# Snagged and Sunk/Chapter 8

CHAPTER VIII
JOE WAYRING IN TROUBLE.
MR. SWAN, who had come to Indian Lake to purchase some supplies for his family, took a couple of baskets from his canoe and walked back to the place where Joe Wayring and his friends were standing.
"There's one thing I 'most forgot to tell you," said he, as he came up. "Them three cronies of yours, Tom Bigden and his cousins, are spending their vacation in visiting with Matt Coyle and his family."
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Roy and Arthur, in concert.
"Leastwise we think they are," continued the guide, "for they have more to do with Matt than they do with any body else. The boys have often seen them together, and they seem to be as thick as so many thieves."
"That's what we get by sending them word that if they wanted their fishing-rods they could come and get them," said Joe, after a little pause. "If we had redeemed their property at the time we redeemed ours, Tom and his cousins wouldn't have come here."
"Well, the woods are big enough for all of you, ain't they?" said the guide. "You needn't have any thing to do with 'em if you don't want to."
"We are not sure of 'that," answered Roy. "We shall not trouble them, but that's no sign that they will keep away and let us alone."
"Why are they having so much to do with Matt Coyle?" said Arthur. "That looks suspicious."
"It does indeed," said Joe, seriously. "I am afraid it means business for us."
"I don't see why it should," replied Mr. Swan. "You stay on this side the lake and let them stay on the other, and you needn't come together at all . They ain't going to tramp twelve miles through the woods to that spring-hole just for the sake of getting into a fuss with you."
"Don't they know that Matt and his boys are in danger of arrest?" asked Arthur.
"Course they know it. They couldn't help it, seeing that they come here every few days after supplies and mail," said the guide. "The guides who saw them talking together didn't know what to make of it, and I don't either."
"There's something between Tom and Matt, and you may depend upon it," said Joe. "It has leaked out in Mount Airy that Tom tried to put Matt up to lots of mischief before he went away. He told the squatter that it would be a good plan for him to burn my father's house, and turn our sailboats adrift so that they would go into the rapids and be smashed to pieces."
"Well, he's a bright feller!" exclaimed the guide. "Don't he know that he will get himself into trouble by that sort of work? There they come now."
The boys turned about and saw three canoes coming toward the landing. The crews who were handling the paddles must have been surprised to see Joe and his chums there, for as soon as they recognized them they stopped and held a short consultation.
Now, although the two opposing factions to which Tom and Joe belonged felt very bitter toward each other, they had never come to open warfare. They played ball together, always spoke when they met, and tried to be civil; but there was scarcely a boy on either side who would not have been glad to see Tom Bigden neatly thrashed. Prime, Noble, Scott, and the rest of the fellows who made their head-quarters at the Mount Airy drug store disliked him because he had tried to set himself up for a leader among them; and Joe and his friends had no friendship for him because they knew how persistently Tom, aided by his cousins, had tried to injure them ever since he came to the village to live.
"If Tom could point to a single mean thing we ever did to him, I shouldn't be so much surprised at his hostility," Joe often said. "But for him to attempt to ride over us rough shod just because he is jealous of us—that's something we won't put up with. If he had the least spark of manliness in him, he would quit his under-handed work, come out open and above-board, and settle the matter with a fair stand-up fight. But he is too big a coward to do that, so he tries to sick Matt Coyle onto us."
Having brought their consultation to a close, Tom and his cousins dipped their paddles in the water again and drew up alongside the skiff. If you had been there you would have thought, from the cordial manner in which they greeted Joe and his companions, that they were the best friends in the world.
"Much obliged to you for telegraphing to us about our rods," said Tom. "We've got 'em now, and it will be a cold day when Matt Coyle gets his hands on them again."
"I shouldn't think you would like to associate with that man as freely as you do," said Roy, who could not forget that Tom had tried his best to make one of their canoe meets a failure. "He will spring something on you sure, and I wouldn't have any thing to do with him."
Tom Bigden's amazing assurance was not proof against an assault like this. He turned all sorts of colors, but managed at last to say, in reply—
"You must think I am hard up for associates. My interviews with Coyle have been purely accidental. I couldn't help speaking to him when he spoke to me. Where are you fellows going?'"
"We intend to hunt up some trout-fishing before we go home," answered Arthur.
"Then you'll have to go back to some of the spring-holes," said Loren. "I'll bet there isn't a legal trout in any of the waters about here. They've been fished to death."
