Gordon now found the path easier to follow, partly because it was better defined and less obstructed by brush, and partly because the moon was coming to his assistance. Its light flickered through the tree tops some way before him over the summit of a hill which lay directly in his path. Presently, the woods were all aglow with its checkered brightness. Keeping his eye ever to the right of the path for possible signs or directions, he hurried on, running when the way permitted, through a marshy hollow, and was just about to begin the climb of the hill before him when his observant eye became riveted on a certain flat stone with an oval wet spot in the center. If he had not been a scout he would not have noticed this at all, and even the average scout would probably have mistaken it for a footprint. But to Gordon, even in his haste, the little wet trail which led from the oval spot to the edge of the stone told another story. He knew a turtle had been basking here within a very short time and had gone away. Why? Gordon asked himself as he hurried on. For he knew from his trusty old friend, “Doc. Wood,” as he called the famous writer of natural history, that when a turtle seeks a high and dry position in the evening he does not contemplate moving out at short notice. So Gordon put the footprint and the fact of the turtle’s sudden departure together and became very curious. If some one had preceded him along this path, why were there not more footprints? And why had the some one deliberately left the injured boy to his fate? Then suddenly another thought came to him which made him shudder, but he had no time to think, and hurried on.
The woods became more sparse now, and presently a road crossed the boy’s path. Beyond it the hill continued to rise gently, with only a few scattered trees here and there. The moon was now well clear of the summit, and smiling down encouragingly upon the sturdy, indomitable little fellow as he paused, gave his stocking a vigorous hitch, and started to run up to the summit. If a view from that favorable position revealed nothing, then he would have to consider whether it would be wiser to attempt to pick up the trail down the opposite slope and thus find the proper entrance into the woods beyond, or give up and go back to the stricken boy. For he knew he must not let his quest for succor run too far, and that a scout must always think and use his judgment.
Excitedly, nervously, he mounted the bare summit of the hill, finding never a footprint to encourage him, nor a familiar scout sign. For a second he stood there, seeming very small in that limitless expanse, gazing about in the moonlight. He looked down the hill, concentrated his gaze, and tried to pick out some sign of trail. But the hubbly, coarse-grown hillside kept its secret, if it had any, and Gordon knelt down in quest of some hint, some clue, near at hand. He rose, bewildered, uncertain, almost discouraged. His uniform was covered with burrs and torn by the brambly thickets he had crawled through.
But the first round of his encounter with this rugged enemy was over, as he was presently to know. And Master Gordon Lord, scout of the second class, Beaver Patrol, 1st Oakwood Troop, was the victor. For out of the woods which began under the further slope of the hill and extended far into the distance, there rose about a quarter of a mile away, little, fitful, fast-dissolving gusts of smoke.
A few moments later he stood at the foot of the hill looking anxiously through the thick forest where only flickering glints of the moonlight penetrated. But no moonlight was needed now, for he could distinguish several squares of white, half hidden among the trees, and rendered visible by the cheerful blaze of a camp-fire.
“I’m certainly a dandy!” said Gordon, with unconcealed pride, as he started through the woods, running with all his might and main.
No one heard the remark unless it was the man in the moon, who looked down with a broad smile on his face and seemed to wink his eye as if to say, “You certainly are, my boy.”