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THE BLACK WOLF PACK
BY
DAN BEARD
NATIONAL SCOUT COMMISSIONER, B.S.A.
ILLUSTRATED
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS NEW YORK
It was a shadowy figure yet it moved]
COPYRIGHT, 1922, BYCHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY BOYS' LIFE
Printed in the United States of America
_All rights reserved. No part of this bookmay be reproduced in any form withoutthe permission of Charles Scribner's Sons_
DEDICATED TO
BELMORE AND FRED (BELMORE BROWNE) (FREDERICK K. VREELAND)
NO BETTER WILDERNESS MEN EVER WORE MOCCASINS
PREFACE
After numerous visits to a number of remote and unfrequented places inthe Rocky Mountains, from Wyoming to Alberta, the writer was deeplyimpressed with the awesome mystery of the wilderness and the weirdlegends he heard around the camp fires, while the bigness of the thingshe saw was photographed on his brain so distinctly and permanently as toact as a compelling force causing him, aye, almost forcing him to writeabout it.
When the spell came upon him, like the Ancient Mariner, he needs musttell the story, and thus the tale of the Black Wolf Pack was writtenwith no thought, at the time, of publishing the narrative, but primarilyfor the real enjoyment the author derived from writing it, and also forthe entertainment of the author's family and intimate friends.
The tale, however, pleased the members of the Editorial Board of the BoyScouts of America, and Mr. Franklin K. Mathiews, Chief Scout Librarian,asked permission to have it edited for the Scout Magazine, which requestwas cheerfully granted.
The author hereby freely and cheerfully acknowledges the useful changesand practical suggestions injected into the story by his friend andassociate, Mr. Irving Crump, Editor of Boys' Life, in which magazine theBlack Wolf Pack, in somewhat abbreviated form, first appeared.
DAN BEARD.
Flushing,June 1st, 1922.
ILLUSTRATIONS
It was a shadowy figure yet it moved _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGEThe eagle screamed, descended like a thunderbolt... and struck the bull 36
More than once while I clung to the chance projection... I regretted making the fool-hardy attempt 92
"I think the name 'Pluto' fits his character to anicety" 192
The Black Wolf Pack
CHAPTER I
It was a terrible shock to me (said the Scoutmaster as he fingered abeaded buckskin bag). Old Blink Broosmore was responsible. It was amalicious thing for him to do. He meant it to be mean, too,--wanted tohurt me,--to wound my feelings and make me ashamed. And all because henursed a grudge against dad--I mean Mr. Crawford.
It started because of that defective spark-plug in the engine of theroadster. Strange what a tiny thing such as a crack in a porcelainjacket around an old spark-plug can do in the way of changing the courseof a fellow's whole life.
My last period in the afternoon at high school was a study period and Icut it because I had several things to do down town. I hurried home andtook the roadster, and on my way out mother--I mean Mrs. Crawford--gaveme an armful of books to return to the library and a list of errands shewanted me to do. While motoring down town I noticed that one cylinderwas missing occasionally and I told myself I would change thatspark-plug as soon as I got home.
I made all the stops I had planned and even drove around to the churchbecause I wanted to look in at the parish house where some of my scouts(I was the assistant scoutmaster of Troop 6, of Marlborough) wereputting up decorations for the very first Fathers and Sons dinner evergiven which we were to have on Washington's birthday. That was in 1911.
As I was leaving I looked at my new wrist watch and discovered that itwas a quarter of five.
"Just in time to catch dad and drive him home from the office," I saidto myself, for I knew that he left the office of his big paper-milldown at the docks at five o'clock.
I jumped into the car and bowled along down Spring Street and the FrontStreet hill and arrived at the mill office at exactly five. Dad wasn'tin sight so I decided to turn around and wait for him at the curb. Thatis how the trouble started. I got part way around on the hill when thatcylinder began missing a lot and next thing I knew the motor stalled andthere was I with my car crosswise on the hill, blocking traffic--andtraffic is heavy on Front Street hill about five o'clock, because allthe mills are rushing their trucks down to the piers with the last loadsof merchandise before the down-river boats leave, at six o'clock.
