Scott Morgan
Boys of Oakdale Academy

CHAPTER XVI.
INDEPENDENT ROD

Despite those final words, the boy from Texas had spoken quietly and without giving the impression that he was boasting; indeed, it seemed as if this much had escaped his lips through a sudden impulse, which he now more than half regretted.

“I could tell you something more, Ben,” he said; “but they are things I do not care to talk about, and I’ve said enough already – too much, perhaps.”

“Not too much,” protested the visitor hastily. “For I fancy that I myself am beginning to understand you better than I did. If the fellows knew – ”

“I don’t want them to know. Don’t forget I’ve trusted you thus far in strict confidence. I could give you reasons why I don’t play football and why I hold in abhorrence the usual practice of hazing at school or college; but, as I just remarked, I don’t care to talk about those things. I’ve been sent here to attend school, and I reckon I’ll do so for all of the narrow-minded, misguided peanut-heads in Oakdale.”

“That’s right,” encouraged Ben. “Sometime they’ll find out their mistake.”

“It certainly is a matter of indifference to me whether they do or not,” laughed Rod. “I’m some independent in my ways.”

“But there are some things no fellow can afford to do,” said Ben. “Now I didn’t come here to knock anybody, but I think there are certain facts you ought to know about those chaps you were with last night. I want you to understand I haven’t any grudge against Davis, even though he was concerned in a mean and despicable plot to make me out a cheap sneak thief – a plot which, fortunately for me, fell through. Spotty really wasn’t nearly so much to blame as the chap who put him up to it, an old and bitter enemy of mine who is no longer attending school at Oakdale. I think Davis is easily influenced, but his natural inclinations seem to be crooked.”

Grant was listening seriously enough now, and Stone continued:

“Even Lander may have a streak of decency in him, but he’s always been the black sheep among the boys of Oakdale, and anyone who chooses him for a friend is almost certain to be estimated by the company he keeps. To-day some of the fellows, skating up at Bass Cove, found there on the shore a bottle containing a little frozen hard cider. Now they’re saying you fellows were boozy last night, and that’s why you skated out onto the dangerous ice and broke through.”

“So that’s what they’re saying!” cried Rod hotly. “It’s a lie, as far as I’m concerned.”

The visitor nodded his head in satisfaction. “I’m glad to hear you say that, and I believe it. I’ve already expressed my belief that it wasn’t true; now I shall tell them I know it wasn’t.”

“Lots of good that will do!” scoffed Rod. “Don’t put yourself out to do it, Ben; let the chumps think what they like.”

“But – but,” faltered Ben, “no fellow can afford to have such lies circulated about him.”

“Second-hand contradiction of a lie seldom stops its progress.”

“Why don’t you deny it?”

“Bah! Would you have me pike around after those fellows who have given me the cold shoulder and meachingly protest that I wasn’t boozy last night? Why, that would rejoice certain members of the bunch who, I’m sure, have taken prime joy in spreading the yarn.”

“You know, some fellows think you peached to the professor about that hazing business, and you haven’t denied it.”

“If I started in denying the lies cooked up about me, it’s plain I’d be kept plenty busy. By and by they may get tired of it and let up.”

“Perhaps you’ve never heard just why Lander happened to leave town so suddenly two years ago?”

“No.”

“Shortly before he got out, a series of petty robberies were committed in Oakdale, rousing the people here to a state of apprehension and indignation. The worst of these was the breaking into Stickney’s store one night and the pilfering of a whole lot of provisions, tinware, cutlery, and a gun. A day or two later Bunk Lander was caught in an old camp he had built out in the swamp back of Turkey Hill, and in that camp they found the stolen goods. They were going to send him to the reform school, but he was not taken into immediate custody, and ere he could be sent away he disappeared. His father, who is a poor, hard-working man, sent him off somewhere. Since then Mr. Lander has settled with the people who were plundered, fixing it up some way so that Bunk has ventured to return. I thought you ought to know all this, Rod.”

Grant rose, walking to the door and back. Standing beside the table, he looked at Ben.

