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

CHAPTER XXII
CHRISTMAS IN CAMP

With new hope in their hearts the chums followed William. They did not mind the cold or hunger now, but hurried on, intent on reaching their tents, donning dry clothing, and starting a roaring fire. Then they would have something to eat.

On the way William told them of his new position. Following his experience in New York, after he had run away from the cruel sea captain, he had worked at odd jobs. Then, on his return to his home, near Darewell, the chums’ fathers had gotten a good position for him.

Some time previous to his opportune meeting with the lost lads, William explained, he had taken service with the lumber company, which owned most of the woods where the winter camp was. It was part of the youth’s duties to go from camp to camp with documents and messages.

“It’s fine, too,” he said, “when the weather is good. When it’s too bad, I stay in camp with the men, but I must have made a miscalculation this time, for I was caught in the storm. But it happened for the best, after all.”

“That’s what,” agreed Bart. “If it hadn’t been for you I don’t know what we’d have done. Can you stay in camp with us for a while?”

“Well, long enough to have dinner, if you’ve got enough to eat.”

“Oh, we’ve got plenty,” Ned assured him. “Bart’s a good shot, you know,” and the chums took turns in explaining how they had come to make a winter camp in the woods. They said nothing about the missing diamond bracelet, however, nor about the mysterious man.

Camp was reached none too soon for the comfort of our heroes. They found nothing disturbed, and from their stock of dry wood, under one tent, a roaring fire was made. The lads changed to dry clothes, had a hot meal, which William Perry shared with them, and then he said he must be on his way.

“Can’t you spend a week with us?” invited Frank, as the lumber lad was about to go.

“I’m afraid not. This is my busy season, you know.”

“I have it!” cried Fenn.

“Let’s hear it, Stumpy,” suggested Bart. “Out with it.”

“Well,” went on the fleshy lad, “next Tuesday is Christmas. You don’t have to work Christmas, do you, William?”

“No, I guess not.”

“Then I’ll tell you what to do. Spend Christmas here with us. We’re going to have a good time. Not much in the way of presents, for we didn’t bring any out in the woods, but we’ll have a Christmas tree, even if Bart does want to hang up his stockings,” and Fenn winked at his chums.

“It sounds good,” spoke William, wistfully. “I don’t believe I can get home for Christmas, or I would go see my folks.”

“And we’ll have roast wild turkey, rabbit stew, partridge potpie and bear steak, also some venison, if Bart has any luck,” went on Fenn.

“It sounds better and better.”

“And then there’s going to be a plum pudding,” added Fenn proudly.

“A plum pudding!” they all cried.

“Yes, I brought all the materials along. We’re going to have a regular plum pudding for Christmas!”

“Then I’m coming,” promised William. “I’ll get along now, and hurry on to the lumber camp. I’ll ask the boss for a few days off, so I can get here Saturday, and stay over until the next Wednesday, which will be the day after Christmas.”

They voted that plan a good one, and soon afterward William was tramping back through the woods, having promised to be on hand at the time specified.

The chums felt no ill effects from their night in the woods, for they followed Bart’s advice and took plenty of hot ginger tea, made from the materials Alice had supplied.

The next few days were busy ones for the campers. They made some improvements about the tents, arranged an extra bed for William, and brought in a good supply of wood, which was put under shelter. Bart went hunting several times, and did manage to get a buck, but it was smaller than the one he had chased. Several rabbits, a number of partridges, and some wild turkeys were shot, which, together with the supplies already on hand, promised an abundance for Christmas.

Fenn, meanwhile, true to his promise, was busy over the plum pudding, which, he said, would take several days to make.

“I should think it would,” remarked Ned, one afternoon, when Fenn was occupied with chopping bowl and knife in the cook tent. “It’s a wonder you didn’t start last Fourth of July, Stumpy.”

“That’s all right, I know how to make this pudding,” asserted Fenn, with a superior air.

“He’s mighty proud of it,” whispered Frank to Ned, as they moved away. “I wish we could play some joke on him.”

“Maybe we can.”

“I’ll think of one,” went on Frank, who had not yet gotten over his failure with the pancakes, for which he partly blamed Fenn.

