Don Strong, Patrol Leader Part 32

"Will trails cross?" cried the leader of the Foxes. "Must we watch out for Eagles and Wolves even before we get to the treasure?"

"Perhaps," the Scoutmaster answered.

Here was uncertainty--and uncertainty made the game all the more fascinating.

Tim's breath came fast. If he could get into a thing like that--

"Aw!" he told himself hopelessly, "Don would never take me." He stood around listening to every word, but saying little. His heart ached with an empty longing. Once he caught Don's eye, and flushed and turned away his head quickly. And Don, who had been as high-strung as any of the others, suddenly became sober and grave.

Next day, between innings, he sat on the bench and studied his catcher.

If they should go into the woods together--He sighed, and shook his head, and thought of Andy Ford. Andy would pull with him. Perhaps Andy would expect the place.

Over Sunday Wally and Ritter brought around written consents, and Bobbie announced gloomily that his father would not let him go. Monday morning Andy brought his paper.

"Seen Tim yet?" he asked. "No?" He fell to whistling softly.

Late that afternoon Tim appeared. "There's mine," he said defiantly.

There was an awkward silence. Presently Tim walked out through the gate and was gone.

Don sat beside his work and pondered. As a patrol leader, what should he do? What was expected of a patrol leader--that he strive heart and soul to bring victory to his patrol, or that he stake everything on making one boy the kind of scout he ought to be? Victory for the Wolves, he suspected, would soon be forgotten. That was how it was with baseball victories.

Suppose he took Tim into the woods and nothing came of it. But suppose something did come of it--something big.

"I wonder," Don mused, "I wonder what Andy thinks."

Tuesday pa.s.sed. Wednesday came drearily with rain and chill.

That night Don purposely delayed his arrival at the troop meeting. He did not want scouts looking at him and almost asking for the chance. Mr. Wall was calling the gathering to order as he entered. He slid into a seat and stole a look around. Andy was calmly making notes in a diary. Tim was plainly trying hard to keep his shoulders back and to appear unconcerned.

"I call on the Eagles," said Mr. Wall, "to announce their team."

The Eagle patrol leader chose his a.s.sistant.

"Foxes."

The leader of the Foxes picked the oldest boy in his patrol.

"Wolves."

Don stood up. He saw Tim bite his lips and stare at the ceiling. Perhaps he was making a mistake, but it seemed to him that one true scout was worth all the prize cups in the world.

"I pick Tim Lally," he said clearly.

And then a wonderful thing happened. Andy Ford threw down the diary and gave him a wide, approving, understanding grin.

CHAPTER IX

THE FIGHT IN THE WOODS

Slowly Tim's eyes came away from the ceiling. His heart stood still. Was this a joke? Eager hands fell on him from the rear--Wally's, Ritter's, Alex Davidson's. There could be no doubt after that.

His heart began to thump. Chairs were pushed back, and patrols clamored around their teams. He found himself next to Don with one of Andy's arms around his shoulders.

"You fellows bring that treasure out," Andy threatened, "or you'll wish you had stayed there. Hear me?"

Tim's eyes were unusually bright, but his heart had begun to drop to normal. A sudden decision had come not to let this prospect run away with him. He knew the bitter taste of disappointment and he wanted no more of it. He had started for Lonesome Woods in high spirits the last time, and had come home in the dumps. There'd be an understanding before this start. There'd be an understanding tonight.

He stuck close to Don, waiting for the moment when they could be alone.

It came.

"Look here," he said sharply; "why did you pick me?"

Don was startled. "Why--why--" How could he tell the real reason without setting a new spark to the gunpowder in Tim's nature. "I thought you were the fellow to go," he ended.

It sounded lame even to Don. It sounded like an evasion to Tim. Why couldn't he be told the truth? What was there that had to be hidden?

He went back to the patrol. The thrill had begun to weaken. He tried desperately to call it back. He wasn't going to be cheated out of a good time. By and by, through dint of striving, he roused a new spirit of antic.i.p.ation.

Don walked with him as the scouts crowded toward the door. "Better come around tomorrow, Tim, and talk over what we'll take," he said, and wondered if Tim would offer any objection.

"Right-o!" said Tim almost cheerily. Outside Don mopped his face. When he expected Tim to be all right, Tim was nasty; when he expected him to be surly, he was all right.

"Well," he said in relief, "it didn't last long that time, anyway."

But Tim wasn't over it. A new thought had caused him to change tactics.

What was the use of his spoiling his own fun? He'd get his good time regardless of what Don had up his sleeve. He'd throw himself into this treasure hunt heart and soul. He'd work as hard as any scout could work.

But once they were in Lonesome Woods he'd do what he thought was best. If Don tried to interfere with him there'd be trouble.

Next day he found the whole patrol, with the exception of Alex, at Don's yard. Ritter called him a lucky stiff, and Wally looked at him with envy.

They made him feel, for the first time, that he was one of the "big"

scouts.

There wasn't going to be much cooking stuff taken along. A little coffee and a little bacon--nothing else. Perhaps they would not have time to cook even that much. If they reached the treasure place and found the treasure gone, they would have to try to overtake the finders before they got out. That would mean hustle.

They decided on pilot biscuit and the always dependable beans. A blanket each and a poncho, a watch and a compa.s.s. Tim was for leaving the poncho out and taking a chance on rain, but Don said no.

"Ax," said Tim. "We'll need that, anyway. I'll go home and put an edge on mine."

He ground it until it was almost razor sharp. That night he dreamed that he was a scout of the old days and that Indians in their war-paint were stalking him through the forest.

Next morning he prepared his haversack, and rolled his blanket and strapped it. Several times he c.o.c.ked his eyes at the sky. Finally he did the unheard-of thing of going down to the station and spending three cents for a city paper. On the first page was news that was worth many times three cents. It read: "Weather: Fair today and tomorrow; southwesterly winds."

There was nothing to do now but wait for dinner. Twenty minutes past noon he had his arms through the straps of the haversack and was on his way to headquarters.

The troop had already a.s.sembled. The scouts were feverish. It still lacked fifteen minutes of one o'clock when Mr. Wall appeared.