Dave Porter At Bear Camp: or, The Wild Man of Mirror Lake

CHAPTER XXI
THE ESCAPE

Mr. Dunston Porter had been down to Carpen Falls for a walk and to get the mail. He returned late that evening, bringing several letters with him. He was of course much surprised to learn of the capture of Link Merwell, and listened with interest to the details concerning the affair.

Among the letters which his uncle had brought along was one for Dave, which he read with deep interest. It was from Nat Poole, who evidently had not yet heard anything regarding his missing uncle.

"I want to tell you of what has happened here lately," (wrote Nat). "I have received two visits from a young fellow named Ward Porton, who is, I believe, a moving-picture actor, and the same fellow that you helped to rescue from a burning steam yacht. This fellow was in town once with Link Merwell, and then came here alone. He has been visiting a number of people who are well acquainted with you, and also visited the poorhouse here and talked to several of those in authority, and those who used to have the running of the poorhouse years ago, when you were an inmate there. This Ward Porton acted as if he had something of great importance on his mind, but what it was he would not tell, but he did let slip that it was something concerning you – that there was a big surprise in store for you. He also let slip that he, too, had been in a poorhouse when he was a little boy, and that he had never been able to learn where he had really come from.

"I am writing this to put you on your guard in case he should show himself either at your camp or at the Wadsworth mansion after your return. I must confess that I don't like the fellow's manner, and I rather surmise he is laying pipes to play you some trick."

Dave read this letter over several times, and was much perplexed. He had not forgotten what Link Merwell had said to him shortly after being captured, nor had he forgotten the fact that he had seen Link and Ward Porton in Crumville at the old Potts farm.

"Those fellows are certainly up to something," our hero told himself. "Link said that I was not Dave Porter. Now, what did he mean by that? Those fellows must be hatching up some plot against me."

"Dave, you look rather worried," remarked Phil, as he caught the youth reading the communication for the third time. "No bad news I hope?"

"I can't tell whether it is or not, Phil," was the reply. And Dave handed the letter to his chum.

"Phew! This looks like a mystery," was the comment of the shipowner's son. "Dave, do you think this had anything to do with what Link Merwell said when we caught him – that you were not Dave Porter?"

"That's the way it looks to me, Phil."

"But that's rank nonsense. We all know you are Dave Porter."

"Well, I've always thought I was Dave Porter, ever since I met my Uncle Dunston out in those South Sea Islands."

"Why of course you are! Don't you look just like your Uncle Dunston? This is some game, Dave."

"I think so myself."

"What are you fellows confabbing about?" asked Roger, walking up.

"We're talking about a letter I just received," answered Dave. And then the senator's son also read the communication.

"Say, this is a mystery and no mistake!" was Roger's comment. "And so Nat thinks that Ward Porton is mixed up in it, eh? That is strange."

"What do you suppose he has to do with it, Roger?" questioned Phil.

"I am sure I don't know. But come to think of it, he did look like – " And then Roger broke off in confusion.

"Look like what, Roger?" asked Dave, quickly.

"Oh, never mind, Dave, let's drop the subject and talk about what we are going to do with Link Merwell."

"I think I know what you were going to say," went on our hero, and he tried to speak calmly although his heart gave a sudden jump. "You were going to say that Ward Porton looked like my Uncle Dunston and like me."

"Well, if you must know it, Dave, that is what did come into my mind. I don't think he resembles you quite as much as he resembles your uncle, to be really honest."

"Oh, say, Roger, drop that!" interposed Phil, hastily. "I think Dave looks a good deal more like his uncle than Porton looks like Mr. Porter."

"It's a queer mystery, that's certain," returned Dave, slowly. "I don't like it, I must say," and his face showed more concern than it had for a long while.

"Don't you take this too seriously, Dave!" cried Roger. "I believe at the most it's only some game gotten up by Link Merwell. Now that we have him a prisoner and can send him to jail for that robbery, more than likely you won't hear anything further about it."

