After lunch, the Cubs lay for awhile under the trees, basking in the steamy warmth of the sun.
“I see a lot of good hickory and birch around here,” Red said, stirring to effort. “Let’s get busy on those Indian bow staves.”
“Go to it,” Mr. Hatfield urged. “But don’t mutilate any of the trees.”
For the next hour, the Cubs wandered about, selecting choice pieces of hickory, white elm and other woods favored for staves. Midge’s father showed them how to dress the ends.
“Time we’re getting back,” he announced suddenly, picking up his knapsack. “Come on, gang.”
“Say, where is Chips?” Brad demanded, counting noses.
“And Red?” added Dan.
“They were here only a few minutes ago,” Fred recalled. “Come to think, I heard Chips say something about looking for a yew tree!”
“That dumb cluck!” Dan exploded. “If he were in an evergreen forest, he’d start looking for a date palm!”
Mr. Hatfield whistled several times and waited for an answering signal. None came.
“Red and Chips can’t be far away,” he said.
“Want me to go after them?” Brad volunteered.
“We’ll all follow their trail,” the Cub leader decided. “But keep together, gang. We’ve no time to look for other stragglers.”
The Cubs moved along, eyes intent on the ground. A short distance from where they had eaten lunch, Brad came upon a heel mark in a little patch of black, moist earth.
Pausing, he studied the mark a moment. “From Chips’ shoe,” he identified it. “I can tell by that wing design heel mark.”
A little farther on Dan found Red’s tracks. A broken bush indicated the direction in which he had gone.
“At least they’re together,” Mr. Holloway said in relief.
“Those dumb bunnies!” Fred said irritably. “What made ’em wander off that way? Do they think we’ve got nothing to do but trail them?”
Mr. Hatfield, deeply troubled, paused at intervals to give the familiar whistle. No answering call came through the woodland.
The trail of the two wanderers, led on and on to the banks of a racing creek.
Mr. Hatfield paused a moment to study a pile of logs and debris brought down by the flood. The litter had accumulated in a narrow gorge formation.
“Notice how those logs form a dam across the stream,” he remarked.
“The water could back up fast in event of a real flood,” agreed Mr. Holloway, following the Cub leader’s thought. “Fortunately, the rains seem to have let up.”
“We’re not far from the pheasant runs,” Sam Hatfield said, thinking aloud. “If I were in Saul Dobbs’ place, I’d clear away those logs. Perhaps there’s no danger. But it strikes me considerable damage might be done if the water should back up any distance.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know about the jam,” suggested Brad.
“That may be,” nodded the Cub leader. “However, some of those logs look as if they’ve been here quite a while.”
Dan, noticing that the logs formed a perfect bridge across the stream, started to walk across. The Cub leader called him back.
“Say, Dan,” he said, “let me see that map Mr. Silverton marked for you.”
“Sure.”
Leaping down from the log, Dan fished the paper from his pocket. While the Cubs peered over his shoulder, Mr. Hatfield spread it out on the ground.
“We’re very close to the area Mr. Silverton marked as restricted,” the Cub leader declared. “Directly across the stream is an abandoned logging road which joins the main highway along the river. This map shows the old road fenced off—”
The Cubs waited, but Mr. Hatfield did not complete what he had started to say. Instead, he stared at the log jam, lost in deep thought.
“Anything wrong?” Dan asked, puzzled.
“I was just wondering about that road across the creek,” the Cub leader said vaguely.
He passed the matter off as of no consequence. Except for Dan, the Cubs forgot the matter entirely, because at that moment, Brad gave an excited shout. In poking about along the sandy shore, he had made a disconcerting discovery.
“Say, come here!” he called.
The Cubs quickly joined him along the rim of the racing stream.
“We’ve got to find Chips and Red right away!” he informed the group. “See where their tracks lead!”
The Den Chief pointed to a series of heel marks, leading directly away from the stream.
Clearly, Red and Chips after reaching the site of the log jam, had left the main trail.
Selecting another, they had continued on, walking into the forbidden area of Mr. Silverton’s property!
CHAPTER 4
Useful Information
“For the love o’ lemons!” exploded Dan as he saw for himself that the trail of footprints led into the restricted area of the Silverton property. “What got into Red and Chips?”
“They knew we gave our promise to Mr. Silverton,” Brad said, deeply troubled. “And now, first crack, they go wandering off.”
“Let’s drag ’em back here before Saul Dobbs learns about it,” advised Fred. “It would give him a good excuse for heaving us all off the place.”
Mr. Hatfield and Midge’s father were even more troubled than the Cubs over the actions of Chips and Red.
“We shouldn’t all enter the restricted area,” Mr. Holloway said. “I’ll take Brad and Dan and go after them. The rest wait here with Sam.”
With the Den Chief and Dan at his heels, Mr. Holloway rapidly followed the trail which, after leaving the creek, presently came out at a cleared area.
Directly ahead, they saw the two missing Cubs.
“Wahoo! Wahoo!” shouted Dan to attract their attention.
Red and Chips, who had their backs turned, whirled around to face the approaching trio. Seemingly unaware that they had committed any offense, they came trotting toward the group.
“See what we found!” Chips cried, extending his hands which were filled with gray pheasant tail feathers.
Red had a similar collection. “We’re going to use these for an Indian headdress!” he announced. “We can enter it in the Pack’s Indian craft exhibit at the end of the summer, and maybe win first prize!”
“You win first prize for being the Den’s No. 1 Dodo,” Brad said furiously. “Cripes! Can’t a fellow trust you a minute?”
“Brad, let me handle this,” said Mr. Holloway quietly.
Turning to the puzzled Chips and Red, he asked them if they knew what they had done.
“We haven’t done anything,” Chips insisted. “If all this fuss is about these feathers—we picked ’em up over there on the ground.”
“That’s right,” Red said, made uncomfortable by the Den Dad’s steady gaze. “You can bet we didn’t pluck any birds. In fact, we didn’t see a single pheasant.”
“I wasn’t referring to the feathers,” replied Mr. Holloway. “Do you realize where you are?”
“Sure.