Tom Fairfield's Hunting Trip: or, Lost in the Wilderness

“Now I’ll leave here alone,” he went on. “I don’t want to be seen in your company outside.”

“Not good enough for you, I reckon,” sneered Whalen.

“Well, it might lead to – er – complications,” was the retort. “So give me half an hour’s start. I’m going to drive back where I hired this cutter, and then take a train. You follow me in two days and I rather guess Tom Fairfield will wish he’d kept his fingers out of my pie!” cried Mr. Skeel, with a burst of anger.

The three whispered together a few minutes longer, and then the former instructor came out of the road-house alone and drove off.

“What do you think of him?” asked Murker of Whalen.

“Not an awful lot,” was the answer. “But he’ll pay us well, and it will give me a chance to get square with that Fairfield pup. I owe him something.”

“Well, I don’t care anything about him, one way or the other,” was the rejoinder. “I went into this thing because you asked me to, and to make a bit of money. If I do that, I’m satisfied. Now let’s get cigars and slide out of here at once.”

And thus the plotters separated.

Meanwhile, Tom and his friends were a merry party. They talked, laughed and joked, now and then casting glances at their pile of baggage, which included gun cases and cameras. For they were to do both kinds of hunting in the mountain camps, and they were particularly interested in camera work, since they were taking up something of nature study in their school course.

The railroad trip was without incident of moment, if we except one little matter. It was when George Abbot mentioned casually the name of Whalen, one of the men employed at Elmwood Hall.

“I wonder why he left so suddenly?” George said, as they were speaking of some happening at school.

“I guess I was to blame for that,” Tom explained, as he related the incident of the cruel treatment on the part of Whalen.

“I thought he looked rather sour,” went on George.

“Why, were you talking to him lately?” asked Tom, a sudden look of interest on his face.

“Yes, the day before we left the Hall. He met me in town and borrowed a quarter from me. Said he wanted to send a telegram to friends who would give him work. Then he and I got talking, and I happened to mention that we fellows were going camping.”

“You did!” exclaimed Tom.

“This Whalen was quite interested,” resumed George. “He asked me a lot of questions about the location of the camps, and what route we were going to take.”

“Did you tell him?” demanded Tom.

“Why, yes, I told him some things. Any harm?”

“No, I don’t know that there was,” spoke Tom more slowly and thoughtfully. “But did Whalen say why he wanted to know all that?”

“No, not definitely. He did mention, though, that he might look for a job somewhere up North, and I suppose that was why he asked so many questions.”

“Maybe,” said Tom, in a low voice. Then he did some hard thinking.

In due time Hemlock Junction was reached. This was the end of the train journey, and the boys piled out with their baggage, their guns and cameras. It was cold and snowing.

“I guess that’s our man over there,” remarked Tom, indicating a person in a big overcoat with a fur cap and a red scarf around his neck. “Does he look as though his name was Sam Wilson?” asked our hero of his chums.

“Why Sam Wilson?” asked Jack.

“Because that’s the name of the man who was to meet us and drive us over to camp,” Tom said.

The man, with a smile illuminating his red face, approached.

“Looks to be plenty of room in the pung,” remarked Tom.

“What’s a pung?” asked George.

“That big sled, sort of two bobs made into one, with only a single set of runners,” explained Tom, indicating the sled to which were hitched four horses, whose every movement jingled a chime of musical bells.

“Be you the Fairfield crowd?” asked the man.

“That’s us,” Tom said. “Are you Sam Wilson?”

“Yes.”

“Then, we are discovered, as the Indians said to Columbus,” Jack murmured, in a low voice.

“Pile in,” invited Sam Wilson, indicating the pung. “I’ll get your traps. Ain’t this fine weather, though?”

“It’s a bit cold,” Bert remarked.

“That’s what a party said that I drove over to your camp the other day,” spoke Sam. “He was from down Jersey way, too. You fellers must be sort of cold-blooded down thar! This chap complained of the cold. But pshaw! This is mild to what we have sometimes. Yes, this feller I drove over kept rubbin’ his ears all the while. One ear was terrible red, and it wasn’t all from the cold either. It had some sort of a scar on it, like it had been chawed by some wild critter. It sure was a funny ear!”

Tom looked at his chums with startled gaze. This was disquieting news indeed.

CHAPTER VII

AT CAMP

Seemingly by common consent on the part of Tom’s chums, it was left for him to further question Sam Wilson and learn more about the man the caretaker had driven over to the hunting camp. And Tom was not slow to follow up the matter. He had his own suspicions, but he wanted to verify them.

“You say you drove someone over to our camp yesterday?” Tom asked.

“Not yesterday, the day before,” was the answer. “And it wasn’t exactly to your camp, but near it. Your camp is a private one, you know – that is, it belongs to an association, and I understand you boys are to have full run of all three places.”

“Yes, the gentlemen who make up the organization very kindly gave us that privilege,” assented Tom.

“Then you’re the only ones allowed to use the camps,” went on Sam. “I’ll see to that, being the official keeper. I’m in charge the year around, and sometimes I am pretty hard put to keep people out that have no business in. So, naturally, I wouldn’t drive no stranger over to one of my camps – I call ’em mine,” he added with a smile, “but of course I’m only the keeper.”

“We understand,” spoke Tom, and his tone was grave.

“Well, then you understand I wouldn’t let anyone in at the camps unless they came introduced, same as you boys did.”

“Well, where did you drive this man then – this man with – ” began George, but Jack silenced him with a look, nodding as much as to say that it was Tom’s privilege to do the questioning.

“I drove this man over to Hounson’s place,” resumed the camp-keeper, as he saw that all the baggage was piled in the pung. “This man Hounson keeps what he calls a hunters’ camp, but shucks! It’s nothing more than a sort of hotel in the woods. Some hunters do put up there, but none of the better sort.

“The gentlemen who own the three camps you’re going to tried to buy up Hounson’s place, as they didn’t like him and his crowd around here, but he wouldn’t sell. That’s where I took this Jersey man who complained of the cold. Kept rubbing his ears, and one of ’em was chawed, just as if some wild critter had him down and chawed him. ’Course I didn’t say anything about it, as I thought maybe it might be a tender subject with him. But I left him at Hounson’s.”