Chapter XXIV: Uncle Ned Does His Bit

The moon was out when they took the trail that led to Ed’s cabin. By moving along single file in the shadows they were able to keep themselves concealed.

They had covered more than half the distance to the cabin when of a sudden Berley, who was in the lead, stopped short to press her companions back into the deeper shadows.

“Some—some one skulking about the cabin!” she whispered tensely.

And there he was. There could be no doubt about it. The moon, skirting a corner of their cabin, left there for a space of seconds the wavering shadow of a man. Ten seconds passed, and the shadow vanished.

“Do—do you think it’s the kidnapers?” Despite her bravest efforts the girl could not prevent her teeth from chattering.

“Don’t know who it is,” the scout grumbled in a hoarse whisper. “Only one way to deal with a skulker. Go after him!

“Look!” He turned to Red. “In another moment a cloud will be over the moon. Only a small cloud. Soon pass. But time enough. When it gets dark, you go scooting down the Tobin’s Harbor trail. He went that way. Go down two hundred feet or more, then drop off into the bush. I’ll go round the cabin and come in from the left. When the moon comes out I’ll flush him some way. After that the best man wins.

“You—you’d better stay here,” he said to Berley.

Berley did not stay there. As Red went skulking down that trail in the dark, she followed. She was afraid, but being in the darkness alone with prowlers about, who might carry her away, was worse than being on the firing line.

Obeying instructions, Red followed the trail a hundred paces or less, then dropped away into the shadows.

Finding a place where the moss grew thick before a great rock, he drew the girl down beside him. “Really there’s no reason to be excited.” He felt her heart’s wild beating. “Probably we’ll not see him again this night. He’s just scouting around to see who’s here. Not likely to find out much. He—”

The girl’s hand pressed hard on his arm. Off to the left there was a sound of movement. And then the moon came out.

Instantly from the bush an automatic barked. The shot had been fired at the scout. He dropped—not with a bullet wound, for the rascal had missed—but for the purpose of securing a safe position and waiting his turn. It had been many years since any one had presumed to shoot at this scout; years of peace they had been, and now this, a shot in the night. His mighty “shootin’ iron” roared its reply.

The thing that happened after that will never be fully credited by either Red or the girl, and that in spite of the fact that they saw it with their own eyes.

The moon was out in all its glory. From their observation post before the great rock they thought they made out a skulking figure off to the right and not far off the Tobin’s Harbor trail. At the same time they caught a sound of movement still further back in the bush.

“There are more, perhaps three or four of them.” Berley pressed Red’s arm hard. “They—they’re trying to surround us!”

How wrong she was they were soon enough to know, for the skulking figure, having come to rest, lifted his head so far above the thimbleberry bushes as to leave it in clear view.

“That—” Red’s voice was a bit unsteady. “That’s one of them. Sha-shall I shoot?”

“No, no. That one in the bushes will get you if you do.”

Then astonishing things began to happen. The man on the moonlit trail lifted his gun, took quick aim and fired, not at the scout, not at Red, but at the moving spot in the bushes.

Instantly from out those bushes came a charging terror. All legs and head and saber-pointed antlers, he came straight at the offender who had fired that last shot. Old Uncle Ned, veteran bull moose of Isle Royale, had beyond doubt been nicked by a bullet. Revenge he would have, and did.

At sight of him the terrified gangster leaped high in air to clear the bushes. He was caught squarely by those murderous antlers. Then moose and man plunged forward into the dark clump of evergreen growing by the trail.

There came the sound of crashing boards, followed by the hoarse breathing of some creature engaged in a life and death struggle. There were many seconds of this and then, staggering like a drunken man, Old Uncle Ned came out to the trail and went slowly plodding his way into the distant dark.

They waited for the man to appear. A moment ticked its way into eternity, a second and a third. From far away came the maniacal laugh of a loon.

“Red,” the girl whispered at last, “did you hear that cracking sound?”

“Yes. What was it?”

“Red, do you know what there is by that clump of black trees?”

“No. What is it?”

“Red, can you guess what has happened?”

“No.” Red was very patient. “What has happened?”

“Red,” she drew a long breath, “Red, there is a hole, a very deep hole, ninety feet they say, at the edge of that clump of black trees. It’s an old mine, almost full of water, green slimy water. There—there was a fence around it, a very poor fence. Old Uncle Ned pushed the man in there! He—he fell part way in, Uncle Ned did, but he came out again. The man did not come out. He will never come out.”

“Is—is that true?” Red half rose on one elbow. “Then we must try to save him. He’s bad. But he’s a man. Can’t let a man die that way.”

Red went creeping away in the shadows. The girl followed. When they reached the edge of the clump of trees they found the scout flat on his stomach, flashing a light into the dark hole that had once been a copper mine.

“Gone, I guess,” he said in a very even tone. “His cap is floating down there. Some bubbles came up, but he—he hasn’t come.”

Red squatted down beside him. The girl stood looking down. For five minutes, like figures posed for a piece of statuary, they held their positions. Then, as he rose stiffly, the scout said:

“Gone, all right enough!” Then in a tone that was like a church bell tolling in the night: “He was bad, probably all through; but for all that he was a man. It’s our duty to ask peace on his soul.”

For a moment their heads were bowed in silent prayer. Then, like a squad that has fired a salute over a comrade’s grave, they right-about-faced and marched solemnly away into the night.

The scout led the way in silence back to the cabin. He did not stop there, but marched straight on. The others, not a little puzzled at his actions, paused and then followed. Before a stone slab standing out black in the uncertain light, he paused.

“That,” he said, “marks the grave of an honest man, a copper miner. No word is inscribed on that stone, yet the fact that he worked as a miner marks him as one who at least was willing to labor for his bread.

“It seems a little strange,” there was a curious huskiness in his voice, “that more than fifty years ago this one, whom his comrades honored with a marked grave, should have labored to dig that deep hole in the earth that, never a success as a mine, has now become a grave for one who deserved little honor. Sort of seems to prove that no man labors in vain.”

Having delivered this simple sermon, he turned and led the way back to the cabin.

A few moments later he left once more to return with a heavy object in his hands.

“Here. Take this,” he said to Red.

Red reached out for the thing, sank forward, all but dropped it, then exclaimed:

“Whew! How heavy!”

“Native copper,” said Ed with a smile. “Taken from the earth when the foundation for the lodge was laid.”

“Looks as if it had been melted,” said Red.

“Probably was, before man came upon the earth. Float copper, they call it. Indians mined it on Isle Royale many generations before the white men came. It was a prized possession. Spear points, arrow points, skinning knives, knives for fighting could be made from it.”

“But why are there no mines here now?” Red had visions of becoming a pioneer copper miner. Next to steel he loved copper best of all.

“That was tried more than fifty years ago. That’s what that miner’s grave means out there. Copper mining was tried in many places. Had it not been for the supposed wealth of copper deposits here, the United States would never have owned Isle Royale. It would have gone to Canada. We bought it from the Indians. And, after years of labor, the copper miners discovered that copper mining on Isle Royale would never pay.

“And now,” he concluded, “it is one great big beautiful playground, the safe home of wild life, and will be, I hope, for years to come.”

“I believe,” he said, after a period of silence, “that some time to-morrow the wind will fall. To-morrow night you may have an opportunity to tackle the great adventure—your row to Passage Island. To-night and to-morrow you must rest.

“I’d gladly go with you when the time comes,” he added thoughtfully, “but I am large and heavy. I have a left arm that goes back on me when I row hard and long. Got a bullet there once. But you’ll make it all right. You’ll make it. Never fear.”