Dan Carter Cub Scout Part 5

"Okay, it's nothing to me one way or the other," he shrugged. "You can look around if you like. But mind, don't get the birds stirred up."

"Isn't that a silver pheasant you have in your hand?" Mr. Hatfield inquired pleasantly.

"Yeah," Dobbs agreed, leading the group to another pen. "This here one's a rare breed from the Himalayas," he explained, pointing to a pheasant with a short golden-orange tail.

"Do you keep golden pheasants too?" asked Dan.

"Sure, they're over in those pens near the barn. You can tell a golden pheasant by their fluffy yellow crest, red breast and long yellow tail feathers in scale pattern."

"I see you are quite an authority on pheasants," the Cub leader remarked, hoping to coax the man into a good humor.

"Well, I been workin' fer Mr. Silverton more'n two years now," Dobbs informed in a less hostile tone. "But pheasant raisin' is hard work. You have to keep close watch of the eggs when they're hatching. There's pens to be cleaned and fumigated, sick pheasants to be treated and always you have to be on the alert to see that none of 'em get away. I got too much to do."

"We don't mean to put you to any trouble," said Mr. Hatfield. "Don't let us keep you from your work."

Dobbs shot the Cub leader a quick glance, half suspicious, and replied curtly: "If you want to see the silver pheasants, there's a new hatch of 'em over in the south pens."

"Does Mr. Silverton keep any birds that are imported from Burma or the Malay States?" Dan asked eagerly. "How about Germain's peac.o.c.k pheasant?"

"Seems you're pretty well versed in pheasants," Dobbs said, eyeing the boy keenly. "Who told you to ask that?"

"Why, no one. Mr. Silverton mentioned it, that was all."

"Well, we got a few of 'em," Dobbs said reluctantly. "We're having trouble getting the birds started. You won't find any of 'em here by the barn."

Apparently annoyed by the question, the foreman walked away, leaving the Cubs to their own resources. However, as they wandered from one enclosure to another, they noticed that he watched them closely.

Careful not to disturb any of the hens or c.o.c.ks, the Cubs spent half an hour around the pens. As they started to leave, Mr. Hatfield asked the foreman if he thought Mr. Silverton would object if they cut a little wood for Indian bow staves.

"Oh, I guess it'll be all right, providin' you don't leave the trails,"

Saul Dobbs said grudgingly. "Just be careful what you cut."

Feeling that the foreman might not be such a bad sort after all, the Cubs retraced their way through the woodland toward the river.

Midway there, Fred suddenly announced that he was famished. "When do we eat?" he moaned.

"This seems to be as good a time as any," said Mr. Hatfield, squinting at the sun which had climbed high overhead.

From their knapsacks, the Cubs broke out sandwiches, fruit, and candy bars. But when Chips would have started a fire to warm a can of soup he had brought along, the Cub leader vetoed the proposal.

"We're still on Silverton's land," he reminded the Cubs. "No fires."

After lunch, the Cubs lay for awhile under the trees, basking in the steamy warmth of the sun.

"I see a lot of good hickory and birch around here," Red said, stirring to effort. "Let's get busy on those Indian bow staves."

"Go to it," Mr. Hatfield urged. "But don't mutilate any of the trees."

For the next hour, the Cubs wandered about, selecting choice pieces of hickory, white elm and other woods favored for staves. Midge's father showed them how to dress the ends.

"Time we're getting back," he announced suddenly, picking up his knapsack. "Come on, gang."

"Say, where is Chips?" Brad demanded, counting noses.

"And Red?" added Dan.

"They were here only a few minutes ago," Fred recalled. "Come to think, I heard Chips say something about looking for a yew tree!"

"That dumb cluck!" Dan exploded. "If he were in an evergreen forest, he'd start looking for a date palm!"

Mr. Hatfield whistled several times and waited for an answering signal.

None came.

"Red and Chips can't be far away," he said.

"Want me to go after them?" Brad volunteered.

"We'll all follow their trail," the Cub leader decided. "But keep together, gang. We've no time to look for other stragglers."

The Cubs moved along, eyes intent on the ground. A short distance from where they had eaten lunch, Brad came upon a heel mark in a little patch of black, moist earth.

Pausing, he studied the mark a moment. "From Chips' shoe," he identified it. "I can tell by that wing design heel mark."

A little farther on Dan found Red's tracks. A broken bush indicated the direction in which he had gone.

"At least they're together," Mr. Holloway said in relief.

"Those dumb bunnies!" Fred said irritably. "What made 'em wander off that way? Do they think we've got nothing to do but trail them?"

Mr. Hatfield, deeply troubled, paused at intervals to give the familiar whistle. No answering call came through the woodland.

The trail of the two wanderers, led on and on to the banks of a racing creek.

Mr. Hatfield paused a moment to study a pile of logs and debris brought down by the flood. The litter had acc.u.mulated in a narrow gorge formation.

"Notice how those logs form a dam across the stream," he remarked.

"The water could back up fast in event of a real flood," agreed Mr.

Holloway, following the Cub leader's thought. "Fortunately, the rains seem to have let up."

"We're not far from the pheasant runs," Sam Hatfield said, thinking aloud. "If I were in Saul Dobbs' place, I'd clear away those logs.

Perhaps there's no danger. But it strikes me considerable damage might be done if the water should back up any distance."

"Maybe he doesn't know about the jam," suggested Brad.

"That may be," nodded the Cub leader. "However, some of those logs look as if they've been here quite a while."

Dan, noticing that the logs formed a perfect bridge across the stream, started to walk across. The Cub leader called him back.