"I sincerely hope you speak the truth," was our hero's sober reply.

After a plain but substantial meal, Link Merwell was taken to the woodshed and told he would have to remain there until morning. Then the boys cast lots to find out who should go on guard first.

"I'm number one," announced Phil, after drawing one of a number of slips of paper placed in a cap.

"And I follow you," announced Luke.

"I'm guard number three," came from Ben, and the other boys announced what slips they had drawn.

Usually the woodshed was dark, but now a lantern had been hung on a nail to illuminate the place. There were two doors, one connecting with the bungalow proper, and the other leading into the backyard of the place. There was also a small window, over which in times past several stout wooden bars had been nailed to keep out prowling wild animals.

"Think I'll run away, eh?" remarked Link Merwell, as he sat down on the couch which had been placed in the woodshed.

"You'll not get the chance," returned Phil, who had armed himself with one of the double-barreled shotguns. "If you try to get away, Link, you'll get a dose of shot in you, just as sure as fate."

"Humph! I don't think I'll want to run away," grumbled the prisoner. "There is no place to run to in this forsaken section of the country. What you folks can find here to make it pleasant is a mystery to me."

The door leading to the outside had been closed and bolted. The other door leading to the bungalow proper was left open for ventilation, and Phil sat on a low stool beside it, with the shotgun across his knees.

"Are you quite sure you can manage him, Phil?" questioned Mr. Wadsworth, as he came to the doorway after the others in both bungalows had retired.

"Yes, I can manage him easily enough," returned the shipowner's son. "I've got this, you see," and he tapped the shotgun suggestively.

"Well, don't have any shooting unless it becomes absolutely necessary," answered the jewelry manufacturer; and then he, too, retired.

For a short while Link Merwell lay down on the couch and turned over as if to go to sleep. But he was restless, and presently, when all was quiet, he turned over again and sat up.

"What are you going to do with me when you get me to Carpen Falls?" he questioned.

"We are going to hand you over to the authorities."

"Is Dave Porter going along to the Falls?"

"I don't know about that. That's for Mr. Wadsworth to say," answered Phil. "By the way," he continued, "what did you mean by telling Dave that he was not Dave Porter?"

"Never you mind, you'll find out soon enough," grumbled the prisoner.

"Very well, Link, if you don't want to tell me you don't have to. Just the same, if you are trying to hatch out some plot against Dave, I warn you to be careful. He has stood about as much as he intends to stand."

"This is no plot; this is something real," grumbled Link Merwell. "Just you wait, that's all," and then he lay down on the couch once more and pretended to go to sleep.

At the proper time Luke came to relieve Phil, and was followed by Ben, and then by Shadow.

"Say, it's cold to-night," remarked the former story-teller of Oak Hall, as he took the shotgun and sat down on the stool. "If this weather keeps on, before long we'll have frost up here, and we'll all be thinking of going home."

"Better put on an extra coat; here is one," answered Ben, and passed the garment over. Then he returned to the other bungalow, for he was tired.

Shadow had expected to have quite a talk with the prisoner, but in this he was disappointed, for Link appeared to be asleep, and he did not have the heart to awaken the prisoner. He sat on the stool, thinking over several of the stories he had told from time to time, and trying to invent one or two new ones.

In the midst of his revery a sound from outside startled him. It was the hooting of an owl, and so close that the mournful sound made Shadow shiver.

"I'd like to shoot that owl," he told himself, as the hooting continued. "If I brought him down I could have him stuffed," he thought, with some satisfaction.

Shadow looked at the motionless form on the couch, and then arising from the stool, tiptoed his way into the big living-room of the bungalow. One of the windows was wide open, and he looked out of this to see if he could locate the owl. The hooting was now closer than before and seemed to come from a tree not twenty-five feet away.

"Say, there's a chance for a shot," murmured the youth to himself. "If I could only spot that owl I'm sure I could – "

Thump! Shadow received a staggering blow in the back of the neck, and then felt himself hurled to one side, while the shotgun was wrenched from his grasp. Then, before he could recover from his astonishment, a figure leaped through the open window and dashed across the moonlit dooryard.