In about two minutes I was holding up a line of trucks a block long andthose drivers were saying a lot of things that were not verycomplimentary to me and not printed in Sunday-school papers. And oldBlink Broosmore was right up at the head of the line with a truck loadof cases from the box factory and the look on his face was about as uglyas a mud turtle's. Then, to make matters worse, my starter wouldn't workat the critical moment, and I had to get out to crank the engine. What ahowl of indignation went up from those stalled truck drivers! I feltlike a bad two-cent piece in a drawer full of five-dollar gold pieces.Guess my face was red behind my ears.
And then old Blink made the unkindest remark of all--no, he didn't makeit to me; he just yelled it out to a couple of other truck-drivers.
"That's what happens with these make-believe dudes," he shouted. "That'sthe kid old Skin Flint Crawford took out of an orphan asylum. He's a kidthat old Crawford took up with because he was too mean t' have t' Lordbless him with one o' his own. That's straight, fellers. I wasCrawford's gardener when it happened an'--"
Old Blink stopped and got red and then white, and I could see the othertruck men looking uncomfortable. I looked up and there was Dad Crawfordon the curb boring holes into Blink with those cold gray eyes of his andlooking as white as marble. No one said a word. It seemed as if thewhole street became hushed and silent. I got the car around to the curbsomehow and dad got in and the line of trucks trundled by with everydriver looking straight ahead and some of them grinning nervously andapparently feeling mighty uncomfortable.
But that wasn't a patch to the way I felt, and I could see by the lackof color and set expression of dad's face and the way he stared straightahead of him without saying a word that he was feeling very unhappyabout it too. There was something behind it all--something that raisedin my mind vague doubts and very unpleasant thoughts.
Dad never spoke a word all the way home, and, needless to say, I did noteither--I couldn't; my whole world seemed to have been turned upsidedown in the space of half an hour. Was it true that I was not DonaldCrawford? Was it possible that Alexander Crawford, this fine, big,broad-shouldered, kindly man beside me was not my real father? Was it afact that that noble, generous, happy woman whom I called mamma was notmy mother at all? Each of those questions took shape in my mind and eachwas like a stab in the heart, for Blink Broosmore had answered them all,and Alexander Crawford, though he must know how anxious I was to haveBlink denied, did not speak to refute him.
We rolled up the drive and dad stepped out, still silent, but he didsmile wistfully at me as he closed the car door.
&nbs
p; "Put it away, Don, and hurry in for dinner," he said and I felt certainI detected a break in his voice. I felt sorry--sorry for him and sorryfor myself, and as I put the car in the garage, I had a hard time tryingto see things clearly; my eyes would get blurred and a lump would getinto my throat in spite of me.
As I dressed for dinner I felt half dazed. I hardly realized what I wasdoing, and I had to stop and pull myself together before I starteddownstairs to the dining room, for I knew if I did not have myself wellin hand I would blubber like a big chump.
Mother and dad were waiting for me and I could see by mother's sadexpression and the troubled look in her eyes that dad had told her ofthe whole occurrence. And that only added to my unhappiness because Ifelt for a certainty that all that Blink Broosmore had shouted must betrue.
For the first time in my memory dad forgot to say grace, and none of usate with any apparent relish and none of us tried to make conversation.It was a painful sort of a meal and I wanted to have it over with assoon as I could. It seemed hours before Nora cleared the table andserved dad's demi-tasse.
I guess I then looked him full in the eyes for the first time since theoccurrence on Front Street.
"That was a very unkind thing for Blink Broosmore to do," said dad, andI knew by the firmness and evenness of his voice that he had gained fullcontrol of his feelings.
"Is--is--oh, did he tell the truth, dad?" I gulped helplessly and forthe life of me I could not keep back the tears.
"Unfortunately, Donald, there is just enough truth in it to make ithurt," said dad and I could see mother wince as if she had been struck,and turn away her face.
"They why--why? Oh! who am I?" I cried, for the whole thing hadcompletely unnerved me.
"Don dear, we do not know to a certainty," said mother struggling withher emotions.
"But now that you are partly aware of the situation, I think there is away you can find out, at least as much as we know," said dad, getting upand going into the library.
