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                The Boy Scouts in a Trapper's Camp

                     By Thornton W. Burgess

Author of "The Boy Scouts of Woodcraft Camp", "The Boy Scouts on Swift
River", "The Boy Scouts on Lost Trail"

                   Illustrated by F. A. Anderson

The Penn Publishing
Company Philadelphia

COPYRIGHT
1915
BY THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY


                      To
                   W. H. T.,
    A lover of the open, and his three boys,
    this book is affectionately dedicated




[Illustration: HE SAW SOMETHING MOVE]




Introduction


To those who have read the preceding volumes in this series, "The Boy
Scouts of Woodcraft Camp," "The Boy Scouts on Swift River," and "The Boy
Scouts on Lost Trail," some of the characters in the present volume will
be familiar. To me they are old friends in whose struggles and
adventures I have taken the keenest personal interest.

In this, the fourth and concluding volume, I have endeavored to portray
in some small measure the life of the trapper who in solitude and
loneliness pits his skill against the cunning of the fur-bearers, and
his courage and fortitude against the forces of Nature in her harshest
and most relentless mood; to bring to my young readers a sense of the
mystery of the great life eternal that broods over the wilderness to an
even greater degree when its waters are fettered in ice, and its waste
places wrapped in snow than when it rejoices in its summer verdure; to
show that the standards a man or a boy sets for himself are as binding
upon him in remote places where none may see as in the midst of his
fellow men; and lastly to demonstrate what a powerful factor in the
development of character and true manhood are the oath and law of the
Boy Scouts of America when subscribed to in sincerity and
conscientiously observed.

Man or boy is never so true to himself as when in intimate contact with
nature. Adventures such as herein described may not fall to your lot,
oh, boy reader, but be assured that whenever you heed the call of the
Red Gods and hit the long trail you will find adventure of a degree
awaiting you, and you will return stronger physically and mentally for
having come in closer contact with the elemental forces which we term
nature.

    THE AUTHOR.




Contents


       I. AN INTERRUPTED DREAM

      II. PAT SEES WHITE MAGIC

     III. THE BLUE TORTOISE PATROL

      IV. "HELP!"

       V. OFF FOR WOODCRAFT

      VI. SNOW-SHOES AND FISH

     VII. ON THE TRAIL

    VIII. ALEC HINTS AT DARK THINGS

      IX. SNOWBOUND

       X. LIFE ON THE FUR TRAILS

      XI. CHRISTMAS IN SMUGGLERS' HOLLOW

     XII. A DEER YARD

    XIII. POACHERS

     XIV. THE SILVER FOX

      XV. SPARRER'S TEMPTATION

     XVI. THE CONFERENCE

    XVII. THE CAMP OF THE POACHERS

   XVIII. SMOKING OUT THE INDIAN

     XIX. SPARRER SAVES THE SKIN

      XX. THE BLACK FOX IS SOLD




ILLUSTRATIONS


HE SAW SOMETHING MOVE

HE JOTTED DOWN THE NUMBER

ONCE MORE THEY BUCKLED DOWN TO THE TASK

NOT TEN FEET AWAY WAS A BIG BUCK

FOR A FEW SECONDS HE STOOD MOTIONLESS




The Boy Scouts in a Trapper's Camp




CHAPTER I

AN INTERRUPTED DREAM


Walter Upton pushed aside books and papers, yawned, stretched, yawned
again, then settled back in his chair comfortably, his hands clasped
behind his head.

"I'm glad that vacation is only one week off," he murmured. "School is
all right, and I know I'm going to be mighty sorry when school-days end
for good. Just the same, this infernal grind to get a scholarship does
get a fellow's goat sometimes. If I don't win it I don't see how I can
go to college next year unless I can find some way to earn the money.
Poor old Dad! That slump in stocks pretty nearly bowled him over. Lucky
I thought of this scholarship when he tried to tell me that unless
business picked up he couldn't send me to college next year. It sure
did me good to see the shine in his eyes when I told him about this and
that I was going to win it. He's a great old scout, and I'm going to get
it now if for nothing more than to see that shine in his eyes again. My,
but it's a tough old grind! Wonder how it would seem to go to a prep
school like Hal Harrison and not have to think about money and where it
is going to come from. I guess scholarships don't bother Hal any. Wonder
if he is coming home for the Christmas winter vacation."

Idly Walter allowed his eyes to wander over the walls of his den. It was
a snug little room, simply furnished with a spring cot, which was a bed
by night and a couch by day, a desk, a deep-cushioned Morris chair, a
revolving desk chair, a foot-rest and two well filled bookcases. The
walls were covered with photographs. Nearly all of them were of outdoor
scenes, most of them of his own taking, for he was an expert with the
camera. A number were enlargements neatly framed. Among these was the
famous flashlight made during his first summer at Woodcraft Camp which
had furnished the evidence to put Red Pete, the outlaw and poacher,
behind the bars. There, too, were the splendid portraits (they were
nothing less) of the bull moose of Swift River, a lasting tribute to the
nerve of Plympton, the tenderfoot comrade of that memorable cruise.

