at six o’clock that night the two boys stood on the summit of bulwagga mountain, or on one of the summits, for bulwagga has two peaks. it was the hardest afternoon’s work they had ever undertaken. long before they threw down their burdens, two thousand feet above sea level, gordon had ceased to talk and devoted his breath to panting. it was a tough, tedious climb, but the game was well worth the candle. they looked off upon an endless landscape, dotted here and there with toy houses and pigmy villages.
“what’s the use of sawing wood and laying bricks and building houses and churches,” said harry, “if that’s all they amount to?”
indeed, bulwagga, standing silent and serene, close to the shore of the great lake, seemed to belittle everything. there lay crown point, a modest little cluster of tiny buildings. there lay the lake, almost under them, with all its little juttings and indentations plain to view. there was the crown point peninsula curving out into the middle of the lake and pointing northward like a great, clumsy thumb. inside it was bulwagga bay.
once upon a time, more than three centuries ago, the adventurous champlain sailed up this great lake which bears his name, with an exploring party of merry frenchmen. instead of turning their prows eastward into the narrow channel formed by the peninsula, they sailed gayly into bulwagga bay, supposing that an open path lay before them. but the bay proved to be a trap. down out of the fastnesses of the old mountain came the mohawk savages, and the gay little company was caught like a rat. harry, who knew the history of the lake, now saw just how it had happened. many a time and oft had the bloody mohawks made good use of this deceptive bay, and many who were caught and slaughtered there supposed they had reached the end of the winding sheet of water, for there was no sign posted on the end of the peninsula informing the explorer to turn to his left.
but now the old mountain, which had so long been the secret ally of the bloody mohawk tribe, gave up the secret, as if to say: “you see how we worked it. wasn’t it a great scheme?”
“harry,” said gordon, “i’m all in—let’s rest.”
“your motion is unanimously carried,” said harry, sitting down on a rock. “if i saw the camp ten feet in front of me now, i wouldn’t budge. now that’s just about where i think the smoke was,” he continued, pointing down into the woods which extended from the base of the mountain to the lake; “and if i’m right, we’ve got a grandstand view on them, provided there’s a moon. just as soon as they get their old logs blazing, we’ve got them. if—”
“now you spoil it all when you say if, harry. it isn’t necessary to say that. we’re sure to see them from up here. we’ve got them, sure, harry.”
there was some reason for his hopefulness. bulwagga mountain is, indeed, a mighty grand stand built on the shore of lake champlain. it is long and narrow, its length running parallel with the lake. there are two peaks, precisely placed, one at the northern, one at the southern, end of the ridge. by reason of bulwagga bay, the northern half of the mountain actually forms the shore, descending sheer like a great wall, as if to crowd the railroad into the water. the southern half sits back like a dress circle in a theater, or rather the lake flows wide of it, leaving a stretch of flat, wooded country between. here the mountain slopes down from its southerly peak, admitting of a descent, if you are cautious and care to undertake it; but there is no way to descend from the northern peak eastward except to go to the edge and jump off, a method which has never been popular with tourists.
on his western extent old bulwagga is more amiable. there is a road which works its way up toward the northern peak, as many a tired horse knows, but it does not get to the top; and you alight and plod on till you look straight down into the bay and can see the ruins of the crown point fortress on the end of the chubby peninsula. the southerly summit looks down with lofty scorn upon the touring parties that make the ascent of his brother peak, for he encourages no sightseers to come too near and trifle with his lonely majesty.
it is all very well for bulwagga to raise his twin crowns proudly and make a great show to summer boarders, but i can tell you that he might better bow his heads in shame, for he has a most bloody and disreputable history. i dare say there is not a mountain along the whole stretch of lake champlain and lake george that has gotten itself mixed up in so many massacres. for years its fastnesses echoed with warwhoops and with the cries of the dying. it was a favorite stronghold of the savage and treacherous mohawks. but all that is past.
it was the baffling, lonely, wild southerly peak of old bulwagga that the boys had succeeded in mounting. there was no road, no path, nothing but their compass to guide them. they had come up from the west and the spot where they threw themselves down commanded an unobstructed view of the stretch of woodland between them and the lake. as they looked down, a sudden jut of white smoke rose under the precipitous northern end of the mountain, the column traveling diagonally across the base of the peninsula toward the lake.