“Right serious business,” he admitted. “But possibly Bunk didn’t realize just how serious it was. When I first came to Oakdale I heard some fellows who aren’t reckoned to be particularly bad chaps joking with one another about robbing orchards and plundering somebody’s grape arbors. I wonder if they realized that they were thieves.”

“Oh, but that’s different – in a way,” Ben hastily said.

“In a degree, perhaps,” nodded Grant. “But it was theft, just the same. Those fellows were right proud of it, too.”

“Most fellows consider hooking apples or plundering grape vines as permissible sport.”

“Oh, yes, I know that. And to Bunk Lander’s undeveloped sense of right and wrong, stealing provisions and other stuffs he desired to furnish his camp, may have seemed like permissible sport. I doubt not that the fathers of some of these very fellows who plundered orchards and grape arbors were plenty rank and severe against Lander when he was caught, yet in a degree their own sons were no better than Bunk.”

Stone found himself somewhat staggered by the force of this argument.

“I’m not saying that even Bunk is irreclaimable,” he hastened to state. “But it seems to me that under the circumstances you can’t afford to let yourself be classed with him.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me any if Lander had as much honor in his makeup as Hunk Rollins, or even Berlin Barker; yet those fellows are accepted as the associates of the most respectable chaps in Oakdale. Stone, old man, last night Rollins left me hanging precariously to the edge of the broken ice while he skated off, yelling to his friends. On the other hand, Bunk Lander took a chance and pulled me out. He saved my life, Ben, for I wasn’t able to get out alone, with the current dragging at me the way it did. If anybody reckons that a Grant is going to forget a thing of that sort, he’s making a mighty big mistake.”

“Which means, I suppose,” said Ben, rising, “that you propose to stick by Lander?”

“Which means that I propose to treat him white and do him a decent turn if I ever get the chance. Everybody around here has thrown him down on his past record, and that’s the best way to send a fellow who has made a mistake straight to the dogs. We all make mistakes, and when we do we need somebody to encourage us, not to kick us. No, Stone, I shan’t go back on Lander.”

“Well?” cried Ben suddenly, “although I haven’t succeeded in the object of my visit, I want to say that I rather admire you for your stand, and here’s my hand on it.”

“Thanks,” laughed Rod Grant, as they shook hands.

CHAPTER XVII.
THE FIRST SNOW

Rodney Grant seemed to take genuine pleasure in showing his disdain and defiance of public opinion by openly associating with Lander and Davis, and he was seen often in their company. Even Roger Eliot, naturally broad-minded and liberal, could but deplore this; and Stone found himself quite alone in any effort to defend or justify the actions of the singular boy from Texas. It was generally believed and proclaimed that Grant had found associates to his liking, and more than once the old saw, “A person is known by the company he keeps,” was applied to him.

The young people of Oakdale were making the most of the skating when, after a slight warning flurry, a slow, steady downfall of snow set in, growing heavier with the passing of a cloudy afternoon.

“No more fun on the lake for us,” moaned Chub Tuttle, standing more than ankle deep outside the academy as the scholars came trooping forth. “This snow has fixed the skating all right.”

“Snow doubt about it,” punned Chipper Cooper, turning up his coat collar and pulling his cap down over his ears. “We’ll have to take to another line of sport, and it’s likely there won’t even be any sliding worth while for some time to come.”

Nearly all night long it snowed, but with the coming of another dawn the storm ceased, the sky cleared, and the sun beamed cheerfully on a world wrapped in a mantle of white, gleaming with the prismatic colors of millions of diamonds.

At an early hour, having eaten breakfast, Rod Grant was viewing the scene with admiration and pleasure when he discovered two dark figures tracking across the open fields toward the cottage of Miss Priscilla Kent. Immediately he recognized Lander and Davis, watching them with curiosity and interest as he perceived that they were walking on snowshoes. They hailed him as they drew near, and, with his trousers laced into the tops of high, heavy leather boots, he waded out knee-deep to meet them.