William arrived that Saturday afternoon, and was soon made to feel at home in the camp. He was given a spare gun, and on the Monday before Christmas, all five went for a hunt, though they did not expect to go far from camp.

They bagged some small game, and Bart made a remarkable kill of a brace of partridges, getting one each with his left and right barrels, when it seemed that both birds would escape.

“That’s fine shooting, Bart,” remarked William.

“Oh, Bart’s a good shot,” answered Ned proudly, and not at all jealous. But before long Bart was destined to make a more remarkable shot than that.

As the boys had said there was to be practically nothing in the way of giving each other presents while in camp. Fenn, for the joke of the thing, rigged up a small Christmas tree, on which were hung pretended gifts.

“Well, let’s get to bed early to-night,” suggested Frank on Christmas eve.

“And get up a good appetite for my plum pudding,” suggested Fenn. “It’s a dandy! I’ve got it all made, and all I have to do is to warm it, and make the sauce. It’s in that box,” and he pointed proudly to one in the cook tent.

Christmas was ushered in with a snow storm, which made the woods a place of beauty. It was not very cold, and the boys, jumping from their beds, wished each other the joys of the season.

Most of the work of getting ready the dinner had been done the day previous, so there was little work Christmas morning. They went hunting, but did not see anything to shoot, and, in fact they did not need anything, as the larder was well stocked.

“Now,” ordered Fenn, on their return, “get a move on, fellows. Get the table set, and I’ll look after the other things,” for the turkey and some partridges had been partly cooked the day previous, and needed only a final turn in the oven. Several dainties had been brought from home, in anticipation of this feast, and they were now set out.

Such a dinner as it was! Eaten in the midst of a silent wilderness, with the keen sharp air of winter all about, the boys had appetites that would have been the envy and despair of a person troubled with dyspepsia.

“Well, have you had enough, fellows?” asked Fenn, as he stood over the platters of turkey and partridge.

“Too much,” groaned Bart.

“I hope you have room for the pudding,” spoke Fenn, anxiously. “Don’t say you can’t eat some of my plum pudding! Why I have a regular sauce, made from a recipe in a book, to eat on it.”

“Oh, I guess we can tackle a slice,” remarked William, and Fenn went proudly to the stove, where the pudding was being kept hot, and soon had it on the table, flanked by two bowls of savory sauce.

“Let me carve it,” begged Ned, with a look at Frank and Bart. “I’ll serve it, Fenn. You’ve done enough.”

“All right,” agreed the manufacturer of the pudding.

Ned carefully inserted a knife in the smoking heap on the plate. Fenn looked proudly on, as a generous piece was passed to William, as the guest of the day. Then Bart and Frank were served. The latter gave a sudden outcry.

“I say, Fenn!” he demanded. “Is this a joke, or what? I thought you were going to give us plum pudding!”

“So I am. What’s that on your plate?”

“I don’t know what it is,” declared Frank, indignantly, “only I know it isn’t plum pudding. It looks like dough, but it’s got the queerest collection of plums in it that I ever saw. Look, here’s a piece of rubber boot, part of a shoe, some pine cones, some sticks of wood, stones, part of a rope, some brass cartridges and some flannel bandages. Plum pudding! Take a look,” and Frank passed to the astonished Fenn, the plate of the dubious looking mess.

CHAPTER XXIII
FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW

For several seconds Fenn said nothing. He sat and gazed in blank dismay at the odd conglomeration on the plate that Frank had passed to him. At last he asked faintly:

“Is it – is it all this – this way?”

“Mine is,” declared Bart.

“And mine,” added Ned, while William simply passed up his plate for inspection.

“It’s a trick! A mean trick!” burst out Fenn indignantly. “And I know who did it! Frank Roscoe, you did this to get even with us for my mistake about putting soap powder in the cocoanut box, so that it got into the pancakes! But that wasn’t my fault.”

“You had no right to take the cocoanut out of a box, and put soap powder in without telling a fellow,” replied Frank. “If it hadn’t been for that my cakes would have been a success, and I suppose if you’d been more careful your plum pudding wouldn’t have so much trash in. As it is I don’t see how we can eat it,” and he poked gingerly at the mess on his plate.

