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Mr. Schultz’s piercing whistle was his way of calling us, Troop 1290, from the parade field. The sun had just fallen behind the oak trees lining the field’s far side, so it was getting too dark for football anyway.
“Okay, guys,” shouted Paul Brooks, taking hold of the ball from a younger scout’s grip. “Circle up for a head count, then back to the cabin.”
Paul was the senior patrol leader, and I was the assistant SPL. I made a quick count. “Eighteen,” I said to Paul. “That’s everyone, counting you and me.”
“Thanks, Rick,” Paul said. “Okay, let’s go twelve-ninety,” he added, trotting east through the double-row of red pines toward the cabin. Their lower branches, long ago trimmed above ten feet, allowed easy access to and from the gravel road that ran parallel to the field, as well as a good view for the three cabins spread along its eastern edge.
One other troop was still on the parade field, practicing lashing logs together near the camp’s emergency bell along the south end, about 100 feet from the camp director’s cabin.
I spotted the director, Mr. Chandler, flicking on his porch light and stepping out to survey the parade field. The first time I met the guy, I was a Tenderfoot. He’d walked back with Mr. Schultz after checking in and I was lugging two buckets of coal for the pot-bellied stove. His left eye looked weird. Later I learned it was glass from an accident on the archery course two years previous. Then there was the rumor that the scout who’d shot him in the eye committed suicide right afterwards. Adding to Mr. Chandler’s eye and the dead scout, the director’s gap-toothed smile left me with a creepy feeling every time we crossed paths at Camp Mekanayzn.
Billy O’Cleary tugged on my hooded sweatshirt’s sleeve. “Hey, Rick,” he said. “Come on. Doesn’t Mr. Schultz get mad if he has to wait?”
It was Billy’s first campout, and he fretted over doing everything exactly right. But he did have a point about our scoutmaster, Mr. Schultz. I pulled the front of his NY Jets knit cap down over his freckled face. “Get a better team and a new hat!”
He raced to catch up and followed me past Mr. Schultz holding the door for us. It was fall and our scoutmaster had his fake bearskin vest on. My dad once asked him where he’d dug up that ratty thing. They both laughed. Mr. Schultz never yelled, but his voice carried, and everyone knew he went by the rules and was in charge.
Inside, our assistant scoutmaster Mr. Paxon clicked off his transistor radio and pointed to the tables and benches. He was smiling, so Woody Hayes and his Buckeyes must’ve won another one. “Five minutes to get cleaned up,” he announced. “Thirty minutes, merit badge and skills study. Then, the Candy Bar Game.”
Everyone cheered, and shouted, “All Right” or “Cool.” The Candy Bar Game was a Saturday night highlight. A troop tradition at Camp Mekanayzn.
I pointed to a spot at the table near my bunk. “Billy and James, right here. I’ll get the ropes.” Both of the new scouts nodded before running up the steps to the second floor to shed their coats. I was teaching them how to tie the two half hitches and the taut-line hitch knots, both necessary to earn their Tenderfoot rank.
Billy and James ran down the steps, leaping instead of using the last five. “I gotta go,” James whispered to me.
I knew what he meant. “You know where the latrine is. Take Billy with you and hustle-up.”
They both got back to the cabin just as I laid the ropes out for them. Everyone else was working on either First Aid, Emergency Preparedness, or arranging the cookware for breakfast tomorrow morning.
I ordered Billy and James to recite the Scout Law. When they got to ‘clean’ I said, “Hands?” They both laughed and nodded. “Okay, let’s get to work.”
“Everyone’s been talking about the Candy Bar Game,” said Billy. “I know you have to go out at night to The Post and get back, but what else do you have to do?”
“I don’t even know how to get there,” James added.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Mr. Schultz’ll explain the rules. And Billy, you’ll be with me. And James, you’ll stick with Paul.”
Both smiled and let out a breath of relief.
“Okay,” I said, “now let’s see what you remember from this afternoon.”
The troop gathered around the long tables, most sitting on the benches. Mr. Paxon raised his hand, showing the three-fingered scout sign. Everyone quieted down.
“Okay, gentlemen,” Mr. Paxon said. “The Candy Bar Game rules.”
