Bart Keene's Hunting Days: or, The Darewell Chums in a Winter Camp

CHAPTER XVII
TREED BY A WILDCAT

They made the best of it, laughing and joking, and the meal was finished on some victuals that remained from the day before. Frank was inclined to blame himself, and, after that, Fenn, because the latter had put the soap powder into the cocoanut box, but the amateur cook’s chums were good-natured over his failure, and comforted him with the proverb “accidents will happen in the best of regulated camps.”

The weather the following day turned out unexpectedly warm, and, as Bart, Fenn and Ned elected to remain in camp, and straighten it out somewhat, besides cleaning their guns, and mending some torn clothes, Frank said:

“Guess I’ll go off, and try my luck, if you fellows don’t mind. Maybe I can bag something.”

“Going alone?” asked Bart, looking up from his rifle, which he had taken apart. “If you wait until after dinner I’ll go along.”

“I don’t mind going alone,” was Frank’s rejoinder, and this was true, for, however good a chum he might be to the other lads, he was rather an odd chap, and frequently went off on solitary strolls. His friends were used to this, and did not mind.

“Aren’t you going to take a rifle?” asked Ned. “You might see some big game.”

“Guess not. I’m after birds. You fellows have scared off all the deers and bears,” and, with a light shotgun over his shoulder Frank set out.

It was lonesome enough in the woods, after leaving the winter camp, to suit almost any one who was fond of solitude, and Frank really rejoiced in the calm and quietness all about him. The only sound was the occasional flutter of a bird in the branches, or the soft, slushing noise made by snow toppling from the trees to the ground.

Frank walked on, his eyes alert for a sign of any game that would restock the camp larder, but, for a long time he saw nothing. He had covered about three miles, and was beginning to think that he would have his trip in vain, when, as he went down into a little gully, where the snow lay rather deeper than on the level, he heard a noise, and saw a movement in the underbrush.

“There’s something!” he exclaimed half aloud, and he swung his gun around. “Now let’s see what sort of a shot I am.”

He advanced cautiously, thinking he might flush a covey of birds. But the sound was not repeated, and, look as he did, Frank could see nothing. With ready gun, and eyes that gazed eagerly forward, he kept on, making as little noise as possible.

Suddenly he heard a yelping bark, followed by a shrill cry of agony, and there was a great commotion in a clump of bushes about a hundred feet directly in front of him. Some animal or animals were evidently threshing about in the underbrush.

“A dog! It’s a dog, and something has caught it!” exclaimed Frank. “Maybe it’s a bear! I wish I had my rifle!”

He had no thought of turning back, even though he had but a light shotgun. The commotion increased, the yelping and barking finally dying out, to be succeeded by a low moan, and then there was a silence, and Frank could hear the crunching of bones.

“Poor dead beast,” he murmured. “Maybe I can get a pop at the other creature; and if I get close enough, and put two charges of shot into it at short range, and in the right spot, I may kill it. I’m going to try, anyhow.” He little knew the danger he was running, for he had had, as yet, no view of the creature upon which he was creeping.

As he walked forward he stepped on a dead branch, concealed by the snow, and it broke with his weight, a sharp snap sounding in the still forest. Instantly the crunching of bones ceased, there was a slight movement where the fight had taken place, and a savage growl resounded.

“I’m in for it now,” mused Frank. “I’ve got to see it through. I can’t run, but I don’t like that growl.”

He stood still for a moment, hoping the beast would show itself. Then he advanced a few more steps.

As he got to one side of the concealing bushes he saw a curious sight. A big, lithe, tawny creature, with ears laid back, and with flashing eyes, was crouched down over some smaller animal, savagely regarding the boy. It had been rending and tearing the smaller creature, and, at a glance Frank saw that it was a fox. It had been the whines and barking of the fox that he had heard, and the groans had come when death followed the stroke of the sharp claws of the wildcat, for it was that savage and tawny beast that now glared at Frank – a wildcat disturbed at its meal.

Frank saw before him one of the tragedies of the forest. The fox had been preying on a wild turkey, as was evidenced by the half-consumed carcass, and the feathers scattered all about. Then along had come the wildcat, intent on a meal, had crept upon the feasting fox, had leaped down from a tree, and, with the quickness of light, had given the death stroke. Now Frank had come, the fourth factor in the woodland tragedy.

For a moment the lad stood regarding the savage creature, whose blazing eyes never left his face. Then, as cautiously as he could, Frank brought his gun to bear. Oh, how he wished he had his rifle now, for well he knew that more than a charge of small shot was needed to kill the big cat.

“But if I can give her both barrels at once, right in the eyes, maybe it will do for her,” he mused quickly.

