Tom Slade at Bear Mountain

I have often reflected that if it had not been for my long promised visit to my aunt up in Kingston, New York, these very extraordinary events which I purpose to narrate would n...

There seemed to be no roads crossing the highway I was journeying on which might lead into that mountainous reservation. I knew of the popular entrance to it on the shore of the...

There were some scout officials lunching at the Inn; I suppose they had come up from the city. They wore khaki and ate chicken salad and talked about some Council or other; that...

I had seen something of Interstate Park and now I was to have a glimpse of the old life which had been there before the region was set aside; the life and times which had caught...

I tried to walk alongside him the better to hear his narrative but the way through the tangled thicket was so narrow that I was forced to follow. Now and again he would hold the...

Buck Sanderson did not interrupt his narrative to greet his young granddaughter. Before approaching the cabin he strolled into the woods and I followed him to the old foundation...

It was now mid-afternoon and I could not linger at old Buck’s cabin. But I sat upon the doorstep with him for a few minutes while he performed on that cartridge shell instrument...

I am now approaching the point of my withdrawal from this narrative to make way for the grand hero, Tom Slade. I think you know him. I take pleasure in setting down here that of...

“We don’t have to go way up to Tuxedo,” said Tom. “I’ve got a map of that region. We can shoot in at Sloatsburg. I bet that’ll let us right into the section you’re talking about...

They told us at Sandyfield that old Buck had died of pneumonia and been buried somewhere near Mt. Ivy. As the old hunter had anticipated, and dreaded I think, June had been sent...

So there you are. I was out of it and I was glad to think that Tom and Brent were out of it. I felt almost as if I had incited a couple of boys to go hunting Indians. Though, to...

The whole thing seemed so preposterous--so _story like_, in this prosaic age. As I see the whole thing now I realize that the trouble was with me and not with Tom. Anyway, what...

You will remember the story that Long Buck Sanderson told me: how he was returning from New York with a sum of money. His partner, Mink Havers, was waiting for him near a swamp...

Tom looked in the cabin but, as he had suspected, the coil of rope had not been brought from the car. So he set forth through the woods to their obscure parking place.

Now something happened, trivial and barely perceptible, but it relieved the frightful situation of the moment. The flashlight flickered; it was less than a flicker; a scarcely v...

The circle of brightness had disappeared. Brent’s foot and the rock and the snake’s head were blotted out. He could see nothing now, only feel the coiled reptile around his leg....

When Tom Slade started to go to the Ford for the rope he tried to cut off a little of the distance by taking a new route through the hills. That is Tom all over; always explorin...

And here you have Tom Slade all over. He was not in the least bit angry. But he was curious. Instead of hurrying straight back to the Gulch, he hit into the Hawkeye Spoke trail...

Brent Gaylong could see nothing, but he felt the flat rock on which his foot had pinioned the snake sinking beneath the pressure. As it yielded and settled in the oozy bottom it...

Tom knew that he was facing a wildcat. He knew that he was not in danger so long as the animal was not at bay. It is no longer the fashion for wildcats to chase young heroes as...

He opened his eyes slowly and saw Tom kneeling over him. On a rock stood the cage of straw burning cheerily. On the cage lay the twigs and on these, two solid bits of hard wood,...

Tom and Brent had a late supper in the cabin that night. After the adventures of the day the little primitive abode, nestling in the surrounding wildness, seemed like heaven ind...

There was no table to dine at, and they ate sitting in two old chairs close to the stove, so that they might refill their tin dishes without getting up. The warmth of the fire w...

Tom and Brent stared at each other. The footfalls approached nearer and nearer, sounding clear upon the brittle underbrush which obscured the beaten track to the door; clear as...

Yes, that was it, the little rascal would have to make his own trails; Tom saw that. And he had evidently made some pretty poor ones. He was one of those boys from whose point o...

Tom was weary enough after his strenuous day, but he never did things by halves; he escorted his young acquaintance up to the Hawkeye Spoke Trail and set him upon his journey ba...

“Well,” said Brent, “I suppose we’d better kill the fatted calf and dust the cabin and tidy up a bit. Keep the home fires burning. He might drop off the freight at Tuxedo. Do yo...

“Not a single escaped convict so far!” said Brent. “The only bait-box I’ve seen is full of salt. Conservation experts aren’t getting us anywhere. Escaping Scouts are not snappy...

The next morning something happened, trivial in itself, but destined to have a bearing on the course of this chronicle. The campers used up the last of their coffee for breakfas...

They paused in the brush waiting. The figure descended to within a few feet of the ground, then dropped. He seemed to fall over when he hit the ground. Then he picked himself up...

So there at last was the precious three thousand dollars of Long Buck Sanderson and his partner Mink Havers safe in the hands of our adventurers. Even on their way to the cabin...

I have told you of the geography of Rattlesnake Gulch; I must now tell you something of its immediate neighborhood. I never knew and I do not know now, whether the name Rattlesn...

“It’s this side of the swamp,” Tom answered, gazing intently; “why, it’s right in the valley. _Boy_, that’s bad! It’s going to sweep right through here.” He paused for just thre...

Spiffy Henshaw was breaking the rules that night. He did not care, since he was going to be sent home anyway. He was paddling about on the lake alone in his glory.

Into the Hawkeye Spoke Trail he sped, hatless, abandoned. And they followed, not because they trusted him, but because he seemed possessed. At least they would see the fun of an...

It was several weeks after the fire when a half dozen or more Scouts from up around the lakes appeared at the cabin escorting a tottering old white-haired man, clustering about...