A cheer went up, followed by silence once again at the hand signal. All of the older scouts knew the Candy Bar Game inside and out, including our own secret routes and strategies, but we modeled proper behavior by at least pretending to pay attention.
“The two teams will be based on patrol units. Muskrat Patrol will go out first. Rick and I will go with them. Wolf Patrol will go out second and Paul will be with them.”
That made sense since Marv, who’d receive the scouting rank Star at next month’s Court of Honor, was Wolf’s patrol leader and would help look out for James. Billy was Muskrat’s new member and I’d take care of him. That left Paul and Mr. Paxon some freedom to play while overseeing—as much as the game allowed.
Mr. Schultz began handing out a Snickers bar to everyone in Muskrat.
Mr. Paxon stuck his candy bar in his coat pocket. “Muskrat, you will be given twelve minutes head start to get to The Post before Wolf Patrol is released.” Mr. Paxon checked his watch. “Muskrat Patrol, you will then have thirty minutes, or until 8:45 to make it back to the cabin. If any member of Wolf Patrol tags you before you reach the porch steps, you must surrender your Snickers bar to the tagger immediately. You must then head directly back to the cabin. You may not scout or run interference in any way. Anyone not making it back to the cabin by 8:45, Mr. Schultz gets your candy bar.”
Mr. Schultz rolled on his boot heels and grinned wickedly. “I will whistle at exactly 8:45. Any scout not back at the cabin by 8:50 will be assigned both breakfast and cleanup duty tomorrow morning, and gets to carry my gear back to the bus.”
Mr. Paxon nodded. “Wolf Patrol, your strategy for catching members of Muskrat is up to you, except that you may not post yourself within 100 feet of the cabin. You may enter that boundary chasing or intercepting. No tackling.”
“And, Muskrats,” added Mr. Schultz, “you may not eat your candy bar until I’ve ruled you made it back safely.”
Billy whispered to me, “What happens if you eat your candy bar but get caught?”
“You don’t want to know,” I whispered back.
“Then,” said Mr. Paxon, “at 8:50, after a head count, Muskrat and Wolf will switch, and Wolf will head to The Post. The game will be done and headcount by 9:35. Any questions?”
There were none.
Mr. Schultz checked his watch. “I have exactly 8:05 pm. Synchronize your watches. You have three minutes.”
The patrols separated, with Muskrat gathering near the cabin’s front door. Billy looked a little lost. I signaled him over to me.
“Yeah, Rick,” he said, wide-eyed.
I snatched off his Jets hat and pulled his navy blue sweatshirt hood over his head. “That white will stick out for a mile.”
“Oh,” Billy said sheepishly.
“It’s gonna be cold out there.” I tugged the brown vest jacket over his hooded sweatshirt and winked. “You’re being smart.”
He smiled. “Dad bought it for me last week.” Then he frowned, looking at the Buck knife on my belt. “Dad said I wasn’t old enough for a knife.”
“Maybe after you earn the Camping merit badge.” I put on my brown knit winter hat and snapped up my vest jacket. Its black color matched my hooded sweatshirt—perfect hiding at night. “Stick with me and you’ll keep your Snickers.”
Billy made sure the pocket holding his candy bar was snapped shut. “What do I do with my Jets hat?”
“You got two minutes. Go toss it on your bunk, and grab gloves if you’ve got any.”
Billy trotted next to me on the main trail, heading north. We were ahead of Mr. Paxon and Joey, who sometimes had asthma attacks, and behind the six other scouts who’d sprinted out the cabin door.
We were starting down the steps to the bridge that spanned the narrow section of the camp’s ancient pool, which was now little more than a leaf-filled cement ravine with a stream running through it. From the black and white pictures I’d seen, the huge pool had been a real center of activity about forty or fifty years ago. A government work project built during the depression.
Billy asked me, “Why’d Mr. Paxon wear his red coat?”
“It’s a Philmont jacket from a leadership camp out west. Most leaders who’ve been around a while go there at least once.” I didn’t know much more about Philmont, not even what the black bull sewn on the coat meant, so I explained, “It’s wool and warm, and I think he thinks it’s lucky. Mr. Schultz used to wear his a lot, till someone stole it.”