Through the doorway I could see him fumbling at the safe that he keptthere beside the desk. Presently he drew out a battered and dented redtin box and a bundle of papers. These he brought into the dining roomand laid on the table. Then he drew up a chair, cleared his throat,rather loudly it seemed to me, and began.
"Don, we always wanted a child, and why the Lord never blessed us withone of our own we do not know. Anyway, we wanted one so badly that wedecided to adopt one. That was seventeen years ago, wasn't it, mother?"
Mother nodded.
"Doctor Raymond, the physician at the county institution, knew ourdesires and, being an old friend of the family, he volunteered to findus a good healthy baby that we could adopt and call our own. Not a weeklater you appeared on the scene. Dr. Raymond told us that a wagon drawnby a raw-boned horse, and loaded with household goods, drew up to theorphanage and a tired and worn-out looking old lady got out with a lustyyear old child in one arm and this box and these papers under theother.
"At the office of the asylum she explained how she and her husband weremoving from a Connecticut town to a little farm they had bought inPennsylvania. Somewhere at a crossroad near Derby, Connecticut, they hadfound the baby and this box and bundle of papers in a basket under abush with a card attached to the basket requesting that the finder adoptand take care of the baby.
"Of course, they could not pass the infant by, but the woman explainedthat they were too poor and too old to adopt the child so they had gonemiles out of their way to find an orphanage and leave the baby there,along with the box and papers.
"When Dr. Raymond heard the story and saw you, for you were the baby, hegot me on the telephone and told me all about you. And that night hebrought you here, and you were such a chubby, bright, interesting littlefellow that mother and I fell in love with you immediately and decidedto adopt you, which we did according to law. So you are our legalchild, Don, and all that, although we are not your real parents."
Somehow that made me feel a little happier. Dad and mother did have aclaim on me at least. That was something.
"It was not until after Dr. Raymond had left," went on father, "thatmother and I examined the box and papers that had come with you. Herethey are."
Dad took up a worn and age-yellowed envelope addressed in a bold hand:
To the Finder
Inside was the following brief message:
TO THE FINDER:--
The mother of this child, Donald Mullen, is dead. I, his father, cannot give him the care he should have. Will you, the finder, adopt him, care for him, and bring him up to be an honest, trustworthy man, and win the eternal gratitude of his dead mother and
DONALD MULLEN, his father.
"Then my name is--or was Mullen," I exclaimed.
"According to that," said dad softly, "but when you became our son wekept your first name and discarded the family name of course."
"But--but what has become of my father, Donald Mullen?" I asked.
"My boy, we have tried both for your sake and for our own to find out.We have followed up and searched every possible clue and--but wait, hereare other papers of interest and after you have read them I will tellyou all we have done to locate your real father and afterwards we willtalk the whole situation over." As dad was speaking he passed over thebattered tin box. On the lid was inscribed the simple lines--
The contents of this box belong to the boy. If you are honest you will see that it comes into his hands at the proper time. If you are dishonest, then God help the boy and God help you!
D. MULLEN.
It was some time before I could make up my mind to force the lid. When Idid the first thing that my eyes fell upon was this buckskin bag ofunmistakable Indian design, beautifully decorated with bead work andhighly colored porcupine quills cunningly worked into a good luckdesign. As I picked up the bag I saw that it was sealed with wax and toit was attached a card on which was penned:
To my son:--
Here is all the wealth I possess. It isn't much. The bag with its contents was sent to me by my brother, Fay, who is out in the Rockies. He gave it to me to pay my expenses out there to join him. I am leaving it for you. It may help you over some rocky places if it ever gets into your hands, and I trust the good Lord that it does.
Lovingly, YOUR FATHER.
The bag gave forth the unmistakable clink of gold coins as I dropped iton the table.
That message from my father, whom I had never seen, made my heart heavyand again that lump gathered in my throat, for I could feel theheartaches that the writing of that note must have caused him. I had notthe courage to break the seal of the bag and examine its contents. Ipushed it aside and took from the box another time-yellowed envelopeaddressed to
MY SON DONALD
Inside I found the following:
Dear Boy:--
I cannot determine whether I am giving you a mean deal or whether this is all for your good. Your mother, Barbara Parker Mullen, is dead, God bless her! She has been dead now six months. It seems to me like eternity. I have tried to take care of you as she would have cared for you but I am afraid I have lost heart, and my courage, and I am afraid my faith has slipped from me. I fear that I am a broken-spirited failure. The passing of your mother has taken everything from me. I am no longer fit or able to care for you and I must pass you on to someone else and trust your welfare to God. For neither your mother nor I have any relatives left who are able to take care of you.
