Scott Morgan
Oakdale Boys in Camp

CHAPTER XI.
THE LEGEND OF LOVERS’ LEAP

An hour or more after dinner, as the boys were lounging about, a canoe containing a single occupant was seen approaching the point. The person who wielded the paddle headed for the sandy beach of the little cove, upon which lay the canoe of the campers, and, as he drew near, he was seen to be a youngish man dressed in khaki. A bamboo fishing rod projected upward over one of the thwarts of the stranger’s canoe.

“I judge he’s coming to pay us a visit,” said Grant, starting toward the beach.

Rod was right. Smiling pleasantly, the young man, who had a small black moustache and seemed somewhat in need of a shave, brought his canoe on to the beach with a soft grating sound and stepped out into the shallow water, his feet being protected by water-tight boots.

“Hello,” he nodded in an agreeable manner. “Saw your smoke and thought I’d come over. Camping out here, I see.”

“Yes,” answered Rod, equally affable and a bit curious. “Are you from the hotel?”

“No. My name is Granger – Charles Granger, and I’m stopping in an old log cabin about two miles from the hotel. How’s the fishing over this way?”

“Pretty good, I reckon. We’ve tried it only once, but we had good luck. You see we got here last night barely soon enough to make camp.”

“I didn’t think you’d been here long,” said Granger, “for if you had I’d been likely to have seen you before. How long do you plan to stay?”

“A week or so; perhaps two; if everything goes all right. My name is Grant. Won’t you come up and meet the rest of the fellows?”

“Sure,” beamed Granger; “I’d like to.”

He followed Rod, who presented him to the others. Apparently he was a languid sort of a chap with a dreamy eye, and, for all of his seeming frankness, it was not long before the boys fancied they could perceive something mysterious in his manner. He told them he was occupying the old log cabin quite alone, his doctor having advised him to spend as much of the summer as possible in the open air. Nevertheless, although he was somewhat slender of build, he did not have the appearance of a person in poor health. Springer, seeking to draw him out, soon discovered that he knew very little about fishing and fishing tackle.

“Oh, I’m a greenhorn,” laughed Granger; “but I enjoy the sport just the same. It’s about all I have to do besides read, and a man gets tired of reading after a while. I have amused myself, however, by picking up some information concerning the legends hereabouts. You know this is really a most romantic spot, as well as one of the prettiest sheets of water to be found in all New England. If people looking for a summer’s outing just knew about it, they’d pack the Cliff House over there until it would be necessary to build an addition.”

“The lake would soon be spoiled if rusticators overran it,” was Grant’s opinion.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” retorted the visitor. “In one way, perhaps you’re right, but it would mean tremendous business and a lot of money for the hotel people. They took a big chance when they put up that house over there and sunk so much money in it. You see there’s a certain disadvantage in the fact that they’re so far from the nearest railroad point, although to many people that would seem like an advantage. The first two years they lost money hand over fist, although they advertised extensively in the regular manner. This is the first season that they have really done a fair sort of business, and I understand the business is increasing.”

“You sus-seem to be interested in the hotel,” said Springer.

“Oh, not at all, not at all,” returned Granger. “I’m simply telling you what I’ve heard, and it’s by the way of gossip, you know. We must have something to talk about.”

“Sir,” said Piper, “I reckon maybe you’ll pardon me if I inform you that we’re not much interested in the affairs of other people who have rashly ventured into the remote regions of these virgin wilds. It is only their ignorance or their foolish bravado that has led them thus to expose their lives to the perils of the primeval forests, and were the Wampanoags to take to the warpath, it is not at all improbable that the foolhardy palefaces over yonder would be butchered to the last man, woman and child.”

Mr. Granger looked at Sleuth in a puzzled way.

“What’s he talking about?” he asked.

“Injuns!” hissed Piper, unabashed. “We pioneers know full well the perils that menace us in this redskin haunted land, but years of experience amid such dangers have taught us to baffle the varmints. Those who lack our knowledge should cling close to the settlements, where they may seek the protection of the block houses whenever the pizen warriors go on a rampage.”

The visitor turned from Sleuth to Grant. “Anything the matter with him up here?” he asked, touching his forehead.

“Nothing but illuminated literature,” answered Rod, laughing. “At home Piper has Sherlock Holmes and Old Sleuth backed against the ropes, and groggy. He’s the greatest detective that ever solved the mystery of a dark and terrible crime. Here in the woods he is the emulator of Daniel Boone, Simon Kenton and ‘Deadeye Dick, the Boy Scout of the Border.’ That’s all.”

