“Hold on, boys; here’s a stick standing upright in the trail. And look, fellows, there’s a piece of nice new birch bark held fast in the cloven end, that grips it like the jaws of a vise.”

“Say, it’s a message, all right.”

“And from our crack-a-jack pathfinder, Elmer Chenowith, too, I warrant you.”

“What do you say, Matty? Is Red Huggins right?”

Seven boys had come to a halt in the heart of the big woods. They were a rather husky-looking set, all told, and evidently bent on getting all the benefit possible from being outdoors through the last few weeks of vacation time.

The one appealed to, Matty Eggleston by name, was something of a leader among the Hickory Ridge Troop of Boy Scouts.

In fact, he was at the head of the Beaver Patrol, and studying constantly in order to attain the rank of a first-class scout.

There are so very many things a boy must know in order to reach this ambition that comparatively few scouts ever attain it. But by concentrating all his energies upon one particular study he may earn a merit badge, which it will make him proud to wear.

Matty took the piece of bark from the cloven stick. The other six boys clustered eagerly around, anxious to see what sort of message it could be that the assistant scout master had left in the trail.

They were out to try a new experience, and one that appealed to every boy in the bunch.

A party of the scouts, their identity and number unknown to Elmer and the balance, had started off for the woods early in the day.

An hour later, Elmer, with one companion, had taken up the trail, and when a second hour had elapsed the balance of those who were bent upon playing the game left town in two detachments.

It had been arranged that Elmer was to act as pathfinder and tracker. He would in turn leave a plain trail that a child could follow.

Besides this, he had promised to transmit from time to time some sort of message. Thus those who came along in the rear, in two detachments, would be kept in touch with events, and also advised as to what they should do.

The party bringing up the rear was headed by Mark Cummings, who was Elmer’s particular chum. He was really the bugler of the troop; but for this occasion Elmer himself carried that instrument, with the idea of calling the scouts together at some time later on.

“Hey, look at that, would you; it’s all marked up with crow’s feet tracks!” exclaimed Landy Smith, a rather fat boy who had only recently joined the Wolf Patrol, making the eighth and last member.

“What’s Elmer think we are, a lot of kids, to leave us an illustrated rebus to guess? Looks to me like a little boy’s first try to draw cows and Noah’s Ark people.”

Some of the others laughed when George Robbins gave expression to his disgust in this way. George was a cousin to Landy, and had also recently signed the muster roll of the scouts, although he belonged to Matty’s patrol, the Beaver.

“You’ve got a heap to learn yet, George,” said Red Huggins, shaking his head at the offender.

“In what way?” demanded the other.

“Why, this is what they call Injun picture writing,” replied Red, obligingly.

“Oh! it is, eh? But what’s that got to do with finding a trail, or following one that’s already found?” asked the latest tenderfoot.

“A heap, as you’ll soon learn, my boy,” replied Red, with a pitying look, as if he could not understand how anyone should be so green. “Matty, suppose you enlighten him a little, won’t you-that is, if you’ve got through reading your letter?”

“Letter!” ejaculated both Landy and George-“that thing a letter?”

“A short and sweet one,” remarked Matty. “You see, Elmer has signed it with what I make out to be the paw of a wolf. That’s the totem of his patrol, while mine is a beaver tail, and the third one would be the claw of an eagle.”

“Say, that sounds kind of interesting like,” observed Landy. “I rather expect I’ll cotton to this same Injun picture writing letter business, once I get at the secret key of it.”

“That’s where you’re away off to start with, Landy,” remarked Matty, laughing, “because you see there’s nothing hidden about this business at all. In fact, the one particular idea with the one who writes a message in Indian picture writing is to make it so simple a child might understand.”

“Well, I declare,” cried the fat scout, who was not in khaki uniform like four of his companions, simply because he and George were waiting until the town tailor, father to Jasper Merriweather, one of the members of the troop, could complete their suits-“then, if a baby could understand what our pathfinder has left for us, perhaps now there might be some chance for me.”

“Oh! it’s as easy as falling off a log, once you get the hang of it,” declared Larry Billings.

“Look here, and I’ll show you, fellows,” remarked Matty, holding the bark up so that everyone present could see the lead-pencil marks.

“Looks like several men, to start with,” interposed George.

“Good enough, George,” said the patrol leader, “and that’s just what they are. Count them, will you?”

“One, two, three.”

“That’s right. So you see, to begin with, our pathfinder tells us the enemy ahead are three in number. Now, do you see anything close by those three figures of men?” and Matty held the bark directly in front of Landy and George.

“Sure,” replied George. “Under one is a mark-say, it looks like the same down at the bottom of the letter, and you said that was the sign or totem of the Wolf Patrol.”

“Just so; and this tells us the first fellow is a member of that patrol. Under the others you will see marks to indicate that they are members of the Beaver and the Eagle patrols.”

“That’s so, Matty; I can see ’em,” declared Landy, who evidently did not wish his cousin to get all the credit for smartness.

“All right. Let’s get on a little,” said Matty. “First notice two have hats on, while the third wears none. Now, you may think that an accident in drawing, but it isn’t at all. Elmer meant it for something.”

