Читать книгу Poppy Ott Hits the Trail - Edward Edson Lee - Страница 3

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As soon as the black-bass season opened up, in June, Poppy Ott got out his steel fishing rod and disappeared into the hills north of town. He was gone a whole day. And when he came back that night he had a face a foot long. He was worried about something. And yet he was peculiarly excited too. I could tell by the look in his eyes.

“Say, Jerry,” says he, when I dropped in on him that evening to get the news, “what do you know about law?”

“What kind of law?” says I, helping myself to a banana.

Poppy and his widowed pa are good feeders. They always have stuff sitting around in dishes. And if a fellow doesn’t fill up when he’s there, old Mr. Ott acts offended. Of course, I never offend him myself. Next to my pa I think he’s one of the finest men in the whole state. Yet, when he came to town, he was nothing more than a common tramp. As for Poppy himself, I never saw a more ragged kid in all my born days. But he soon proved that he had good stuff in him. Getting a job, he bought himself some decent clothes. That kind of shamed his pa, I guess. Anyway Mr. Ott decided to do a little work himself, and less loafing. Now he and Poppy (who got his odd nickname from peddling popcorn) have a comfortable home on the east side of town. And they both have the respect of everybody who knows them, which proves that rags are no handicap to an ambitious boy.

I took a shine to Poppy the first time I saw him, ragged as he was. Nor have we ever had a moment’s trouble since. He has his ideas and I have mine. And if I think mine are the best, I tell him so. But usually I have to admit that his are the best. Take that “Stilt” idea, for instance. Then came the famous “Pedigreed Pickles,” and still later the “Freckled Goldfish” and “Tittering Totem.” Very recently he had dipped into pancake flour—or maybe I should say “Prancing Pancake” flour. For that’s the peppy name he gave it. Boy, oh, boy! We sure had a time solving that mystery—for we bumped into a lot of stuff besides flour. Pirate stuff, mind you. Little did I dream, though, as I sat in his parlor eating bananas, with the cat in my lap, that an even crazier mystery was getting ready to jump out at us and grab us by the shins.

Poppy had said something about law. So I asked him again what kind of law he meant.

“The kind,” says he, “that puts people into jail.”

I took time out to search his face.

“Poppy,” says I severely, as I treated another banana to a free ride down my gullet, “have you been fishing in somebody’s private pond?”

“No,” says he truthfully.

“Then what are you afraid of?” says I.

“I’m just wondering,” says he, “if the law would put me in jail for helping a runaway boy.”

A runaway boy!

“Evidently,” says I, as I further searched his sober face, “you saw something up the creek besides scenery.”

“I did,” says he earnestly.

“Well,” says I, “don’t keep me in suspenders.”

“I met a strange boy,” says he. “I never saw him before. And I doubt if you did either.”

“I know a lot of farm boys,” says I. “In fact, the most of the boys in my Sunday-school class live in the country.”

“You never saw this boy in a Sunday-school class. Nor in any other kind of a class.”

“Doesn’t he go to school?”

“No. He never saw the inside of a schoolhouse.”

“But how does he get by with it?” says I, amazed. “I thought every boy had to go to school.”

“He’d like to go to school. He told me so. But his aunt won’t let him.”

“And doesn’t he even know that the earth is round?” I followed up.

“Probably not.”

“How old is he?”

“Thirteen.”

I was so amazed I forgot to reach for another banana.

“Well, I’ll be cow-kicked,” says I. “What do you know about that? And right here in Illinois, too.”

“As I understand it,” Poppy proceeded, “he has three aunts. But the only one I saw was an angular old battle-axe with a face like a granite tombstone. Hard and cruel. You know what I mean. She and her sisters kept him in a closet when he was a baby. But now they let him run wild in the woods.”

“Maybe he’ll turn out to be another Tarzan,” says I, with mounting interest.

“I feel sorry for him, Jerry. And if I can get him out of there, without crossing the law, I’m going to do it.”

“Does he wear pants, like us?” says I, trying to picture him in my mind. “Or does he have hair on him, like a monkey?”

“Please don’t make fun of him, Jerry,” says old sober-sides. “For he’s an object of pity.”

“Where in Sam Hill did you meet him anyway?” I followed up curiously.

“At the foot of Clarks Falls.”

“That’s a good place,” says I, “for a kid to run wild. For the rock piles up there are like young mountains.”

“I never dreamed myself that Illinois had such hills, till I saw them with my own eyes. And the trees? Boy, there’s a forest up there that stretches for miles. A regular Amazon jungle.”

“Don’t overlook the bats,” says I, drawing on my memory, “and the rattlesnakes.”

“I didn’t see any bats. It was the wrong time of day. But I did surprise an old rattler. He was taking an afternoon nap on a big flat stone.”

“What happened when you woke him up?”