“Oh, I see,” laughed Granger. “It’s the effect of a vivid imagination, spurred by a line of reading that some fussy people call pernicious. I fancy he’ll get over it in time and be none the worse for it.”

Which caused Sleuth to snort disgustedly.

“Speaking of Indians,” pursued the visitor, “I suppose you’ve heard the story of Lovers’ Leap? That’s the cliff over behind the hotel, the top of which is marked by that white cross which you can faintly discern against the sky.”

“Well,” replied Crane, “we’ve heard something abaout it.”

“It’s a most romantic legend,” said Granger glibly. “In the days before the invading whites drove them out, two small, warlike tribes of Indians, the Passagonquays and the Mattagamons, were almost constantly at war over this particular territory, which was coveted by both. Even in times of peace these tribes had little in common and shunned each other as far as possible. According to the story, Lolokana was a beautiful princess of the Passagonquays, and Agamenthan, a young brave of that tribe, desired her to brighten his wigwam. But, for some reason, Lolokana had no use for Agamenthan and steadily repulsed his wooing. One day while Lolokana wandered alone in the forest she was attacked by a panther.”

“Who says there are no cougars hereabouts?” muttered Piper.

“The princess would have been slain,” continued the narrator, “only for the prompt and fortunate appearance of a tall, handsome young brave, who rushed to her rescue and slew the panther with his knife. The young Indian was wounded, but not seriously. His name was Woganock, and he was a Mattagamon. Nevertheless, in spite of the hostility between the two tribes, Lolokana promptly fell in love with Woganock. Of course they knew their love-making would not meet with the sanction of their people, and therefore it was carried on in secret through clandestine meetings in the woods.

“But Agamenthan was keeping a jealous and watchful eye upon Lolokana, and one day he followed her and saw the lovers meet in the forest. Without hesitation he rushed upon Woganock, shouting for him to defend himself. Armed only with their knives, the two young braves fought a bloody battle, in which both were badly chopped up. Woganock conquered, however, and Agamenthan was left apparently dying upon the ground.

“Supported and aided by Lolokana, Woganock, though desperately wounded, made his way back to his tribe. But when he told the story of the battle and confessed his love for Lolokana his father, a chief, rose in wrath and drove the princess away, vowing that no Passagonquay should ever take a Mattagamon for his squaw. Weak and helpless, Woganock could not lift a hand in remonstrance, and doubtless it would have availed him little had he been able to do so.

“Lolokana returned to her people and learned, to her astonishment, that Agamenthan had been found by some warriors, who had bound up his injuries and brought him back, alive, to the village. He must have been a tough one, this redskin, for he did not die. However, he told the story of the duel with Woganock, and thenceforth Lolokana was held practically a captive by her father, who promised Agamenthan that she should become his squaw. When the wounded brave recovered his strength and health he was to have her, whether she wished it or not.

“Now, as it affects every girl of spirit, this attempt to coerce her against her will made Lolokana only the more determined that she would never belong to Agamenthan. If she had lost Woganock, if she was to see him no more this side of the Happy Hunting Grounds, she was resolved that she would die the squaw of no man. A prisoner, watched vigilantly by night and by day, she dreamed splendid dreams of a reunion with the lover who had saved her from the panther and defeated the warlike Agamenthan in a fair and even battle. For, even as she had been driven away by the angry Mattagamons, although he could make no effort to shield her and could scarcely whisper a remonstrance, Woganock had cast her a look from his dark eyes that was a pledge and a promise. So she waited for him to come, confident that sometime he would do so and take her away.

“At last, however, she began to fear that she had waited in vain, for Agamenthan, bearing many terrible scars upon his person, had recovered his strength and was asking of her father that the time should be set when he could lead her to his wigwam. Though she knew of these councils and of the impatience of the young brave, Lolokana kept her lips sealed – kept her dark lashes always lowered, that Agamenthan might not read in her eyes the resolve to die rather than submit. A knife, which she had found, was hidden upon her person, and this, if nothing else, would enable her to escape at the last moment. One strong, swift thrust deep into her bosom would set her free.

“At last the day was named, and the chief of the Passagonquays told his daughter that on the morrow she was to become the squaw of Agamenthan. That night she did not close her eyes in sleep, although, lying quite still, without a single movement to arouse suspicion, she led her vigilant guard to believe she slumbered. It was her purpose to try to creep forth from the teepee in the darkest hours and take flight.

