  THE TRAMPLED TRAIL Pee-wee felt as if he were emerging from some enchanted spot in the “Arabian Nights,” abounding with giants and men “getting dead.” He had no more belief in what this imperious little imp had told him than he had in the predictions of Licorice Stick, or the homely superstitions of Pepsy. Indeed, if he had thought seriously of these erratic snapshot bits of information about figures wriggling in the dark and “getting dead” he would never have mentioned these things to Licorice Stick whom he ran plunk into as that aggregation of rags and nonsense sat upon a stone wall up the road engaged in the profitable occupation of watching the passing cars. Licorice Stick’s business was contemplating the world and he always attended strictly to business. “Lordy me!” he said, rolling his eyes, “you don’ go nowheres that kid ’e tell you. Dat wrigglin’ man, he no man, he a sperrit. Don’ you go near dat bridge, you get a spell. Yo keep away f’m dat bridge.” How much this had to do with Pee-wee’s actually going to the scene of the fire it would be hard to say. If he had not talked with Whitie he probably would not have gone. At all events, he had nothing else to do and he wanted to think. So he followed the trail through the woods to the highway. It seemed quite probable that Whitie’s jerky sentences were about true, that the doctor had been compelled to turn back by reason of the burning bridge. The fact that Whitie was holding his imperial court on the doctor’s porch made this part of his story seem true. Perhaps it would be about right to say that little Whitie’s spasmodic announcements directed Pee-wee in his idle wanderings on that morning when he was fearful and sick at heart. Long afterwards he remembered with interest that it was little Whitie Bungel (for whose recovery he had sacrificed two hundred and fifty dollars and not a little glory) who put him in the way of the terrible discovery that he made on that fateful day. And the funny thing about it was that the little gnome had given the clew to his benefactor and not his father who knew nothing about the frightful revelation of that morning until it was all over. So perhaps there is a little god of good turns after all, who, all unseen, administers punches in the nose and pays back two hundred and fifty dollar gifts and so forth, and has the time of his life watching how these things work out. Or a “pay back sperrit” as Licorice Stick might have called him.... As Pee-wee approached the scene of the fire he saw in the bushes something which caught his eye. This was a torn fragment of clothing. The bushes were trampled down at the spot. It was not hard for the scout to follow this line of trampled brush which was so disordered that he thought it could not have been caused by a walking or fleeing person. It was well away from the area where the men had fought the flames. Here and there something brown and sticky on the leaves caught the scout’s eye. Some one had crawled stealthily through here. Or else— dragged himself through. Pee-wee shuddered at this thought. He examined the trampled channel more carefully. And from this examination he was satisfied of one fact which made him uneasy, apprehensive. The weight which had crushed the bush down had been a prone, dead weight. At intervals of perhaps three or four feet were gathered wounded strands of the tall grass, as if some groping hand had reached ahead, gathering and pulling on them. Pulling a helpless weight. Pee-wee knew this for he saw with the eyes of a scout. |
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