  The object that had caught Turkey Trot’s eye as he skirted the log-strewn beach was a rowboat that, bumping on the beach now and then as if in a futile attempt to drive itself ashore, lifted its prow in the air. “It’s Tillie’s!” he breathed as they came close. “It is.” Jeanne’s tone was low. “The anchor’s gone. Painter cut.” The boy’s trained eye took in every detail. The oars, too, were gone. But within the boat, on a stout cord, mute testimony to Florence’s afternoon of perch fishing, lay a dozen or more dead perch. “They fished,” said Turkey Trot. “How long?” The boy shrugged. “Is fishing good in this bay?” “We never come here. Tillie never does. Sand and small rocks. No weeds in the bay. They didn’t fish here.” “Then why did they come?” For a time Turkey Trot did not answer. Then suddenly his face brightened. “Lots of raspberries back there.” He nodded toward the fringe of forest that skirted the shore. “Clearing, back a little way. Lots of trails. Might have gone back there and got lost.” “But the anchor? The cut painter? The dead fish?” Once more the boy shrugged. “All I know is, we might find something back there. We can’t find anything more here.” To this argument Jeanne found no answer. They silently grounded their boat on the sand. Turkey Trot drew it up on the beach. He did the same for Tillie’s light craft. “It’s funny,” he murmured, as he gazed at the painter. “Brand new rope. Looks like it had been chawed off.” Turning, he put out his hand for the flashlight, then led the way into the timber. What can be more spooky than following a woodland trail far from the homes of men at the dead of night? Nor was this particular trail devoid of sad ruins telling of other days. They had not followed the narrow, winding, tree-shadowed trail a hundred rods when they came to the ruins of what had once been a prosperous logging camp. Years had passed since the last sound of axe, the last buzz of saw, the last shout of teamster had died away. The roof of the cook shack had fallen in. A score of bushes had lifted their heads through its rotting floor. The bunk house, proudly displaying its roof, still stood. Its door, which hung awry, was wide open. Into this door, from off the shadowy trail, a dark spot dashed. Petite Jeanne started, then drew back. Was it a wolf, a wandering dog, or some less formidable creature? Without glancing back, she at last plodded doggedly on. Since Turkey Trot carried the torch, she was obliged to follow or be left in the dark. Once more they were lost in the shadows of cedars and birches as the trail wound up a low hill. And then they came upon the most mournful sight of all, an abandoned home. Standing as it did at the center of a grass-grown clearing, with door ajar and broken windows agape, the thing stared at them as a blind man sometimes appears to stare with sightless eyes. To make matters worse, three tall pines with mournful drooping branches stood in a graveyard-like cluster near the door, while beneath them, shining white, some object seemed a marble slab. “Boo!” Turkey Trot’s stolid young soul at last was stirred. “We—we won’t pass that way!” He turned down a trail that forked to the right. Hardly had he done this than Petite Jeanne gripped his arm. “Listen!” Her voice was tense. Turkey Trot did listen, and to his ears came the sound of music. “It—it’s a banjo or somethin’,” he muttered. “And—and singin’.” He turned a startled gaze toward the deserted cabin. The sound appeared to come from there. His feet moved restlessly. He appeared about to flee. “’Tain’t them,” he said in a near whisper. He spoke of Florence and Tillie. “They didn’t have no banjo. And besides, they wouldn’t.” “Of course not.” Petite Jeanne had him by the arm. “All the same, we must see. They may know something. Many things.” They moved a few steps down the trail they had chosen. At once they were able to see more clearly. Behind the cabin, and within its shadows, was a half burned-out camp fire. And about the fire people sat. “Who can these be?” Jeanne asked. Turkey Trot did not reply. Instead, he took her by the hand and led her farther down the trail. In time this trail, after circling the narrow hill, came up again, thus bringing them nearer the camp fire. At last the boy dropped on hands and knees and began to crawl. Following his example, Jeanne lost herself in the thick bed of tall ferns. They had crept silently forward to a point where it seemed that a parting of the ferns would show them the camp of the strangers, when suddenly a blood curdling scream rent the air. Instantly Turkey Trot flattened himself to the earth. As Jeanne did the same, she found her heart beating like waves on a rocky shore. She thought of Tillie and Florence. The tiller of their boat had been cut. She recalled this. Their boat was adrift. Had they been kidnapped and carried here? Instantly she was on her feet and darting forward. Knowing nothing of her thoughts, anxious only for her safety, the boy seized her foot. She fell heavily, then lay there motionless, as if dead. The boy was in a panic. But not for long. She was only stunned. Presently she sat up dizzily. They listened. Then they rose to their feet. A strange sound had come to them. They guessed its origin. When they reached the camp fire no person was there. Old Tico stood grunting with satisfaction over a box of berries spilled in someone’s hurried departure. “Tico!” exclaimed Jeanne. “We forgot him!” It was true. In their excitement they had forgotten the bear. Having smelled refreshments, he had taken a direct course to the strangers’ camp. Beyond doubt he had poked his nose over the shoulder of some fair young lady. A scream, panic, and hasty retreat had followed. But who were these people that indulged in an after midnight feast in so lonely a spot? To this question the boy and girl immediately sought an answer. They were not long in forming a partial answer. It was Jeanne who cried out: “See this handkerchief. Only a gypsy, a French gypsy, wears one like it. “And this cigarette case!” she added a moment later. “See! It is from France, too! “Gypsies, French gypsies!” A note of sorrow crept into her voice. “They have been here. Now they are gone. I wanted to see them, only to hear them speak!” How little she knew. “Listen!” The boy held up a hand. From the nearby shore came the thunder of a speed boat leaving the beach. “Do gypsies have speed boats?” Jeanne asked in surprise. “Who knows?” was the boy’s wise answer. “But where are our friends?” “We won’t find them here.” Little Turkey Trot was now fully convinced that his sister and Florence had been taken captive by these strange dark people. He knew little of gypsies. He had heard that they carried people away. He did not wish to disturb Petite Jeanne, so he said not a word. Such was the big heart of the village boy. “Might as well go home,” was his conclusion. Jeanne did not question this. They passed around the staring cabin and down the trail toward the ruins of the lumber camp. Turkey Trot walked rapidly. Jeanne, who was afraid of tripping in the dark, was a little way behind him, when she came abreast of the black bunk house that gloomed in the dark. She stole one glance at it. Then her heart stood still. From the depths of that darkness two eyes gleamed at her. “Green eyes!” She barely missed crying aloud. With three bounds she was at Turkey Trot’s side. Even then she did not speak. The boy had not seen the things. Why disturb him? Perhaps she had seen nothing. Those eyes may have been a creation of her overwrought imagination. So she reasoned, and was silent. Turkey Trot was firm in his belief that the missing girls had been carried away. He fastened a rope to the remains of Tillie’s painter, and took the boat in tow. “They won’t be back for it,” he muttered. “Big seas come in here. Smash it up.” At that he started his motor and they went pop-popping toward home in the deep darkness that lay just before dawn. |
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