The Mystery Off Glen Road Page 12

  “That’s easy,” Trixie replied. “You’re facing north now because the sunset is on your left.”

  Honey twisted her head around in a semi-circle. “The sunset seems to be all over the place. That’s the trouble with them. They don’t stay put in one neat little spot. I just don’t trust them—or compasses.”

  “Oh, Honey,” Trixie cried impatiently. “The compass is supposed to figure all those things out for you. If you just lay it on a flat rock the arrow will point to north.”

  “What good is that going to do me if I get lost?” Honey demanded. “I’d never have the luck to be near a flat rock at that moment. And even if I did, knowing where north is wouldn’t do me any good. If I get lost I certainly want to get back home, not end up at the North Pole.”

  Trixie howled with laughter. “I guess you’re right. This compass isn’t going to do either of us a bit of good. I can’t understand the symbols either, and I feel just the way you do about north. If we can’t travel in a straight line, knowing where the points of the compass are wouldn’t do us a bit of good.”

  “And these paths,” Honey agreed emphatically, “do anything but travel in a straight line. Even if we could understand what that compass was trying to tell us, we’d have to get off and lay it on a flat rock every five minutes. Pretty soon it would be too dark to find a rock, let alone read the compass.”

  Trixie strapped it back on her wrist. “When Bobby’s old enough to figure it all out, I hope he explains it to me. Brian and Jim and Mart are over my head when it comes to directions. So I guess we’d better stick together, Honey.” She nudged Susie into a walk and led the way along the path that led to the other, smaller clearing.

  In a few minutes she stopped and yelled over her shoulder, “Oh, look, Honey. There’s all the proof we need.”

  Starlight edged past Susie into the clearing. “I don’t see anything,” Honey said, vaguely peering around into the brush.

  “Look up, not down,” Trixie cried impatiently, pointing. “See that dead rabbit hanging from that sapling? He was caught in a snare. Mart drew a diagram of a rabbit snare for me. A partridge snare, too. If the poacher wanted to catch partridges by the dozen all he’d have to do was set up snares around the feeding stations. And I’ll bet he has!”

  Chapter 16

  The Cabin in the Clearing

  “How horrible,” Honey gasped. “Daddy will have a fit if anyone has been catching his valuable birds. Do you suppose the poacher has been setting snares for pheasants, too?”

  “No,” Trixie said. “They can be shot at quite easily because of their bright-colored feathers. But partridges sort of blend into the underbrush so you can practically step on one before you see it. Then they zoom up suddenly with a whir-r of their wings, and disappear before the hunter has time to aim.”

  “Jim has shot lots of partridges,” Honey said. “But then, of course, Jim is awfully smart. And I remember he said that you shouldn’t really shoot them unless you have a gun dog because they’re so hard to find. That’s why he bought a springer spaniel and has spent so much time teaching Patch to retrieve. Jim says unless you hunt with a good retriever there is apt to be a lot of useless killing of birds, and worse, a cripple can get away and later die a slow death of misery.”

  Trixie nodded. “That’s one thing about snares. The bird dies quickly and almost painlessly once he tries to force his way through the noose. He’s held a prisoner, too, so his body can’t get lost. But anybody who sets a snare usually keeps a close watch on it because a fox or a catamount can get the bird even before the trapper gets there.”

  Honey shuddered and said in a scared whisper, “That poacher might be in the thicket right now listening to every word we say. Let’s go, Trixie. He probably has a gun.”

  And then, as though in proof of her statement, two shots rang out in rapid succession. The blasts were so close by that Susie shied violently. While they had been talking both girls had let the reins go slack, and, almost before they knew it, both horses had bolted and were tearing along the narrow path.

