The Secret Cache: An Adventure and Mystery Story for Boys

  VIII THE BLOOD-STAINED TUNIC

  But a few days of May remained when Hugh and Blaise left Wauswaugoning.Their progress was necessarily slow, not only on account of delays due towind and weather, but because they were obliged to skirt the shoreclosely, entering each bay and cove, rounding every point, and keepingkeen watch for any sign of the wrecked boat. They had no clue to the spotwhere it lay. It might have been thrown up on the open shore, or driveninto some rock-infested bay or stream mouth. At each stream they made aclose examination, ascending a short distance, by canoe where that waspossible, or up over the rocky banks on foot. They had searched themouths of more than a dozen streams and creeks when they came to one,where Blaise, in entering, cautioned Hugh to steer far to one side.Almost across the river mouth extended a long bar of sand and gravel,covered by an inch or two of water, for the river was still high from thespring flood. Bars or rock reefs were, Hugh was learning, commoncharacteristics of the streams emptying into Superior. To enter themwithout accident required care and caution.

  The bar was passed, but further progress up-stream proved impossible. Thecurrent was strong, and just ahead were foaming rapids where the waterdescended among rocks and over boulders. Steering into a bit of quietbackwater behind the bar, the boys found a landing place and carried thecanoe ashore. Then they scrambled up the bank a short distance, searchingthe stream mouth for signs of the wreck. Caught in a blossomingserviceberry bush growing on a rock at the very edge of the river, Blaisefound an old moccasin. He examined the ragged, dirty, skin shoe insilence for a moment. Then, hazel eyes gleaming, he held the thing out toHugh.

  "It is my mother's work," he said in tense tones. Hugh snatched the wornmoccasin. "Do you mean this was my father's?"

  Blaise nodded. "It is my mother's work," he repeated. "I would know itanywhere, the pattern of quills, the shaping, even the skin. It is fromthe elk hide our father brought from the region of the great river." Hemade a gesture towards the southwest, and Hugh knew he referred to theMississippi. "See, it is just like ours," Blaise concluded, holding upone foot.

  Hugh glanced from the almost new moccasin to the ragged one, and drew along breath. "Then it may be about here somewhere father was wrecked."

  "We must make search," was the brief reply.

  Thoroughly they searched, first the banks of the stream, then the lakebeach, parallel ridges of flat flakes of rock pushed up by the waves.They even examined the ground beyond the beach, a rough slope composed ofthe same sort of dark rock flakes, partly decomposed into crumbly soil.The two pushed through the bushes and small trees that sparsely clothedthe stony ground, but nowhere did they find any sign of wrecked boat orhidden cache. Yet they did find something, something that hinted ofviolence and crime.

  Well up from the shore and not far from the stream bank, Hugh came uponan open space, where a ring of blackened stones and ashes showed that acooking fire had burned. He took one look, turned and plunged into thebushes to find Blaise. But he stopped suddenly. His foot had come incontact with something that was not a rock, a stump or a stick. Stooping,he pulled from under a scraggly wild raspberry, where it had been droppedor thrust, a bundle. Unrolling it, he found it to be a ragged deerskintunic, damp, dirty and bearing dark stains. The boy stood transfixedstaring at the thing in his hands. After a moment he raised his head andshouted for Blaise.

  Blaise answered from near by, but to Hugh it seemed a long time beforethe younger boy came through the bushes. In silence the elder handed theother the stained shirt. Blaise took it, examined it quickly and utteredan Indian grunt.

  "Blood?" asked Hugh pointing to the stains.

  Blaise grunted assent.

  "Father's blood?" Hugh's voice broke.

  Blaise looked up quickly. "No, no. Black Thunder's."

  "How do you know?"

  "By this." The lad pointed to a crude figure, partly painted, partlyembroidered in black wool, on the breast of the tunic. "This is BlackThunder's mark, the thunder bird. Without doubt this shirt was his."

  "But how did it come here? There's no sign of the wrecked boat."

  Blaise shook his head in puzzlement. "I do not understand," he saidslowly.

  The half-breed lad was keen witted in many ways, but the white boy's mindworked more quickly on such a problem. "It may be," Hugh speculated,"that they were wrecked farther along the shore. Coming on by land, theycamped here and some accident happened to Black Thunder, or perhaps hehad been bleeding from a hurt received in the wreck, and he changed hisshirt and threw away the bloody one."

  "Where was it?" asked Blaise.

  "Under this raspberry bush, rolled up."

  "And why think you they camped here?"

  "I'll show you."

  Hugh led the way to the little clearing. Carefully and absorbedly Blaiseexamined the spot.

  "Someone has camped here," he concluded, "but only a short time, not morethan one night. He made no lodge, for there are no poles. He cut noboughs for beds, and he left scarce any litter. It may be he cooked butone meal and went on. If he lay here for the night, the marks of his bodyno longer remain. If anyone was slain here," he added after a moment,"the rains washed out the stains. It was a long time ago that he washere, I think."

  "If Black Thunder was killed here," Hugh questioned, "what was done withhis body?"

  Blaise shrugged. "There is the lake, and a body weighted with stonesstays down."