“Well, you fellows may call this a joke, but I don’t!” burst out Fenn, now angry in earnest, and he started to leave the table.

“Hold on, old chap. Wait a minute,” advised Bart, soothingly. “I guess it’s gone far enough. William, just hand out the other pudding, will you?”

The visitor, with a grin, took a covered dish from behind the stove, where it had been set to keep warm. He lifted off the cover, and displayed to the astonished Fenn the original plum pudding, smelling most delicious, and smoking hot.

“Try some of this,” said Ned. “Maybe it will be better.”

“But I – what – where – what makes – is it – ” stammered Fenn, and then his chums burst into a laugh.

“Yes, it’s the original pudding,” explained Frank. “We just wanted to have a little fun with you, that’s all. We hid away the pudding you made, and, at the last minute, substituted one of our own that contained all the odds and ends we could pick up in camp, held together with a lot of dough. I guess we can throw it away now, and eat the real thing,” and he emptied his plate, and those of his companions, of the dubious mess, and dished out some of the real plum pudding.

“Ah! Um! This is something like!” murmured Ned, with his mouth full. “Great stuff, Stumpy!”

“Do you like it?” asked the now delighted Fenn.

“Sure!” came in an enthusiastic chorus, and the Christmas dinner was well rounded off by the pudding that Fenn had made with such care.

William spent the remainder of the day in camp with his friends. They went for a walk in the afternoon, did some shooting at targets, for Bart decreed that the game must have a holiday as well as the hunters, and at night, inside the snug tent, with the fire blazing brightly in the stove, and the cold wind blowing outside, they spent a jolly evening, singing songs and telling stories.

William bade his friends good-bye the next morning, and started off through the woods, with his pack upon his back. The chums felt a little lonesome after his departure, but it soon wore off, for there was much to do, to get in wood and water, straighten up the camp, and prepare for a storm, which, according to all the evidences, was soon to break.

It did that night. All the next day, the following night, and part of the next day the wind blew with unabated violence, and the snow was heaped in big drifts.

Fortunately the camp was in a sheltered position, and the drifts were not high immediately around it, but when the boys ventured out they found it hard traveling, for the snow was deep. All around, the woods were covered with a mantle of white, which had sifted down through the trees, while the firs, spruces, hemlocks and pines, which had heavy foliage that caught the white crystals, were mounds of white.

“It’s a good thing we had plenty to eat,” observed Bart, as he and his chums looked around the camp, “for we never could have gotten it during the storm.”

“That’s right,” agreed Fenn, “but, as it is, we’ll have to get something soon, unless we want to live on canned stuff. The fresh meat is nearly gone.” For, while practically prisoners in their tents during the storm, they had eaten considerable, and the cupboard was somewhat depleted.

“Oh, we’ll soon stock up again,” declared Bart. “It will be good hunting now, and, though we can’t shoot any deer, I may get a chance at another bear, and there will be plenty of rabbits and game birds. We’ll take a chance at it after breakfast.”

They started out, taking care to have their compasses with them, though they did not expect to go far. No bears were to be seen, but partridge, pheasants and wild turkeys were plentiful, and, in addition to getting a supply of these, they shot several rabbits.

In the tent that evening, before going to bed, the boys were cleaning their guns, in anticipation of a hunt the following day. Suddenly Fenn, who was nearest the flap, uttered a word of caution.

“Listen,” he said in a whisper. “I think I hear something.”

The others became silent at once, but they heard nothing.

“Guess it was the wind, Stumpy,” observed Bart, as he put an oiled rag down the barrel of his rifle.

“Maybe,” assented the stout lad, as he arose and peered out. He came back, remarking: “I didn’t see anything, but I thought I heard some one prowling around.”

It was not until the next morning that the boys recalled the incident of the night previous. Then Frank, who was walking about the cleared space in front of the tents, to get up an appetite, as he expressed it, uttered a cry of wonder.

“Look here!” he shouted.