Arthur had nothing more to say, for it was no part of his plan to tell Tom just where he and his companions were going. The three boys loitered about for a minute or two, trying to think of something else to talk about, and then they said good-by and walked toward the Sportsman's Home.
"I don't see what there is betwixt you boys," said Mr. Swan, as soon as Tom was out of hearing. "Those fellows seem friendly enough."
"Yes; but we know that they are not to be trusted," replied Joe. "Ralph and Loren are not so very bad, but Tom will do us a mean turn the first good chance he gets."
"He didn't tell the truth: when he said that he had met Matt Coyle only by accident," added the guide. "Some of the boys told me that one day last week he waited for Matt Coyle about two miles this side of the hatchery for more than an hour. That looked as though he had made an appointment."
"I wish I had thought to speak to Tom about those guns," observed Roy. "Do you know how he came to get hold of them, Mr. Swan? He must have told some sort of a story when he turned them over to the landlord of the Sportsman's Home."
"I guess you don't believe he come by 'em in a legitimate way," laughed Mr. Swan. "Well, mebbe he didn't; I don't know. He said he found 'em while he and his cousins were roaming about in the woods, hunting squirrels. The place to hunt for them is around cornfields, and not in thick woods."
Having at last found their letters, Joe and his chums slung their camp-baskets over their shoulders, and started for the hotel, talking with the guide as they went, and listening attentively to his instructions regarding the route they would have to follow in order to reach the spring-hole. They engaged him to look out for their skiff while they were gone, after which they hunted up the storekeeper, from whom they purchased supplies enough to last them a week.
"Going up to No-Man's Pond, be you?" said Morris, the guide who had patched up the hole that Matt Coyle's scow knocked in the skiff on the night the "battle in the dark" took place. "Well, you'll catch plenty of fish, but you will have a hard time getting there. You see, some lazy lout of a guide went to work and filled the carry full of trees and bushes, for fear that he might be called upon to show a guest over there. You will have to pick your way through the thickest woods you ever saw; so you want to go as light as possible."
"We shall take nothing but my canvas canoe, these three camp-baskets, and our rods and guns," replied Joe. "We have a good compass—"
"Well, whatever you do, don't quarrel with it," said Morris. "If you get turned around and see the sun go down in the north, when he ought to set in the west, don't get frightened and run yourself to death, the way Billy Sawyer done two years ago. Billy had been guide for this country, man and boy, for more than twenty years. The last time I saw him, he was just starting out for the swamp about three miles the other side of No-Man's Pond, intending to spend a month or so in trapping; but we don't think he ever saw the swamp or the pond, either. First he lost his bearings, then he lost his head, then he went tearing through the woods, till he dropped and died of exhaustion within half a mile of the hotel."
"And he was an old guide, you say?" exclaimed Roy.
"Sartin. Guides ain't no more infallible than other folks. I have been lost myself; but my employer didn't know it, I bet you. I kept my head about me, and worked my way out all right. Well, good-by. You can eat supper on the shore of that pond if you hold the direct course; but if you lose it don't grumble at the compass."
The boys knew just how hard it was for a bewildered person to place implicit faith in the needle, for they had been lost scores of times in the woods in the immediate vicinity of Mount Airy; but they did not get lost this time. Joe Wayring went in advance, carrying me in one hand and the little brass box in the other, and brought his companions to No-Man's Pond, as the spring-hole was called, in ample time to catch and cook a supper of trout and make all the necessary preparations for the night. Twice while we were on the way we came in sight of the portage that led from Indian Lake to the spring-hole, but we could not see any signs of a path. It was completely concealed by the huge trees that that lazy guide had cut across it.
"I wonder if this is the place we're looking for," said Joe, depositing meat the roots of a spreading balsam and taking the camp basket from his back. "It must be. Here are the mountains on three sides of us and the hills on the other, and over there is the golden bathing beach that Mr. Swan told us of. Hi yi! Did you see that?" he added, as a monster trout showed himself above the water within easy casting distance of the edge of the lily-pads.
"I should say so," replied Arthur. "I don't care whether this is No-Man's Pond or not; there are big trout in it, and this is a splendid place to build a shanty. Now let's get to work. Who will put the canvas canoe together and catch supper for us? who will cut the wood and pick browse for the beds? and who will throw up a roof of some sort for us to sleep under to-night? Most any thing will do, as there are no signs of rain. To-morrow we will pitch in, all hands, and put up a good house.