“Really?”
“Happened my very first campout, here at Mekanayzn. But don’t ask him about it,” I warned.
“Oh,” Billy said.
My night vision, better than just about everyone’s I knew but my dad’s, enabled me to see Billy’s eyes widen in the moonlight. “Anyway, the red doesn’t stick out in the dark as much as you might think.”
Billy looked back, probably trying to verify my statement.
I pointed east, to our right. “The pool goes halfway to the edge of camp. Remember the culvert we crossed during the hike this morning?”
Billy nodded.
“That and a small footbridge near the east fence are two ways across the stream.”
I pointed to the left as Billy nodded again. “Out that way there’s the chapel where a small bridge crosses the stream. Then way at the far end by the west fence, there’s a path over the stream. Five main crossing points. Choke points.”
“Oh,” said Billy. “That’s where Wolf Patrol will try to catch us?”
“Some,” I said. “Paul will probably try to run like nuts and catch slowpokes, or anybody who only knows this main path back to the cabin. The rest will stake out near the cabin. Maybe surprise anybody who gets by, or intercept anybody being chased.”
“We’re going kind of slow.”
“We’re pacing ourselves,” I said. “It’s nine-tenths of a mile to The Post.” I held up my watch, angling it toward the bridge’s single light to see the light-absorbing dots and hands’ faint glow. “Don’t worry, we’ll be heading back a minute or so after Wolf’s released.”
Steamy puffs curled back into the quiet night as Billy huffed along next to me. “And we won’t be sucking air like them guys ahead of us.”
I glanced at the sky through the nearly bare trees. “Almost a full moon.” We ran up the steps, skipping every other one until we were back on the six-foot wide main trail. “If we go cross country, can you walk without tripping or stirring up leaves?”
“What do you mean?”
“Shuffling your feet?”
“Sure, I think so.”
“Okay,” I said, slowing down. I thought I spotted movement along the trail, going into the trees.
“What,” Billy asked, looking from me out into the dark woods ahead.
“Nothing,” I said, and began jogging again. Behind us, Mr. Paxon and Joey were just crossing the bridge. “I know a place about a hundred yards beyond the chapel crossing. A log over the stream. Well, part way.”
“Really?” Billy said.
“The stream’s about eight feet wide there. Steep sides and real mucky bottom, like everywhere else.”
Billy nodded. “Uh huh.”
“The log is half-sunk, so it’d be a four-foot jump. If I get you there, think you can get across and make a run for the cabin on your own?”
Billy thought a second. “Yeah, Rick. I know where the chapel is. I can get back to the cabin from there. Even in the dark.”
“Okay, that’s our plan. We’ll cross there and then split up.”
My plan was to let Billy run interference, drawing any Wolf scouts lying in wait. But, we’d both have a good shot, coming from an unexpected direction.
Billy was quiet in thought, planning like me. He’d probably try to skirt the pines along the parade field. I figured to circle around past the bell and approach from that direction. Odds of me keeping my candy bar were better than his. But, like all scouts, he’d learn.
A snapping branch in the trees about a hundred feet to our left caught my attention. Billy hadn’t noticed it, and I couldn’t see anything moving, not even a shadow. Some leaves rustled; something was moving away west. I reminded myself of all the raccoons and possums that claimed Camp Mekanayzn as their home. If it weren’t for the game, I’d have stopped, and maybe gone to figure out what it was out there.
“Come on, Billy. Let’s pick up the pace.”
Billy and I went through the formality of tapping a fist against The Post, a white eight-foot telephone pole anchoring where the fence met at right angles and marked the camp’s northwest boundary.
“I forgot my watch at home,” Billy said in frustration.
“No problem. It’s eight-twenty.”
“Those guys looked tired,” Billy said, referring to the four Muskrat scouts who’d jogged back past us on the main trail, breathing hard.
Only two trails converged on The Post, so that meant that two had taken the trail that paralleled the six-foot chain-link west boundary fence. The four probably were going to veer off the main trail, taking the path that wound its way to the culvert crossing.