“listen,” said harry, and they heard the distant rattle of a hidden train, as it rushed across the peninsula to regain the shore.
“my, but it’s lonely up here, isn’t it, harry? when are we going to eat, anyway?”
“as soon as little gretchen brings in the firewood. i’ve got to sit right here so as to keep that woods down there in view. it wouldn’t be safe for me to move.”
“it wouldn’t, wouldn’t it?” said gordon, pushing his staff against harry’s chest and toppling him over backward. “get up and pitch camp, you lazy thing!”
they set to work putting up their shelter, and in a little while the frying pan sent forth its savory odor.
“let’s have some more of those bacon sandwiches, harry. where are the figs?”
“all gone. want coffee?”
“i certainly do.”
“it’ll keep you awake.”
“never! a brass band wouldn’t keep me awake up here.”
“all right, hand me over that egg powder. could you eat an omelette?”
“could i? here you go, catch this—catch this chocolate, too.”
“what’s that for?”
“scrape some into the egg powder, harry. it’ll make a sort of chocolate omelette.”
“why not put some cereal in, too, while we’re about it?”
“just the idea, and we’ll have a new breakfast food—choc-chocerealeg.”
“reminds you of the champastic motor,” laughed harry. “i wonder how the little chap’s getting on with his model.”
“we’ll get him in the troop, hey, harry?”
“by all means.”
after supper, to which both did full justice, they sat back to await the darkness. they had hoped to see some smoke which might indicate a cook fire, in the woods below, but supper time had come and gone and there had not been the faintest suggestion of any. it was true their outlook was by no means limited to the woods directly east of them. by shifting their position somewhat they could scan the country far to the west and south. but the woods to the east afforded an ideal spot for a camp; there was the lake just beyond—it was just such a spot as red deer would have chosen and near enough to show the trained vision of a scout the smoke of its cook fire. but there was none, and both boys rather dreaded the approach of darkness with, perhaps, its greater disappointment. for gordon enthusiastically, and harry quietly, had set their hopes all day on what a view from this old mountain might reveal.
“i know one thing,” said harry, “and that is, if we stay here over to-morrow, i’m going to find a place where little fishes dwell. methinks i could dally with a fried trout, sir gordon.”
“but why should we hang around here over to-morrow, harry?”
“because, my son, we don’t happen to be weather-vanes on the top of a steeple. if we don’t spy anything down there, we’ve got to get over that way till we can command the west,—savvy?”
“that’s a good expression, harry, ‘command the west.’”
“you like it?”
“it’s all right.”
“if i happen to use an expression you don’t like, just mention it.”
“the pleasure is mine,” said gordon.
ten o’clock arrived—eleven. no sign of a camp-fire. weary, sleepy, and disappointed, they turned in for the night.
the morning broke damp and foggy, with a drizzling rain veiling the country roundabout. the wind was east, the sky dull and heavy, giving no promise of clearing.
“rain before seven,
clear before eleven,”
sang gordon, cheerfully. “it’ll be a good day for fishing, anyway. i’m going after minnows. we’ll see if that trickle of water doesn’t broaden out some, hey?”
“i can tell you that without going,” said harry. “it does. it flows into the lake.”
“rises in bulwagga mountain,” said gordon, “takes an easterly course, and flows into lake champlain. correct; be seated, master lord.”
“a little south by east,” said harry, looking at his map.
“aye, aye, sir,” gordon answered. “a sail on the weather bow, cap’n.”
“look here, kid, we’ll have to stick it out up here to-day, and if there’s any sign of clearing by afternoon we’ll move over through this clump where we can command the west.”