There were studies of deer and other wild animals, views of Woodcraft
Camp, of scenes along Swift River, and of the various camps and points
of interest on Lost Trail, the relocating of which by Walter and his
four fellow Scouts of the Lone Wolf Patrol had won for them the
distinction of a special letter of commendation from national
headquarters of the Boy Scouts of America.

Above the door hung a hard-used set of boxing gloves. Crossed above one
window were a pair of snow-shoes, while above the other window were a
pair of fencing foils. In one corner, each in its case, were two
fishing-rods, a rifle and a tennis racquet. In the opposite corner
leaned a Scout staff and a couple of canoe paddles. A great horned owl
stared unblinkingly down from the top of one of the plain oak bookcases.
On the wall just back and above it was fastened a small banner having
the head of a wolf worked in black against a white background, and
bearing the one word "Persistence." It was the Lone Wolf banner which
had been carried on that never-to-be-forgotten search for Lost Trail. By
unanimous vote of the patrol, it had been presented to Upton at the
conclusion of the trip in recognition of successful leadership.

Several small silver cups on the bookcases and half a dozen medals
pinned to a little square of black velvet on one wall attested to
well-won victories in various lines of sport. The books on the shelves
were what one might expect in such surroundings, well selected stories
of adventure and exploration, treatises on hunting, fishing and outdoor
sports, a very complete nature library, handbooks on woodcraft, camping,
first aid, forestry and surveying, a well-thumbed Scout manual and other
books which attested to the owner's love of the great outdoor world. But
these were not all. A whole shelf was devoted to history, and another to
selections from standard American and English authors, including several
of our best loved poets.

Altogether, it was a room such as a keen, red-blooded, broad-minded boy
might well delight in. Upton did delight in it. Everything in it held
some special significance or sentiment for him, and now as his eyes idly
roved from one object to another one memory after another was stirred
within him. At last his eyes rested on the snow-shoes and remained
there.

"Wonder if I'll get a chance to use those things this winter," he
muttered. "Little old New York doesn't know much about that kind of
foot-gear. I suppose Pat has worn out two or three pairs since he gave
me those, and here I haven't had 'em on but once in three years, and
then there was hardly snow enough for an excuse. I guess I'd be some
tenderfoot all right, all right, on those things up in the woods. Good
old Pat! Wonder what he's doing. It's a long time since I've heard from
him. Well, I ought not to kick over a little extra grind! He's trying to
get an education and support himself and help his folks at the same
time. Wish he could come down here for the vacation. What fun it would
be to show him around and listen to his remarks on the big city. It
would be almost as much fun as going into the big woods in the winter.
Fact is, I envy him right now, and I'll bet he doesn't envy me a penny's
worth."

Swiftly his thoughts reverted to his first meeting with Pat Malone,
chore boy and bully of a sawmill village in the North Woods, and of the
thrashing he had given the young woodsman in spite of the latter's
advantage in weight and strength.

"It was all in the know how. Imagine me trying to do it now," he
chuckled. "Why, Pat could take me across his knee just as he did the
youngster who mistook him for a deer and put a bullet through his hat
last fall. I've never seen anybody take to an idea as Pat did to
scouting. He just soaked it up. It was the principle of the thing that
got him right from the start, and not just the fun that goes with it.
And just see what it's done for him! I don't know of any one it's done
so much for, unless----"

Almost unconsciously Walter turned to stare through the gathering dusk
at a photograph on the nearer of the two bookcases. A pair of frank
eyes, kindly but keen, looked down at him from a face good to see, the
face of a boy of about his own age. It was a handsome face and the
beauty lay, not in regularity of features, but in the strength of
character and purpose written in every line. It was the face of Hal
Harrison, son of a multi-millionaire, and comrade and fellow Scout in
the fun and adventures of the last three summers. It was the sudden
remembrance of Hal that had caused the abrupt break in the trend of his
thought. Not even for the poor, rough, tough young bully of the woods
had scouting done more than it had for this other lad, brought up in the
lap of luxury, his every whim gratified, toadied to, petted, spoiled.
From opposite extremes of the social strata it had brought these two
together on the common ground of true brotherhood--the brotherhood of
democracy. It had discovered to the young savage, for Pat was little
more than that, his own manhood. It had stripped from Hal, the cad, the
veneer of false social rank based on wealth and found there also a man.
And now these two--the one whom he had fought and the one whom he had
despised--Upton regarded not only as comrades and brother Scouts, but
almost as chums.