Once more came the menacing growl, and the cat crouched for a spring. From her jaws dripped foam and blood. Frank raised his gun, and took quick aim. He pulled both triggers together, and the recoil nearly sent him over backwards. But he recovered his balance with an effort, and gazed through the smoke at the crouching creature.

To his horror, instead of seeing her stretched out dead, or writhing in the final struggle, the lad saw the big, tawny body bounding over the snow toward him. On she came, growling and snarling, and Frank saw that he had fired too high, and that with the small shot he had only succeeded in slightly wounding the wildcat on top of the head. The creature’s eyes had escaped, and, now with the yellow orbs blazing with deadly hate and anger, she leaped forward as though to serve the lad as she had served the fox.

“Can I get in another shot?” thought Frank. He “broke” his breach-loader, the empty shells flew out, and his hand sought his belt, to slip in two fresh cartridges.

To his horror he found that they would not fit! He had brought out his smaller gauge shotgun, and the cartridges in it were the only ones available. They had been fired. Those in his belt were too large. And the wildcat was bounding toward him!

There was but one thing to do, and Frank did it. Wheeling quickly he raced for the nearest tree which would sustain him. Fortunately there was one not far away. He managed to reach it well ahead of the wildcat, and began scrambling up. He dropped his gun, since it was useless, and only hindered him in his ascent. And he needed to make all the haste he could, for he was hardly well up out of reach of the cruel claws, before the enraged brute bounded against the foot of the tree with a snarl.

“She’ll come up after me, as sure as fate!” thought Frank desperately. “I’ve got to stop her in some way.”

The cat began climbing, an easy task with her long, sharp claws. Frank reached up, and saw, over his head a dead branch, that was big and sufficiently strong for his purpose. Working with feverish energy he broke it off, and, when the big cat’s head was close enough the young hunter brought the large end of the stick down on the skull with all his might.

With a howl of rage the big beast loosed its hold, and dropped back to the earth. Then it looked upward, glaring at Frank as if wondering what kind of a foe he was. But not daunted by the reception she met, the animal once more began climbing up. Once more Frank raised the club, and dealt her another severe blow.

“I hope I crack your skull!” he murmured.

But alas for his hopes! The blow was well delivered, and sent the cat back snarling and growling, but the force of it broke the branch off close to the lad’s hand, and the best part of his weapon fell to the ground.

“I’m done for, if she comes back at me!” he thought, but the cat had no such intentions, at present at least. The two blows on the head had stunned her.

Down at the foot of the tree crouched the brute, as if to announce that she would wait there until after dark, when she would have the advantage.

“I’m in for it now,” mused the lad. “Treed by a wildcat, and nothing with which to shoot her. I am in a pickle. The fellows won’t know where to look for me, and I can’t fire any shots to call them. I am up against it.”

He made himself as comfortable as possible on his small perch. At his first movement the cat started up from her crouching position, as if to be on the alert, but, seeing that her prey did not attempt to descend, she again stretched out, and began moving her paw over the place where the shot had torn her scalp.

For half an hour Frank sat there, turning over the situation in his mind. He hoped the cat might tire of waiting, or go back to the fox she had killed, but the animal showed no such intentions. Noon came, and there was no change. Frank was tired and cramped, and he began to feel the pangs of hunger. He moved about, seeking to be comfortable, and every time he shifted his position the wildcat would growl, as if resenting it.

“Maybe when I don’t come home to dinner the fellows will come looking for me,” thought the treed lad. “They may be able to trace my footsteps.”

But the afternoon began to wane, and no relief came. Frank was desperately weary, and was beginning to be alarmed. Not only was the prospect of a night in the tree most unpleasant, but he feared that after dark he could not watch to ward off the approach of the beast, whose ability to see after nightfall was better than was his. Then, too, he feared that his muscles might get numb, and that he would fall.

“Well, I’ll cut another club, and have it in readiness,” Frank thought, and, as there were no more suitable dead limbs that would serve, he whittled off with his knife, a tough green branch, that would answer as a club.

This movement on his part was resented by the cat, who raised up and tried her fore paws on the tree trunk, tearing off bits of bark. But she did not venture to climb. The memory of the blows on the head probably deterred her.

It began to get dusk. The cat seemed to know this, and began prowling about the foot of the tree, as if waiting until the veil of night had completely fallen before making another attack. Now and then she growled and once howled dismally.

“Maybe she’s got a mate,” thought Frank. “If two of them come at me – ” He didn’t like to dwell on that.

The big cat curled herself at the foot of the tree, and looked up at the boy, not far above her head. Then, as Frank carefully shifted his position, to get rid of a cramp in his left leg, his fingers came in contact with his belt filled with cartridges.

