Bart Keene's Hunting Days: or, The Darewell Chums in a Winter Camp

CHAPTER XIV
BART’S FIRST SHOT

Fenn made a dash for the shelter of a spruce tree, and watched the descending shower of mud and water. It was soon over, and he stepped out again, to view the curious volcano. He crossed the open space, free from snow, and a number of turtles scurried away at his advance.

“That’s how it is,” remarked the lad, “that the turtles are so numerous around here. It’s as warm as toast around that mud volcano, and they don’t have to hibernate. The ones we found near our camp must have wandered away in search of food, and were on their way back here. I’ve solved part of the mystery, anyhow. Now to examine this curious place.”

The boiling spring, or mud volcano, as such phenomenons are variously called, consisted, in the main, of a large pool of muddy colored water, lying at the foot of a hill. All around it were dead trees, and the smell of sulphur, though not so strong as at the first spring Fenn had visited, was plainly noticeable. The water had a dead, stagnant look, after the eruption, and Fenn was careful not to approach too close, for he could not tell when the spring would spout up again. He saw a number of turtles on logs and bits of wood that extended out into the pool, and others plunged from the bank into the water at his approach.

“They don’t seem to mind the sulphur and the mud,” said Fenn to himself. The lad had read in his school books of the mud volcanoes. They are of a type similar to the hot geysers of Yellowstone Park, though not so large or numerous. Though called boiling springs in some parts of the country they do not boil or bubble on the surface, as a rule, though there is a constant supply of warm water from some subterranean source, so, that, as in the case with the spring Fenn was viewing, the water ran over from the pool, and trickled off through the woods.

Mud volcanoes or boiling springs, while not common, are to be met with in New York and Pennsylvania. The writer recently visited a large one in New York State, near Lake Ontario. It was around Christmas, and a cold blustering day, yet the water from the spring was quite warm, and had melted the snow for quite a distance in all directions. The water was impregnated with sulphur and salt, and though there was not an eruption when the writer was present, there were marks on surrounding trees showing where mud had been hurled to a height of thirty or forty feet.

There are various theories to account for the action of the mud volcanoes. One is that steam is formed away below the surface, and, seeking an outlet, throws the mud and water with it. Another is that the force of water, flowing from some mountain lake, by an underground passage, spouts up through the boiling spring, being heated in some manner in its passage.

But Fenn did not trouble himself much about these theories as he looked at the curious spring. It was a gloomy, lonesome place, and the presence of so many turtles, some of them very large, added to the uncanny aspect.

“Well, there are turtles enough here to stock several collections,” murmured Fenn. “Lots of different kinds, too. I will take some home I guess. Now if I had that mysterious man’s address I’d send him word. This mud volcano will be a curious thing to show the other fellows. I wonder how warm the water is?”

He approached, to thrust his hand into the edge of the spring, when an ominous rumbling beneath his feet warned him. He jumped away just in time, and, as he ran for the shelter of the trees, there was another upheaval of mud, and he received a share of it. He remained in the shelter until the spring subsided, and then made his way back to camp.

His chums were there when he arrived, and something in their looks prompted Fenn to ask:

“Well, where’s the bear steak, and the partridges for roasting.”

“No luck,” declared Bart in disgust. “Never saw a bit of game! I guess we camped in the wrong place.”

“Oh, no we didn’t!” exclaimed Fenn in triumph, as he produced the two plump birds from his pockets. “Here’s what I got, besides bagging a boiling spring for my morning’s work.”

“Say, where’d you get those?” asked Bart eagerly.

“Come on, show us?” begged Ned.

“Time enough,” responded the stout lad. “I’m going to have dinner now, and then we’ll have these birds, roasted, for supper. There’s more where they came from. Now I’ll tell you about the mud volcano,” which he did, graphically, so that his chums were eager to go and see it. But they decided to wait until the next day, and to have a good supper of roast partridge that night. Fenn cooked his game to perfection, and was given a hearty vote of thanks.

A visit to the mud volcano was made the next day, and there were found to be more turtles than on Fenn’s visit. The volcano was observed in action, much to the wonderment of the three lads, who had never seen anything like it, and once Ned, who was too venturesome, was caught under an unusually large shower of mud.