  Susie was in the lead and by the time Trixie did gather up the reins, she was out of control. Branches of evergreens slapped Trixie in the face and brought blinding tears of pain to her eyes. She pulled as hard as she could on the curb, yelling, “Whoa! Whoa!” to no avail. Susie flew along as though pursued by a thousand devils. The “devil” in this case was only Starlight, but Trixie guessed that he, too, was panic-stricken. He was following Susie so closely that Trixie knew if the mare suddenly stopped there would be a terrific collision and Honey might be badly hurt. Susie showed no signs of even slowing, but she might stumble on a rock, and then both girls would probably be thrown. To make matters worse, the path wound dizzily through the woods so that instead of galloping in a straight line, Susie kept swerving abruptly, sometimes to the right, sometimes to the left, so that it was hard for Trixie to keep her seat in the saddle. If only Honey, who was so much more experienced a horsewoman, were in the lead!

  But finally, from sheer exhaustion, Trixie guessed, Susie gradually slowed from a dead run to a canter and at last to a trot. As the path widened, Starlight came up so that the girls were now riding abreast.

  “They’re under control now,” Honey gasped, her face very white, “but where are we?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest notion,” Trixie got out, panting. “Let’s stop and see if Bobby’s compass will be of any help.”

  And then they came around a bend and found themselves in a large clearing, and to their amazement, right smack in the middle of it was a rustic cabin. The horses stopped of their own free will, as though they, too, were surprised.

  Not far from the cabin was a pit in which were dying embers of a wood fire. Above it hung a black pot, and a mingling of delicious odors from it permeated the air in the clearing.

  In an awed silence, the girls dismounted and stared at each other. “Could this be where the poacher lives?” Honey asked.

  “I guess so,” Trixie said. “But he must have been poaching for a long, long time. That cabin wasn’t built in a few days. Look how long it’s been taking the boys just to fix the roof of our clubhouse.”

  They moved over and peered through a window. The interior was neat and clean but sparsely furnished. A bunk was in one corner and in the center of the room there were two homemade chairs and a table. Hanging from the ceiling near the two windows on the opposite side of the cabin were several thick strips about twelve inches long which looked rather like leather.

  “Why, it’s pemmican,” Trixie suddenly cried. “I mean, jerked venison. The Indians used to make it into pemmican. It keeps for months like that and doesn’t have to be cooked.”

  “Venison,” Honey cried. “Then those strips must be what’s left of that dead deer.”

  “Maybe,” Trixie said. “But I doubt it. That deer is probably still hanging.”

  With the horses trailing behind them, they went around to the back. “Why, there’s a vegetable garden,” Trixie cried excitedly. She pointed to some frost-blackened vines. “Tomatoes, pumpkin, squash, and cucumbers. That whole row of flattened tops must be carrots which haven’t been dug yet. And there’s kale which can stay out all winter. And look. Over there are beets, turnips, and parsnips. They don’t have to be brought in until the weather gets very cold.”

  “Well, poachers aren’t gardeners,” Honey said. “At least, I don’t think they are.”

  “They could be,” Trixie argued. “Whoever lives here is trespassing on your father’s property and killing game. That makes him a poacher.”

  “Maybe when the horses were running they carried us clear out of the preserve,” Honey suggested.

  Trixie shook her head. “They weren’t running in a straight line, remember? That path wound around like a corkscrew. As the crow flies, we can’t be very far from the fork in the trail. So we must be still in your father’s preserve.”

  “But where?” Honey demanded. “And since we’re not crows, how do you figure
we are going to get back to the trail?”

  Trixie giggled. “Bobby’s compass will tell us where north is and that’s the direction we ought to take, but since we can’t fly in a straight line, we’ll simply have to unwind ourselves.”

  Honey’s lower lip trembled. “I don’t know how you can laugh, Trixie. It’s getting darker by the minute. You know as well as I do that we’re lost and the poacher who lives here has a gun and he’s probably on his way home now.” She swung up on Starlight’s back. “Our only hope, Trixie, is to follow the horses’ hoofprints while there’s still light enough to see.” Honey was right and both girls knew it. She led the way across the clearing and started slowly along the path.

  Trixie followed on Susie. After a few minutes she asked, “Are you following the hoofprints? I don’t see any, not even Starlight’s.”

  “There aren’t any to be seen,” Honey said dismally. “The path is nothing but rocks and pine needles and dead leaves. Even an FBI man couldn’t find any kind of print on it.”