  "Then why was his blood-stained shirt not sunk with him?"

  "That I know not," and the puzzled look returned to the lad's face.

  "Might it not be that father was wearing Black Thunder's shirt and thatthe stains are from his wound?"

  "He wore his own when he came to the lodge, and the stains are in thewrong place. They are on the breast. No, he never wore this shirt. Theblood must be Black Thunder's."

  The sun was going down when the two boys finally gave up the search forthe wrecked boat or some further trace of Jean Beaupre and his companion.Neither lad had any wish to camp in the vicinity. Blaise especiallyshowed strong aversion to the spot.

  "There are evil stories of this river," he explained to his brother. "Ifour father camped here, it was because he was very weary indeed. He was abrave man though, far braver than most men, white or red."

  "Why should he have hesitated to camp here?" Hugh inquired curiously."It's true we have seen pleasanter spots along this shore, yet this isnot such a bad one."

  "There are evil stories of the place," Blaise repeated in a low voice."The lake from which this river flows is the abode of a devil." The boymade the sign of the cross on his breast and went on in his musicalsingsong. "On the shores of that lake have been found the devil's tracks,great footprints, like those of a man, but many times larger and very farapart. So the lake is called the 'Lake of Devil Tracks' and the riverbears the same name. It is said that when that devil wishes to come downto the shore of the great lake to fish for trout, it is this way hecomes, striding along the bed of the river, even at spring flood."

  Hugh Beaupre, half Scotch, half French, and living in a time when thesuperstitious beliefs of an earlier day persisted far more actively thanthey do now, was not without his share of such superstitions. But thisstory of a devil living on a lake and walking along a river, struck himas absurd and he said so with perfect frankness.

  "Surely you don't believe such a tale, Blaise, and neither did myfather."

  "I know not if the tale is true," the younger boy answered somewhatsullenly. "Men say they have seen the footprints and everyone knows thereare devils, both red and white. Why should not one live on that lakethen? How know we it was not that devil who killed Black Thunder and leftthe bloody tunic under the raspberry bush as a warning to others not tocamp on his hunting ground? I am no coward, as I will speedily show youif you want proof, but I will not camp here. If you stay, you stayalone."

  "I don't want to stay," Hugh replied quickly. "Devil or not, I don't likethe place. We'll go on till we find
a better camping ground."

  In the light of the afterglow, which was tinting sky and water with palegold, soft rose and lavender, and tender blue, they launched their canoeagain and paddled on. The peace and beauty around him made the sinisterthing he had found under the raspberry bush, and the evil deed that thingsuggested, seem unreal to Hugh, almost as unreal as the devil who livedat the lake and walked down the river to his fishing. Nevertheless heturned his eyes from the soft colors of sky and water to scan the shorethe canoe was skirting. Not a trace of the wrecked bateau appeared,though both boys watched closely.

  Several miles beyond the Devil Track River, they made camp on a slopingrock shore wooded with spruce and balsam, where nothing worse than aplague of greedy mosquitoes disturbed their rest. Hugh thought ofsuggesting that the horde of voracious insects might have been sent bythe evil spirit of Devil Track Lake to torment the trespassers. Fearinghowever that a humorous treatment of his story might offend the halfbreedlad's sensitive pride, he kept the fancy to himself.

  Going on with their journey the next morning, the two came to the spotknown to the French fur traders and to the English who followed them asthe Grand Marais, the great marsh or meadow. There a long sand and gravelpoint connects with a low, marshy shore, a higher, rocky stretch, once areef or island, running at right angles to the gravel spit. The T-shapedprojection forms a good harbor for small boats. Closely scanning everyfoot of beach and rock shore, Hugh and Blaise paddled around the T. Onthe inner side of the spit, they caught sight of what appeared to be partof a boat half buried in the sand and gravel. They landed to investigate.The thing was indeed the shattered remnants of a wreck, old and weatheredand deep in sand and pebbles. It was not Jean Beaupre's boat, but a birchcanoe.

  Leaving the T, the lads skirted the low, curving shore. When they roundedthe little point beyond, they discovered that the waves, which had beenincreasing for some hours, had reached a height dangerous to a smallboat. The time was past noon, and Blaise thought that the sea would notbe likely to go down before sunset. So he gave the word to turn back andseek a camping ground. In the angle of the T just where the sand spitjoined the rocky reef, they found shelter.

  Realizing that they must conserve their scanty food supply, the two,instead of eating at once, went fishing in the sheltered water. Hugh, inthe stern of the canoe, held the hand line, while Blaise paddled. Luckwas with them and when they went ashore an hour later they had four finetrout, the smallest about three and the largest at least eight pounds. Inone thing at least, cooking fish, Hugh excelled his younger brother. Heset about broiling part of his catch as soon as he had cleaned them.Without touching their other supplies, the lads made a hearty meal oftrout.

  The wind did not fall till after sunset. Knowing it would be some hoursbefore the lake would be calm enough for canoe travel, the boys preparedto stay where they were till morning. The night was unusually mild forthe time of year, so they stretched themselves under their canoe and letthe fire burn itself out.