Chapter 13

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! Listen!"

_To-whoo-hoo-hoo, to-whoo-whoo._ A full, deep-toned note, like the distant baying of a hound, was wafted back through the woods. The strained expression on several faces relaxed, but they still looked puzzled.

"That's more familiar," smiled Mr. Curtis. "It's a great horned owl. You look as if you didn't believe it yet, Bob," he added, "but that's what it is, all the same. I've never heard it give that other sound, but I ought to have known--" He broke off, chuckling. "He certainly gave us a shock! I suppose we'll never hear the end of it. Let's get back to the fire; it's sort of chilly here."

They lost no time in following the suggestion. Back in the cabin they fed the blaze with fresh wood, and, sleep being out of the question for a while, gathered close around it, giggling and chattering and laughingly comparing their emotions on awakening to that blood-curdling scream coming out of the night.

"I was scart stiff," frankly confessed Court Parker.

"Same here," echoed several voices.

But Bob Gibson declined to treat the incident with the careless levity of the others. "I'd like to shoot the beast!" he growled vindictively, thinking of the way his nerves and feelings had been played upon.

"It would be the best thing that could happen," put in Mr. Curtis, decidedly. "We'll have to see if we can't manage it. Most owls are not only harmless, but a real benefit, living as they do mainly on rats and mice. But this creature can do more damage than any other bird except one or two species of hawks. A single one of them will destroy whole covies of quail, kill partridges, ducks, and song-birds, to say nothing of all sorts of domestic fowls. I'll have to bring out a shotgun and see if I can't pot him, or there won't be any birds left for us to feed."

He made several trips to the neighborhood of the cabin during the following ten days, but it was not until the week after Christmas that he got sight of the big marauder and with a fine shot brought him down from the top of a tall hemlock. Several of the scouts who were with him rushed forward to secure the bird, and were surprised at the size of the buff-and-white body, with its great spread of wing, fierce, hooked beak, and prominent ear-tufts.

"We ought to have him stuffed," said Frank Sanson, holding it up at full length. "He'd certainly make a dandy trophy for the cabin."

Mr. Curtis agreed to undertake it, and that night sent the bird to a taxidermist in the city. It came back several weeks later, mounted in the most lifelike manner, and became one of the principal decorations of the cabin. Court at once christened it "Bob's alarm-clock," much to the mystification of the fellows who had not been present on that memorable night. They knew that something unusual had happened, but were never able to find out just what, for the "advance-guard," as the seven called themselves, kept the incident carefully to themselves, and Mr. Curtis never told.

Long before this an ample supply of grain had been taken out to their headquarters and several feeding-stations established in different parts of the woods. These consisted mainly of rough shelters made of saplings, hemlock boughs, or stacks of old corn-stalks, furnished by Mr. Grimstone, in which the grain was scattered. There could be no question of their value, for from the first the snow about them was covered with bird-tracks of every variety. Before long, too, scouts visiting these stations to replenish the supply reported that the birds were growing noticeably tamer. Instead of flying off at the first sight of the boys, they sat in the trees and bushes around the shelters with an air almost of expectancy. Later they took to swooping down on the grain the moment it was poured out, without waiting for the scouts to move away. The climax came when one day Dale Tompkins excitedly reported that: "A chickadee came and lit right on the bag to-day, sir. He didn't seem a bit afraid, and only hopped off when I began to scatter the grain."

"They'll do more than that if you treat them right," returned the scoutmaster. "I've known of several cases where not only chickadees, but wrens and juncos and snow-sparrows and even wilder birds have grown so fearless that they've fed readily from the hand. Why don't you fellows try it? The main thing is to get them used to your bringing food to a certain place, and, when they're about, not to make any sudden movement that might frighten them. It would be rather fun to see how many varieties you could tame."

The idea met with general favor and when put into practice was remarkably successful. There also developed not a little good-natured rivalry among the boys as to which would first report the presence of a new bird at the feeding-stations; all of which helped to keep up the interest in the work and prevent it becoming monotonous and tiresome.