"I'll pick the browse," said Roy, who was lying prone upon the leaves fanning himself with his hat. "I'm just tired enough to do such lazy work. I'll tell you what's a fact, fellows: If I were Mr. Hanson, and could find out what guide it was who choked up that portage, I'd never give him another day's employment as long as he and I lived. I am tired to death and roasted besides."
The others said they were too, but they did not waste time in grumbling over it. They set to work at once, Arthur clearing the leaves from the ground on which he intended to erect the lean-to, while Joe took me from my case and made me ready for business. After that he put Fly-rod together, fastened a couple of flies to his leader, and shoved through the lily-pads to catch that big trout, or others like him, for supper. By that time Roy Sheldon had mustered up energy enough to take his double-bladed ax from his basket and go in search of firewood. They worked to such good purpose, one and all, that, by the time the sun went down and darkness settled over the spring- hole, they were ready for the night. The browse lay a foot deep all over the floor of the lean-to; the beds were made up side by side, with a pillow (a little bag of unbleached muslin, left open at both ends and stuffed with browse) at the head of each; the fire had burned down to a glowing bed of coals, over which the trout and coffee-pot were simmering and sputtering; and the whole was lighted up by the Ferguson jack-lamp which hung suspended from a clipped bough close at hand. A tramp of twelve miles on an August day, through a wilderness so dense that not the faintest breath of air can reach you is no joke; and it was little wonder that the boys were too tired to talk. They ate their trout and johnny-cake and sipped their weak coffee in silence, and then crawled to their beds under the lean-to without thinking to wash the dishes; although that was a disagreeable duty they seldom neglected. They slept soundly, too, in blissful ignorance of the fact that there was another camp within less than three miles of the spring-hole, and that the owners of that camp were looking for them.
Nine hours' sleep has a wonderfully rejuvenating effect upon a healthy boy; and when our three friends left their blankets at five o'clock the next morning, and started on a keen run toward the "golden bathing beach" before spoken of, they were their own jolly, uneasy selves again. A hasty dip in the water, which was so cold that they could not long remain in it, two or three hotly contested races along the beach to get up a reaction, followed by a vigorous rubbing with coarse towels, put them in the right trim for more trout and johnny-cake; and the trout and johnny-cake put them in the humor for the work that must be done if their sojourn at the spring-hole was to be a pleasant one. The Indian Lake wilderness was noted for its sudden and violent storms, and when they came the boys meant to be ready for them. They did not forget to wash the dishes this time, and then Arthur and Joe went to work to build the shanty, while Roy busied himself in collecting a supply of fuel and building a range.
If you have never passed a vacation in the woods, you probably do not know that a camp fire and a camp range are two different things. The first is made directly in front of the open part of the shanty, and is intended for warmth and comfort, and for light, also, when you have no lantern or jack-lamp. The range is built off on one side, a little out of the way, and is made by placing two green logs, five or six feet long, and eight inches in diameter, side by side on the.ground, about a foot apart at one end, and nearly touching at the other. The open end of the range is placed to windward—that is in the direction from which the wind blows—to create a draft, and the upper sides of the logs are hewn off square with an ax, so that the pots, pans, and kettles will stay where they are put, and not slip off into the fire. You build a hard-wood fire between these logs, and when it has stopped blazing and burned a thick bed of coals you are ready to begin your cooking. To facilitate the handling of hot dishes on the range, Joe Wayring had a pair of light blacksmith's tongs, with the jaws curved instead of straight. This was the handiest little tool I ever saw. With its aid Joe could pour out coffee, dish up soup, and remove the frying-pan from the range; and, as the tongs were always cold, no one ever saw him dancing about the fire with burned fingers.
The boys worked until three o'clock without even stopping for lunch, and then Roy got into the canvas canoe and pushed out to catch trout enough for supper, while Arthur cut down evergreens to furnish fresh browse for the beds. It was about this time that I introduced them to you in the first chapter. Joe Wayring had just put the finishing touches upon the shanty (I didn't wonder that he was satisfied with it, for Mr. Swan himself could not have put up a neater little house) and started the conversation with which I commenced my story. He gave it as his opinion that their camp was well out of Tom Bigden's reach, and that Matt Coyle and his boys were much too indolent to walk twelve miles through a thick wood just to get into a fight with them; and at the very moment he said it some of those whose names he had mentioned were trying their best to find him.
