Now he understood why Tiger had insisted that he take the compass, and, wondering if he could figure out how to use the thing, he sat down on a stump and opened it, then switched the button on Phil’s flashlight. Nuts; the flashlight didn’t work. When he unscrewed the barrel his probing fingers told him it was missing a battery. He swore and tossed it into the bushes, then brought the compass up close to his eyes, squinting. No dice: he couldn’t see the markings on its face, much less take any kind of bearing.
A chill breeze had arisen to rustle the leaves overhead, and he shrugged on his sweater. Finally he decided to take the same path Phil and Wally had taken – they would not, after all, have followed a route that led anywhere but straight back to camp – and, sticking his arms out in front of him to grope for bushes or tree trunks, he started off, blindly footing his way along the path, stumbling and blundering into things as if he had been set not to hunt the mythical snipe, but to run an obstacle course.
He soldiered on for a while, until, having twice barked his shins and once twisted his knee, he made out a fallen tree trunk and plunked himself down again. He strove to think, cudgeling his brain to come up with a way out of his predicament. It occurred to him that he could wander along these paths for hours and get nowhere. And no one would find him. He shivered, slapping at the mosquitoes that swarmed around his bare legs – they seemed to thrive on the citronella he had doused himself with – then roused himself, telling himself he must do something; he couldn’t sit here forever like a bump on a log. He arched his back and was about to get up when – what was that? A shaft of alarm nailed him in the chest. Out there – in the dark – something
… Yes, squinting hard, he could just make it out, a dark shape, over there, he could hear it moving around. Something… something was there! This was no joke. This wasn’t his imagination working overtime. He peered along the path. If only he could see better! His teeth began to chatter. He would get up and run, but his legs were too weak, his knees were wax. What was it? Hardly daring to breathe, he stretched his eyes wide in an attempt to pierce the shadows.
From the sounds in the underbrush he supposed the thing to be large and clumsy, heedlessly shattering twigs and branches as it came lurching nearer… nearer… Oh God, there it was – he could almost feel its breath, hot and panting on his neck. A moan of fear escaped his lips and, raising his arm to ward off the attack, he struggled to his feet and began to run. Unable to see where he was going, he managed to move only a few yards before he tripped and went sprawling to the ground. The beast was upon him-!
“ Moooooooo…”
The panic-stricken cow came crashing through the underbrush, apparently eager to make contact with a fellow creature, be it only a dumb camper as lost as she was.
The disconsolate sound mocked Leo, marking him a greater fool than he already felt. What if someone had been watching? He’d never live it down. The cow looked so ridiculous and out of place. He shooed it off, then considered his situation, rubbing his chilled arms; even under the wool sweater his goose bumps wouldn’t go down. Overhead the pine boughs whispered softly in the breeze. He was panting with nerves and fatigue. He had no choice; he must move on. But further probings into the dark now failed to locate any trees to guide him along the path. There was no longer a path, none at all. In trying to get away from the cow, he must have stumbled into a clearing. Utterly discouraged and despondent, he kicked a stump and jammed his fists deep into his pockets – but wait! He had forgotten the packet of matches Tiger had given him. He could read the compass in the light of a match. He fumbled them out and lit one; the flame blew out before he could get even a quick look at the compass face. He lit another, and another, with similar results. There were only a few matches left. To conserve them he would build a little fire to see by.
He scrabbled up some tinder of needles and twigs, and struck another match. The tinder caught quickly; when he had it going he added some bigger twigs and pieces of branches so the blaze lighted up the clearing sufficiently for him to get his bearings. What he found himself looking at caused him to blink in surprise and wonder. In the center of the open space was a circle of round rocks marking off a campfire site – there were charred bits of wood scattered about – and, a little way off, the dark mouth of a cave. The trunks of the nearby pine trees were blazed with ax markings and knife carvings, Indian signs like the ones on the old campers’ torches, with initials and dates.
As he peered around in wonder, it dawned on him that he had stumbled onto the site of the Senecas’ council fire. It also occurred to him that he had no business here, that he was trespassing: in this sacred spot were performed those secret rites that were taboo for nonentities like Wacko Wackeem. He could picture the scene, the Seneca braves and warriors with their painted faces, turkey feathers in their hair, gathered around the fire, making Big Medicine in the night.
Eager to investigate further, he stifled his misgivings and, using a pine branch that when lighted proved a satisfactory torch, he made his way into the cave. The space was much larger than it appeared from the outside. Its roof, formed by a solid slab of rock, slanted upward from the aperture, so that upon entering the cavern you had to crouch, yet once inside you were able to stand again. Raising his torch higher, he proceeded farther into the room, following a trail of symbols and pictographs. Here was a deer, here a beaver, here a raccoon, here a snake, and here – he brought his light closer – this was the picture the others pointed to, an Indian brave armed with a bow and a fistful of arrows, standing over the body of a buffalo. What did it all mean? The answer, like the contents of the little chamois bag each Seneca wore around his neck, was known only to a few, and to none who did not belong.
His torch began to gutter and he hurried outside again – to see, to his horror, that his little blaze had ignited the pine needles at the edge of the clearing he had made and was spreading out of control. A wave of panic surged up from the depths of his belly as he pictured the whole of Indian Woods going up in smoke, and, cursing his stupidity, he ran from one spot to another, stamping out the flames. But as fast as he stifled them in one place they sprang up in another. Water – he needed water! Desperately he unbuttoned his fly and peed as hard as he could. When he had quenched the last of the flames he discovered that he had also put out his original fire, a mistake that had again left him in the dark. A fine Seneca he’d make. Except He wasn’t in the dark after all. It was true – the moon was up! Finally a bit of luck! Now, if he could just figure out how to use Tiger’s compass. He dug it out again, holding it up so that the light fell across its face. He picked out a tree trunk in a beam of moonlight to the north and moved toward it. From there he sighted another tree and, referring to his compass, another, until – a light! Yes, certainly; he could make out a winking light through the trees. Civilization was over there somewhere.
He pushed on, feeling a creeping excitement as he thought of winning his way out of the forest and getting back to camp. He couldn’t wait to tell Phil and Wally he hadn’t been fooled, that he’d known all the time there were no stupid snipes. Then, almost without his being aware of it, he found himself clear of trees and standing on the sloping shoulder of the Old Lake Road. Car lights! That was what he’d seen, the headlights of a moving car! He laughed with joy and relief. He was saved! Now to get back to camp.