“Top of the morning, Roddy,” cried Bunk, in his familiar way. “What are you doing with yourself?”

“Morning, Lander. Morning, Davis. I was just getting ready to turn myself into a human steam-plough and wield my aunt’s big shovel. Got to open up the path as far as the road, you know.”

“That’s work,” grinned Davis, two missing front teeth in his upper jaw giving him anything but an appearance of comeliness. “Work was made for slaves.”

“But you Yanks took away our slaves,” reminded Rod jovially, “and so we have to bend our backs like common people.”

“Eh?” grunted Spotty in surprise. “Your slaves? Why, Texas – why, I’ve always thought of Texas as a Western State, and – ”

“We’re right proud to be called Southerners,” said Rod. “Find any sport walking on those things?”

“Oh, it’s sport in a way,” answered Lander. “Besides, a feller can get around almost anywhere on ’em, no matter how deep the snow is. I and Spot have been talking about going over to my camp Sat’day. Without snowshoes we’d have to do some tall wading. If we can get a dog, and the snow packs down some, perhaps we’ll try the rabbits a crack – and that’s sport. Ever shoot rabbits?”

“Jacks.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard about them. Our rabbits are different; they’re good to eat. Say, it would be fun to shoot a few and have a rabbit stew over at my camp. I can make the stew, too.”

“That wouldn’t be so bad,” admitted Grant, who had a taste for hunting.

“Want to come in on it? Come ahead. I’ve been telling Spot I thought we might borrow old Lem Sawyer’s hound, Rouser. He’s a good dog, though, like Lem, he’s getting rather old. Lem’s laid up with the rheumatism this winter, and I don’t believe he will do much rabbitin’.”

“I’d have to have some snowshoes and a gun,” said Rod.

“Bet we could get them of Sawyer. You know how to shoot?”

“A little,” smiled the boy from Texas, “but I don’t know much about using snowshoes, though, watching you fellows, it seems easy enough.”

Spotty chuckled. “Try it,” he invited. “Try mine. Go ahead.”

Obligingly he slipped his toes out of the straps and stepped off into the snow. Grant was willing enough to make the trial and, wading alongside, he mounted on Spotty’s snowshoes. Having inserted his toes beneath the straps, he started off with a confidence that was soon upset, as he was himself by stepping on one snowshoe with the other, which plunged him to the full length of his arms, burying his face in the snow. Nor could he rise until he had succeeded in getting his feet free from the snowshoes, after which he floundered part way over and stood up to discover Both Davis and Lander convulsed with laughter.

“Looks easy enough, don’t it?” cried Bunk hilariously.

“Hang the things!” growled Rod, his face flushed with chagrin. “They seem contrary as an unbusted bronch. You fellows don’t have any trouble managing them.”

“There’s a little trick to it that you’ll have to learn,” explained Lander. “To begin with, those boots of yours are too stiff and heavy. You see, I’ve got on moccasins, and Spotty’s wearing some limber-soled shoes. You’ve got to lift the front end of the snowshoes with your toe and let the heel drag, slipping the shoe forward as you step, this fashion. Watch me and get wise.”

Grant watched Bunk walk around easily in a broad circle, which brought him back to the starting point.

“I see,” nodded the boy from Texas, “and I reckon I can catch onto it after a little practice. Where can I get a pair of moccasins?”

“Stickney carries ’em; he carries everything. Mebbe Lem Sawyer’ll have an old pair he’ll sell cheap, for he’s hard up and needs the money. I’ll find out if you want me to.”

“Go ahead. I’ve never yet mounted anything I couldn’t master, and, having been bucked off by a pair of snowshoes, I’m right eager to get busy in proper fashion with the things. Think I’ll get the shovel now and go at it opening the path. I won’t have much more than time to finish that job before school.”

Having watched them depart, he went at his task, making the snow fly with a pair of lusty arms, which, in spite of the heavy work, betrayed no weariness until he had finished.

