Under Boy Scout Colors Part 11

"Elk horns!" exclaimed Dale Tompkins. "They'd be dandy! Say!" he went on eagerly, stirred by sudden inspiration, "what's the matter with that for a name, fellows--Elkhorn Cabin?"

"Swell!" agreed two or three scouts at once. "That's better than any we've had. Sounds like the real thing, doesn't it?"

A vote was promptly taken, and though Ranny Phelps and a few others were against it, the majority approved. The horns, a fine pair of antlers, were fetched and hung in place, and the cabin formally christened.

"And next week," said Frank Sanson, as they were packing up for their tramp home through the crisp twilight, "we can come out to camp, can't we, Mr. Curtis?"

The scoutmaster nodded. "Provided the weather is decent and you all get your parents' consent, I don't see any reason why we shouldn't spent Friday night here. It may be a bit crowded, but we'll manage some way."

As a matter of fact they did not have to. Indeed, there came very near being no overnight hike at all. During the building of the cabin the weather had been singularly favorable. It was snapping cold much of the time but save for a flurry or two of snow, the days had been uniformly clear. Now, however, as if to make up for her smiles, Nature proceeded to frown. Wednesday was overcast, and all day Thursday a cold rain came down to damp the spirits of the would-be campers. It turned to snow during the night, and next morning found the country-side covered with a mantle of white. The temperature was well below freezing and dropping steadily, and Mr. Curtis, who had practically given up the idea of occupying the cabin that night, was surprised toward the middle of the afternoon by the appearance at his door of a group of white-flecked figures, very rosy of cheek and bright of eye, carrying blanket-rolls and hung about with cooking utensils and sundry parcels.

"We can go, can't we, sir?" inquired Ted MacIlvaine, eagerly, as he dusted the snow off his coat. "You're not going to give it up, are you?"

The scoutmaster's eyebrows lifted. "Have you all got permission?" he asked doubtfully.

"Yes, sir. We can go if you go," came in a prompt chorus.

For a moment Mr. Curtis hesitated. After all, there couldn't be any risk about the trip even if the storm continued all night. The cabin was weather-proof, and enough fire-wood had been cut to last them a week. With plenty of food and good blankets they would be as snug as possible, and he knew from experience the charm of the woods in a snow-storm. Looking the bunch over appraisingly, he saw that there were only seven--MacIlvaine, Parker, Dale Tompkins, Frank Sanson, Bob Gibson, Turk Gardner and Pete Oliver, all self-reliant boys of the type who were willing to stand a little roughing it without complaint.

"Are you the only ones who want to go?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," returned MacIlvaine. "Sherman's away, and Wes has a cold. The others all thought--"

"Cold feet!" stated Oliver, derisively, running his fingers through a thatch of bright, red hair. "They're afraid they might get a chill."

"Not much danger of that when you're around, Pete," laughed the scoutmaster. "Well, you boys had better come in and wait. It'll take me ten or fifteen minutes to get ready."

He appeared in rather less than that time, sweatered, mackinawed, with high, laced boots, woolen cap, and heavy gloves. Over one shoulder swung his blanket-roll, and strapped to his back was a good-sized haversack of provisions. He knew from experience that some one was sure to have forgotten something, so he always went prepared to supply deficiencies.

It was a joyous, hilarious bunch that made their way through the town and out along the Beldon Turnpike. Most of them had their staves, and two had brought snow-shoes along. Their attempts to use these unfamiliar articles occasioned much amus.e.m.e.nt among the others.

It took the better part of two hours to reach the cabin. The snow had drifted considerably, and the road was scarcely broken through. After they reached the woods the going was especially hard, and a general shout of rejoicing went up as the first sight of the sloping, snow-covered roof loomed up through the twilight. When the door was unlocked they entered with a rush, packs and blanket-rolls were dropped, and a fire started at once. When this was blazing merrily, Mr. Curtis divided the boys into two squads, one of which undertook preparations for supper and straightened up the cabin generally, while the others sc.r.a.ped a path through the snow down to the sh.o.r.e of the lake.

There were minor mishaps, of course, in the culinary department. A few chops were burned, and the baked potatoes resembled lumps of charcoal rather than things edible. But there was plenty for all, and nothing had ever tasted so good as the supper eaten there on the floor before the dancing flames. Afterward, when things were cleared away and the boys sprawled out on their blankets before the fireplace, the two lanterns were extinguished and only the red glow of the fire illumined the half-circle of eager young faces. The wailing of the wind in the pines and the soft, whispering beat of snow against the windows served only to intensify the cozy warmth and cheer of the cabin.

Instinctively the boys drew closer together and, snuggling in their blankets, discussed for a s.p.a.ce the unbelievable stupidity of any sane person preferring a humdrum evening at home to this. Then some one besought Mr. Curtis to tell a story.

"What kind of a story?" asked the scoutmaster, smiling.

"Oh, a ghost story, of course!" urged several voices at once.

Mr. Curtis laughed, stretched out his legs comfortably, thought for a minute or two, and then in a slow, sepulchral voice began a narrative which he called "The Headless Horseman of the Harlem." It was a tale full of creeps and thrills, abounding in dank vaults, weird apparitions, wild storms, midnight encounters, and various other appropriate settings and incidents. The boys drew closer still, luxuriating in the "spookiness" of it all, and then, just as some of the more impressionable were beginning to cast nervous glances behind them, he ended with a ridiculous climax that brought forth a shout of laughter and turned the whole thing into a farce.

