CHAPTER XV

THE TRAP ON FLINT ISLAND

Sagamore Carrigan and his trailers were greeted in hearty fashion by the campers of Kittahannock Lodge, and the director, who each year was glad to extend his hospitality to the Lenape Long Trailers, offered an empty tent-house to the canoe party. He also invited them to supper at the lodge, but when Mr. Carrigan explained that they had provisions with them, assigned them a grassy spot above the river. Here, after they had washed up in the camp bath-house, the trailers were drawn about the fire by the aroma of Cowboy Platt’s cookery, and attacked with no little gusto the meal he handed out.

As soon as each man had washed his plate and fork, the trailers joined in the campfire merriment of the Kittahannock tribe within the lodge of hewn timber, on the walls of which were hung many examples of their woodcraft skill and collections of natural objects. The band was a lively and merry crowd, and the Lenape lads joined in the fun in friendly spirit. Games and stunts passed the time until the call to quarters sounded, and the eight hikers sought their cabin sleepily with many thoughts of their exciting first day on the trail.

Sagamore Carrigan yawned as he pulled his blankets over him and switched off his flash-lantern. “Not many stars out,” he remarked; “and I didn’t like the way the campfire smoke hung low in the chimney tonight. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we had a wet cruise tomorrow, fellows.”

Dirk woke in the night to hear a splatter of drops on the roof of the tent-house; and he fell asleep again thinking drowsily that the leader’s words had come true. The next morning dawned mistily over a wet world, and a swirling fog hung low over the river, shrouding the farther shore. The gloomy weather, though, penetrated no deeper than the ponchos of the Lenape boys, who after a warming breakfast, were afloat at an early hour. In a mysterious silence they pushed off into the overhung waters to continue their cruise up-stream, keeping close together so that no canoe should be separated from the others in the fog.

After an hour’s stiff paddling against the stubborn current, they saw the sun shine through once or twice, and the fog cleared away. But it was plain to be seen that the rain would continue steadily throughout the day. Through the downpour, Dirk caught sight of the river banks, now much closer together than they had been at Skinner’s Ferry. Shallow rapids became much more frequent, and Brick in the stern had to exercise unusual care to see that the _Sachem’s_ bottom was not ripped on some jagged rock.

Dirk, paddling doggedly with his arms thrust through the slits in his rubber poncho, felt the muscles of his shoulders stiffening with the unwonted labor; and he was happy when, in the middle of the morning, the little fleet came into sight of the white houses of the small river town of Port Jermyn. They tied up at the wharf where the main street of the town ended, and strolled about through the rain-swept village while the councilor, assisted by Steve Link, purchased the supplies that would be their sole provisions until their return from the wilds into which they were about to plunge.

The stop at Port Jermyn, short as it was, refreshed the paddlers, and Dirk found that he had gained his second wind. He still retained his place in the bow, however, for he did not feel that he owned the skill necessary to guide the _Sachem_ through the ever-increasing shallows of the river above the town. Feeling that he had left civilization behind for some time to come, he worked with a will, chewing a piece of butterscotch and waiting patiently for the signal that would mean a halt for the midday meal.

Shortly after noon, Mr. Carrigan beckoned to the following canoeists to turn off the main stream into the mouth of a wide creek flowing from the west. A few hundred yards from the outlet, they turned their craft toward the bank, and climbed out stiffly to stretch and gather dry wood for a smoky fire built beneath the shielding branches of a large oak. The canoes were turned on their sides, ponchos were taken off and stretched on sticks above the openings, and within these snug shelters the trailers lounged on their backs and lazily devoured heaping plates of beans and bread and slightly damp cookies.

“We-all are goin’ to fix some spaghetti for supper, in your honor, Wop!” Cowboy Platt twitted Megaro. “How will you like that?”

“O. K., I bet!” answered the Italian boy. “Say, maybe I catch some bullheads in Lake Moosehorn, and if I get more than fifty, I give you one to eat in your honor!”