“Oh, if I had only brought the right size, or else had my other gun,” he mused regretfully. “There’d soon be a different story to tell. As it is – ”

He paused, struck by a sudden thought.

“By Jove! I’ll try it!” he cried. “Wonder why I didn’t think of it before.”

Taking out a cartridge, and bracing himself in the crotch of a limb so as to have both hands free, he dug out, with his knife, the wad that held the shot in place. He let the leaden pellets fall to the ground. At this the cat growled, but the lad paid no attention to her.

Next he removed the wad over the powder, and poured the black grains out into his hand. From his pocket he took a piece of paper, and, emptying the powder into this he laid it in his cap, which he managed to balance on a limb in front of him. Working rapidly in the fast-gathering darkness he emptied several cartridges, until he had a sufficient quantity of powder in the paper.

This he wadded up tightly, leaving one end twisted into a sort of fuse. Next he tied a string to his improvised bomb.

With trembling fingers he lighted the fuse, and then, when it was burning well, he began to lower the paper of powder toward the wildcat. The beast snarled as she saw the tiny flame approaching, but she did not withdraw. Rather she reared on her hind feet, and was about to strike at the little tongue of fire.

This was better than Frank hoped for. An instant later there was a big puff of flame, and a dull report. The powder in the paper had exploded almost in the face of the wildcat.

With a scream of rage and pain the creature dropped to all fours, and began clawing the dirt and snow. The fire had burned her severely, and she was wild with pain.

“Good!” exulted Frank. “I wish I had another!” He peered down at the snarling cat, and began to open more cartridges. But it was too dark to see to work, and he had to stop, for he spilled the powder.

Suddenly, above the yelps and growls of the brute, the lad in the tree heard a hail far off in the woods. He listened a moment, and then shouted:

“Here I am, fellows. Over here! I’m treed by a wildcat! Look out!”

“We’re coming,” shouted Bart’s voice. “Where are you?”

Frank rapidly twisted some paper together, lighted it, and waved the improvised torch above his head. He hardly dared descend yet. A shout told him that his light had been seen. Then, off through the woods, he saw the flicker of a lantern.

“Come up easy,” he cautioned. “The brute is still here, though I burned her some.”

He dropped the blazing paper to the ground. It flared up, and the cat, with a snarl, sprang away.

An instant later a shot rang out, and the beast turned a somersault, falling over backward – dead. Bart had seen the tawny body in the gleam from the burning paper, and had fired in the nick of time.

“You can come down now, Frank,” he cried, as he and the other chums rushed up to where the wildcat was still twitching in death.

CHAPTER XVIII
THE MYSTERIOUS MAN AGAIN

Frank’s story was soon told, and he was helped back toward camp by his comrades, for he was stiff from his long position in the tree.

“You want to be more careful of your gun, next time,” cautioned Bart, “and take the right one.”

“Yes, and you want to take some grub with you,” added Fenn. “You never can tell what will happen in the woods. Hungry, aren’t you?”

“Don’t mention it,” begged Frank, earnestly. “I could even eat pancakes flavored with soap powder.”

“Well, we’ll soon be in camp,” remarked Ned. “We’ve got plenty to eat there. We would have started searching for you long before this, but we supposed you had taken some grub, and would stay all day. But when it got dark, and you didn’t show up, we feared something had happened.”

“Something had,” observed Frank earnestly.

“We had tramped about for some time before we saw the puff of the explosion,” went on Bart. “You had a great head on you, Frank, to think of that.”

“I had to think of something,” was the response. “Wow! but that beast was a savage one!”

They reached camp in due time, and Frank was provided with a good meal, and plenty of hot coffee.

The warm weather continued for the next two days, and the air was almost like spring. The boys thoroughly enjoyed it, and went on long tramps through the woods. They were on the lookout for the mate of the wildcat, but saw no further traces of the ugly beasts.

There was a stream, not far from camp, and there the chums went one day, cut a hole through the ice, which was too thick to melt much, and fished for pickerel, with such good luck that they had a fish dinner that day. Then on several succeeding days they went hunting, getting some wild turkeys, and some wild ducks, which gave them a variety of food for their larder.

For a week they lived this way, and Bart was in hopes of bagging a deer, since the snow had disappeared, and it was lawful to shoot them. But, though he tramped far and near he did not see any. Once he descried one on top of a distant hill, but it was too far off for a successful shot, and when he started on the trail the animal dashed into a thick forest, and was soon lost. Bart returned to camp, somewhat dispirited.

He practiced at a target occasionally, as did his chums, but they could not begin to equal Bart in making bullseyes, though Ned ran his friend a close second.

