Chapter 11

LESSONS IN TRACKING

"Queer!" ejaculated Rube, standing up and contemplating the gruesome remnants of the skeleton. "Mortal queer it is. Can't make it out. How'd he come ter be fixed up thataway in the middle of the tree, dyin' thar all lonesome, like a poor critter caught in a trap? How'd it happen, Kiddie?"

He appeared to expect Kiddie to tell him off-hand exactly how the thing had occurred.

"Dunno," returned Kiddie, with a grave headshake. "It's a mystery. I'm trying t' think it out. What way was he fixed?"

"Can't just say," Rube answered slowly. "Inside the tree's like a chimney. You c'n see daylight if yer looks up, as I did. I couldn't see that it was a man--a skeleton. Thar was a mass of honeycomb an' wax below what was left of his feet. I reached up an' seized hold o' somethin'. Guess it was one of the poor chap's legs. I was pullin' at it, an' pullin', when my foot slipped, an' the whole concern came down on top o' me, crumblin' into dust. How d'you reckon he got thar? Kin y'u explain?"

"Seems to me," said Kiddie, after a long pause, "that there are three possible explanations. First, that he was killed by some enemy and shoved in there out of sight: which ain't at all likely, since it would have been much easier to fling the body into the lake, and quite as safe from discovery to leave it lying here in the forest glade. Second, that he was escaping from some other Redskins, or even from some dangerous wild animal, and went into the hollow tree for safety."

"Climbin' too high, an' gettin' fixed so as he couldn't wriggle out again either up or down?" suggested Rube.

"Exactly," nodded Kiddie. "But, if that was the way of it, why didn't his pursuers get on his tracks and find him? I'm not of opinion that he had any pursuers, either animal or Indian. I believe he was just a lone scout--a trapper, maybe, but a lonesome wanderer, anyway--and that he was taking shelter from a storm. Perhaps he knew of that hollow tree: perhaps he came upon it by chance. It was a convenient shelter in either case. That's my third point."

"An' a reasonable one," commented Rube. "But it don't account fer how he came t' be fixed in so high above the ground. If he was only shelterin', why didn't he walk out again when the storm was through?"

"I'm supposin' it was a snowstorm, or else a fierce blizzard," Kiddie went on. "As the snow got deeper an' deeper, it would block up the hole that he entered by, and he'd work his way higher an' higher to get at the purer air. Maybe he'd wait till the storm was over, and then the snow might have been so deep that he'd think it easier to climb higher still and escape that way rather than attempt to go back feet foremost and burrow a passage through the drift. And then he got so wedged in that there was no movin' and no means of escape either way, and he just had to stay there and die a lingerin' death."

"Yes," said Rube. "I guess that's th' explanation of the whole thing. Wonder where he come from. Pity thar's none of his clothes left: no gun, or knife, or watch, or pocket-book ter tell us who he was, an' all that."

"He wouldn't be carryin' a gun or a watch," observed Kiddie, "and Injuns ain't in the habit of keepin' pocket diaries."

"Injuns?" repeated Rube questioningly. "D'you reckon this yer chap was a Injun, then?"

"Certainly," Kiddie answered, "an Injun, young an' tall."

"H'm!" murmured Rube, not satisfied. "You just guessin' all that, Kiddie, or have you figured it out?"

"I've figured it out," returned Kiddie. "Look at his thigh bone--the only bone that's left intact. It's longer'n mine, an' I ain't a pigmy. Must have been taller'n I am. Look at the teeth: they're not an old man's teeth. There ain't a speck of decay on 'em, they're not worn down any, an' they're well separate one from another, not crushed together like an old man's. Must sure have been young."

"Yes," said Rube, "but all that don't prove he was Injun. White men c'n be tall; white men c'n have good teeth. How d'you make out he was Injun?"

"By the shape of his skull for one thing," explained Kiddie--"the square jaw, the high cheek bones, the slopin' forehead. But more'n all I argue he was Injun because I calculate he was fixed tight in the tree, and was well on the way to bein' a naked skeleton long before any white man opened his eyes on the Rocky Mountains--yes, even perhaps before the Pilgrim Fathers landed in New England. That's why he didn't carry a gun. He didn't know there was such a thing as a gun, or a watch either."

