Chapter XI: More Plotting

Impetuous George Abbot was about to rush forward when Tom, stretching out a hand, held him back.

“Hold on a minute,” he said, and there was some strange quality in Tom’s voice that made his chum obey.

“What’s up?” he asked, glancing from Tom to the cabin.

“Nothing yet, but there may be,” was the cool answer.

“You mean there may be someone in that cabin--Skeel or those other men?”

“That’s about the size of it,” Tom said.

“That’s right--best to be on the safe side,” put in Bert. “Those men, or Skeel, especially, have been here lately.”

“But they haven’t any right in our cabin--at least the cabin your friends gave us the use of, Tom,” objected George.

“I know they haven’t, and that’s just where the trouble might come in. Those two men with Skeel look like ugly customers. If we cornered them in a cabin they had no right to enter, they might turn ugly. It’s best to go a bit slowly until we find out whether or not they are in there.”

“That’s what I say,” chimed in Jack. “Not that I’m afraid, but I don’t want to run into trouble so early on our vacation. Of course it’s possible,” he went on, “that someone else besides Skeel and his cronies may have been here, or may still be here, for boots, with nail-marks like those on the sole, can’t be so very rare. But I’m inclined to think Skeel wore those,” and he nodded toward the marks in the snow.

“I agree with you,” Tom said, “and we’ll soon find out. Let’s look about a bit before we rush up to the cabin,” he went on.

Slowly the boys circled about it, gradually coming closer, to give those within, if such unwarranted visitors there might be, a chance to either make their presence known in a friendly manner, or take their departure.

But there was no sign from the cabin of Camp No. 2, and, after waiting a little while, Tom and his chums moved forward. As they came nearer, they could see that some two or three persons had made a complete circle about the cabin, and had even advanced up on the rough steps that led to the front door. Whether they had entered or not was something that could not be stated with positiveness.

“Well, the door’s locked, anyhow,” Tom said, as he looked at the padlock. “But of course they might have a duplicate key.” He drew from his pocket the one Sam Wilson had given him, and a moment later Tom and his chums stood inside the cabin. They breathed a sigh of relief. No one opposed them.

Nor, as far as could be learned by a glance around the interior, had any uninvited guests been present. The place was in order, not as complete, perhaps as that of the first camp, but enough to show that it had been “slicked up,” after its last occupancy by the hunting party of gentlemen to whom Tom and his friends were indebted for the use of the camps.

“Skeel and his cronies may have been here all the same, looking for us,” said Jack, as he stood his gun in a corner.

“Why should they be looking for us?” inquired George.

“Now don’t start that list of questions,” objected Jack. “Ask Tom.”

George turned a gaze on his other chum.

“Of course Skeel may have been here,” admitted our hero. “We were never in this cabin before, and we don’t know how it looked, or how it was arranged. But if they were here, they don’t seem to have done much damage, and if they had a meal, they washed the dishes up after them.”

A look in the kitchen showed that it was in order. This cabin was built just the same as was No. 1, and the arrangements and furnishings were practically similar.

“Well, Skeel or no Skeel, I’m going to have something to eat!” cried Tom. “Come on, fellows, make yourselves at home.”

This they proceeded to do, making arrangements to get a meal, for there was plenty of wood for the stove as well as a pile of dry logs for the fireplace. A blaze was not unwelcome, for it was growing colder, and there were signs of a storm.

As our friends sat about the cozy, crackling blaze on the hearth they were unaware of three men, on the edge of the little clearing in which the cabin stood--three men who were gazing at the smoke curling up from the chimney.

“Yes, there they are!” grumbled the one known as Whalen. “There they are in their cabin, nice and warm, and with plenty to eat, and we’re out in the cold. I don’t like it, I say! I don’t like it!”

“Now, don’t get rash!” observed Professor Skeel, for he was of the trio. “What is a little discomfort now compared to the satisfaction we’ll have later?”

“I wouldn’t mind so much, if I was sure of that,” said Whalen sullenly. “But it ain’t noways sure.”

“I’ll make it sure,” said the hoarse voice of the other plotter.

“Have you decided on a way to get him into our hands?” asked the former teacher eagerly. “Have you a plan, Murker?”

“Yes, and a good one, too!” was the answer. “It’s come to me since we’ve been fiddling around here.”

“And can we get him--get Tom Fairfield--where we want him?” asked Professor Skeel eagerly. “That’s what I want to know.”