The boys tramped about, did the work necessary in camp, hunted and fished and thoroughly enjoyed life during the mild weather of the unexpected thaw. Not that they did not enjoy it when it was cold and snapping, or even snowing, but they could do much more when the weather was milder.

“But we’ll pay for this,” declared Bart one day, when they had started on their second week of camp life. “We’ll have a storm soon, I’m thinking.”

“Let it come,” declared Fenn. “We’re ready for it, and the folks know we’re all right,” for they had walked to a cross-roads rural free delivery box that day, and deposited some letters to go to Darewell, as they knew the mail carrier would collect the missives.

“You won’t get your deer if the snow comes,” spoke Frank, “and, by the looks of the sky, we’ll have a flurry before night.”

“I know it, and that’s the reason I’m going out this afternoon, and have another try for it. Are you fellows coming?”

“I’m not,” announced Fenn. “Too tired. I’m going to stay here and chop wood. You fellows won’t do it, and we’ve got to have some for the fires.”

“I’ll help,” agreed Frank.

“Will you come, Ned?” went on Bart.

“Nope, I’m going to clean my gun. There’ll be some good shooting after the storm, and I want to be ready for it.”

“All right, then I’ll go alone,” decided Bart. “I want a deer,” and putting a supply of cartridges in his belt, and seeing that his gun magazine was filled, he started off.

For some time Bart tramped on without a sight of anything. Then, when he was going through a lonely part of the forest, if one part of that uninhabited place was more lonely than another, he was startled by a crashing sound in the underbrush. He started, and threw up his gun in anticipation, but he could not help laughing when a big rabbit, as startled as the lad was himself, stood up and looked at him.

“Skip away, bunny,” remarked Bart with a laugh, “I’m looking for bigger game than you,” and he kept on, while the hare scurried for cover.

Bart covered several miles, and, almost unconsciously, he found that he was traveling in the direction of the mud volcano, or boiling spring, having swung around in a half-circle since leaving camp.

“By Jinks!” exclaimed the youth, as he came to a halt in the midst of a little clearing, “I believe I’ve got an idea. That mud volcano water is partly salty. Now, why shouldn’t deer go there to get the salt? They love it and I may catch one there. I never thought of that before. I’ve read of ‘salt licks,’ where deer congregate, but I never figured out that our boiling spring might be one. I’ll keep on to there, and maybe I’ll get a shot.”

This gave a new direction to his chase, and he turned to make his way to the spring. He had not taken ten steps before he was again startled by a crashing in the underbrush. He thought it was another rabbit, and he was about to pass on when he looked up, and saw, through the leafless trees, a big buck gazing full at him. It was only for an instant, and before Bart could bring his rifle to bear the deer had bounded off.

“He’s headed for the boiling spring!” cried Bart in his excitement. “Now I’ll get him! I hope I get a shot before it begins to snow, and it’s likely to do it any minute now.”

Bart started off rapidly in the direction taken by the buck, with his gun in readiness for a quick shot, though he hardly hoped to get one until he had continued the chase for some time longer. The crashing in the bushes encouraged him, and told him that his quarry was ahead of him, and on he rushed.

Almost before he knew it he was within sight of the boiling spring, and he checked his pace, hoping to come upon the buck licking the salty deposit from the rocks in the little stream that flowed from the place where the mud volcano was. He thought the animal might even stop for a drink in a fresh spring, that was not far from the salty one.

As Bart peered through the bushes, with his rifle ready to throw up to his shoulder, he was conscious of some movement in the underbrush on the other side of the spring.

“He’s made a circle, and he’s here ahead of me – on the other side,” thought the lad. “I think I’ve got him!”

With eager eyes he watched. The bushes continued to move and vibrate. Something seemed to be coming down to the edge of the spring. Bart’s nerves were on edge. His hands were almost trembling, but he controlled himself by an effort, and he raised his gun slowly to take aim.

He saw something brown moving amid the brambles. It looked like the head of a deer. Bart slowly and cautiously raised his gun to his shoulder. He drew a bead on the brown object.

A moment later, and just as the lad was about to press the trigger, there stepped into view a man! It was a man and not a deer that Bart had been about to fire at, and a cold chill came over him. He had paused just in time.

But as he looked at the individual whom he had mistaken for a deer he felt a second tremor of excitement, for, as he had a glimpse of his face Bart was made aware that the man was none other than the one about whom there was such a mystery – the man who had sneaked into the schoolhouse the night the diamond bracelet was stolen – the midnight visitor at the camp, perhaps.

At the same instant that Bart was aware of this the man saw him. He hesitated – made a gesture as if of despair, and turned to dive into the bushes. A moment later there came a sudden snow squall, shutting off from Bart’s view the man he had so nearly shot.