“Well, let’s go hunting now,” proposed Bart, after a pause. “I haven’t had a decent shot since we came to camp. I’ve got to get that bear before I go back.”

They tramped off through the woods, their eyes eager for a sight of game, large or small. Each one had a compass, so that if they became separated they could make their way back to camp, for the forest was dense. The snow had ceased, and the weather was clear and cold.

Fenn and Frank had shotguns, and elected to try to bag some wild turkeys or partridges, so they went off to one side, while Bart and Ned, with their rifles, kept together.

Suddenly Bart, after an hour’s tramping in the woods, with never a sight of anything larger than a rabbit, which he would not fire at, came to an abrupt stop. Ned, who was right behind him, halted also.

“What is it?” he whispered.

“What is that over there?” asked Bart, also in a whisper, and he pointed to a black object near some bushes.

“A stump,” replied Ned promptly.

“Do stumps move?” inquired Bart.

“Of course not.”

“Well that one did, so it isn’t a stump. I think it’s a bear.”

Bart’s opinion was unexpectedly confirmed the next moment, for the animal turned and uttered a loud “woof!” as it sniffed at the snow at the foot of the bush, evidently in search of something to eat.

Bart dropped to one knee, and took quick aim. It was his first shot since arriving at camp, and it was one worthy of much care, for bears were none too common to risk missing one.

The rifle cracked, but there was no cloud of smoke, for Bart was using his new smokeless cartridges. The lad pumped another bullet into the barrel, and fired again, for the bear had not moved after the first report.

Then, as the echoes of the rifle died away, the two lads saw the animal quickly rear itself upon its hind legs, and swing around in their direction.

CHAPTER XV
FENN FALLS IN

“Shoot again, Bart!” cried Ned. “You missed him!”

Bart had pumped another cartridge into place, but before he could pull the trigger the bear staggered a few paces toward him, and then fell in a convulsive heap. There was no need to fire again.

“He’s dead!” cried Bart, exultantly, as he leaped forward. “My first bear, though it did take two shots to settle him.” But as he saw a few minutes later, when he examined his prize, the first bullet would have done the work, had he waited long enough, for it was in a vital spot.

“Now to get him to camp,” proposed Ned, when he and his chum had sufficiently admired the dead bear. “We’ll have enough fresh meat for a week.”

“Yes,” assented Bart. “Let’s see how we’re going to get him back.” He raised the fore end of the bear, by his paws, and grunted.

“What’s the matter – heavy?” asked Ned.

“Try it and see,” advised Bart. Ned did so, and grunted in his turn. The truth of the matter was that the bear, though not of full size, was fat and plump, and of greater weight than the boys expected. Then, too, the weight was “dead,” which made it all the more awkward to carry. Bart and Ned tried again, by turns, and both together, but the bear was too much for them.

“We’ll have to get Fenn and Frank to help us,” said Bart and he fired his rifle three times, in quick succession, and then, after a pause, twice, more slowly – the prearranged call for assistance. Fenn and Frank came running up a little later, fearing that some accident had happened, and they were much relieved when they found that their help was wanted in transporting the bear.

At Fenn’s suggestion a long pole was cut, the bear’s paws were tied together and the pole thrust through them, and then, with two lads on either end of the shaft, and Bruin swinging between, the journey back to camp was safely made.

Bart insisted on skinning his prize, saying he was going to make a rug of the hide, and the best portions of the meat were cut off for future use. As it was desired to allow the flesh to cool a bit before using it, the campers prepared a meal of the food they had in stock, reserving the bear steaks for supper.

The rest of the day was spent around camp, several improvements being made, with a view of rendering life more comfortable during their stay. The bear steak, broiled with pieces of bacon stuck on it, was voted most delicious, and Fenn ate so much that he said it made him sleepy.

It grew much colder in the night, and before morning there was a demand for more blankets on the part of Frank and Ned. As there were no more, Bart volunteered to get up and replenish the fire in the stove, for it had died down.

As he was putting on more wood he suddenly paused, and seemed to be listening. Then he quietly went to the tent flap and peered out into the darkness, illuminated by a lantern hanging from the ridge pole.

“What’s the matter?” asked Ned. “Did you see another bear, Bart?”