“don’t talk about commanding the west, harry. last night you were going to command the east, and now the east has got you rattled. i don’t see us commanding this old country at all. it seems to me the country is having a great laugh on us. look at this game that we’re mixed up in now. this rain wasn’t on the map, was it? you give me a pain with your ridges and outlooks and things—and so does red deer with his blackboard charts! you call this a peak? i don’t see any peak to it. it’s a jungle—that’s what it is! where’s the peak?”
“we’re on it.”
“harry, you’re crazy. there’s no sign of a peak here.”
“isn’t that other one a peak, kid? well, over there this one looks the same.”
“all right,” said gordon, as if to make allowance for his friend’s peculiarities, “only don’t talk about ‘commanding the west.’”
“getting discouraged, kiddo?”
“no, i’m trusting to luck. i’m usually lucky. i found a quarter and a dime and a gold ring and a watch charm last year, and i believe i’ll run up against camp—that’s all.”
“good for you! well, now, give me your ear. i was just going to rise to remark when you made your little speech, that we’ll go over to the western side of this sharp peak, this tack point, this spire—”
“and the first and the last,
and the future and the past.
and the first and the last—”
sang gordon, doggedly.
“keep still!”
“well, then, you keep still.”
“kid, all you need is an apple. now listen to your patrol leader. it’s a scout’s duty to obey his leader. you need to brush up on the law a little.”
“i suppose that precipice over there is what you call a contour line,” said gordon, with deep sarcasm.
“that’s what uncle sam’s surveyors call it, but, of course, anything you say—”
“and when it comes to the law,” continued gordon, “you just want to read up general baden-powell—what he says about chivalry. it’s a scout’s duty to recount his adventures to maidens.”
“well, if i’d recounted a thrilling adventure like a rescue, she might have cried, kid.”
“maidens don’t cry—they weep.”
“well, this mutiny has got to be put down, anyway,” said harry. “i order you to dig a hole and bury this refuse, as per camping regulations of the boy scouts.”
the odds and ends of breakfast (and they were not many) were soon disposed of “as per,” and harry outlined his idea for exhausting all the possibilities of spying which the mountain afforded, before, like the famous duke of yorkshire, they marched down again.
despite the drizzling rain, they made their way to where the little neighboring rivulet formed a pool with a bright, pebbly bottom, and here they scooped up minnows almost by the handful, until their pail was thick with the little, darting, silvery fishes.
these harry fried in cracker crumbs, and they sat under their little shelter and enjoyed them, gordon keeping up a running comment on their tastiness and flavor. and i can tell you that if you happen to be on a lonely mountain on a drizzly day, you cannot do better than arrange yourself comfortably under your shelter, enjoy the remoteness, the wildness, laugh at the weather, and eat fried minnows.
in the afternoon harry, who was a true philosopher, took both camp cushions, which they had filled with balsam the night before, spread his blanket, pressed all available clothing into service to form a means of reclining, and settled back comfortably with a paper copy of “kidnapped,” which he had taken the precaution to bring against the possibility of just such weather as this.
“if any one calls, kid, i’m not at home—office hours after six.”
gordon knew what that meant. he hated robert louis stevenson as a rival. as sure as a rainy day came, harry would double up in a corner somewhere,—in his room, in the library, in the troop room,—and be dead to the world. at such times gordon was powerless, nothing could rouse his friend. he had hoped that harry might get through with this trip without an attack of the kind. but now it had come. stevenson, like rheumatism, was always to be counted on in bad weather.
“why don’t you tackle ‘brave and bold,’ kid?” said harry, as he settled down. gordon chose to interpret this as a cowardly and slurring attack on alger, and he disdained to reply.
“if you’re going to be knocking around in the scotch highlands all afternoon, i might as well take a walk.”
“don’t fall off the peak.”
gordon scorned this shallow attempt at humor. “how near through are you, anyway?”
“eight more chapters.”
“that’ll take you two hours. good-by.”