Dirk laughed, not because the joke was good, but because he was well fed and warm and happy to be with such a game crowd of campers. Although the rain might have dampened the holiday moods of many boys, not one of these lads had uttered a word of complaint. Later that eventful day, Dirk was to look back wistfully at that scene; for neither he nor Brick Ryan was fated to partake of that contemplated meal of fish and spaghetti on the shore of Lake Moosehorn.

Refreshed and rested, the boys broke camp and prepared to leave the broad river behind. Dirk recalled that this stream they were now following must be the Sweetwater Creek shown on the map that Sagamore Carrigan carried in his breast pocket. If so, it would lead to the first of the Chain of Ponds, where the first portage would begin.

His surmise was correct. Close together, their bows sometimes brushing overhanging limbs of trees as they rounded a bend in the creek and a new reach of rain-spattered water met the paddlers’ eyes, the three canoes wended up-stream. On either side the walls of the forest closed in about them, and in some places it was as gloomy as though it had been nightfall instead of broad afternoon. Before two miles had slipped past their dripping paddles, the creek ended in a rough dam of logs that marked the outlet of the lowest of the ponds; and here was the first portage.

It was a short one, merely circling the dam and so to another launching on the dark mirror-like water of the pond. The boys landed and hauled their canoes ashore; then, without bothering to remove the contents, they each seized an end and carried the craft up a narrow trail, slippery with weeds and mud, to the edge of the pond. Once more afloat, they pulled through the dripping rain in the rippling wake of the _Red Fox_. Dirk, brushing the drops from his glistening face, wondered how the leader could find his way through the winding passage. Reeds and ugly, misshapen snags jutted upward from the murky, black bottom covered with dead leaves, and somehow brought a chill to the boy in the canoe, so close were they beneath his paddle. He wondered what would happen to any daring soul that might try to swim in the dark forbidding water.

Sagamore Carrigan knew his way, however, and unerringly came out at the end where the next portage began. This was a long one, for these two ponds were connected only by a swampy trickle that wound across hummocks of mud. For half a mile the boys threaded through the ankle-deep muck; and though the councilor sent Spaghetti Megaro back to bear a part of the overburdened _Sachem_, Dirk was ready to call a halt before a third of the way had been traversed. Gritting his teeth, he tried to forget the cutting, swaying load pressing his aching shoulders, meanwhile thanking his stars that his shoes were strong and waterproof.

By the end of the afternoon all the trailers, although they would not have admitted it under torture, were heartily sick of ponds and portages. Everlastingly climbing in and out of the vessels, slipping and sliding through an overgrown footpath with one end of a staunch canoe on one’s shoulder and dripping branches catching at garments and whipping into one’s face, all in a semi-darkness that depressed the heartiest spirit—it seemed to all of them that they could not last out another hour of this winding progress through the lowlands, when from the van came Sagamore Wise-Tongue’s cheering cry: “Lake Moosehorn ahead!”

The broad expanse of clear water uplifted the souls of all. Dirk, feeling glad that reeds and snags and winding dark ponds were left behind at last, threw himself on a grassy bank beside his canoe, breathing a sigh of relief. It was late in the afternoon and the rain had slackened to a filmy drizzle. Across from them loomed the hump of Flint Island, while over the tree-clad summit of Mount Kinnecut toward the west, the descending sun was bravely trying to show forth before sinking into night.

“We’ll be pitching camp inside an hour, men,” said the leader. “Our headquarters will be at the old spot at the far end of the lake, up by that tall dead spruce. From there we’ll have to use our feet instead of our paddles, to make the summit of Kinnecut.”

“Huh!” remarked Ugly Brown. “I’ve been usin’ my feet all day. I don’t mind hikin’, if I don’t have to carry a canoe with me. Why, after today, I’ll probably race up to the top of that little mountain tomorrow just to get an appetite for breakfast!”

“We’ll never even pitch camp before dark if you yearlings don’t stop argufyin’ and get started,” drawled Cowboy. “I want lots of wood cut for the fire, and somebody mentioned he was goin’ to hook some fish.”