“I thought I heard some one walking around,” was the answer. “It’s snowing again. I don’t see any one.”

He went back to bed, every one sleeping more in comfort now that the tent was warmer. In the morning, Bart was the first one up, and he opened the tent flap. As he looked out, noting that the sun was shining, though the weather was cold, the lad uttered a cry of astonishment.

“What’s the matter?” asked Fenn, pausing in his dressing operations.

“Some one was sneaking around last night!” declared Bart. “See the footprints!”

The campers rushed from the tent in various stages of negligee, and stared at a track of human footprints, clearly visible in the new-fallen snow.

“Whoever it was he came close to our tent, and was evidently going to look in, when I must have frightened him off by getting up to put wood on the fire,” said Bart.

“Who was it?” asked Ned.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” responded Bart, “only it was some one who evidently wanted to get away unobserved. Look, you can trace where he came out of the woods, approached our tent very cautiously, and then, when I frightened him, he took it on the run.” This was easy to confirm by the spaces between the footprints, for when the midnight visitor had approached slowly and stealthily the marks were comparatively close together, but where he had run they were far apart.

“Let’s get dressed, and have a look around,” said Fenn. But though they searched for some time they could not find the intruder, even if his footsteps were plainly visible, leading off into the forest.

“We’ll get breakfast and trace him up,” suggested Frank. “Might as well do that as anything else.”

“Let’s look and see if he’s taken anything,” suggested Fenn.

“No need to do that, Stumpy,” was Bart’s opinion. “You can tell by his tracks that he wasn’t near enough to our camp to have stolen anything. Even the bear meat is safe,” and he looked to where it was suspended on a tree limb, by means of a long rope, a precaution taken to keep it out of the way of prowling animals.

With their guns in readiness for any game, the four chums set out after breakfast on the trail of the unknown, midnight visitor. The marks were easy to follow, for very little snow had fallen after Bart had replenished the wood in the stove.

“Say, do you notice which way he’s heading?” asked Fenn, excitedly, when they had gone on about a mile.

“Not particularly,” said Frank. “Why?”

“He’s gone to the mud volcano – that’s where he’s gone, fellows!” declared the stout youth. “I wonder what he wants there? Maybe he’s after mud turtles. Maybe he’s the same man who wrote to me.”

“He might be almost anybody, Stumpy,” was Ned’s opinion. “We can’t tell until we see him. Get a move on.”

The footsteps were becoming fainter now, for the wind had drifted the snow across them in a number of places, but they were sufficiently visible to indicate that the man had kept on in the direction of the boiling spring.

Just before the boys reached that phenomenon, the marks vanished altogether, coming to an abrupt stop in the snow, but it was evident that this was due to the wind covering the tracks with white crystals from the drifts, and not because the man had mysteriously vanished.

“Well, we may as well go on to the spring,” spoke Fenn. “Maybe we’ll find him there.”

But the vicinity of the mud volcano was deserted, though numerous mud turtles were crawling about over the warm ground, which was devoid of snow.

“I’m going closer and have a look,” decided Fenn, as he started away from his chums.

“Better be careful, Stumpy,” warned Bart. “It doesn’t look as if there had been an eruption lately, and you may catch it all of a sudden.”

“Oh, I’ll chance it,” said the heavy-weight lad.

He walked close to the edge of the spring, which was motionless save for the water that ran from it. Fenn was looking for footprints in the soft ground, but he and his chums had made so many on their own account, on their previous visits to the place, and, as they were still visible (for the ground had not frozen), the amateur detective was at a loss.

“There doesn’t seem to be anything here,” announced Fenn, as he turned to come away. Hardly had he spoken than he was seen to jump back. That is, he tried to do so, but he was too late. An instant later he was observed to throw up his hands and slowly sink into the marshy ground on the edge of the warm spring.

“Help! Help!” cried poor Fenn, as he felt himself going down. “Help, fellows!”

CHAPTER XVI
FRANK MAKES PANCAKES

“Fellows, he’s fallen in a quicksand!” yelled Bart. “Come on, help him out!”