“As she lay thus she heard something – the faintest rustle, like the movements of a toad in the leaves; yet something told her it was not a toad, and, with her heart pounding, she listened and listened. Presently she heard her name whispered almost in her ear, and she knew it had been breathed by the lips of Woganock. She knew her lover had come at last. With all the skill and stealth of his race he had crept into the village, not even disturbing a sleeping dog. He was outside the teepee; only the thin wall divided them.

“Lulled by her apparent submission to the decree of her father, the chief, the guard dozed. Woganock’s hands found his throat and strangled him with scarcely a sound. Then, with the same caution, he led Lolokana out of the village and away into the black depths of the forest.

“What had happened was not discovered by the Passagonquays until morning dawned. Then, as you may believe, there was something doing. The old chief called upon Agamenthan to bring the princess back, and Agamenthan promised to do so. With a dozen young warriors at his heels, he took up the trail. Three days and three nights they pursued the fleeing lovers with the tenacity of bloodhounds. Early on the fourth day the pursuers closed in upon Woganock and Lolokana, for the princess was weary. The moccasins were gone from her bleeding feet, and even Woganock’s great strength had been terribly taxed through bearing the maiden in his arms over many of the rough places. They were trapped in the mountains yonder. No matter which way they sought to flee, they found themselves cut off, and eventually, with the pursuers closing in, they were driven out upon the very brink of that great cliff where the cross now stands. They could not descend, and to turn back into the forest from which they had come meant nothing save final capture, even though they were to slip through the cordon of pursuers.

“There upon the cliff, with half his followers at his heels, Agamenthan found them. His eyes blazing with triumph, the Passagonquay advanced, shouting exultantly that this time the dog of a Mattagamon should surely die.

“With their hands clasped, Woganock and Lolokana looked into each other’s eyes and spoke a few low words. When Agamenthan was less than forty feet distant Woganock laughed at him and cried, ‘Fool! idiot! warrior with the heart of a rabbit! spawn of a crawling snake! creature that I have conquered and spit upon! if you would take Lolokana from me, follow.’

“In a twinkling he had caught the princess up in his arms, and her arms were around his neck. In another twinkling, before the eyes of the horrified Agamenthan, he leaped far out from the brink of the precipice. No sound, no cry did the lovers make as they fell. Even the ragged rocks at the foot of the cliff could not tear them apart. They were found among those rocks, dead, but still locked fast in each other’s arms.

“That’s the legend of Lovers’ Leap. The hotel people have put up the cross to mark the spot from which Woganock sprang. There is a path, passing round the cliff, which may be climbed by anyone who wishes to visit the cross and has the energy and perseverance. Each day several of the guests at the hotel climb that path.”

CHAPTER XII.
THE STORY OF THE HERMIT

The boys had listened with deep interest to this story, told by Granger in a manner which seemed to indicate that he had it well by heart. After the tale was ended there was silence for a moment or two, broken by Piper, who observed with no small amount of sarcasm:

“Talk about imagination! I call that going some! Who ever polished up that gem of a yarn certainly put in some fancy touches.”

“The story is said to be true,” said the visitor, with a touch of warmth.

“Perhaps it is,” returned Sleuth; “as true as the illuminated fiction someone politely sneered at a short time ago. If I had read it in a book, I’d taken it for just what it doubtless is, pure romance. To romance I have no objection whatever, but I certainly hate for anyone to try to cram it down my throat as truth.”

“Evidently you’re a doubting Thomas,” said the narrator of the legend, who was greatly surprised that, of them all, Piper should be the one promptly to brand the tale as fiction.

“No,” said Sleuth, “I’m a doubting William; Billy is my first name. It’s scarcely necessary for me to bring my penetrating and deductive faculties to bear upon that yarn in order to point out the ragged holes with which it is riddled. Who recorded this wonderful legend? Who knew all about the very thoughts of the beautiful Indian princess as she lay a captive in the lodge of the great war chief, her father? I haven’t anywhere read that the North American Indians could record things by any other method than that of picture writing of the crudest sort. And the old guy of a brave who recorded thoughts in that manner would be obliged to hump himself some. I wonder who faked up that yarn?”

“You seem inclined to take everything too literally,” said Granger, seeking to repress his resentment over Sleuth’s attitude. “Perhaps it has been touched up a bit and filled out in complete narrative form, but doubtless, in the main, the story is true.”

But Billy shrugged his shoulders and elevated his eyebrows significantly.

“It makes little difference whether you believe the story or not,” said the annoyed visitor. “A great many people do believe it.”

“There are always suckers ready to swallow anything,” retorted Sleuth. “Why, I suppose there are some people who actually believe this lake, or that island out yonder, in particular, to be haunted.”

