Chapter XV: The Bewitched Compass

Nevertheless, “game” as he was, Michael Flynn was destined not to take part in any more “iligant adventures” with the noted scout; at least, for several weeks. Buffalo Bill’s next commission took him far afield, and, when he was returning from its successful conclusion, caused him to lose his way while out on the Mexican desert near the border.

Holding his compass in his hand, Buffalo Bill looked at a round hill before him, which was very high and almost a perfect cone.

“This is queer!” he said, and, keeping the compass level on the palm of his hand, he walked slowly to the right for a dozen steps. He saw the compass needle swing slowly, pointing straight at the hill.

That there might be no mistake, the scout retraced his steps, studying the compass, and now he saw the needle swing steadily back. When he walked farther around, the needle swung still more, always pointing at the hill.

The sky was gray, so that the sun could not be seen. The ground under the scout’s feet, and for a considerable distance around, was hard-baked clay or stony, so that not a footstep showed in it. His feet had left no tracks.

“So it’s that which has made the compass act so strangely!” he said, looking at the hill. “This is unpleasant, and it might be serious. Here I’ve been walking hours, trusting to the compass, and find that it has been pointing to this hill. Now, where is north? The compass can’t tell me, for that hill has bewitched it. The hill must be full of magnetic iron.”

Stowing the compass in his pocket, he took out his knife and set it upright, with the point of the blade on his thumb nail.

There are few days so gray and cloudy that a knife so placed will not throw a shadow on the thumb nail; and opposite that shadow, of course, is the direction of the sun. When the time of day is known, together with the direction of the sun, north can be approximately ascertained.

But the air was filled with a smoky haze, and this, in addition to the cloudiness and grayness, made the sky so dark that the knife blade refused to cast its shadow.

“This is a go!” said the scout. “If I were in a northern forest I might find north by a study of the moss on the tree trunks, which is heaviest and reaches to a sharper point on the north side. But I’m in Old Mexico; there are no trees near me, and I suppose in this dry land moss hasn’t much chance to grow on tree trunks, or anywhere else.”

Cody took out the compass again and placed it on the palm of his hand. As a matter of curiosity, he walked toward the cone-shaped hill, and he studied the compass as he went.

“Straight at the heart of that hill it points!” he said, watching the needle. “And when I walk to one side or the other the needle shifts. I suppose if I should walk round the hill the compass would make a complete circle. I’ll try it.”

Accordingly, he set out along the base of the hill, holding the compass level.

As he expected, the needle continued to point at the hill.

By and by the scout walked up to the hill and inspected it. He saw that it was almost a solid mass of ore, and the compass showed him that it was magnetic iron.

As the scout continued on his way around the treeless hill, he heard voices. Instantly he sank down behind a screen of cactus, sliding the compass into his pocket and drawing a revolver.

“Some one here ahead of me, eh? White men, I think. And possibly outlaws.”

Soon he saw two men come in sight round the curve of the hill. The one who walked in front was tall, thin, and severe looking. He wore a high hat much out of place in that region, and black, dust-stained clothing. The man who followed him was short and squat, with a ponderous stomach. This man was dressed in dirty plaids, and his face had a worried look. He carried a large hand bag.

“Brofessor,” the scout heard him say, “uff de gompass tvist its head off in dot vay, vot ve going to do? Ve can’t neffer fint our feet tracks vat ve made in coming here yit.”

The man in front stopped, and the stumpy man behind came near running into him.

“Henselman,” said the tall man, “this is a most peculiar mountain. It is, as you see, of iron—magnetic iron. Truly a wonderful phenomenon!”

“Unt de grazy gompass dinks it vos de Nort’ Pole, eh?”

“Just so, Henselman. The compass thinks this is the North Pole. We shouldn’t blame the compass. We——”

“Nein? Vot shall I plame? Me? I follow de gompass. It say: ‘Dis is de nort’!’ It dell me de lie. Am I to plame?”

Henselman dropped the hand bag and energetically hammered his breast.

“Dose gompass is a shackass!” he said. “Uff ve foller heem some more, efery dime we shall come right back to dis hill uff iron. T’ree dimes ve haf tried it alretty yet. And now we iss back here again. What shall ve do? Smash de gompass? Dot don’t fint us de vay nort’!”

“It would do no good to smash the compass. Let us rejoice, rather, that we have been led to such a phenomenon as this singular hill of magnetic iron. I observe from here that the top of the hill splits into two parts that slightly resemble horns. I shall have to add that detail to the notes I have taken.”

The tall man brought from an inner pocket of his black coat a leather-bound book, which held a pencil, and after squinting through his eyeglasses at the top of the hill, he began to write in the book with the pencil. Meanwhile, the rotund German stood looking about, with ill-concealed displeasure.

“Honest men, I take them to be,” thought the scout. “Like me, they have been fooled by that magnetic hill, and have lost their way.”

When the scout rose into view behind the cactus the taller man stared at him blankly, while the stubby German tumbled backward with a sort of howl.

“Mein gracious!” he exclaimed. “Who iss dis?”

“I observe that the magnetic mountain has fooled you, the same as it did me,” said the scout, smiling at the German and speaking to the tall man. “And so we meet here, guided to this hill by the crazy antics of our compasses.”