“And I can guess what it is,” declared Chatz Maxfield, the Southern boy.

“Then tell the rest of us,” cried several.

“Why, it’s dead easy,” was his reply. “Stop and think; who’s always losing his hat every chance he gets?”

“Nat Scott!” quickly exclaimed Landy.

“All right. And don’t we happen to know that Nat was one of those who went ahead of Elmer and Lil Artha by an hour or so,” laughed Red.

“Well, I declare!” cried Landy, “and do you mean to say Elmer has guessed that, or did he see the fellows before he wrote this letter?”

“Neither one nor the other. He just figured it out from something he found. Perhaps he knows what the print of Nat’s shoe looks like, for we all make different tracks, you know.”

“Yes,” said Chatz, “that would be just like Elmer. He’s the most observing, wide-awake fellow I ever knew since I came up from the South. I’ve seen him measuring some of our tracks, and making a copy in that wonderful little book of his.”

“Now, let’s get on a little further. Do you see that the second figure, no matter how often he appears, always has his left leg bent a little?” and Matty pointed in several places to confirm his statement.

Immediately Red laughed aloud, and then in one breath he and Larry exclaimed:

“That’s Ty Collins, as sure as anything!”

“I guess you’ve hit the mark,” said Matty, “and that was just what Elmer was trying to tell us. Ty’s left leg has always been a little crooked since he fell out of that cherry tree three years ago. Now, the third fellow got me at first, but come to look at him he seems a little different from the others. See here, and here, and here.”

“That’s a fact,” declared Landy, scratching his nose in a way he had when puzzled.

“He can’t mean he’s a dead one, and sprouting wings, can he?” asked George.

“Wings! I’ve got it, fellows!” shouted Red.

“Then pass it around to the rest, because I’m all up a stump,” observed Larry.

“Shucks! don’t you know there’s only one fellow in the whole troop who’s always sighing because he can’t fly, and wishes he had wings?” demanded Red, promptly.

“Toby Jones, the boy who’s bent on sailing through the clouds some day!” cried Chatz.

“Exactly,” remarked Matty. “And in this clever way our pathfinder has told us who the three scouts ahead are. Now he shows them coming to a fork in the trail. One goes to the north, and the others to the northwest. Which party can be carrying the wampum belt we expect to trace down?”

All of them looked again, and while several shook their heads Red remarked:

“Seems to me one of the two that kept together fell down just at the fork of the trail. Was that only an accident, Matty, or a part of the play?”

“I believe it was done on purpose,” the other replied. “Because, if you look closely, you’ll find that the one who stretched out on the ground was Ty, and that from that time on he has a funny little wiggly line drawn around his waist.”

“Sure, he has. That must be the wampum belt,” exclaimed Red.

“Yes. No doubt he was instructed by our scout master, Mr. Garrabrant, that when they separated the fellow carrying the belt must do something to show it. That was a clever dodge of Ty’s to lie down, and make an impression in the earth.”

“Yes, and smarter yet for Elmer to discover the impression, and read it,” declared Chatz.

“What else does the letter say?” asked Landy, who seemed quite enthused now, after discovering how exceedingly interesting this communicating by means of Indian picture writing might become.

“Elmer tries to tell us he is pursuing the two who headed northwest. You see he has made an arrow showing this fact,” Matty continued.

“But there are some other marks; can you make them out at all?” asked Landy.

“This is certainly a fire. Before separating, the three enemies built a fire and pretended to feed. Here they are sitting around the blaze and eating; and if you look over yonder right now, you’ll see the ashes where the fire has been.”

All of them hurried across to where Matty pointed.

“By all that’s wonderful, there has been a camp fire here,” said Landy.

“You’re a little off there, Landy,” corrected the leader of the Beaver Patrol; “this was only a little cooking blaze, not a camp fire.”

“But what’s the difference?” demanded the new recruit; “I thought a fire must be a fire.”

“Well,” said Matty, “when hunters are in a hostile country and want to prepare a meal they dig a hole and make a small blaze in it that will be hot enough for their purpose, but which might not be seen fifty feet away.”

“And a camp fire?” continued the novice.

“Quite a different matter. That is generally a rousing blaze made for comfort, and at a time when no danger is feared. This was only a cooking fire,” Matty went on to explain, as he again thrust the “message” into the jaws of the cloven stick.

“Do you know how long ago this fire was made?” asked George.

“The ashes are cold now, but they must have been warm when Elmer was here. He says so-anyhow, that’s the way I read it. Here are four hands held up. Counting fingers and thumbs he wants us to know he has gained on the enemy, and was only twenty minutes behind when they separated at this fire.”

“Well, that takes the cake!” ejaculated Landy, whose whole appearance indicated amazement.

“I wonder if it’s going to turn out so?” remarked George, who was always unbelieving, and hence sometimes called by his friends “Doubting George.”

“Well, we’ll prove it later,” said Matty, “because I am putting all these things down in my record. When we come together Elmer will tell us what he meant, and read our answers out loud. Then well see how that second squad come out. But let’s be on the move again, fellows. Plenty to do before we overhaul our pathfinder, and find out if he secured the wampum belt. Come along, everybody!”