The wispy cirrus clouds from earlier in the day were gone, soon to be replaced by a line of cumulonimbus ones moving in from the west to engulf the star-filled sky. Sleet, possibly snow was on the way. “You cold?” I asked Billy. “You need my hat?”
Billy checked again to make sure the candy bar was still in his pocket. “Nah, my hood’s got it.”
“Okay, we need to make good time for a few minutes,” I said, hurrying back south on the main path. “Then we’ll angle off into the trees.” I slowed a bit. “Keep up. When we’re in the woods, step careful and high, especially through the leaves and fallen logs. Keep your arms up to block branches from hitting your face.”
“Okay,” he said.
“And from now on, Billy, whisper. Only if you have to.”
Billy followed several strides behind me as we angled southwest through the trees toward the log crossing. A gusty breeze picked up, rattling the upper branches of the tallest trees.
I’d scouted this route over the course of a half dozen campouts. I knew where the thick brambles were and even where a deer run existed, just north of a pair of fallen oaks. Their rotting bases angled together and pointed directly toward the chapel. I’d discovered that while setting up an orienteering course two years ago, back when I was the patrol leader of the retired Raven Patrol.
As we neared the fallen oaks, I spotted motion just beyond them. Possibly Paul ducking for cover. I signaled for Billy to stop and checked my watch. If it was Paul, he must’ve sprinted the entire way. From that angle, chances were he saw me, but not Billy.
I crouched down, as did Billy, and I whispered into his ear. “Someone’s out there, behind those logs.”
The clouds had covered nearly half of the sky, but I could still see the excitement on Billy’s face.
“Look,” I said. “I’ll make a run for it. Anybody out there will see me and—”
Billy grabbed my arm and leaned close, still staring through the trees, toward the dead oaks. “But you’ll get caught.”
Since we were low to the ground behind a screen of young sassafras, and not moving, and Paul had ducked, I wasn’t too worried about him figuring exactly where we were. “Nah,” I whispered back. “I know the route better than anybody. See how those fallen logs point mainly south?”
Billy nodded.
“They point directly toward the chapel. Get there and go west about a hundred yards and you’ll see the log crossing. If you don’t think you can find it, take the chapel bridge or go east and use the bridge we crossed.”
“But I’ll get caught that way.”
“Just giving you options,” I said. “Okay, now when I run, you watch a minute or two and then move out on your own. You can find the stream, only a couple hundred yards that way.” I turned my head and looked south for emphasis. “So you can’t get lost, right?”
“Nah,” he said. “I can do it.”
“Storm’s coming in,” I warned. “Only gonna get darker.”
Billy adjusted his hood. “That’s okay.”
“Good luck then,” I said, and scanned the area before breaking into a crouching trot, keeping my head below most of the sapling branches.
I made more noise as I picked up speed. No one that I could see was on my trail. Maybe my eyes had played tricks on me. Better safe than sorry.
I made it to the stream about twenty yards east of the log crossing. I hunkered down against the trunk of a leaning maple tree and listened. Nobody was following. I thought about crossing, but decided to wait for Billy, just in case.
The clouds had blotted out over half the stars, but still hadn’t blocked the near full moon. I watched and listened. My spot gave me a good view of the stream east, and even a distant shot at the pool bridge, with its single light shining down on it.
Four minutes passed, then five. I thought I heard a muffled cry back north. A wave of guilt swept over me. I shouldn’t have left Billy in the woods alone. He wasn’t an experienced scout. Too young. Even though it’d been a long time since I was his age, I could still imagine how lost he probably felt. And I was more of a risk-taker than Billy, even at his age.
I shook my head and looked up. Getting darker. Now I wished he still had his Jets hat on. Bobbing white would’ve made him easier to spot.
“Billy!” I yelled. It’d give me away, but I waited five seconds and then shouted again. “Next to the stream, Billy. You know where.”
No response, no movement. I heard distant shouting, probably near the parade field. We had about ten minutes left before time was up, but that really didn’t matter. I decided to backtrack to the fallen oaks. If Billy wasn’t there, I’d angle for the pool, and then see if he made it back to the cabin. I’m sure he’s taking that way, I told myself. And sure to be caught.