A queer look passed over Granger’s face, and for a few moments he scrutinized Piper in a perplexed manner. At first he had imagined that of the young campers this lad would be the most ready and eager to accept such fanciful tales as truthful, or as containing a certain amount of truth, at least. It now seemed that this sentimental, imaginative boy was the most skeptical fellow among them.

“You may believe as much as you like,” he finally said; “or as little; it makes no difference to me. The story of Lovers’ Leap, as a story, sounds very well.”

“And you tell it fluently,” murmured Piper.

Disdaining this remark, Granger went on.

“As for the other matter, it is scarcely strange that some superstitious people should fancy the lake haunted. I believe it got its name in the first place through the tale that regularly, once a year, upon the anniversary of the tragedy, the spirits of the Indian lovers appear upon the cliff, from which they leaped, clasped in each other’s arms.”

Sleuth smothered a snicker, upon which, unable longer to keep still, Crane, who had been deeply absorbed in the legend as related, turned upon him savagely, snapping:

“What’s the matter with yeou, anyhaow? Can’t yeou be half perlite if yeou try? Yeou don’t haf to listen; yeou can go off somewhere all by your lonesome.”

The visitor flashed Sile a glance of thanks.

“There’s another reason,” he stated, “why the lake is supposed to be haunted. Almost everyone around here has heard the story of Old Lonely, the hermit whose deserted hut still stands on Spirit Island.”

“Yep,” nodded Crane eagerly, “I know abaout that yarn.”

“Perhaps the rest of us have never heard it in full,” said Grant. “I’m right sure I haven’t.”

It immediately became apparent that Granger was fully as ready to tell this story as he had been to relate the Indian legend.

“In midwinter some ten years ago,” he began, “it was reported that there was an old man living on Spirit Island. First his smoke was seen rising from the island, and then some men who came here to fish through the ice saw the recluse himself. Their curiosity aroused by the sight of the smoke, they approached the island. But when they drew near a bearded, bare-headed man in tattered garments appeared on the shore with a gun in his hands and a growling dog at his heels, and ordered them away. They attempted to talk with him, but, save to warn them of personal violence if they persisted in intruding, he would make no conversation. All that winter he remained on the island, seen at rare intervals, though the ringing of his axe and the report of his gun were sometimes heard. Naturally, people wondered who the stranger could be, and when the spring fishing came on some sportsmen made a second attempt to land on the island.

“Again the hermit made his appearance with the vicious looking dog as his companion, and warned them to keep off. They attempted to parley with him, but the effort was discouraged, as that of the winter fishermen had been.

“For almost five years Old Lonely, as he was dubbed for want of another name, lived there with his dog on Spirit Island. Two or three times a year, silent and unapproachable, he appeared in Pemstock and bought certain absolutely necessary essentials of life that could be obtained in no other manner. Clothing, ammunition for his gun, fishing tackle, a little hardware and a few simple cooking utensils, together with salt, sugar, coffee, flour and tobacco made up, in the main, all of his purchases, which were paid for with spot cash. Where he got it no one could surmise, but the hermit always seemed to have enough money in his pocket to pay for what he bought. He engaged a man regularly to deliver the stuff at the foot of the lake, where Old Lonely received it, loaded it into his crude flat-bottomed boat and rowed away.

“Upon every occasion when seen he was accompanied by his dog, a snarling, tooth-threatening creature, who seemed even less friendly toward human beings in general than did his master. There were fake stories and surmises afloat concerning the hermit of Spirit Island, but none of these hints or tales when followed up seemed to have any real foundation of truth. All were apparently the figments of some speculative or imaginative mind.”

At this point Piper smothered a cough, but the narrator did not even glance in Sleuth’s direction. Absorbed in the story he was relating, he continued without a break.

“Naturally, some of these speculative ones were inclined to picture Old Lonely as having a dark and terrible past. Others said he was a man who had been betrayed by a friend and deserted by his wife. The latter declared that, having watched him when he came into Pemstock, they had observed that he always turned his eyes away whenever a woman drew near. At any rate, living that lonely life, the man swiftly aged. When first seen there had been no sign of gray in his long hair or his ragged beard, but soon the white began to show, and on his last visit to town both hair and beard would have been almost snowy white only for the fact that they seemed soiled and dirty through the general negligence which marked his entire person. His clothing he wore patched again and again, until it almost dropped from his body.

“Once, having watched the island a long time and finally seen Old Lonely leave it in his boat, two men went on and saw his crude clay-chinked log hut; but, fearing his return and believing he might make good his threat to shoot any who trespassed, they did not linger long.