"Hi! Stop!" yelled Shadow, as soon as he could recover his breath. "Stop! Help!"

"What's the racket?" The cry came from Roger, and then he and Dave burst into the room, followed by Phil.

"Merwell! He's escaped! He got the gun away from me, and jumped through the window!" panted poor Shadow. "Oh, what a fool I was to think he was asleep!"

"Where did he go?" questioned Dave, and at the same time bounded back into the bedroom, to don his shoes and part of his clothing.

"He jumped out of the window with the gun. That's all I know about it," answered Shadow.

"Didn't you have a fight?" questioned Phil.

"No, I came to the window to look at an owl that was hooting around here. Link came behind me and gave me a fierce crack in the neck. Then he grabbed the gun and went through the window like a flash. And I thought he was asleep!"

By this time Dave had returned, partly dressed, and catching up another one of the fowling pieces in the bungalow he, too, leaped through the window, followed by Shadow. A few seconds later the other boys joined them.

"Have you any idea which way he went?" questioned our hero.

"I don't know exactly, Dave, but I think he went that way," and the former story-teller of Oak Hall pointed with his hand.

"Let's scatter a little," ordered Dave, and while he passed in the direction pointed out, the other boys separated to both sides of him. All advanced to the edge of the woods and there came to a halt. While the moon made it fairly bright in the open space surrounding the bungalows, beneath the trees it was dark, and consequently little could be seen.

"Might as well look for a pin in a haystack," grumbled Roger. "If he got into these woods it's good-bye to him. We might search all night and not get a trace of the rascal."

"I guess you're right, Roger," answered Dave, "but let's search around a little anyway."

Long before this the alarm had become general, and now Dunston Porter and Mr. Wadsworth appeared, followed shortly by Mrs. Wadsworth and Mrs. Basswood and the girls.

"Let us take the flashlights and lanterns and see if we can't get on the track of him," ordered the jewelry manufacturer. "We must capture him if it is possible to do so."

And then the search began in earnest.

CHAPTER XXII
MORE OF A MYSTERY

"Did you see anything of him?"

"Not a thing. Did you?"

"I saw something move under the trees, but I guess it was a wild animal."

"He's gotten away, and that is all there is to it," said Dave, as he looked at his chums and at the men, who had also joined in the search for Link Merwell.

"This is certainly too bad!" remarked Mr. Wadsworth, with a shake of his head.

"And it was all my fault!" broke out Shadow, bitterly. "Oh, I could kick myself full of holes every time I think of it!"

Over an hour had been spent in the woods surrounding the clearing on Mirror Lake. During that time the men and the boys had stirred up several small wild animals, but that had been all.

"He must have legged it for all he was worth after he jumped through the window," was Roger's comment. "For all we know he may be miles away from here by now."

"If he ran straight into those woods it was a hazardous proceeding," said Dunston Porter. "He'll become hopelessly lost in the darkness, and when daylight comes he won't know how to turn to get out."

"Oh, perhaps he'll climb a tree and locate his surroundings that way," suggested Dave. "You must remember that Link isn't like a city fellow. He was brought up in the wild West, and knows how to do for himself in the open."

"We may as well give up the hunt," said Mr. Wadsworth, and turned toward Bear Camp, followed by the others.

"Oh, Dave, did you catch him?" The cry came from Jessie, who stood on the porch with the others, awaiting their return.

"No, he got away."

"That's too bad!"

"You should have kept him bound, Dave," said Laura.

"That's it, Dave," added Belle. "In the West they would tie a rascal like Link fast to a tree with a lariat. If you secured him properly he would stay there until you freed him."

"Well, there is no use in crying over spilt milk," remarked Mrs. Basswood. "I suppose we may as well go to bed again." And on this the others agreed.