I made my way back to the fallen logs without shouting for Billy. If he wasn’t lost it’d humiliate him, being treated like he was a little kid. Embarrassing both him and me.
By the time I reached the logs a chilling drizzle filtering through the branches touched my nose and cheeks. I stopped at the spot near the Sassafras trees where I’d left Billy and looked south, trying to see if he left a second trail. It was too dark to even spot my own. Even so, I caught movement to the west, out of the corner of my eye.
A person moving beyond the fallen logs, too big to be Billy. Could be Paul, I thought. But he should’ve chased me south. Maybe he was playing a cat and mouse game with Billy in the growing darkness.
I snuck closer, over the logs, and hunkered down before peeking around the base of a big oak. The person was about thirty feet away, and too big to be Paul. I wasn’t sure, but it looked like whoever it was had on a Philmont jacket.
The drizzle became sleet, adding a glaze to the fallen leaves that caught and reflected scant bits of the remaining moonlight. I squinted and looked up at the moon; It was about to be engulfed by the advancing clouds.
My attention returned to the man who was now talking, but too low for me to hear. He stood facing away from me at a slight angle, so I maneuvered to my left to see who, if anybody, he was addressing. As I did, he advanced toward someone, a boy, against a tree.
With a meaty hand, he grabbed the boy’s hair, lifting the head. Instantly I recognized Billy’s face, eyes wide and mouth gagged with a bandana.
Then the moonlight disappeared behind the clouds, leaving only black shadows and silhouettes.
Billy was in trouble—I had to act. Options flashed through my head. Yell for help. Run for the emergency bell. Yell for help and then run for the bell. Fear and self-preservation cried out for that. But it was Billy. I’d left him. For some reason, the Scout Law I’d been teaching him earlier sounded in my thoughts.Trustworthy—loyal—brave. Those three points demanded action.
It took only a fraction of a second for me to decide. I didn’t know what the man intended. To molest Billy? Kill him, or both? It didn’t matter. Even if it was some sick joke, I couldn’t abandon Billy to it.
I pulled my Buck knife and flicked it open, figuring Billy was tied to the tree. And if things got bad, I’d just have to stab the guy. A creepy feeling ran down my spine, leaving me shaking. Maybe it was the cold. More likely adrenaline tangled with fear. I wiped the icy sleet from my face and gathered my courage.
Hunched over, I trotted toward the man and Billy, picking up speed as I closed. If I could knock him down, it’d give me a few seconds to cut Billy free. He could run, and I’d do—well, whatever I had to.
The man must’ve heard me coming because he turned to face me at the last second. Even so, I barreled into him, driving him back. But he outweighed me by at least fifty pounds and absorbed most of the impact. He grabbed my shoulders and we tumbled past Billy to the ground.
The guy was way stronger than me. We wrestled for a few seconds before he had me on my back, with my knife-hand pinned to the ground. I yelled, “Rape!” and kneed him in the balls. He must’ve been wearing a cup because he just grunted without letting up on his grip. Through his black ski mask, the bastard grinned and head-butted me, busting my nose. I tried to claw his eyes and yell again before he drove his fist down on my jaw. The other thing that struck me before his blow knocked me out was the glare from his glassy left eye.
“Rick! Ricky!” Paul was shouting at me. “Can you hear me?” I was numb and too weak to move.
Besides the hiss of a propane fishing lantern, somebody nearby was retching. I opened my eyes and rolled my head to see who it was getting sick. It’d snowed, pink snow. I wanted to tell Paul to ring the bell. I couldn’t remember why, but it was an important thing I had to do.
Paul looked fuzzy. He hovered over me, wrapping his belt around my arm. “Hang in there, Ricky,” Paul said, sounding a valley away. I closed my eyes.
“James!” shouted Paul. “Look away from it.” He continued in the measured, forceful voice he always used. “Get up. Run to the director’s cabin. Tell him we’ve found them.”
“But,” James said, his voice filled with anguish. “Billy. He’s...”
Paul was pressing on my arm, or shoulder. “I know. Ricky will be too, if you don’t go. Mr. Chandler. Now!”
That name brought back a nightmare.
“Ricky, hold still,” said Paul. “I’m trying to stop the bleeding.”