"Git!" exclaimed Rube incredulously. "D'you expect me ter swaller a tall yarn like that? Why, the tree couldn't have bin more'n a seedlin' all them years ago!"

"Well," returned Kiddie. "I'm not prepared to declare that it was hollow, the same's it is now, in the time of the Pilgrim Fathers. But it was already an old tree. I guess it was an old tree even before Christopher Columbus discovered America. What's the girth of it, anyhow? Measure the girth of it, just above the base."

Rube made the tour of the forest veteran, estimating its circumference with outstretched arms.

"I reckon it's just over twenty-four feet," he announced, "allowing for the part that's missin' from th' open gap."

"Say eight feet in diameter," nodded Kiddie. "And it's one of the slowest growin' of all forest trees. I calculate that every inch of diameter represents at the very least ten years of growth. Eight feet equal ninety-six inches; an' that means nine hundred and sixty years. So you see the tree was quite a hundred years old at the time when William the Conqueror was King of England."

"Methuselah!" exclaimed Rube. "Then I ain't denyin' that it may have bin gettin' some ancient an' holler-hearted time of the Pilgrims. But even yet you ain't solved th' problem of just how long this yer trapper's bin dead."

"There's no way of tellin'," said Kiddie, "except by the condition of the bones. They crumble to dust at a touch, and as the protection of the tree was liable to preserve them rather than to hasten their decay, you wouldn't be a whole lot out if you argued, as I did at first, that he was dead before ever a white man set eyes on the Rocky Mountains."

"Guess thar's no occasion fer Sheriff Blagg ter hold an inquest, then," observed Rube, glancing round at the tin of honey. "Say, Kiddie, you gonner eat any o' that stuff--after where it come from?"

"Why not?" questioned Kiddie. "It's good, wholesome honey. We'll store it away in the teepee, where the bees an' flies can't get foolin' around it. That rabbit stew goin' along all right, d'ye think? See if it's seasoned enough. Onions are beginnin' ter flavour the woodland air, eh? Good thing we ain't goin' t' a fashionable West-end party this evenin'. I'd a heap rather smell of onions right here. Prefer bein' here in any case. You've never bin to a party, Rube; never seen me togged out in evenin' dress, wearin' a swallow-tailed coat an' a white bow an' patent leather pumps. But thar's a heap o' things you've never seen. You've never seen a locomotive engine, or a steamship, or a Gothic cathedral, or a Japanese cherry orchard in blossom; don't know what it means ter walk along an English lane, past cottages covered with roses. Thar's London an' Paris, thar's th' Atlantic Ocean an' the lone coral islands of the Pacific. Thar's pictures an' books an' theatres. Oh, thar's a whole world of interestin' things you've never seen!"

"Makes me feel ter'ble ignorant," Rube regretted ruefully. "I dunno nothin' o' what's beyond th' mountains that I see ev'ry mornin' from Birkenshaw's Camp. Don't know nothin'; can't do nothin'. I'm just as useless as I'm ignorant."

Kiddie put his arm affectionately round the boy's shoulders as they moved together towards the campfire.

"Not useless, Rube; not ignorant," he said, speaking now in his character of Lord St. Olave. "You know things that thousands of well-educated English and American boys do not know; you can do things which millions of clever boys are incapable of doing. I won't make you blush by telling you just what I think of you. I'll only say you're learning more and more every day, and that every day you're proving yourself to be a better and a better scout."

He left Rube occupied with the cooking and went off to bring together the animals that had been trapped.

"What d'yer say ter tryin' your hand at gettin' the pelts off en these critters?" he asked, when he returned and had placed the animals side by side. "It's best done while they're fresh."

"You're thinkin' of preservin' 'em, then?" questioned Rube.

"I'm thinkin' of mounting 'em," Kiddie answered, "but mainly for practice. I took lessons when I was in London, from the people who preserve animals for the British Museum, an' picked up a heap of wrinkles. I want ter show you how it's done."

"How d'you reckon you're goin' ter get the skin off that rattlesnake?" Rube was anxious to know.

"Well," said Kiddie, "'tain't just as easy an' simple as drawin' off your glove; but it's on the same principle."

They were engaged during the afternoon with the work of securing the skins and cleaning them. The carcases were cut up for use as bait for the traps, the traps being plentifully baited and very carefully set for the larger animals. Kiddie was again most particular in laying the gin for the same animal that had visited it and perplexed him on the previous night.