Having disposed of their late dinner and cleaned up the camp, the boys were at liberty to lie around under the trees and rest. This, for a wonder, Joe Wayring was quite willing to do; but Roy and Arthur suddenly took it into their heads that they would like to explore the spring-hole and see how big it was and what it looked like.
"Well, go on," said Joe, "and I will stay here and keep up the fire and rest. Two are enough to ride in that canoe. Take your rods and catch some trout for breakfast. You ought to have fine sport, for they are jumping up in every direction."
Roy and Arthur thought it best to act upon this suggestion, and from force of habit they also put their guns into the canoe before shoving out into the spring-hole. That, was one of the luckiest things those two boys ever did.
By the time they had made two hundred yards from shore, the voyagers discovered that No-Man's Pond was not a circular basin, as it appeared to be when viewed from the beach in front of their camp. Its shape was very irregular. Numerous long points jutted into the water from both sides, and behind these points were secluded bays in which numberless flocks of wood duck lived unmolested by any enemy save the bald eagles that now and then swooped down and carried off one of their number for dinner.
The boys paddled up on one side of the spring-hole and down the other, going entirely around it and exploring all the little bays and inlets in their course, seeing nothing in the shape of game except the ducks, which quickly sought concealment under the broad leaves of the lily-pads, and finally they dropped anchor in the mouth of a little brook that emptied into the pond, and jointed their rods. It did not take them more than twenty minutes to catch their next morning's breakfast. In fact, the trout were so eager to take their flies, sometimes jumping clear out of the water to meet them, that the sport was robbed of all excitement.
"I would as soon fish in an aquarium," said Roy, as he pulled his rod apart and shoved it into its case. "I like to angle for trout, but this suits me too well. What would some of Mr. Hanson's guests, who haven't caught a legal fish this season, give to be here with us? Let's go to camp and see what friend Joe is doing."
For some reason or other the boys did not sing and shout, as they usually did on occasions like this. Arthur lay at full length in the bow, his chin resting on his arms, which were crossed over the gunwales, and Roy plied the paddle with so much skill that it scarcely made a ripple in the water. As we came noiselessly around the point that obstructed our view of the upper end of the spring-hole, Arthur uttered an ejaculation of astonishment and alarm, raised himself to a sitting posture with so much haste that he came within a hair's breadth of capsizing me, and reached for his gun, while Roy sat with open mouth and staring eyes, holding his paddle suspended in the air, and looking in the direction of the camp. I looked too, and if I had possessed a heart the scene that met my gaze would have set it to beating like a trip-hammer.
Joe Wayring was no longer lying at his ease under the shade of the evergreens. He was standing with his face to a tree, which he seemed to be clasping with his white, sinewy arms; his back was bared, and he was looking over his shoulder at Matt Coyle, who stood behind and a little to one side of him, rolling up his sleeves. Near by stood Sam, and Jake, each holding a heavy switch in his hand.
In an instant I comprehended the situation—or thought I did. I had heard Matt declare, in savage tones, that some day he and his boys would tie Joe Wayring to a tree and larrup him till he'd wish that he and his crowd had minded their own business; and now Matt was about to carry his threat into execution. He meant to do his work well, when he got at it; for, in addition to the switches that Jake and Sam held in their hands, I saw several others lying on the ground beside them. I had never dreamed that the enmity Matt cherished toward my master was so intense and bitter that it would lead him to go twelve miles out of his way to wreak vengeance upon him, and it was a mystery to me how he ever found out that Joe and his two chums were camping in this particular spot. I did not believe that Matt had come there by accident, and he hadn't, either, as I afterward learned. He and his boys were on Joe's trail within three hours after he left Indian Lake, and they had been looking for him ever since, being urged on by something besides a desire for revenge, as I gained from the very first words I heard the squatter utter.
When we rounded the point we were within less than thirty yards of our camp, and in plain sight of it; But its occupants were so deeply interested in their own affairs that they did not see us. I felt a thrill of indignation run all through me when I caught a glimpse of my master's pale face, and was proud of him when T saw that there were no signs of cringing in him. Matt bared his brawny arm clear to the shoulder, caught up a switch, gave it a flourish or two to make sure that it would stand the work to which he intended to put it, and then said in a loud voice, as if he were addressing some one on the other side of the spring-hole:
"Now, then, where is it? You see that we are in dead 'arnest, I reckon, don't you? What have you done with it?"