Several days, including Sunday, passed, and nothing more was seen or heard of Link Merwell or Ward Porton. During that time the young folks went out on the lake several times, and also went fishing. Swimming was mentioned, but as the weather was getting colder rapidly, only Dave and Phil went in for a plunge. One day they planned to visit the moving-picture people, but it rained and they did not go.

"It will soon be time for hunting," announced Roger. "I hope we do get a chance to bring down something before we have to go back."

"Well, I'd like to have a crack at a deer, myself," answered Dave, who had not forgotten the sport he had had on Squirrel Island and at other places in the vicinity of Oak Hall.

"What's the matter with a crack at a bear?" interposed Phil. "A great big shaggy fellow that would weigh eight hundred or a thousand pounds."

"Say, Phil, you don't want much in life!" cried Ben. "Why don't you make it a two-thousand-pound bear while you are at it?"

"Say, speaking about heavy bears puts me in mind of a story I heard!" cried Shadow, his face lighting up for the first time since the escape of Link Merwell. "This yarn was told by an old western hunter and trapper, and he said it was strictly true. He said he was out on the ranges one day when he found himself suddenly pursued by three Modoc Indians. He shot at them several times without hitting anybody, and then, to his consternation, he found that his ammunition had given out. He legged it up a mountain-side, and the three Modocs came after him, yelling to beat the band. Just as they were following him up the steep trail, he saw a monstrous bear come plunging out from a thicket near by. He was so upset that he hardly knew what to do, but he grabbed up a big rock and sent it at the bear. It struck the monstrous animal on the head and keeled him over, and the bear rolled down the steep mountain-side, and knocked over the three Modoc Indians, smashing every one of them."

"Wow! That's some bear story!" exclaimed Luke.

"Shadow, how could you bear to tell such a story?" asked Dave, reproachfully.

"That knocks out all the dime novels ever written," said Ben.

"Why, Ben! do you mean to say you have read them all?" cried our hero, in pretended surprise.

"All? I don't read any of them!" snorted Ben. "Just the same, that's the biggest whopper I ever heard."

"Well, I'm not vouching for the story," interposed Shadow, dryly, "I'm just telling it as it was told to me."

"Speaking about being frightened by a bear puts me in mind that it's queer we haven't seen or heard anything more of that wild man," remarked Roger.

"We don't want to see or hear anything more of him!" burst out Laura. "One scare was enough."

"It's queer that the Pooles don't send some one up here to look for him," remarked Jessie. "If he were my uncle I certainly wouldn't want him to be roaming around in the woods that way."

"If he is just roaming around I wonder how he manages to live," said Dave. "And where does he get all that outlandish outfit?"

"He must have some sort of a habitation here," returned Phil. "Maybe he has taken possession of some bungalow or cabin that was locked up. If he has, won't the owners of the place be mad when they find it out, especially if he is using their things!"

"I wonder if we couldn't go up to that cliff and track him in some way from there?" said Phil. "He may have left some sort of trail behind him. Unless he follows some kind of paths through the woods he would be apt to get lost, just like anybody else."

"If he really is Wilbur Poole, I'd like to capture him and send him back to the sanitarium; where he belongs," remarked Roger. "I think Nat would like us to do it."

"What do you say about starting on a regular hunt to-morrow?" asked Dave. "We might go out directly after breakfast and carry our lunch with us. Who knows but what in looking for the wild man we might run across some trace of Link Merwell."

"Oh, Dave, you mustn't get into any trouble!" cried Jessie, hastily.

"If we go out we'll go armed and be on our guard," he replied.

The matter was talked over for some time, and at last it was decided that the boys should start out in a body directly after breakfast the following morning, provided it remained clear. They were to carry a shotgun and a rifle, and also a substantial lunch, and were not to return to Bear Camp until evening.

"I'd like to go on such a tramp myself," announced Belle. "It would be lots of fun climbing over the rocks and up the mountains."

"I think you girls had better remain around the bungalows," said Mrs. Wadsworth. "You can go out some other time, when the boys are not looking for that wild man and Link Merwell."