“Yes, I think we can,” answered Murker, an unpleasant grin spreading over his evil face. “I haven’t all the details worked out yet, but when I get through, I think we’ll have him just where we want him. Not that I want him particularly,” he went on. “I never knew him before you fellows got me into this,” and when he classed Professor Skeel as a “fellow,” the latter did not object.

It showed to what depths the really talented man had fallen. For Professor Skeel was a brilliant scholar, and would have made his mark in educational circles, had he chosen to be honest. But he took the easiest way, which ends by being the hardest.

“I don’t ask you to take any interest in Tom Fairfield, once you help me get him in my power,” went on the former instructor. “I’ll attend to the rest. But I want him alone. I don’t want to have to handle any of the others.”

“I should say not!” exclaimed Whalen. “We’ll have our hands full, if we try to take care of all four of ’em.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be afraid,” was the sneering comment of Murker. “I guess we could persuade ’em to be good,” and he leered at his companions.

“Four are too many to handle,” decided Professor Skeel. “I want Tom Fairfield alone.”

“And I’ll get him for you,” promised Murker. “But you’ve got to give me a share of the ransom money.”

“Oh, I’ll do that,” readily agreed the former teacher. “I’m doing this as much to square accounts with him as for anything else.”

“Well, I’m not working for love--or revenge,” chuckled Murker. “I want the cold cash.”

“So do I,” chimed in Whalen, “but I want revenge, too. It’s going to be a regular kidnapping, isn’t it?” and he looked at Professor Skeel.

“It will be if he can carry it out,” was the answer, with a nod at Murker.

“Oh, I’ll do my part,” was the assurance given.

“But won’t it be risky--dangerous?” asked Whalen. “I don’t want to get in trouble,” and he looked rather anxiously about him, as though already he feared officers of the law might be after him.

“There’s no more risk for you than for us,” spoke Professor Skeel.

“There won’t be any risk--not up in this lonesome place,” Murker said.

“But how are you going to make sure of getting Tom into our hands alone?” asked the rascally professor.

“Leave that to me,” was the chuckling answer. “I used to live in this region when I was a young fellow. Folks have forgotten me, but I haven’t forgotten them.”

“I say!” exclaimed Professor Skeel, “I hope you’re not going to bring any more into this. The more there are the more risk there is, and the money I expect to get from Mr. Fairfield, for giving Tom back to him, won’t go so far if we have to split it up----”

“Oh, don’t worry! No one else but us three will be in it. I should have said I hadn’t forgotten the country up around here--not so much the people. I don’t care anything about them. But I know every cross-road and bridle-path through the woods, and it will be funny if I can’t get this lad where I want him. They’re strangers up here, and they have to depend on signposts, and what that guide tells them.”

“But they are smart fellows,” said Professor Skeel. “I know, for I taught them in school. If they have a signboard to go by, it will be as good to them as a printed book would be to most people.”

“That may all be very true,” chuckled Murker. “But tell me this. A wrong signboard isn’t much use to anyone, is it? Not even to a smart lad.”

“A wrong signboard? What do you mean?” asked the professor.

“I mean just what I said--‘a wrong signboard’--one that gives the wrong direction. It’s worse than none at all, isn’t it?”

“Well, I should say it was,” was the slow answer of the former teacher. “But are you going to get Tom Fairfield----”

“Now, don’t ask too many questions,” was the advice of his evil-faced crony. “When you don’t know a thing, you can say so with a clear conscience in case the detectives get asking too many personal questions of you.”

“That’s so,” agreed Professor Skeel, readily understanding what was meant.

“Detectives!” exclaimed Whalen. “Did you say detectives?

“But--er--I--they--I don’t want to see any detectives,” stammered the former employee of Elmwood Hall.

“I don’t either,” chuckled Murker. “But it’s best to be on the safe side, and to prepare for emergencies. So what you and the professor don’t know, you can’t tell. Leave the details to me, and I’ll fix ’em. Now I think we’ve been here long enough. We know what we came over to this cabin to find out--that they hadn’t been here before until just now. And we’re pretty certain they’ll go next--to No. 3 Camp.”

“What makes you think so?” asked Whalen.

“Because boys are like deer at times--mighty curious. They won’t rest satisfied until they’ve tried all three camps. They’ll go over to the last one in a few days, and then, Skeel, we may have Tom Fairfield just where we want him!”

“I hope so!” was the fervent exclamation, as the three plotters made their way off through the dense woods.