“Well, we’ll move along, then, and do our resting when we get to camp,” said Mr. Carrigan. “It’s the old earth that will be your bed tonight, if I don’t cut some spruce tips for mattresses—so let’s be on our way!”

The _Red Fox_ and the _Whiffenpoof_ pushed out on the lake for the last lap of the day’s long journey.

“Well,” asked Brick Ryan, paddle in hand, “aren’t you goin’ to stir, my son?”

“I suppose so.” Dirk rose stiffly, and stretched. “Gollies, I hate to move, though. I could go to sleep right now.”

“Not here, my bucko.” The red-headed boy playfully prodded his canoe-mate in the ribs. “Stir your stumps. Look, the other guys are almost out of sight around Flint Island. Old Wise-Tongue is wavin’ for us to come on.”

The two foremost canoes vanished behind the bulk of the little island as the _Sachem_ pushed out.

“Steer over along the shore of the island, will you?” asked Dirk, after a moment. “I thought I saw something moving in the bushes. It looked like——See it? Why, it’s a man! And he’s waving to us! What do you suppose he wants?”

He quickened his stroke, and they pulled toward the rocky edge where the waterline of the lake marked the island. A low, hoarse cry rose from the twilight of the thickets.

“Ay! Help me, you come help! I caught!”

A man’s head was visible through a gap between the trees. The hair was long and black, the skin dark, and the features that could be made out were rugged and wild-looking. The voice was that of one in pain.

“Why, it’s an Indian! Hurry, Brick—he’s hurt. Maybe a tree fell on him!”

“Don’t you think you better take it slow till you know what’s up?”

“Nonsense! He needs us right away. Here’s a good place to land.” Dirk leaped ashore as he spoke, and ran to the spot where the Indian lay moaning in his broken pidgin-English.

As he approached, the man rose to his feet and leaped at the boy like a wildcat. As the outstretched arms caught Dirk about the shoulders and threw him backward, he realized, too late, what was happening.

“Get away, Brick!” he screamed. “It’s a trick!” He fell on the rocky ground, with the strange Indian upon him, holding his body so that he could not move an inch, nor see what Brick was doing.

“No, he won’t get away,” said a cruel, level voice. “And if you yelp once more, young Van Horn, you’ll get a bullet in your noisy mouth!”

Dirk felt the heavy body above him suddenly removed; the Indian was rising to his feet. The boy staggered upward, and was again thrown to the earth by a fierce thrust.

“Lie there and cool off!” ordered the unseen. “Yes, I’ve got a gun on you, and on your smart pal, too. Get out of that canoe quick, Red, if you know what’s good for you.”

“If you didn’t have that pistol on me,” muttered Brick Ryan savagely through clenched teeth, “I’d—I’d——”

“Enough of that!”

At last Dirk made out the form of the man who, with the aid of the rascally Indian, had trapped them. He felt only a dull throb of surprise as he recognized him. Brick’s warning at Lake Lenape had been justified, after all. The mysterious fisherman had tracked them down and caught them alone at last.

The man deliberately walked up to Brick, the gleaming nose of his pistol showing in his right hand. With his left he thrust swiftly upward. There was the sound of a blow against flesh, and Brick fell heavily upon the pebbled shore.

“Lie there, both of you. Now, Mink,” their captor addressed the Indian, “dump that stuff out of their canoe and put it in ours. We need it more than that dumb bunch of kids up the lake. Then tie up these two birds tight, and dump them in too. We’ve got to get away before the ones up ahead come back to see what’s wrong. Wish I could see their faces when they find out!”

“What—what are you going to do with us?” asked Dirk hoarsely.

The stranger laughed unpleasantly. “You’ll find out soon enough, kid. Ready, Mink? That’s good. Now, turn over that fancy red canoe and shove it way out in the channel, so that when the main gang come back, they’ll know for sure that these two wise little scouts are drowned to death and sunk to the bottom of the lake!”