What will become of you I cannot guess. I can only hope for the best. But by the time you are old enough to read and understand this message you will, I hope, have forgiven me or praised me for my effort to find you a home.
What will become of me I do not know. I have one brother left in the world, Fay Mullen, and he is out in Piute Pass in the Rockies grubbing for gold. I am going out to join him for I know the only way I can forget my grief and get hold of myself
once more is to bury myself in the wilderness.
Fay has sent me a bag of double eagles to pay my expenses west. That is all the money I have in the world. I am not going to use it. I will work my way west and leave the gold for you. It is the least and probably the last that I can do for you.
If, when you read this you have any desires to know who you really are, I will leave you the following information:
Your mother, a wonderful woman, was Barbara Parker of Litchfield, Connecticut, daughter of Judge Arnold Parker of Litchfield, now deceased. I am Donald Mullen, the eldest of three brothers; Fay Mullen is the next of age and Patrick Mullen, the gunsmith of Maiden Lane, New York, is the youngest. We were born in Byron Bridge, Ireland, and we three came to this country after our parents died. You come of an honest, worthwhile people on my side, and of the best American blood on your mother's, Donald, and I ask only that you live an honest, honorable life and have faith in your country and your God, and He will be with you to the end.
Good-bye, boy.
Lovingly, YOUR FATHER.
I read the letter aloud but I confess that my voice broke toward the endand I choked up until reading was difficult.
For some time after I finished, we three sat in silence. The thoughtsand mental pictures of that broken man parting with his baby sonseventeen years before made me most unhappy.
Dad broke the silence.
"Well, now you are acquainted with the whole situation, what do youthink?"
"I scarcely know what to think," said I. "It does not appear natural fora man to abandon his own son in the manner he did. It seems heartlessand cruel. I cannot understand it; yet I wish I could see my poorfather. I wonder if he is still alive. Certainly with the information athand it should not be impossible for me to trace him or some relativesof my mother. Don't you think so?"
"That is what I thought, Don, for when you were three years old I beganto wonder about your father's whereabouts. I wanted to meet him andperhaps help him if I could. Do not think that your poor father wascruel, for it is evident that the man was suffering from a nervousbreakdown and consequently more or less irresponsible; I think he actedwonderfully well under the circumstances. In order to help him I began asearch and for ten years I have had detectives and private individualsfollowing up every possible lead. Yet, with all my efforts, the searchhas amounted to nothing. Your father's trail ended at a Spokaneoutfitting store. I could not locate anyone nearer to you than an oldmaiden great-aunt of your mother's although I have had every clueinvestigated.
"The only relative of your father's that I could get any informationabout was his youngest brother, Patrick Mullen, your uncle and a famousgunsmith of Maiden Lane, New York. He is dead now but his reputation formaking an exceptionally fine hand-forged gun lives on even to-day.Patrick Mullen died just before I began my search for your father, butin digging around for facts about him, I learned that he had made alimited number of very fine guns, on each of which he had stamped hisfull name, 'Patrick Mullen.' Other guns of an inferior quality that hemade bore the simple stamp of 'P. Mullen.' The old man was very proud ofeach 'Patrick Mullen' that he turned out and like the true artist thathe was he kept track of each one, sold them only to men he knew and whenthe owner died he bought the gun back himself so that he always knew itswhereabouts.
"In that way all of the 101 'Patrick Mullen's' he made came back to him,save one. There is one of the complete number still missing and no oneseems to know where it is. This is more remarkable because the missinggun is a flint-lock rifle of the style of seventy years ago. That gunhas always struck me as being a valuable clue in our search, because itis the only rifle ever made by the old gunsmith and I have a feelingthat that missing 'Patrick Mullen' may have been given to your father bythe brother, and that may account for the fact that among the papers ofPatrick Mullen there is no record of its whereabouts; this is in ameasure confirmed by the report that the man outfitting at Spokane had along old-fashioned rifle, and collectors say there used to be an expertin antique arms by the name of Mullen."