“What?” cried Fenn, running up to him.

“A turtle!” went on Frank, picking up one of the reptiles that was slowly crawling along, made sluggish by the cold. “Here’s a mud turtle, and see, some one has been walking around here,” and he pointed to footprints in the snow.

“I was sure I heard some one last night,” declared Fenn, triumphantly.

“That mysterious man again, I’ll wager a cookie!” exclaimed Bart. “But what is the turtle doing here? Is it the same one you had, Stumpy?”

“No, it’s a different kind. Maybe that mysterious man dropped it, and was hunting around for it.”

“Hard to tell,” remarked Frank. “Anyhow, isn’t it rather queer, Stumpy, to see mud turtles out this time of year?”

“Sure it is. They don’t come out by themselves to play around in the snow. Either some one dug this one up, or some one had it and dropped it. Well, I guess the best thing we can say is that it’s part of the mystery. If we could only meet with that man who seems so afraid of meeting us, matters might be explained. As it is – ” Fenn could only finish by a shrug of his shoulders.

CHAPTER XXIV
A SHOT IN TIME

For some time the young hunters discussed the curious happening, but they could arrive at no solution of the mystery. Fenn took the turtle, and put it in a box back of the stove, hardly knowing why he did so, except that he had some notion of adding it to his collection, or of giving it to Professor Long.

“Well, there’s no use talking about it any more,” decided Bart. “Let’s get ready and go off on another hunting trip. We haven’t got much longer to stay here – not more than two weeks.”

This suited his companions, and soon they were cleaning their guns, sorting cartridges and fitting them in their belts, taking care not to make the mistake Frank did, when he was treed by the wildcat; and looking to their clothing and hunting boots.

That afternoon Fenn was seen to be busy in the cook tent. He looked out now and then, disclosing a face on which were many spots of flour.

“What you up to now, Stumpy?” asked Bart, who had finished his hunting preparations. “Making something good for grub?”

“Sure,” answered Fenn. “How does meat pie strike you?”

“All right, as long as it isn’t made of rubber boots and flannel bandages,” answered Frank.

“Not this time,” declared Stumpy. “There’ll be no monkey-shines with this pie. We’ll have it hot for breakfast before we start off hunting.”

He was busy all the rest of that afternoon, and, judging by the time he spent over it, the pie was going to be an elaborate affair.

Fenn was the first one up the next morning. He tumbled out of his blankets, made a hurried toilette, and, a few minutes later was heard to excitedly cry out:

“Here! That’ll do you fellows! A joke’s a joke, but this is too much! Where did you put it, you lobsters?”

“Where did we put what?” asked Bart, sticking his head out of the tent flap. “Why this unseemly noise, Stumpy, my son?”

“You know well enough. Where’s the meat pie?”

“You don’t mean to tell us you’ve gone and walked in your sleep, and eaten that meat pie we were to have for breakfast; have you?” cried Ned.

“No, I haven’t; but some of you fellows have hidden it,” declared Fenn. “Come on, now. This is enough of that joke. Tell me where it is, Bart, and I’ll warm it up for breakfast.”

“Why, I haven’t seen it, Stumpy.” Bart’s voice had the ring of innocence.

“Then you hid it, Frank.”

“Not on your life. I’ve got too good an appetite.”

“Then Ned must have put it somewhere. Tell us, Ned.”

“Search me!” cried Ned, earnestly. “I never touched it, Stumpy. Where did you put it when you went to bed?”

“In the cook tent, high up on a box. Some of you fellows must have taken it, for snow fell in the night, and there wasn’t a track going into the tent when I came out here. You fellows took it before you came in to bed. Own up, now!”

“I didn’t!” declared Bart, and the others asserted their innocence.

“Well, somebody has it!” insisted Stumpy, earnestly. “The meat pie is gone, and it was a dandy, too!”

His distress was evident. The other lads, likewise, felt the loss of their chief breakfast dish. Stumpy looked at them with an eye of suspicion, but they gazed frankly back at him.

“That mysterious man – ” began Frank.

“Wait a minute,” suggested Bart, who had finished dressing. “I’ll take a look.”