Some such thoughts as these were floating through his mind as he sat
there in the soft dusk of winter twilight. It was just the hour for
dreaming the dreams which every boy loves to dream, half thought, half
idle fancy. He tried to picture what the future might hold for himself
and for these two comrades. Hal would be a captain of industry. It could
hardly be otherwise. He would inherit vast wealth. He would in time take
charge of the great enterprises which his father had built up. Would he
apply to their management the principles of which as a Scout he was now
so earnest a champion? Pat dared to dream of some day becoming a
naturalist. Would he succeed? Remembering what Pat had been and what he
now was Walter somehow felt that he would. As for himself he could not
see his own career with a like clearness. He would like--

Ting-aling-ling! It was the telephone in the hall. With a start Walter
came back to earth and the present. He went to answer the call. Picking
up the receiver he called, "Hello." For a moment there was no response,
but he caught a sound as of voices and something that sounded like a
laugh. Then over the wire came a rich brogue that caused Walter to
nearly drop the 'phone.

"Hello, Misther Leader. I have to reporrt the discovery av the city av
Noo Yor-r-k and the losing av mesilf entoirely."

"Pat! You big red headed son of Erin! Are you really in New York? When
did you get in? Where are you? Are you----"

"Aisy, aisy now. Have ye not learned thot ye can make but wan bull's-eye
at a shot? Shure I be in Noo Yor-r-k, an' 'tis proud the city ought to
be av the honor I be doin' ut."

"Quit your kidding, Pat, and tell me where you are and when you came and
all about it," interrupted Walter.

"Shure, wasn't I afther telling ye thot I be in Noo Yor-r-k?" protested
Pat in a grieved tone. "'Tis at the illigant home av an illigant
gintleman thot I be, but begorra I forgot entoirely to blaze the trail
and I don't know how I got here at all, at all."

There was a sound of a scuffle and a smothered laugh, then another voice
broke in:

"Hello, old Scout!"

There was no mistaking that voice, and Upton grinned more broadly than
before as he replied:

"Hello, Hal. It sure does me good to hear your voice. I might have known
whose illigant home Pat is honoring. Where did you find him, and why
didn't you tell me? Didn't expect you home until the end of next week.
Funny thing, but I was thinking of you two fellows when the 'phone rang.
Same old Pat, isn't he? Gee, but it's good to hear the voices of you two
fellows! Now when do I see you and where?"

"Right after dinner. We'll drive around and pick you up and then give
Pat a glimpse of the Great White Way," replied Hal, answering the last
questions first. "I've had this all planned for a month by way of a
surprise. I have a week more vacation than you do, and I got in just in
time to meet Pat's train. Had hard work to persuade him to come, but I
got him at last. Say, got any plans made for your vacation?"

"Nary a plan. Been waiting to hear from you," replied Walter.

"Good! I've got the greatest little stunt you ever heard of to tell you
about to-night. Pat suggested it, and I had to promise to try to put it
through before he would agree to come down here. We've got to go clean
up for dinner now, but we'll be around about eight o'clock. So long
until then."

"So long," replied Walter, and hanging up the receiver he whooped
joyously and proceeded to execute a war dance that ended with a crash as
a rug slipped under his feet and he came down in a heap. It happened
that at that very instant his father, just home from the office, opened
the hall door briskly and a second later landed on Walter with a force
that brought a grunt from each. He had tripped over one of the boy's
sprawling legs. As quickly as he could disentangle himself Walter
scrambled to his feet. Concern was written in every line of his face as
he extended a helping hand to Mr. Upton.

"Oh, Dad, are you hurt?" he cried anxiously.

Mr. Upton's eyes twinkled good-humoredly as he replied: "Only in my
dignity. But tell me, son, why all this hilarity that led to the utter
downfall of the house of Upton? I heard you break loose, and was
hurrying to share in it."

"It's a shame," declared Walter contritely as he brushed off his
father's coat. "I ought to know better than to be acting like a wild
Indian in the house. Fact is, I had just got some mighty good news over
the 'phone. Guess what."

"Hal is coming home for the vacation," hazarded Mr. Upton promptly, for
these two, father and son, were chums, and he knew just how eagerly
Walter had hoped for Hal's homecoming.

"Right and wrong, both!" whooped Walter. "You're a good little guesser,
Dad, but you didn't guess enough this time. He's home already, and Pat's
with him!"

"Pat! Pat who?" A puzzled frown wrinkled Mr. Upton's forehead.

"Pat Malone, of course! As if there was more than one Pat! They got in
half an hour ago, and they're coming around here after dinner to get
me."

Mr. Upton's face lighted with a smile of pleasure. "That's splendid," he
declared. "It's news worth getting upset for. How ever did Hal lure
that young giant out of his beloved woods?"

"I don't know," replied Walter. "All I know is that he is here, and the
rest we'll find out when they get here. Hope he's going to stay through
vacation. It'll be no end of fun showing Pat around. Wish you could be
with us."

"I wish I could," replied Mr. Upton, smiling. "Suppose we eat dinner now
so that you will be ready for them when they arrive."

Promptly at eight o'clock a big touring car drew up in front of the
house, and Walter was