“here, take the compass—and don’t trip over those contour lines.”
gordon caught the compass, but his scout smile was conspicuous by its absence. the rain had held up somewhat, and he picked his way through the thick brush, every stir of which shook water upon him, for old bulwagga was thoroughly soaked from the continuous drizzle.
stumbling and creeping on, he soon found himself in a labyrinth which it was impossible to pass through, so interwoven were the limbs and vines. he retraced his path and was able to pick out a comparatively open way around this tangled spot. never had he seen such wildness. there was not a thing to indicate that any human being had ever before set foot on this rugged mountain top. great bowlders, covered with tenacious vines and sheltered by crooked sinewy branches, lay about in tumbling confusion.
“this is a peak, i don’t think!” he sneered, and brushed the water from his clothing. he came to a black pool in which broken twigs lay motionless, and there was the pungent odor of rotting wood and wet foliage. a few feet away stood a tall hemlock which seemed to rear its head out of the pandemonium of rock and thicket, into the light of day. as he looked about him in the silence of this untamed spot, it seemed as if all the materials of creation, rock, water, trees, creeping vines, had been thrown here in an indiscriminate heap.
it occurred to him that if he could get to the top of this big tree he might obtain an unobstructed view of all the country, north, east, south, and west. the trunk was large and the lowest branches a good distance from the ground, but he noticed that a young spruce rose within its spreading radius. he hung his hat and khaki coat on a projecting bush, wet his finger and made a mystic circle on his forehead for good luck, embraced the spruce, placed the wet soles of his sneakers against it, and went up like a monkey. transferring himself to the lowest branch of the hemlock, he paused for refreshment, producing from his trousers pocket a fishline, two sinkers, a jack-knife, an oval pebble, and a lead-pencil eraser. an exploration of the opposite pocket proved more successful, yielding half a handful of shelled nuts. he sat on the bough, dangling his legs and eating these. then up, stepping from bough to bough.
he had not gone far when he was conscious of a slight movement on the branch where his foot rested, and looking down he saw two little eyes gleaming at him out of what looked at first like a knotty projection of the wood. he moved his foot, and the little animal stirred correspondingly. it was no bigger than a cat.
gordon was a scout, and he had no wish to harm the animal, whatever it was; but he was also master gordon lord, and he was very curious. he let himself cautiously down and straddled the branch, facing the two eyes. the little creature, frightened at this move, backed out toward the end of the bough and gordon crept nearer. presently, they were at close quarters, and for a moment his quarry seemed undecided what to do. it scanned the tree above, then looked to the ground, then backed another inch or two—as far as it could go. gordon’s next move decided it. it gave a tremulous whine. instantly there came from below a sort of restrained howl, and gordon saw, climbing up the trunk of the tree, a good-sized gray animal with catlike eyes and a little bushy beard under its chin. he suspected it was a lynx.
the boy was about halfway out on the limb, the frightened kitten crouching ludicrously on the end, and its mother, presumably, coming to its rescue. gordon’s predicament was not a pleasant one, and again the words of red deer came jumping into his head: always use your brains first; then your hands and feet.
a move in either direction would hasten the animal’s ascent. the three participants in the affair paused motionless, staring at each other, the large animal’s body flattened against the trunk. then, with its cold eyes fixed cautiously on gordon, it resumed its climb, growling irritably. gordon fumbled for his jack-knife and opened it. the lynx paused again with its narrow eyes fixed upon him. the kitten humped its back and glared in a way that would have been amusing if the situation had not been dangerous.
with as little stir as possible, gordon pulled the fishline out of his pocket, which, being unwound and somewhat tangled, brought one or two of his precious possessions with it. he distinctly saw his lead-pencil eraser strike a branch below and bounce off into the pool. binding the open jack-knife against the end of his stick, he had a spear long enough, if effectual, to reach below the lowest branch and prevent the mother’s gaining a vantage ground above. he moved inward, much to the little animal’s relief. growling menacingly, the mother stealthily mounted, inch by inch. she was just making a quick movement to gain the lowest bough when she encountered the large open blade of gordon’s jack-knife. her mouth opened in a hissing growl as her paw cautiously felt the end of the stick. then she glided upward and gordon pricked her vigorously. with a howl that woke the forest, she crouched back and gave a spring, her fore paws clutching the lowest branch.
