Adventure Magazine Cover — page 92: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

9O the tentative rendezvous, slowed up the progress of the boat and lingered a while; but the scouts did not appear, so he forged ahead until after dark, when, having at- tained the point he desired, he caused the boat to be moored in a bend of the river where the current set away from the bank, thus holding the craft nearly in the middle of the stream. Crist meanwhile, having been unable to get an answer from Floyd in response to his calls across the river, had pushed on to a point slightly above the boat. Here, sitting on the ground in total darkness, with the patience of the most stoical Indian, he looked and listened for two hours. When the moon rose he lay down and went to sleep. At about three o’clock with the unerring instinct of the woodsman he awoke and noiselessly made his way to the riverbank a few yards distant. Here he sat waiting for another half hour. Then there came from the opposite shore the cry of a whippoorwill, repeated three times. A pause of a few moments, and again the cry was repeated thrice. Crist now drew from his pocket a home-made ‘‘call” and sounded upon it a very fair imita- tion of the squawk of the night-heron. Presently he was able to discern a queer sort of craft detaching itself from the shad- ows of the farther shore. Slowly it crept across the stream. As it came nearer, the moonlight showed it to be a portion of dead tree-trunk, with two or three naked limbs thrusting out this way and that. Floyd, his gun slung on his back, squatted on the trunk, paddling with a smaller piece of driftwood. As the first streaks of dawn appeared in the east the flatboat’s cable was cast off its mooring place on the bank and the old scow began her leisurely journey upstream. Three-quarters of an hour later, when the world was pink with the glow of the advanc- ing dawn, Crist and Floyd showed them- selves on the bank, and the boat pulled toward them. To obviate the necessity of a landing they walked out on the stem of a leaning sycamore which thrust itself over the water almost horizontally, and from there swung to the deck of the boat as it passed underneath them. ‘“There’s a comely little grassy bench and a good spring-about a mile above here,”’ said Crist after the party had discussed the day’s progress, ‘‘where we can land and cook Adventure our breakfast. I’ve camped there before.’? “IT was aimin’ to make for that very place, Henery,”’ remarked Spears. The men bent to the sweeps again, and the boat moved up toward the desired spot. The sun was rising in splendor over a pic- ture divine in its beauty, of river and forest and rolling hills. It did not seem possible that there could be death or danger or hatred anywhere in such a smiling land- scape. As the camping place came into sight—a level, somewhat open spot about ten feet above the river, with the bank sloping thence steeply down to the water’s edge— Crepps pointed out as a convenient mooring post a young sycamore that was dabbling its feet in the water at the margin. Thence the boat bent its course. It was only a few yards from the bank when Fossett threw up his hand and cried— “Listen!” The rowers paused in their swing, and the whole party were breathlessly silent for a moment. Then from the woods near the mtended landing-place there came a familiar— “‘Gobble-obble-obble-obble!”’ “Turrkeys, boys!” cried Jack. “‘Turrkeys! Think of a nice, fat gobbler for breakfast! Who’s wid me to get one or two of ’em?”’ “T am!” promptly replied Dick Chino- weth, an enthusiastic hunter. “It’ll be safe, won’t it, Mr. Crepps?”’ “Ain’t anything safe in this country,” replied the woodsman. “That may not even be turkeys you hear.”’ “Oh, the !? exclaimed Fossett. ‘I’ve heard ’em thousands of times, and I never heard anything more like.” “Well, don’t go too far into the woods,”’ cautioned Crist. “I’m not sure that you ought to leave the party at all.” ‘We'll be back in a few minutes wid a brace of fine birds,”’ boasted Fossett. He and Chinoweth had been slinging on their powder-horns and shot-pouches as they talked. They were like small boys— even a grudging consent was eagerly ac- cepted. Seizing their guns, they ran to the bow and sprang ashore before the boat had touched the bank; hurried up the slope to the edge of the bench and disappeared over the brow. The boat moved slowly up to the syca- more. Fastened to the bow was a long mooring chain with a hook at the end of it. MICLOOOK ©