“Look out we don’t get in it ourselves,” cautioned Frank, but it was from no desire to shirk any danger in rescuing his chum that he was thus thoughtful. Rather he wanted to be on the safe side. “Go ahead, Bart and Ned. I’ll get some tree branches, in case you can’t reach him,” he added.

Ned and Bart started on a run toward their unfortunate chum. Poor Fenn was engulfed almost to his shoulders, and was struggling ineffectually to get out.

“Don’t worry, we’ll save you!” called Bart encouragingly. “Hold on, Stumpy.”

“That’s the trouble – there’s nothing to hold on to,” panted Fenn.

“Is the water hot?” asked Ned.

“No, only warm; but I’m in as much mud as I am water. Give me a hand, and pull me out.”

Bart and Ned advanced to do so, but, to their dismay they found that they were themselves sinking in. As they had approached on this side of the boiling spring on a previous occasion, much closer to the water than they now were, it was evident that there had been a shifting of the earth underneath the surface.

“We can’t come any closer, Stumpy,” announced Bart. “We’ll sink in ourselves.” He was about to go back.

“Don’t – don’t leave me!” begged the unfortunate lad, making another attempt to lift himself out of the slough. “Don’t go back on me, Bart!”

“We won’t. We were only trying to think of a way to get you out,” answered Bart, as he held Ned back from going too close.

“Here, this will do it,” cried Frank, running up at that moment with a long, tree branch. “Take hold of this, Stumpy, and we’ll haul you out.”

Standing where the ground was firm, Frank thrust forward the branch, Bart and Ned assisting their chum. Fenn grasped desperately at the other end, and his three companions braced themselves.

There was a straining, a long, steady pull and Fenn slowly began to emerge from the hole. Once he was started it was an easy matter to pull him out completely, and in a few seconds he was out of danger, and standing beside his chums on solid earth. But such a sight!

He was covered with mud almost from his head to his feet. It dripped from his clothes, and his hands were thick with it, while some had even splashed on his face. He had not been rescued more than a minute before there came a rumbling sound, and a spray of mud and water shot up into the air. The volcano was in eruption, and Fenn had been saved in the nick of time, for the place where he had been sucked down was right on the edge of the disturbance.

“How did it happen?” asked Frank.

“It was so quick I can’t tell,” answered the muddy lad. “All I know is that I went down and seemed to keep on going.”

“Better come over to where the water flows out of the spring, and wash off,” suggested Ned, and Fenn agreed with him. The water with which he removed the worst of the mud from his clothes was unpleasant smelling, impregnated as it was with salt and sulphur, but there was no help for it. As the three labored to get Fenn into some sort of presentable shape, numerous turtles crawled around them, evidently disturbed by the unaccustomed visits.

“Well, I’ll do, I guess,” remarked Fenn, at length, trying to catch a glimpse of himself in the little stream of water. “Wow, but that’s dirty mud, though!”

“Next time don’t go so near,” cautioned Bart.

“You should have told me that first,” answered Fenn, with a grim smile.

With a final look at the place of the mud volcano the boys turned back toward camp. They had not learned much, save that the mysterious visitor had come in the direction of the boiling spring – why, they could not fathom. Fenn spoke of getting some of the less common turtles to add to his collection, but his chums persuaded him to wait until they were ready to go home.

Fenn’s first work, when he reached the tent, was to change his clothes, and then, making a good fire in the wood stove he took a bath, with water melted from snow. He felt better after this, and was about to proceed with the getting ready of supper, for they had taken their lunch with them on their tramp to the spring, and had made coffee on the way.

“Fenn, you sit down and rest, and I’ll get the meal,” suggested Frank, good-naturedly. “I think I’ll give you fellows a treat.”

“What’ll it be?” asked Ned.

“How would pancakes go?” inquired Frank with a triumphant air.

“Can you make ’em?” asked Bart, doubtfully.

“Sure. I did it at home once; for dad and me. We have some prepared flour here, and the directions are on the package. You fellows go outside, and when the cakes are ready I’ll call you in to supper.”

“That suits me,” observed Bart, and the others assented joyfully. Leaving Frank in the cook-tent, they busied themselves about various things, awaiting the call for supper, and with no great amount of patience, for they were hungry.

“Do you fellows smell anything,” asked Bart, after a long wait, and he sniffed the air strongly.