The tall, severe-looking man fitted his eyeglasses to his prominent nose, and surveyed the scout.

“Do you belong here, my man?” he questioned. “Yes, we have lost our way. This is a magnetic hill, and the compass deviates to it and refuses to point to the magnetic pole. Hence, we were led out of our course, and now must be far astray, as we think we have been going in a wrong direction for a long time. If you can help us in our predicament we shall be greatly obliged, I assure you. I am Professor Felix Bounderby, and this is my servant. Fritz Henselman, a most estimable German, though at times a bit excitable. We are here in the interests of scientific knowledge.”

Buffalo Bill introduced himself, repressing the smiles he felt inclined to indulge in.

“You are an American scout, over here in Mexico, eh?” said Bounderby. “Or is this still Mexico? We’re not sure on that point. We’re not sure of anything, having lost our way and wandered we do not know how many miles.”

“I happen to be in the same boat,” said the scout, yet cheerily. “We can, of course, sit down here and wait until we get some sunshine to guide us, or we can make a guess at the direction we wish to go, and set out, trusting to luck.”

Professor Bounderby turned to Fritz Henselman.

“Henselman,” he said, “just chip off a piece of that ore, will you, and put it in the bag. I shall wish to use it in illustration of the lecture I shall give on this mountain, when we return to the university.”

The German took a hammer from the hand bag and began to beat at one of the small stones, trying to break it.

“I think I have heard that name—Buffalo Bill,” said Bounderby, addressing the scout.

“Yaw! I heert heem,” said the rotund German, hammering the stone. “Id vas in Yarmany, vhere I vas pefore I come to Unitet States.”

“This is a most remarkable hill,” remarked the professor. “I think it affected our compass many miles away. We were on a dim trail across there somewhere. We had been told to go north and to leave the trail at a certain point. We thought we went north, but now I am not sure of the direction which we followed. And you say that you were misled in like manner? It is truly wonderful.”

“Vhat trouples me,” said Henselman, cracking off a piece of the ore and throwing it into the hand bag, “is how are ve going to ged oudt uff dis? Vhen ve haf noddings to show de vay nort’ hew can ve fint id?”

“As I said, we can camp down here until we get a sight of the sun,” said the scout, “or we can set out and run the risk of not going in the right direction. Does the light seem a bit brighter, professor, than a while ago?”

“No, it seems even darker,” said Bounderby. “The atmosphere is very peculiar. I shall not be surprised if I learn eventually that there have been volcanic disturbances in this region, and that the darkness which we observe is attributed to gases and smoke from some volcano.”

The scout produced his knife and set the blade on his thumb nail, in the hope of getting a shadow, but failed again. He explained to Bounderby and Henselman what he was doing.

To all appearances, they were just what they claimed to be, and he saw that they were likely to get into all sorts of difficulties, in an unfamiliar region. Bounderby was no doubt a highly educated man along certain lines, but in the ability to meet such an emergency as this he was helpless as a child. Henselman was no better.

“If we had left any tracks,” said Bounderby, “we might hope to trace them back, and get out in that way. But the earth here is of volcanic formation, you will observe. At one point we crossed a small sand plain, and if we could find that, we could find the footprints we made in it.”

“Yaw! I made feet tracks in id more as a foot deep!” said Henselman.

“But the wind was blowing, you will recollect, Henselman, and those tracks may be covered over. Besides, I doubt if we could find them, even if they were not.”

The professor fitted his glasses to his nose and gazed at the hill, then took them off and looked round in a helpless sort of manner.

Henselman held up his hand excitedly.

“Brofessor, I haf an itea!”

“Dear me, Henselman, you startled me! You have an idea? That is remarkable. What is it, Henselman?”

“Gif me de gompass unt I vill illustration id to you.”

“It is in the hand bag, Henselman.”

The fat German extracted the compass from the hand bag, shook it as if he would make sure it was in working order, and set it on the ground.

“You vill opserve, brofessor, unt likevise our frient here, dat dose gompass iss now bointing to dis magnedic iron moundain!”

“Yes, that is true,” Bounderby assented.

“Vale! Ton’d you see?”

“I see the needle pointing to the mountain, if that is what you mean, Henselman.”

“But de odder end uff de needle! Vere iss id bointing?”

“In the opposite direction, of course, Henselman.”

“Vale! Ven id vas bointing to de moundain ve follered id, unt id prought us here to dis place. Unt now uff ve foller yoost back again de vay de odder end uff de needle is bointing, we vill arrife at de blace vere ve comed from. Dot iss yoost so easy I vhonder I neffer dinks me uff id till dis minute.”

“But, see here, Henselman! On the other side of this hill the south pole of the needle points in a direction the very opposite of what it does here. Wherever the compass is placed, in going round this hill, the needle points at the hill. Your plan might do, if we knew just where we approached the hill, and could likewise be sure that in coming up to it we had not deviated any from a direct line. But as we can’t do that, your plan won’t work. We would be going away from the hill, it is true, but in which direction we should be going we could not know. We might be going south, when we wish to go north.”

The fat German dropped back to the ground with so heavy a thump that the breath was knocked out of him.

“Dot iss true!” he admitted. “So long as ve don’t know, vichefer vay ve go ve are sure to go wrong.”

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