"Guess that'll sure get him, whatever he is," said Rube.

He looked round for a response in agreement with his comment, but Kiddie was not there.

"Which way've you gone, Kiddie?" he called.

But there was no answer.

Rube stood listening, but heard no sound. He called louder; there was still no answer.

Now, Rube knew Kiddie well enough to be assured that there was some special meaning in this sudden disappearance. It was not a mere playful fancy. Kiddie had gone away intentionally, making no sound, leaving no sign. Clearly he wanted to test Rube's skill in tracking.

Rube remained standing where he was, but his eyes were alertly searching around amongst the shrubs and trees and along the ground for some mark or sign that might tell him in which direction Kiddie had gone. He knew that success in following him depended entirely upon his true start, and that a false beginning would only land him in difficulties, if not in his being actually lost.

Rube knew also that Kiddie would not play him any childish pranks, but would give him fair play all through, even helping him by leaving some "scent" in his trail--not handfuls of torn-up paper, as in an English schoolboys' game of fox and hounds, nor by so obvious a method as that of blazing the trees. It would be a test in which every faculty of the searcher's scoutcraft would be brought into active exercise.

Sniffing the warm air, listening keenly, looking with sharp scrutiny over every foot of the ground from where Kiddie had stood behind him, Rube at length fixed his gaze upon a tuft of grass where some of the blades had been bent over as by the tread of a moccasined foot. He went closer to it and saw that some of the frail blades were fractured. Now he had his starting point. He did not rush forward, but carefully estimated the probable direction, listening the while.

Presently there came to him the harsh cry of a jay, which told him of Kiddie's whereabouts, or at least of the line of Kiddie's course through the forest solitudes.

And now he went on in pursuit, picking up the faintly-indicated tracks one by one; often going far astray on a false scent and needing to return on his own back trail to the point where he had gone off the line that had been so cunningly laid for his guidance or his confusion; but always coming upon some new clue that lured him on and on.

Many times he stood still in serious perplexity. Everything around him was wild and unfamiliar, with no slightest trace or sign, either new or old, of human presence.

He might easily have allowed himself to be alarmed at the utter loneliness, and afraid lest he should lose himself. But he knew all the time that if he should be lost, Kiddie would come out in search of him and quickly find him.

In his moments of deepest despair, however, he always discovered some obvious sign which he had previously overlooked, and at last he perceived that he had been led round in an exact triangle, for through the green meshes of the trees he caught a glimpse of the lake and a thin blue column of fire-smoke, and then in the surrounding silence he heard Kiddie's well-known voice singing a snatch of a Scots ballad--

"Late, late in the gloaming, Kilmeny cam' hame."

"Hullo, Rube; got back inter camp, eh? Been wanderin' about the forest all on your own, have you? I've waited for you; got tea ready, you see--all but boilin' th' eggs. Guessed you'd relish a couple of eggs."

Kiddie did not turn to look at Rube as he spoke. He was reclining between the teepee and the fire with his open note-book on his knee and a blacklead pencil in his fingers. Beside him was a newly-cut birch stick with part of the bark whittled off.

"Yes," Rube responded, halting near him and standing looking him up and down in curious examination. "Yes, I allow I'm some hungry. Say, your moccasins are wet. Spilt some of the tea-water on 'em? Pity ter spoil a nice pair of moccasins by wettin' 'em. You ain't written much with that pencil. The point's still sharp since you sharpened it after dinner."

Kiddie glanced at the pencil point and smiled.

"Might have sharpened it again, while I've been waitin'," he said.

"But you didn't," returned Rube. "There ain't no chips lyin' around--unless you've put 'em in your pocket, same's you did before."

Kiddie smiled again. He had moved to the fire to put on the eggs.

"You're becomin' quite observant, Rube," he said. "See anythin' special on your solitary wanderin's?"

"Guess I found this here scrap of paper," Rube answered. "Looks as if it had been tore outer that note-book you was pretendin' to be writin' in--same size, same colour, an' thar's writin' on it, too. Looks like your own fist, don't it?"

Kiddie reached for the square of paper that was handed to him and examined it as if he had never seen it before.

"Queer!" he ruminated, "it's sure my handwritin'--'_Bring this back to camp_.' Where'd you pick it up?"