"I tell you I don't know any thing about it," said Joe's clear, ringing voice in reply. "I never saw it."
For some reason or other these words seemed to set Jake Coyle beside himself. He yelled like a wild Indian, leaped from the ground, and made his heavy switch whistle as it cut the air in close proximity to the prisoner's unprotected back. As soon as he could speak plainly he shouted—
"You have seed it too, an' you do know somethin' about it. Whoop! Put it onto him, pap, or else stand away from there an' let me get at him. Don't you mind how he slapped me in the face with that paddle of your'n? An' now he's gone an' stole—"
"Don't be in a hurry, Jakey," interrupted Matt. "Your turn'll come after I get through with him. I'll let you at him directly. Look here," he went on, once more addressing himself to Joe. "You won't get no help from your friends, an' you needn't look for it. When we was comin' through the woods, we seen 'em puttin' for Injun Lake tight as they could go. Didn't we, Jakey? Now if you will ax our parding for your meanness to us, an' tell us where it is, we'll let you off easy. What do you say?"
"I say I won't do it," answered Joe, in undaunted tones. "I shan't ask your pardon, and you can't make me. I haven't done any thing to you."
"You ain't?" roared Matt, drawing back the switch as if he were about to let it fall on Joe's back. "Don't you call drivin' honest folks outen Mount Airy 'cause they ain't got no good clothes to w'ar, an' keepin' 'em from earnin' a livin' that they' ve got jest as good a right to as you rich ones have—don't you call that doin' somethin'?"
"And furthermore," continued Joe, "I tell you, for the last time, that I don't know any thing about that money. I never saw it."
"Whoop!" shouted Jake, going off into another war-dance. "You have seed it, an' you know all about it. You had them two grip-sacks into your baskets, you an' your friends did, when you left Injun Lake to come up yer. Tom Bigden said so."
"Whoop!" yelled Matt, in his turn. "Now you've done it, you fule! Didn't that Bigden boy say plain enough that he didn't want you to speak his name at all? See if that won't put some gumption into your thick head; an' that, an' that! I'll learn you to find six thousand dollars, an' go an' hide it from your pap, an' then let fellers like Joe Wayring steal it from you, you ongrateful scamp."
Jake was generally on the lookout for sudden bursts of fury on the part of his sire, but this time he was taken by surprise. Before he could dodge or stir an inch from his tracks, he received a most unmerciful beating, one that gave me a faint idea of what was in store for Joe Wayring. When he turned to run, the face he presented to our view was bleeding in half a dozen places.
"There, now," exclaimed Matt, who was almost frantic. "Go an' hide some more money from your pap, an' blab when you was told to hold your jaw, won't you? Now that I have got my hand in, I reckon I might as well finish with you," he continued, turning back and taking his stand behind the prisoner. "Once more I ax you: Will you tell me where you have hid that money?"
"I have nothing more to say," replied Joe, in an unfaltering voice.
The answer added fuel to the fire of Matt's rage. He moistened his hand and seized the switch with a firmer hold, while Joe turned his face to the tree and nerved himself to receive the expected blow. That was more than Arthur Hasting could endure; but it brought his scattered wits back to him. In an instant his double barrel was at his shoulder, and his flashing eye was looking along the rib.
"Hold on there!" he shouted. "If you touch that boy I will put more holes through you than you ever saw in a skimmer. Throw down that gad and stand where you are."
The effect of these words was magical. Jake Coyle, whose doleful howls of anguish had awakened a thousand echoes among the surrounding hills, suddenly ceased his lamentations; the white face of Joe Wayring turned toward us lighted up with hope; and Matt and Sam looked at Arthur and his threatening gun with eyes that seemed to have grown to the size of saucers. For a second or two no one moved or spoke; then one of the three marauders gave a perfect imitation of the cry of alarm the mother grouse utters when her brood is menaced with danger, whereupon Matt and his boys disappeared in the most bewildering way. They were seen to drop where they stood, and that was the last of them. Although Arthur rose to his feet as quickly as he could and Roy plied the paddle with all his strength, they did not catch another glimpse of the squatter, nor was there the slightest rustling in the bushes to tell which way he and his allies had gone.