At noon that day Davis informed him that Lander had succeeded in borrowing Sawyer’s dog, gun and snowshoes for the following Saturday, and that Sawyer had agreed to sell his moccasins at a bargain if they were what Rod wanted.

“We’ll show you some fun,” promised Spotty. “We’re going over to Bunk’s old camp to-night to see if everything is all right there. If it is, we’ll have the stuff ready for a stew Saturday, and as sure as we can start any rabbits we’ll give you a feed that will be good for a hungry man. Watch for us in the morning. We’re going to show you how to navigate on snowshoes.”

They came the following morning, bringing the snowshoes and moccasins, and Rod had his first lesson. As soon as he caught onto the knack of it, he made satisfactory progress, and was praised by both Spotty and Bunk, although he found it impossible to get over the snow for any distance with as much speed and ease as they could.

“You’re coming all right, old man,” assured Lander. “I’ve seen lots of fellers try it who didn’t get along half as fast. Just you keep practicing, and you’ll break in fine.”

Rodney continued to practice, and by Saturday he had thoroughly mastered the art of getting around with considerable skill and ease upon snowshoes.

Friday night about an inch of light snow fell on top of the other, which had settled beneath the rays of the sun, giving a perfect opportunity for rabbit tracking, as Lander joyously explained when he and Spotty appeared at an early hour. They were leading Sawyer’s old black-and-tan hound, and, besides their own guns, they brought the man’s double-barreled breech loader for Rodney.

And so, thoroughly equipped, the boys set off for the day’s sport.

CHAPTER XVIII.
RABBIT HUNTING

Standing amid the clustered alders which lined the banks of an ice-bound stream that flowed through a little valley, Rodney Grant listened with a tingling thrill to the musical baying of a hound running a rabbit. Rouser had struck a scent, and now, after circling some distance into the deeper woods, the sound of his voice, growing more and more distinct, indicated that he was coming back. Holding Lem Sawyer’s gun ready for use, Rod changed his position somewhat, in order to get a better view through a little break or opening in the alders. The snow crunched softly beneath his feet, and a few light, feathery flakes, dislodged as he brushed against the bushes, floated down around him. A chickadee, undisturbed by the baying of the dog or the presence of the boy near at hand, performed some amazing evolutions amid the branches a few feet away, keeping up the while a constant friendly chatter in a ludicrously hoarse and husky tone. Up the bank behind Rod, some distance to the right, the snow crunched a little and a dark figure appeared at the edge of the spruces.

“’St! ’st!” came a double hiss of warning. “Watch out, Grant! He’s coming! He’s coming! You may see him first.”

It was Spotty, who had sought a more favorable position, only to be led back that way by the baying of the dog. Lander had gone still farther up stream.

Hearing the hound coming in full tongue, Rod did not even turn his head, but crouched a bit to peer through the opening down which the dog’s voice floated from the shadowy woods beyond the stream. His eyes were keen for the first glimpse of the running rabbit, and his finger was ready for the trigger.

Whit-ker-whit – whirr!

Spotty, moving again, had sent a partridge out from beneath the shelter of some low-hanging evergreens. With a gasp, he swung half round and blazed away, almost blindly, at the flitting bird, which went soaring over the alders toward the cover of the dense woods beyond the stream. He knew he had missed, even as he fired.

Grant, straightening up as if jerked by an electric shock, saw the brown bird flash against a bit of gray sky. There was no time to bring the butt of the gun to his shoulder. He fired, seemingly without taking aim, and the partridge crashed down through the alders, falling with a “plump” to the snow.

“Get him – did you get him?” palpitated Spotty.

“I reckon I did,” answered the young Texan coolly, stooping to peer through the bushes and perceiving the bunch of brown feathers that lay so still some distance away.

But the rabbit was still coming, if the approaching staccato of the hound was to be accepted as positive evidence, and Rod, satisfied that the partridge would remain where it had dropped, again turned his attention to the business from which it had been temporarily distracted.

“By, jinks!” muttered Spotty. “I guess he can shoot, all right.”