I struggled to shout, “Don’t send James! Not to him!” Paul didn’t understand my gurgling murmur. A gray ring filled my eyes, closing like an iris.
“You’re gonna be okay,” Paul assured me.
Mr. Schultz and a deputy sheriff found Director Chandler a half hour after James made it to the bell and rang it and rang it until the scoutmaster from Troop 14 dragged him away. Like every scout who’s been around a while, Mr. Chandler knew how to tie knots, including the unauthorized hangman’s noose. That one he used on himself.
Chandler had set it up to make it look like I’d killed Billy. He used my knife to slit Billy’s throat and then he slit my wrist, so that it’d look like I had committed suicide. He should’ve cut deeper, and along my wrist, not across it.
Mr. Schultz accompanied my dad to take me home from the hospital. Besides my wrist, I’d only suffered a broken nose, dislocated shoulder and scattered frostbite.
Mr. Schultz stepped into the room while the doctor talked to my dad about my quietness and signs of depression. What was there to say? Billy was dead because of me. Why wouldn’t I be depressed? I even missed his funeral.
They must’ve recognized I could overhear them because they wandered down the hall and out of earshot.
Mr. Schultz unbuttoned his red jacket and pulled a chair up close to my bed. He shook his head a bit and smiled. “He wasn’t a very good scout, you know.”
I knew he was talking about Chandler. It took me a few seconds to answer. “Kinda obvious, Mr. Schultz.”
“Tied his final knot worse than a Tenderfoot.”
Mr. Schultz always had an odd sense of humor. I shrugged even though it hurt. At least I could feel pain. Billy never would again.
“Just figured you deserved to know, Ricky, it didn’t end smoothly for the perverted bastard.”
What Mr. Schultz said surprised me—got my attention. His curse words cut right to it. I pictured Billy’s face, and thought about how I’d failed him for the thousandth. Still, I said through clenched teeth, “Yeah, well, the perverted bastard deserved it.”
Mr. Schultz nodded and watched the heavyset nurse push a wheelchair into the room, next to my bed. “Damn right he did.”
My arm was wrapped and hung in a sling, so the nurse helped me sit up on the side of the bed and put on my winter jacket. She looked a little confused about our conversation, but didn’t interrupt.
“Hey,” I said to Mr. Schultz. “Whose Philmont jacket is that?”
“Mine.” He pointed to the inside of the collar. “It’s got my name in it.”
“I thought yours was stolen?”
“The coroner saw where my wife had stitched my name there going on fifteen years ago.” Mr. Schultz showed me inside the jacket, beneath the collar. “Coroner gave it to the sheriff, who returned it to me.”
Both the nurse and I watched my scoutmaster adjust and buttoned his Philmont jacket. He flashed me a wry smile. “It’s good to have friends who return to you what’s rightly yours.”
I had to laugh. “Theft of a fellow scout’s property. He broke the first point in the Scout Law.”
Mr. Schultz rested a hand on my good shoulder. “Like I said, Ricky, he wasn’t a very good scout. Hadn’t been for a very long time.”
I thought back to Mr. Chandler’s glass eye and the archery accident.
Mr. Schultz added, “And by surviving, you helped make sure he wouldn’t break the Law ever again.”
There was a kernel of truth in what Mr. Schultz said. Chandler killed himself because he knew I’d tell it was him, and not me, who killed Billy. It made me feel a little better that I’d done something right.
“Mr. Schultz,” I said, “that night, you know, I didn’t make it back to the cabin on time.”
Mr. Schultz got to his feet. “That thought had occurred to me.”
I looked over at my dad who’d just entered the room. “So I owe you two candy bars. One for me and one for Billy.”
Mr. Schultz rocked on his heels. “And?”
“And next camping trip, I’ll haul your backpack and gear.” Mr. Schultz knew how much Billy O’Cleary had been a stickler for towing the line, following every rule. “For me, and for Billy.”
I looked up at my dad standing next to me. “Okay?”
Dad looked from Mr. Schultz to me and smiled. “Sounds like a commitment worth keeping.”
“The Candy Bar Game” first appeared in Dark Places II, released by Gryphonwood Press, October 2012.
