that raced along the trail toward Mummy Cañon that night. Half a mile from the school a small animal shot out from a clump of junipers and darted across his path just behind him. Believing it to be a wildcat, he doubled his speed, too much frightened to think of stopping, although his hat was whiffed off by the wind.
His hair was rather long and it was blown in disorder. Like a scary horse he shied at every large rock, dark hollow, or ghost-like stunted spruce or fir.
Up hill and down he ran, through ravine and along the precipice of a hollow known as “Baby Gorge.” Colorado nights are cool, even in the summer, and he did not become overheated. A few times he was forced to stop and walk for want of breath, but as soon as he recovered, on he went at the best speed he could make. He was a sturdy youngster and stood the test.
At last he reached Flathead Pass and hastened through, over a ledge of rock along the bank of the river. Another quarter of a mile, and he was able to see the lights of the lanterns of the hunters for the lost boy. On he ran, and as he neared the party ahead, he realized tremblingly that they were near the fatal waterfall. Now he began to wonder what he should do. He had had no plan in mind when he started out; all he could say to himself was that he must be present and watch the search. He did not intend to reveal himself, but wanted to be near when the body of Hal was taken out of the water.
Frank approached as near to the men by the waterfall as he thought safe. He stopped behind a clump of bushes and peered around to watch proceedings. Presently the doctor and his companions moved away from the cataract and stopped within a few feet of the bushes, and there the boy heard their excited discussion regarding the cries that seemed to issue from the falling water. Then he saw them cut a club for each and advance again toward the place of mystery.
The watching boy was intensely thrilled by what he had heard.
The suggestion that possibly the screams were those of a panther or a lynx added a new element of fear to the situation. But as he heard the strange sound repeated again and again, he dismissed all thought of a wild animal.
“It’s Hal’s ghost, I know; it can’t be anything else,” he chattered; and without knowing why, he left his place of concealment and started toward the waterfall. A dozen paces from the men he stopped, fearful of announcing his presence, yet half hoping he would be discovered. Just then Dr. Byrd turned and saw him.