He went carefully out to the cook tent, and made several observations. Then he stooped down and carefully brushed off the light layer of snow that had fallen during the night. When the undercrust was exposed he uttered an exclamation.

“There’s the tracks of the thief who stole the meat pie, Stumpy,” he said, pointing to some marks in the snow.

“Who was it?” asked Ned.

“A fox,” answered Bart. “He sneaked into the tent after we had gone to bed, and took the pie off the top of the box where Fenn had set it. Then he carried it off, and the snow obligingly came and covered up his tracks. I guess if we look far enough we can find the basin that held the pie, where the fox dropped it.”

They made a circle about the camp, and soon Fenn uttered a cry of triumph.

“Here’s the pan!” he called. “It’s empty. No meat pie for breakfast this morning,” he added regretfully.

“I wish we could shoot that fox!” exclaimed Ned vindictively. “As it is you’ll have to give us pancakes, Fenn.”

There was no help for it. The pie dish had been licked clean, though how the fox had managed to carry it from the tent was something of a mystery. However, Fenn soon stirred up a mess of cakes from self-raising flour, and a hot breakfast was partaken of, while hunting plans for that day were discussed.

“I’m going to look for the thieving fox,” declared Fenn. “The idea of that dandy pie going to waste!”

“No foxes,” insisted Bart. “Nothing less than bear to-day, fellows. We don’t want to bother with small game,” and they started out.

But the bears seemed to have warning of the approach of the young Nimrods, for none was in evidence, though there were tracks in the snow, which Bart, enthusiastic sportsman that he was, followed hopefully for some distance, until they disappeared down in a deep gulch, where even he did not think it wise to follow.

“Let’s separate a bit,” suggested Frank, after another mile or two had been covered. “I think there are too many of us here. Ned and I will go off together, and you and Stumpy do the same, Bart.”

“All right,” agreed the stout lad, and Bart nodded assent.

“Come on over this way, Stumpy,” called Bart to his partner. “We’ll get all the bears, and leave the rabbits for those fellows.”

It was about an hour after this that Bart, who had gone on a little in advance of Fenn, whose wind was not of the best, heard a grunt of surprise from his stout comrade. Mingled with it was an expression of fear. The lads had just passed through a little clearing, and Fenn had stopped to look back. In an instant Bart saw what Fenn was gazing at.

It was a noble buck, with wide, branching antlers, and he stood on the edge of the little glade, glaring, as if in defiance, at those who had invaded his home. As Bart looked he saw Fenn raise his rifle.

“Don’t! Don’t shoot, Stumpy!” called Bart. “It’s against the law. There’s tracking snow!”

But it was too late. The stout lad’s rifle cracked, and by the start the buck gave Bart knew his chum had wounded the animal.

The next instant, after a savage shake of his big head, with the spreading horns, and a stamping of his sharp hoofs, the angry animal sprang forward, straight at Fenn. The lad was excited, and was trying to pump another cartridge into the chamber, but the mechanism of his gun had jammed.

“Jump, Fenn! Jump to one side!” shouted Bart, bringing his rifle around. There was no time to think of the game laws. His chum was in danger, and he would be justified in shooting.

But before he could fire the buck was upon poor Fenn. With one sweep of his sharp horns the beast swept the lad aside, knocking him down. Then, with lowered head, the animal tried to gore the prostrate lad.

Fenn saw his one chance for safety, and took it. He scrambled up, grabbed the horns, and held on like grim death. The buck reared, swung around and tried to strike Fenn with the knife-like hoofs. Then a curious thing happened. One of the hoofs went through Fenn’s loose belt, and this so tangled up animal and boy that they both went down in the snow, and rolled over.

“Fenn will be killed,” gasped Bart, and his heart almost stopped beating. But the buck struggled to his feet again, and succeeded in getting his leg free from the belt. Fenn had again grabbed hold of the horns of the infuriated animal, which, at that instant swung around, presenting a good shot to Bart. Should he fire? Could he hit the buck and not injure his chum? It was ticklish work, but the need was great. Bart decided in an instant, took quick aim and fired.