“Late in the autumn, something like five years ago, some hunters heard Old Lonely’s dog howling dolefully on Spirit Island. The howling continued for two full days, although it grew less frequent in its outbreaks and seemed to become weaker, as if the dog was losing strength. And during those two days not a sign of smoke was perceived rising from the island. That something had happened to Old Lonely became the conviction of the hunters, but the man’s reputation prevented them from making haste to investigate. Finally, however, they ventured to put out and land upon the island. The hermit did not put in an appearance to oppose them.

“Approaching the hut by way of a path made by the feet of the recluse, they beheld the door standing ajar. About the dismal place there was a silence and desolation that bespoke tragedy. When they peered in at the door two gleaming eyes met their gaze, and the warning snarl of a dog greeted their ears. In that inner gloom they saw the animal, gaunt and weak, lift itself upon its trembling legs to stand glaring at them, its teeth exposed. More than that, upon a dirty bunk they perceived the silent figure of Old Lonely, his ghastly, stony face framed in a tangle of white hair and whiskers. They called to him repeatedly, but he did not answer and he made no move. Then they knew he was dead.

“The dog, however, weak and starving though he was, would not let them enter the hut, and finally, in order to perform what they believed to be their duty to the dead, they shot the creature. In its dying throes it howled once in such a terrible manner that the listeners shuddered and turned cold.”

“Ge wilikens!” breathed Crane. “I’ve heard the story before, but yeou sartainly can put in the fancy touches and thrills.”

“The dog,” pursued Granger, “was buried on the island. The body of Old Lonely was taken to the pauper’s plot in Pemstock cemetery. In an old leather pocketbook upon the hermit’s person were found some newspaper clippings and other papers, which revealed the identity of the man. In that pocketbook there was also a small, faded photograph of a woman, and this, it was eventually learned, was the likeness of the hermit’s wife. Old Lonely’s true name was John Calvert. Years before, in a distant state, he had plundered a bank, for which crime he had been arrested, tried, convicted and sent to prison for twenty years. Within twelve months of his conviction his wife died of a broken heart. How he secured a picture of her after breaking prison, as he eventually did, can only be surmised.

“As an escaped convict he was hunted relentlessly, until the body of a man believed to be that of John Calvert was cast ashore by the waters of Lake Michigan. Thinking the bank looter and prison breaker dead, the authorities quite naturally gave over the hunt. How he came to Spirit Island and why he chose to make his home there for the remainder of his desolate days is likewise a matter of speculation.

“And now comes the strange, and, doubtless you will say, the improbable, part of the story. The island is said to be haunted by the ghosts of Old Lonely and his dog. Venturesome ones, entertaining the belief that Calvert had, ere his arrest, hidden a portion of his plunder, which he recovered after escaping from prison, have searched for the loot on Spirit Island, and half a hundred holes that they have dug in the ground may be seen by anyone who cares to take the trouble and has the courage to do so.”

“Courage!” scoffed Piper, with a laugh, “Who’s afraid? Of course no sensible person believes the island is really haunted.”

Granger smiled. “You’re a brave young chap, I perceive,” he said sarcastically. “I don’t presume you fear ghosts or anything else?”

“Nothing but cuc-cougars,” chuckled Phil Springer. “Brave as he is, Sleuthy has a certain amount of respect for cuc-cougars.”

“I’m not advertising myself as one who believes in spooks,” smiled the entertaining visitor; “but, nevertheless, even though you may feel inclined to ridicule me, I will say that I’ve seen and heard some strange things around Spirit Island, and I’m not the only one, either. Many people have seen vanishing lights flashing there at night. They have heard the weird howling of a dog. They’ve even seen white, ghostly figures upon the shores of the island. When Calvert’s body was found a small eight day clock sat ticking upon a shelf above the man’s bunk, and some of the loot hunters, venturing by day into that desolate hut, have vowed that they plainly heard the ticking of a clock coming from some unknown place. They have likewise heard strange tappings, like the knocking of ghostly fingers. Every little while people from the hotel visit the island, but they always do so in numbers, and it would be a nervy person who would go there alone, especially at night. Perhaps our brave friend, the doubter, would not hesitate to make such a visit, even after nightfall.”

The bare idea, however, was enough to cause the other boys to laugh heartily, whereupon Piper rose to his feet, crying:

“I’m not chump enough to go prowling around anywhere alone at night; but I’ll tell you what, I’d just like to visit that old island in the daytime, and I don’t take any stock in this fine, well polished ghost story.”