The suggestion made me tremendously excited. Beyond a doubt in my mindthat missing "Patrick Mullen" was my father's gun. I imagined himparting with everything else save the unique gun his famous brother hadmade for him. Why he should wish for a flint-lock rifle was anunanswerable question, but someone wanted that sort of a gun or it wouldnot have been made, and my father's letters showed him to be a man ofsentiment, and impractical, just the sort of fellow to use a flint-lockwhen he might just as well have had a modern breech-loading high-powerrifle.
"I believe you've hit it, dad. Hot dog!" I exclaimed. "Bet a cookie thatthat gun does belong to my father and if we can find it we will probablyfind him too--would not that be bully?"
"I feel the same way too, Don. But finding that missing gun will be asdifficult as finding your father. I have searched the country over forit and made a wonderful collection of flint-lock guns, as you see bylooking at yonder gun-rack; I have had dozens of arms collectors anddetectives looking for guns of that description, but no Patrick Mullenrifle has turned up anywhere. There have, of course, been many falseclues and many queer rifles offered to me and I have put a great manythousands of dollars into the search, and my collection of flint-locksis the best in the land, Don. But so far nothing but failures seem tohave rewarded my search--no, I'm wrong, there is one man out west--outin the little jerk-water town of Grave Stone, who insists that there isa wild man living in a lonely, almost inaccessible valley in themountains, who shoots a gun which looks like the one for which I amsearching. For a number of years this man of mystery, it seems, has beenappearing and reappearing, according to Big Pete Darlinkel, myinformant, but even Pete has never got in personal touch with thiseccentric hermit. Neither have several detectives I have sent out therefor that purpose. The detectives seem to be all right in towns or citiesand are undoubtedly brave men, but something out there appears tofrighten them and they lose interest the moment they cut the trail ofthe wild hunter. I begin to think this wild man is a myth, too.Strange, though, that just a week ago I received another letter fromPete Darlinkel. Wait, I'll find it."
He returned from the library presently with a letter which he opened andpassed over to me. It read:
DEAR MR. CRAWFORD:--
Maybe you hain't interested no more but thet tha' ole Dopped ganger, the Wild Hunter, the spooky old critter, has been seen agin. i wuz on the top of the painted Butte yesterday squinten one i in the valley look'n for elk and look'n up with tother i for Big horn on the mountain, when i staged the old duffer snoop'en along in one of the parks an' he had the same long hair and long rifle he uster have. He sure is a ghost or else he's a nut or an old timer gone locoed. He sends the chills down my backbone every time i sots my eyes on him.
Your obedients sarvent, BIG PETE.
There was something about that crude letter that stirred me deeply.
Could this strange freak that Big Pete saw from the top of the paintedButte possess that Patrick Mullen rifle? If so did he know anythingabout the whereabouts of my father? It is not uncommon for peoplesuffering from a mental breakdown to flee to the country or wildernessand there live the life of a recluse, and from my father's last letterit was evident that he had had a nervous breakdown from anxiety andbrooding over the loss of my mother, to whom he evidently was devotedlyattached. It might, therefore, be possible that this strange, wild manhimself was my father, an unpleasant possibility. At any rate, I feltthat I could not rest, at least until I discovered to a certainty thename of the maker of the long rifle said to be carried by the wildhunter and I told dad just how I felt about it.
"I knew you would feel that way, son," said he. "I have often wanted togo west for the very same purpose and I knew that when I told youeverything you would want to go too. I intended to lay all the factsbefore you when you were twenty-one but now that Blink Broosmore hastaken it upon himself to inform you and his t
ruck-driving friends of themystery surrounding your real parentage, I guess it is best you know allthere is to be known about the situation. The rest I'll leave to you. Infact, it would please me a great deal if you would run down this lastvague clue to see if your father really is still alive. Go, Donald, andGod bless you, and take that bag of gold with you, unopened, for it maynow stand your father in good stead, and if you do find him, bring himhere and I promise you he will never want for a thing, nor will you, myson, for you are still my boy whatever your real parentage may be."