  “Well, at least it’s a path,” Trixie said, trying to sound cheerful. “If we stick to it, we’re bound to end up where we started.” But Trixie was worried, too. Only a faint yellowish-green light filtered through the evergreen branches now, and soon there would be no light at all. The path was so narrow you could hardly call it a path—not unless you were traveling on foot in broad daylight.

  After a long silence, Honey said, “I think we’d better give the horses their heads.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Trixie said. “Maybe we’d better get off and lead the horses. I mean, they must have broken or bruised a lot of branches when they were galloping madly along. But you can’t expect horses to know the difference between a bruised branch and one that hasn’t been touched. But we should be able to tell the difference.”

  Honey sniffed, and although Trixie couldn’t see her face she guessed that Honey was very close to tears. “That’s what you think,” she told Trixie. “Jim and Indians can read all sorts of signs in the woods, like broken branches and all, but you and I can’t. Also, it’s soon going to be so dark we won’t be able to see our hands in front of our faces, let alone read our palms so we can find out whether our lifeline ends here and now.”

  Trixie laughed. “Even if we are lost, Honey, we’re not going to die. I mean, we won’t be lost long enough so we’ll starve to death.”

  “I’m starving right now,” Honey complained. “I wish we’d had sense enough to eat some of that poacher’s stew before we left.”

  “Hunter’s stew is the right word,” Trixie said. “It did smell delicious. But don’t talk about it. I’m so hungry I could eat raw horse meat.”

  Honey suddenly giggled. “That’s a thought. If worse comes to worse, we can kill Starlight and Susie and eat them. But first we’ll skin them and keep ourselves warm that way.” Her giggle ended in what sounded like a sob. “That will be the day.”

  “Oh, Honey, don’t get discouraged,” Trixie pleaded. “Give Starlight his head and let’s trot for a while. He may lead us right back to the fork. It can’t be too far from here.”

  Honey suddenly held up her right hand to show that she was going to stop. “We’re at a fork right now. This path you’re so crazy about has suddenly become two paths.”

  Trixie stood up in her stirrups and peered over Honey’s shoulder. Sure enough, they would have to make up their minds whether they should bear right or left. Taking the wrong turn would undoubtedly mean that they would become hopelessly lost in the labyrinth.

  Trixie sank back into her saddle. “Does Starlight seem to have any preference?” she asked weakly. “Don’t guide him with the reins. Just touch him with both heels and see what he does.”

  The chestnut gelding immediately turned his head to the right and began to trot. “He’s right,” Honey yelled. “Even I can see broken branches on this path. Maybe he doesn’t know his way home, but I guess he knows how to get back to the trail. Look at him!”

  “Then let’s canter,” Trixie said. “Whether right is right or wrong, we’d better find out as soon as we can. It’s getting darker all the time.”

  Both of the horses needed little urging to break into a gallop, and that was encouraging. “They wouldn’t hurry if they weren’t headed back toward the stable,” Trixie called to Honey.

  And then the corkscrew path suddenly merged with another and the girls realized gratefully that they were back on one of the main trails. In a few minutes the trail ended on Glen Road only a few yards west of the Wheelers’ driveway.

  Breathing loud sighs of relief, they forced the impatient horses to walk along the road and up the driveway. “That was close,” Honey finally got out. “The boys were right, Trixie. We should never have left the trails.”

  “We had to,” Trixie retorted. “And we did get proof that there is a poacher, living in the middle of the preserve.”

  “What good is that going to do us?” Honey demanded. “We’ll never be able to find our way back to the cabin. I feel the same way about it as I did about the dead deer you found on Sunday. It was all a daymare.”

  Trixie thought for a minute in silence. Honey was right. Since they could not possibly ever find their way back to that cabin in the big clearing, there was no sense in telling the boys about their discovery. Brian and Jim would only scold them for leaving the trails, and would jeeringly sum up their story with:

  “You got panicky because you got lost and imagined the whole business. A cabin and a vegetable garden in the midst of the woods! How wacky can you girls get?”