“Oh,” came the pleasant reply, “he twiddled his tail, sort of chummy-like, and then tried to bite a hunk out of me.”

“You’re lucky,” I shivered, “that his neck wasn’t as long as he thought.”

“Are there many snakes up there, Jerry?”

“I never saw but two or three myself. I dare say though they’re plentiful.”

“I wanted you to go with me this morning. But I noticed that you weren’t particularly keen about it. So I decided not to coax you.”

“Did you follow the creek all the way to the falls?” says I, speaking of the little stream that trickles into the town from the northern hills.

“Practically all the way. Once I climbed a rock pile and picked up the winding trail on the other side.”

“How long did it take you?”

“Four hours each way.”

“I’d hate to go on a hike like that all alone.”

“It was kind of lonesome,” he admitted. “But it was fun. For everything that I saw up there was new to me. I caught a lot of fish too.”

“Where?—in the pool at the foot of the falls?”

“That’s where I caught the biggest ones. And I made a queer discovery too, Jerry—something that I’m going to follow up. But first I’ve got to rig up a diving suit.”

I was staring at him now.

“A diving suit?” I repeated. “What in Sam Hill are you talking about?”

“Jerry,” he spoke earnestly, “did you know that the early Indians used to mine lead near Clarks Falls?”

“I’ve heard,” says I, “that they got lead some place near here. But who told you about it?”

“An old settler. According to his story this land at one time all belonged to the native Indians—the hills and hollows and everything else. Then the white men came. And the natives were gradually crowded back. Finally the redskins were taken away altogether and put on a government reservation. One of the last to go was a young brave by the name of Crow Foot. It hadn’t taken the new settlers very long to tumble to the fact that the Indians had a lead mine of their own. And so, when only Crow Foot was left, the crafty settlers tried to find out from him where the lead mine was. They needed lead, they said, for bullets. And they offered Crow Foot six ponies if he’d lead them to the secret mine. He might just as well, they said. For he was going away for good. And the hidden mine never would do him any good. Crow Foot, I guess, figured that the white men wanted to make more bullets so that they could kill more Indians. And so, true to his people, he started off alone on his pony. The white men, he said, would never find out where the lead mine was from him. But they did—almost. For that night a trapper found the Indian lying unconscious in the woods. He had fallen from his pony. It took a lot of faithful nursing to save his life. And in gratitude he drew a map for the trapper. If the good white man would go this way and that way, it was all drawn out on the hard ground with a stick, he’d find a hole in the rocks. And deep in this hole was the secret lead mine. The trapper, of course, thought that he was in luck. It would be easy, he figured, to find the hidden mine. It was his intention to sell the lead and get rich. And he told his wife to keep her mouth shut about their sudden good fortune. But the thought of being rich made her dizzy. And she said things to the neighbors that aroused their suspicions. Earlier the whites had tried to follow the redskins when they went after lead. And now the greedy whites tried to follow the trapper. It was learned that he headed for the hilly section near Clarks Falls. And having lost the trail, the spies decided to wait for him and waylay him. But he never came back.”

“That’s almost like the story of the Forty Thieves,” says I. “Remember, Poppy? Ali Baba’s greedy brother was trapped in the treasure cave. He got in all right. But he couldn’t get out. And probably that’s what happened to the trapper too.”

“I’d sooner think, Jerry, that he was killed by a landslide.”

“Well, maybe he was. But what’s that got to do with the strange kid that you met near the falls?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why did you mention it?”

“The point is, Jerry, that I’ve found a new hole near the falls. A hole that you never saw; nor anybody else around here. But I can’t explore it till I fix up a diving suit. For it’s under water.”

“But if you haven’t seen it,” says I, amazed, “how do you know it’s there?”

He picked up his fishing rod.

“Jerry, I had over fifty feet of line on that reel. It was a fine, strong line—plenty strong enough, I figured, to hold anything that I’d hook in Clarks Creek. But I got something in the pool under the falls—probably a big bass—that first took every inch of line that I had, and then snapped it like a cobweb. The pool itself isn’t more than twenty feet deep. I sounded it. And yet I had lost over fifty feet of line! That can be explained in only one way. There’s a submerged natural passageway going back under the falls. And when I get a chance to explore it, I have the feeling that I’ll see things that no white man has ever seen before me—not even the trapper himself. For, as I say, he undoubtedly was killed by the landslide that blocked the canyon and raised the water level in the pool.”

For a moment or two I was too amazed for words. But finally I got my voice back again.

“And do you really think,” says I breathlessly, “that you’ve actually found the Long Lost Indian lead mine?”

Never had I seen him look more earnest.

“I do for a fact, Jerry,” he spoke slowly. Then he added, with shining eyes: “And if I’m right, it not only is going to mean a fortune for both of us, but a decent home for that Saucer child.”