"Didn't pick it up at all," answered Rube. "Found it on a hickory bush, far, far in, as it might be the very heart o' the forest."

"Ah! Some mischievous jay bird plant it there, d'ye think?"

"Jay bird couldn't have written that message on it," said Rube. "Jay bird couldn't have fastened it with a twig drove through the paper ter keep it in place. Guess you heard a jay squawkin' a lot, didn't you, Kiddie?"

"Sure," Kiddie nodded. "Couldn't get quit of the fowl until you came along on my track an' it started ter foller you instead of me. How'd you find your way back to camp?"

"Came th' same way as you did, I reckon," answered Rube. "Went th' same way's you meant me ter go, all the time--trackin' you by the clues you left."

Kiddie was silent until the tea was quite ready and the two of them were seated. Then he said--

"You've done a heap better'n I expected you to do, Rube. I didn't leave many clues, there was none of them conspicuous, an' they were very far apart--fifty yards apart at the least. Tell me exactly what you found."

"Well," said Rube, beginning on his tea, "first of all thar was a mark of your foot where you went in so silent. Then' th' jay started squawkin', an' I got my direction. I follered it, an' hadn't gone far when I sees a balsam branch swayin' where thar was no wind ter stir it. I went straight forward until I began ter think I was goin' wrong, when I smelt smoke. I searched an' came upon a bit of charred cloth. You'd squandered a valuable lucifer match ter set fire t' a piece of greasy rag that you'd cleaned the lamp with. After that, I went astray; couldn't find a trace o' you nohow, an' had ter get back t' th' burnt rag ter make a fresh start."

"Yes," interposed Kiddie, "just as I intended. The trees were all alike thereabout and easily mistaken one for another. Well?"

"Thar was one of 'em different," pursued Rube, "a silver birch tree amongst the cotton-woods--an' I found where you'd cut a stick from it an' smudged the cut so's it wouldn't easily be seen. Is that right? You carried that stick along of you--brought it home. Once or twice you scored a mark on the ground with th' point of it. You began cuttin' some of the bark from the stick, droppin' a bit every fifty yards or so. But that was too easy for me. Any tenderfoot'd have found them bits o' bark."

"Quite right," agreed Kiddie, "an' you ain't anything of a tenderfoot. Yes? Well?"

"So you changed your scent, so ter speak. You felt in your pocket an' fetched out them chips o' lead pencil, an' you planted em one by one so all-fired cutely that nobody who wasn't searchin' fer signs c'd have discovered 'em. One of 'em you dropped lightly on a branch of balsam, level with my eyes; another you hung up, even more lightly, on a line of spider web. How did you manage that, Kiddie?"

Kiddie looked up from his spoonful of egg.

"Just laid th' chip in the palm of my hand an' blew it softly inter th' web, where it stuck suspended, like Mahomet's coffin," he explained.

"Don't know nothin' 'bout Mahomet's coffin," said Rube, "but that chip o' pencil was real cleverly done; it was top notch. After that, you dropped clues pretty freely, afraid o' my missin' 'em, I reckon. You didn't just blaze the trees; but you broke down twigs, you tore up ferns an' things, you kicked up the soil with your toe, an' you scored marks with your stick. At one place you tied a knot in a clump of rush grass, leavin' a pointer. I was follerin' you quick when at last I come t' the creek, an' thar you had me. You waded into th' water--that's how you got your moccasins wet--an' you didn't cross; you walked up the stream, I guess."

"Right," nodded Kiddie. "But that was a false scent. I didn't go far--not more'n a dozen yards--I came out on the same side and dried my feet."

"I saw where you did that," Rube went on. "It wasn't far from where you laid the three fir cones as a pointer, plain's a sign-post. Then you followed along by the creek to the tree where you hung up th' leaf from your pocket-book. From there you made it easy for me, comin' home in a bee-line, scatterin' clues right an' left."

"Well, Rube, I'll say this," declared Kiddie, "that you did remarkably well all through. There were not a great many clues that you failed to pick up. You missed some important ones, however, which makes it all the more surprisin' that you came back so quickly. We'll play that same game another time. It's good for us both. And now, I guess we'll just wash up an' make the camp clean for the night before goin' out in the canoe ter catch a fish or two, if it's not too late."