Over in the woods beyond, the fleeing rabbit had stopped short at the crashing report of the gun, sitting straight up on its haunches for a fleeting moment, its whole body aquiver with terror. Only for a moment did it linger. The clamoring dog on its track was coming, filling the whole woods with a racket which plainly told that the scent was rapidly growing warm. Ahead silence had followed that double burst of terrible sound, but behind was the relentless pursuer, who was making the forest ring. The hunted thing seemed to know where the crossing of the stream could most easily be made, and beyond the stream, up the bank, were the thick firs and the deep, sheltering shadows.

On it came once more, with great bounds, long ears flattened back. Gray almost as the snow itself, it leaped forth into the little opening.

This time the butt of the gun in Rodney Grant’s hands was pressed to his shoulder for an instant. The left barrel belched smoke, and the rabbit, shot-riddled in the midst of a leap, was practically dead when it struck the snow.

“Get him – did you get him?” yelled Spotty once more.

“I sure did,” laughed Grant, breaking down the gun to eject the empty shells. Blowing through the barrels, he slipped in fresh cartridges, snapped the gun together, pushed through the bushes to pick up the partridge, and had almost reached the rabbit when Rouser came bellowing forth from the woods to stop in surprise and sniff around the furry, blood-stained body.

“Say, you’re a holy terror!” spluttered Davis, as he came crunching and crashing through the alders. “You can shoot some, can’t you?”

“It’s a cinch with a shotgun,” laughed Rod. “I’ve always done most of my shooting with a rifle.”

“Don’t believe Bunk thought that rabbit would circle back this way,” confessed Davis. “If he had, he wouldn’t have gone up-stream. He’ll be coming pretty soon, now that Rouser’s quit talking after that shooting. We had better go meet him.”

Already the dog was sniffing around in the bushes for a fresh scent. Spotty called the animal, and they pushed up-stream, soon discovering Lander approaching.

“Get anything?” asked Bunk.

“I didn’t,” acknowledged Spotty. “I put up a biddy, but I missed her. Rod brought her down, though, and he got that rabbit, too.”

His gun tucked under his arm, Lander looked at the partridge and the rabbit in evident surprise.

“Great luck,” he commented, with an evident shade of chagrin. “Good work for a greenhorn. Sometimes it happens that way; the feller who’s green gets all the chances.”

“Greenhorn!” snickered Spotty. “You should see him shoot. Here, Rouser, come back here! Come back, sir!”

The old dog had been slipping away into the woods, but he returned at the command.

“Well, we’ll have our stew all right,” said Lander. “That’s a consolation for us, Spot.”

They moved on, Bunk leading and directing the dog. After a time another track was picked up, and again Rouser went baying off into the woods.

“We’ll wait a while and see which way he turns,” said Bunk, who hoped to pick the lucky location for himself this time.

“Hark! What’s that?” cried Davis suddenly, as the distant report of a gun drifted to their ears.

“Somebody else out for rabs, I guess,” growled Lander. “Yes, there’s their dog. Listen!”

Another hound, much farther away than Rouser, was heard giving voice.

“Bet the feller that fired made a miss,” grinned Spotty. “It takes old Deadeye Grant from Texas to bring ’em down.”

With his ear cocked, Lander listened. After a time he said:

“This is a good place, Grant. You stay here. Spot, you can go farther up this time. I’m going to cross over.”

Watching them hurry away, Grant said nothing, although he knew Bunk was trying to secure for himself the chance of the next shot.

For some moments after they vanished his keen ears heard an occasional distant sound, like the cracking of branches or the rustling of bodies pushing through thickets; but this gradually died out, and something like a lonely hush settled over the winter woods. He could still hear the distant baying of the dogs, but this seemed even to accentuate the stillness in his immediate vicinity.

“I reckon it was more by accident than anything else, that Rouser turned the rabbit back my way before,” muttered the lad from Texas, “and I don’t judge it will happen again. If I stay here I won’t get another shot. Bunk and Spotty count on doing the rest of the shooting themselves. By the sound, I should say Rouser will be over in the next township before he stops.”