“You don’t mean to say Frank’s burning those cakes, do you?” inquired Ned anxiously.

“No, I don’t smell him cooking them at all,” answered Bart. “They ought to be pretty nearly done by this time, for it doesn’t take long. Maybe he’s in trouble. I’m going to take a look.”

He advanced cautiously to peer into the cook tent, whence came a series of rather queer sounds. Bart took one look through the flap, and then beckoned to his chums.

“Look, but don’t laugh,” he cautioned them.

It was well he did, for the sight that met their eyes made them want to howl. Frank was in the midst of the tent, surrounded by several pots, pans, pails, dishes and other receptacles, filled with pancake batter. He was industriously stirring more in the bread-pan, and there was a puzzled look on his face.

“Hang it all,” Frank’s chums heard him mutter, “I can’t seem to get this stuff right. Guess it needs more flour.” He put some into the batter he was mixing, and then stirred it. “Now it’s too thick,” he remarked. “It needs more water.” He poured the fluid in with a too lavish hand, it seemed, for he murmured: “Gee whiz! Can’t I get this right? Now I’ve got it too thin. I’ll have to empty part of it out.”

He looked around for something into which to pour part of the batter, but every available dish in the tent seemed to be filled.

“No use saving it,” Frank went on. “I’ll just throw some of it away. I’ve got lots left.” He emptied part of the batter into a refuse pail, and his face wore such a worried expression as he came back to his task, that Bart and his two chums could not hold back their laughter any longer. As they burst into peals of mirth, Frank glanced up, and saw them spying on him from the tent flap.

“Hu! you fellows think you’re mighty smart, I guess!” he muttered.

“How are you coming on?” asked Bart “Are you stocking up for fear of a blizzard, Frank?”

Then the comical side of the situation struck the volunteer cook, and he, too, joined in the fun.

“It’s funny how this thing came out,” said Frank, with a dubious air. “First the batter was too thick, and then, when I put more water in, it was too thin. Then I had too much, and I had to empty some of it out. Then I did the same thing over again, and had to keep on emptying. I never could seem to get it right, and I’ve used up nearly a sack of flour. I put the flavoring in, too.”

“Flavoring? What flavoring?” asked Fenn quickly.

“Cocoanut, I guess it was. I found it in a cocoanut box, anyhow.”

“I never heard of cocoanut flavoring in pancakes,” said Fenn dubiously, “but maybe it’s all right. But I’ll show you how to mix ’em, Frank. We’ll just put two or three dishes of this batter together in the pan, add a little more flour, and some salt, and it’ll be ready to bake,” and, as he talked Fenn soon beat up the batter to the right consistency, for he had a knack of cooking. Then a frying pan was put on the stove, for they had brought along no regular griddle, it was greased, and Frank, who insisted on doing the rest, was allowed to pour out the batter, and do the turning. This part he managed fairly well, and soon he had a big plate full of nicely-browned cakes.

“Seems to me they smell sort of funny,” remarked Ned, as he sat down to the table, and helped himself liberally.

“Oh, that’s only your imagination,” declared Frank. “They’re all right. Eat hearty, fellows, there’s lots of ’em.” There was – enough for a squad.

Fenn poured out a liberal amount of maple syrup on his pile of cakes. He put a generous piece of the top brown one in his mouth. The next minute he uttered a yell, and made rush for the outside of the tent.

“Wow! Oh!” he cried on his way.

“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Frank, as Fenn hastily drank several glasses of water on his return.

“What did you say you flavored those cakes with?” demanded the stout youth, while Bart and Ned paused, with their forks half raised to their mouths.

“Cocoanut,” answered Frank.

“Soap powder, you mean!” exclaimed Fenn, as he made a dash for the box that served as a cupboard, and took out a pasteboard package that had contained cocoanut. “I put soap powder in this to have handy when I washed the dishes,” explained the fleshy youth, “and you flavored the cakes with it, Frank. Wow! Wow!”

“Oh punk!” groaned Bart, as he pushed his plate away from him, “and I was counting on griddle cakes!”

Frank cautiously smelled of the pile of cakes on his plate.

“Guess you’re right,” he admitted dubiously. “I’m sorry fellows, but my pancakes are a failure.”