A "round-robin" followed, the scoutmaster starting a yarn and leaving it at an exciting and dramatic moment for the boy on his right to continue.

The absurdity of these continuations kept the crowd in a constant gale of merriment, and when the round was made they clamored for another.

But it was growing late, so Mr. Curtis subst.i.tuted a brief anecdote of scout bravery which had a humorous twist. It was the story, so often repeated in scout annals, of a little fellow plunging unhesitatingly to the rescue of a bigger boy who had stumbled beyond his depth in a swimming-hole. The stronger lad seized his rescuer about the neck and forced his head below the water. The youngster was unable to free himself, but with head down and breath almost gone, he hit bottom, and then, calmly walking along it, he tugged along his struggling friend until the bank was reached.

"He simply kept his head, you see, and used his brain, which is one of the best things scouting teaches us," concluded Mr. Curtis. He stood up, stretching. "Blankets out, fellows," he went on, "and everybody in bed."

Each bunk had been planned to accommodate two occupants, so there was no crowding or necessity for makeshifts. The fire was piled up with fresh logs, and though there was a good deal of preliminary laughter and chattering, the boys were too tired to stay awake long, even under the novel conditions. Bob Gibson was one of the last to close his eyes. He had the outside of one of the lower bunks with a full view of the fire, and though few would have suspected his gruff, matter-of-fact manner to overlay even a touch of poetry or imagination, he lay there watching it for a long time, fascinated by the leaping, dancing, crimson-yellow flames, until sleep at length overtook him.

How long he lay oblivious to sights and sounds he had no idea. But it must have been hours later when he found himself sitting bolt upright, every nerve tingling and in his ears the echo of that strange, horrible cry that had shocked him into complete wakefulness.

"What's that?" came in a tense, frightened gasp from one of the boys across the room.

Bob did not answer. He sat there shaking nervously and straining his ears for a repet.i.tion of the ghastly sound. The fire had died down to a bed of dull red embers, and there was a noticeable chill over everything. He caught his breath as a dark shadow swiftly pa.s.sed him and then realized, with a feeling of keen relief, that it was Mr. Curtis. A moment later the scoutmaster had thrown an armful of light wood on the embers and the fire blazed up, illumining the pale faces of the boys, strained, startled, but all tense with expectation.

Suddenly the cry came again, a piercing, strangled, high-pitched scream that turned the blood cold and brought out beads of perspiration on more than one forehead. It seemed to come from just outside the cabin door.

CHAPTER XIII

WHAT THEY FOUND

By this time MacIlvaine and Frank Sanson had tumbled out of their bunks, and Bob followed their example.

"Wha--what is it, sir?" he asked, striving to keep his voice steady.

"I don't know," returned Mr. Curtis, briefly. He had slid into his riding-breeches and was hurriedly dragging on the heavy boots. "That's what we'll have to find out."

Bob hastily caught up his trousers. "It--it sounded like somebody being--choked," he said shakily.

Every one was out on the floor now, grabbing hastily for his clothes.

Oliver caused a momentary spasm of mirth by trying to crowd both feet into one trouser-leg, but for the most part the boys huddled on their things in silence, shivering a bit from cold and nervousness. In about two minutes they were ready, and, catching up their staves, they hurried out into the open, the scoutmaster leading the way.

It had stopped snowing, and overhead a few stars gleamed coldly out of the blue-black sky. The wind had died down and the snow-clad woods stretched away before them, dim, white, oppressively silent, the tree-trunks black, the laden hemlocks distorted into queer shapes and shadows.

The bright gleam from the scoutmaster's flash-light, sweeping the snow about the cabin door, showed it unbroken by a single footprint of man or animal. They pushed on through the group of hemlocks, showering themselves with icy particles, but still they neither saw nor heard anything unusual. Then, just as some of the sounder sleepers were beginning to wonder whether they might not have dreamed it all, there rang out suddenly from among the tall laurel-bushes to their left a piercing, gurgling scream.

The horrible sound, so much clearer and more blood-curdling in the open, seemed to paralyze them all. For a fraction of a second they stood motionless; then Mr. Curtis plunged forward through the snow, and the rest followed in a straggling group, eyes starting and hands spasmodically clenching their staves.

"It's somebody being--murdered!" gasped Bob Gibson, huskily. "I knew the minute I heard it that something awful--"

He broke off with a queer, inarticulate murmur. Mr. Curtis had stopped so suddenly that the boy just behind narrowly escaped running into him.

Throwing back his head, he sent peal after peal of laughter ringing through the silent woods. The scouts stared, dazed, as if they thought he had taken leave of his senses.

"What is it, sir?" begged two or three voices at once. "What--"

The scoutmaster choked and gurgled speechlessly, waving one arm helplessly toward the woods ahead. Several of the keenest-eyed thought they saw a vague, dark shadow moving silently across the snow; but it meant nothing to them, and they turned back to their leader, as bewildered as before.

"What a sell!" gasped the latter, striving to regain his self-control; "what an awful sell!" He succeeded in choking down his laughter, but there were tears of mirth in his eyes as they swept the staring circle.

"It's nothing but an owl, fellows," he chuckled.

"An owl!" exclaimed Ted MacIlvaine, incredulously. "An owl--making a noise like that!"

The scoutmaster nodded and wiped his eyes. "An owl," he repeated. "There!