by this time the kitten was thoroughly frightened, crowding back on the end of the bough and whining piteously. this only served to make the mother more frantic. gordon stood on his branch, bracing himself against the trunk, and fought back the infuriated creature. and with every prick of his makeshift spear, it crouched back and advanced with renewed rage. it was a difficult and perilous encounter for the boy, for should he lose his foothold or pause but for a second the lynx would gain the lowest branch and it would be hopeless to try to check it. as long as he could keep it hugging the trunk, his chances were good, and this with all his might and main he strove to do, manipulating his weapon with the greatest dexterity to prevent the animal’s getting it between her teeth. each time he withdrew the stick, the beast gained an inch or two, retreating with each fresh thrust. its mouth was dripping blood and its paws were stained, but it fought with increasing fury, howling in a way to strike terror to the boy’s heart.
the jack-knife began to wobble on the stick, and presently it fell to the ground. the animal seemed to appreciate this advantage to itself, for it straightway made a savage onslaught. gordon waited till its mouth opened wide in a menacing hiss, then thrust his stick between its jaws and pushed it vigorously from him. there was a moment’s terrific struggle, the stick broke in the middle, and the lynx, clutching the end of it, went to the ground.
like lightning, gordon moved out toward the little animal and shook the branch desperately. but he could not shake it off. the mother was halfway up the trunk again, howling and climbing rapidly. there was no time to think. neither was there another small branch which he could quickly detach. in his desperate plight he stood above the infuriated creature, clutching the tree and kicking wildly with one foot. but he wore only sneakers, and presently he withdrew his leg, very much the worse for the encounter. he had gained time, however, to perform the acrobatic feat of tearing off his flannel shirt with one hand. hastily getting a match from his hat, he set fire to the shirt and held it down above the animal’s head. singed and howling, it backed away from this new weapon. but the shirt was presently all aflame and gordon could not hold it. reaching as far down as he could, he dropped it against his enemy’s face.
then arose such a howl as he had never heard. backing down the trunk, principally by means of its hind legs, the animal tried to rid itself of the blazing garment by its fore paws. the result was that its claws caught in it. presently it bounded from the trunk to the ground, freeing itself from the burning shreds. gordon saw that he had but a moment in which to act. if he failed now there was no other weapon available.
he moved rapidly out toward the little creature. it whined as he approached, and an answering whine came from below. the mother, its front hair singed, was again on the tree trunk. he feared if he went farther the limb would break, but it was his only hope, for he could not shake the little creature off. so he moved out, the branch crackling ominously beneath him, and grabbed it by the nape of its neck. it whined piercingly and clung to the tree. he wrenched it off just as the lynx had reached the same branch. holding it up so that its mother might clearly see what he was doing, he threw it into the pool below. at this moment the infuriated mother was within five feet of him. what she might have done if he had thrown her baby to the ground is uncertain. seeing it in the pool, she did not hesitate. with the hatred of water which all the cat tribe possess, she could not trust her kitten to its dangers. with a shriek she sprang from the bough, and ran excitedly round the pool. then the necessity gave her courage and she swam to the little one’s rescue. dripping with the slimy water, her head woefully singed and matted with blood, gordon saw her bring the little one to shore in her mouth and trot silently off into the thicket.
“if she had only known,” said he, “that i didn’t mean to hurt it.”
the creature had given him a great scare and called forth all the agility and ingenuity that he possessed, but now that it was over he felt nothing but admiration for his foe. and afterward, when he “recounted the adventure,” he always made a great point of its plunging into the pool and coming out, dripping and bloody, and trotting off with the kitten into the forest.
he had lost all desire to climb the tree, his leg was badly scratched, and his nerves on edge. he knew that he had come in a southerly direction from camp and that he had only to work his way northward through the woods to return. and though the way was tangled and baffling, he could have managed it except for one trifling circumstance.
he had lost the compass.