  Mart, however, might feel differently. He was nowhere near as good a woodsman as Jim was, but he might be able to help them find the poacher’s cabin. He could at least read a compass.… Compass!

  Trixie pushed back the sleeve of her sweater. The wrist compass had disappeared. “Oh, Honey,” she gasped. “Bobby’s compass! I guess I didn’t strap it on very securely and it must have been brushed off by a branch when the horses ran away with us.”

  “Oh, no,” Honey moaned. “Even if we had the money, we couldn’t buy him another one until the stores open on Friday.”

  “That’s right,” Trixie groaned, all other worries driven from her mind. “And you know Bobby. Years might go by without his even remembering that he owns a compass. But now that I’ve lost it, he’ll be sure to want to show it to somebody at our party tomorrow.”

  Chapter 17

  Help from Mart

  Trixie’s dire prediction came true sooner than she expected. When she brought Bobby home after she and Honey had finished grooming the horses, he burst into the house yelling:

  “Hey, Mummy. I have to have my compass. Ben’s going to take me ’sploring tomorrow. Him and Di and me saw a funny-looking bird this afternoon and we’re going to ’splore after it and maybe catch it alive and sell it to a zoo for a billion dollars. It looks sort of like a parrot but mostly like a squirrel, but on account of Ben isn’t as smart as Jim, we might get losted so I have to have my compass.”

  Trixie grabbed his plump arm. “You won’t have time to go exploring tomorrow, Bobby,” she said in a whisper. “You know perfectly well that it’s Thanksgiving and also you know there’s no such thing as a bird that looks like a squirrel. Come on. I’ll tell you a story while you take a bath.”

  He yanked away from her. “Is so a bird that looks like a squirrel. I saw it my own self. It was sitting on a small, little, teeny-weeny bush and Ben gave me some salt to put on its tail, but when I got so close, it flewed away into the woods.” He demonstrated with his fat hands how close he had gotten.

  Mrs. Belden, who had been grating raw carrots into a big wooden salad bowl, joined in the conversation then. “If you got that close, Bobby,” she said with a laugh, “why did you bother with salt? You could have grabbed it by the tail. That is, if it had the long bushy tail of a squirrel.”

  “Didn’t,” he informed her gravely. “Had a little, teeny weeny feathery tail like a chicken.”

 
“Oh, my goodness,” Trixie exploded impatiently. “It’s just one of Ben’s silly jokes, Bobby. He’s always rigging up things like that with strings and a pulley. Remember that ‘ghost’ he tried to scare Honey with last time he visited her? Even you weren’t fooled by it.”

  “Not a ghost,” he stormed. “It’s a bird, and we’re gonna catch it early tomorrow morning. So I have to have my compass. I promised Ben.”

  “Very well,” Mrs. Belden said. “If you promised Ben that he could wear your compass, you shall have it.”

  Trixie collapsed on the kitchen stool. “He can’t, Moms. I borrowed it this afternoon and—and lost it!”

  Mrs. Belden stared at her in amazement while Bobby burst into screams of rage. Trixie alternated between covering her face and her ears with her hands. Finally Mrs. Belden led Bobby away and in a few minutes his howls subsided into low sobs.

  Mart came into the kitchen then, and while Trixie finished making the salad she blurted out the whole story. At first he seemed more interested in Bobby’s lost compass than he was in the mysterious cabin in the clearing.

  “Gleeps, Trix,” he said, “you should know better than to touch anything that belongs to Bobby. You won’t hear the end of this until you’re old and gray.”

  “It’s all Ben’s fault,” Trixie stormed. “Why did he have to go and rig up that crazy thing?”

  Mart wiggled his eyebrows at her. “When you’re Bobby-sitting, I have discovered, your imagination is apt to run wild. If you don’t keep him amused when he thinks he’s a fire chief, you may find yourself in the midst of a holocaust. But fear not, Sis, I may be able to pour oil on the troubled waters by lending the lad my own wrist compass. That is, if you’ll do me a favor.”

  “I’ll do anything,” Trixie said hastily, “if you can keep Moms from looking at me as though she thought I were a thief.”