During the past few days those at Bear Camp had seen but little of the moving-picture company. That afternoon the old hunter, Tad Rason, stopped at the dock in his rowboat, and made the announcement that the company had gone to the other end of the lake, to take pictures for several more dramas.

"Mr. Appleby wanted me to tell you that that young feller, Ward Porton, ain't goin' to be with 'em no more," announced Tad Rason to Dave. "He says the young feller writ a letter sayin' that he was on the track of his parentage, and he guessed as how he'd have plenty of money of his own when he could prove who he was."

This announcement was of great interest to Dave, and he immediately questioned Tad Rason, to learn if the old hunter knew anything further. But that was all Rason could tell. He even did not know how long Ward Porton had remained with the moving-picture company after his arrival in the Adirondacks.

"The huntin' season will be openin' to-morrow," announced Tad Rason, in reply to a question from Phil. "I'm bound down the lake now to meet a party of hunters comin' from Albany. I take 'em out every season, actin' as guide."

"Perhaps we'll get you to go out with us some day," said Roger.

"All right, boys. I'll be glad to go, if I ain't got any job with them other fellows," announced the old hunter.

Although he was not willing to admit it to the others, Dave was greatly worried over the news brought by Tad Rason. Coupling it with what he had heard from Link Merwell and Nat Poole, he could reach but one conclusion, which was that in some way Ward Porton was going to try to prove that the boy from the Crumville poorhouse was not the real Dave Porter.

"Maybe he'll come along with a story that he is the real Dave," thought our hero, bitterly. "He said he was raised in a poorhouse, just like myself, but he also said it was away down East and not anywhere near the vicinity of Crumville. How he is going to get around that is beyond me. I don't think he'll be able to make anybody believe his story. Just the same, I wish this thing hadn't come up. I'd like to forget those poorhouse days entirely." And at the remembrance of those bitter times, Dave sighed deeply.

"Dave, you look awfully worried," said Jessie, that evening when the boys were getting ready for their next day's tramp. "What is the trouble?"

"Oh, it isn't much," he answered, evasively. "I was just thinking over what Link Merwell said."

"Dave, don't let him worry you so!" cried the girl, sympathetically. "He is a bad boy, and everybody knows it."

"But he said some things that I don't like at all, Jessie. I don't like him to call me a poorhouse nobody."

"Dave, don't you mind him! I don't care if you did come from the poorhouse. I think just as much of you anyway," and Jessie's eyes showed her earnestness.

"It's splendid of you to say that," he returned, in a low tone, and catching both her hands, he squeezed them tightly. "It's a grand good thing to have somebody who believes in you."

Early in the evening there was a slight shower, and some of the boys thought they were in for a steady rain. But soon the clouds passed, and the moon and stars came out as brightly as ever.

"A perfect day!" announced Roger, on arising the next morning. "Just cool enough to make mountain climbing a pleasure."

The servants had an early breakfast ready for the boys, and by the time the girls and the others appeared they had partaken of the repast and were ready to depart. Dave carried the rifle and Roger the shotgun, while the others were loaded down with several knapsacks of provisions and some extra wraps and a blanket or two.

"You want to take plenty of things with you," Dunston Porter had cautioned them. "You may get farther away from home than you anticipate, and may have to stay out all night."

"That's true, Uncle Dunston," Dave had answered. "And that being so, if we don't turn up at a reasonable hour, don't worry about us."

"But what will you do if you capture that wild man?" asked Mrs. Basswood.

"If it's Wilbur Poole, we'll make him a prisoner and bring him with us," announced Dave.

"Well, good luck to you!" cried Dunston Porter, as the boys prepared to leave. "Remember the hunting season opens to-day, so if you get a chance at any game don't let it slip you."

"Trust us for that, Uncle Dunston!" cried Dave.

With shouts of good-bye, the boys turned away from the bungalows, and a few minutes later disappeared along the path running beside the brook.