The inactivity swiftly became irksome to him, and finally, with gun tucked under his arm and game bag containing the rabbit and partridge slung from his shoulder, he set forth, guided by the barking of the dogs. At times he was forced to stoop to make his way through the low, scrubby growth, and once he paused to tie a red silk handkerchief about his neck, down which the snow had an uncomfortable way of sifting from the overhanging bushes which he disturbed as he pushed along. He made no attempt to follow either Lander or Davis, but finally, to his satisfaction, the sound of the dogs grew more and more distinct, and he came to a swamp growth where rabbit tracks and paths were plentiful. This swamp covered an extensive territory, and in its depth the hounds seemed to be pursuing the twisting, turning, circling game.

“I’ll bet something that both Bunk and Spotty are here somewhere,” laughed Rod softly. “They tried to leave me picketed over yonder where there wasn’t a show for me to do a whole lot of shooting. Perhaps they think I’ve done enough already.”

“Whoo!” came a hoarse shout, which sounded almost in Rod’s ear and caused him to give a ludicrously startled jump. Ere he could recover and shoot, a fluffy gray thing shot out of the shadows at one side and was gone into the still deeper shadows of another thicket.

“An owl,” muttered Grant, with a short laugh and a feeling of foolishness over his alarm. “He was sitting right there on the broken branch of that old dead stub. Owls aren’t good to eat, but, mounted, he would have made a good trophy for my room.”

Still, with the sound of the dogs drawing nearer, he spent little time in regretting the escape of the owl. Once the hounds were so close that he stood half crouching, peering into the shadows of the swamp, fully expecting to see the hunted rabbit come bounding forth into view; but suddenly the baying swept away to one side and passed on to the north, denoting that the furry fugitive had made a turn in the effort to baffle the clamoring animals that would give him no rest.

“It’s right plain he’s sticking to this swamp tract,” thought Rod, “and so I judge he’ll come round this way again if some one doesn’t pop him over.”

He moved on a few rods, found a spot that seemed favorable, placed himself with a tree at his back, and continued to wait, as motionless and rigid as the tree itself.

It was quite warm down here in the swamp, where no breath of air stirred. If other living creatures there were in the immediate vicinity of the young hunter, it appeared that they were also hypnotized into stony silence by the baying of the dogs, now drawing near, now receding, growing faint, becoming plainer again, and finally seeming swiftly to approach.

“If I get this fellow, too, I’ll sure have the laugh on Bunk and Spotty,” whispered Rod, holding his gun ready to clap it instantly to his shoulder.

The dogs came straight on. Unless they changed their course soon, they must certainly pass within easy shooting distance. The wild, blood-thrilling music of their voices made the whole swamp ring. Once the waiting lad fancied he heard a slight crashing off at the left, but, thinking it might be Lander or Davis approaching, he did not turn his eyes in that direction. Now it seemed that the passing of any second might bring the hounds into view. Beyond question they were close upon the rabbit, and —

Up went Rod’s gun. His eye caught the sights, his finger pressed the trigger. Following the report of the piece, the smoke, drifting slowly upward on the heavy air, unveiled the rabbit kicking in its last throes upon the blood-stained snow.

“Another!” exulted Rodney Grant, as, ere advancing, he extracted the empty shell and slipped a fresh one into the gun.

A black-and-tan dog flashed into view, reached the slain rabbit and nearly lost its footing in the attempt to stop promptly.

“You’re pretty lively for an old dog, Rouser,” chuckled Rod. “You certainly seem to have amazing good wind.”

But, still baying frantically, another dog was coming, and within ten feet of the rabbit Grant stood still, uttering an exclamation of surprise, his eyes fixed on the hound that was yet sniffing around the dead game.

“It’s not Rouser!” he muttered. “It’s – ”

“What in blazes do you mean by shooting a rabbit ahead of my dog?” cried a voice.

Rod twisted the upper part of his body round and gazed over his shoulder at two lads with guns who were hurriedly approaching on snowshoes.