Sugar Creek Gang Set Books 1-6 Read online

  “Let’s catch him and take him home for a pet,” Little Jim said with his eyes wide.

  I couldn’t help but think the same thing.

  Pretty soon the mother let out a low growl and stood up on her haunches and sniffed the air suspiciously, as though she was saying, “Whoever you are, get out of here. I’m disgusted with you for not leaving more honey.”

  The wind was blowing down the hill, so we knew they couldn’t smell us. Of course we didn’t interfere with their meal because that’s when bears are dangerous—when you interrupt them while they’re eating and try to chase them away. Even old Mixy cat gets cross if she’s eating a mouse and you try to get close enough to pet her. She actually scratched me once.

  Dragonfly suggested, looking at Big Jim’s rifle, “How about bear soup? Do you suppose Circus’s mother would like that?”

  Little Jim’s forehead puckered, as though somebody had stuck him with a pin. It actually hurt him to think of that cute little cub being killed.

  We lay there, keeping as quiet as possible, thinking and watching Big Jim’s face to see what he was going to do. All of a sudden, I noticed the little yellow fuzz that had been growing on his upper lip was gone. That meant he had shaved it off, and I wished I’d hurry up and grow big enough to shave. Big Jim was almost a man now, I thought.

  We must have made too much noise, for all at once the mother bear sniffed again. Then she whirled and lumbered off toward the woods with the baby bear running close to her, like a calf crowding up against a mother cow. That little fellow could hardly keep up, and his awkward little legs looked ridiculous.

  But they were running straight toward us! You can guess we were plenty scared. We scrambled in all directions and started to run. But when that old bear saw us, she was as surprised as we were. She was running away too and just happened to be running in our direction, not knowing we were there. When she saw so many of us all at once and heard us screaming, she got all mixed up in her mind and didn’t know which way to turn.

  I don’t know how it happened, but Big Jim got in the way somehow, and the little bear ran smack into him and knocked him sprawling. For a minute he and the cub were rolling over and over on the grass.

  We decided afterward that if the mother had been alone, she’d have run away. But when she saw her baby getting all tangled up with Big Jim, suddenly she went mad. She thought Big Jim was trying to hurt her little brown-nosed baby.

  She sent that cub up a tree in a hurry, then she whirled around fiercely with her big teeth flashing and looking strong enough to crush the bones of a cow. They were a lot bigger than the teeth of the old wolf who had eaten Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother. Her long-clawed forepaws looked as if they could knock a boy flatter than a pancake.

  In the scramble Big Jim had dropped his rifle. It lay at the foot of the tree, half covered with leaves, and the bear was between us and the gun.

  Just that second we heard somebody screaming, and looking up, we saw the little red-haired Till boy up the same tree as the bear cub. Dragonfly had been right after all. Tom Till was holding on for dear life and was crying and scared half to death.

  The little bear was sitting on a limb right below him, and the fierce old mother was at the foot of the tree, acting as if she was going right up after him. I couldn’t help but remember last night in the tent, and Little Jim’s note. And all at once I liked Tom Till and didn’t want anything to happen to him.

  Little Jim was closer to the gun than any of the rest of us, and, as I told you before, he was very brave even when he was scared. (I may have told you in another story that he was carrying Big Jim’s rifle, but he wasn’t actually carrying it until later.)

  That old mother bear was terribly savage. If Tom Till hadn’t been up that tree and in danger, I think our gang would have run away, because it’s foolish to trifle with a mad bear. But we didn’t dare go away, and we didn’t dare stay either. We didn’t know what to do.

  It seemed that old bear wasn’t mad at us, though, but at Tom Till, up the same tree as her baby cub. She whirled around and up onto her haunches and started to climb the tree. It was a red oak and easy to climb.

  Just then Little Jim darted toward the tree and swooped down on the gun. He had his hands on it when she saw him, and as quick as lightning, she whirled and lunged straight at him.

  It was terrible! I screamed and screamed and grabbed a club and started toward the tree. A club wouldn’t hurt the bear any, but it might make her leave Little Jim, and I decided I’d give my life for him if I had to. In my mind I could see him being ripped to pieces. And if ever I prayed in my life, I did right then.

  Little Jim’s face was white, but he held onto the gun. Then he shoved the barrel forward to protect himself from getting knocked down, kind of like using it for a sword. And when the bear lunged, the muzzle of the gun ran right into her mouth and down her throat.

  Big Jim and all of us screamed, “Shoot! Shoot!”

  And Little Jim shot!

  I can hear that bear roaring every time I think of it. I can see her thrashing around with the gun barrel stuck in her throat. And all the time, she was dying. It’s awful to see a bear die, and I don’t like to think about it, but it was a lot easier to see her die than it would have been to see Little Jim or any of the rest of the Sugar Creek Gang or Tom Till.

  After the bear died, I ran home as quick as I could to get my dad and a camera. Afterward, when some men came and skinned the bear, they found that the bullet had gone right into the bear’s neck and broken it.

  With everybody helping, we caught the brown-nosed cub, and Little Jim got him for a pet as he had wanted in the first place.

  When Tom Till came down out of that tree alive, he was shaking like a leaf. And do you know? When you looked at him up real close, he had the nicest blue eyes, even if they were filled with tears and his face was dirty where his fists had tried to wipe the tears away. He didn’t look like a mean boy at all anymore. Anyway, none of us boys hated him after that.

  On the way home, Little Jim wanted to carry the rifle, and we let him do it because he was the hero. As soon as the newspapers found out about it, they sent reporters. Little Jim’s picture and the bear’s went all over the country. It made us feel good and mighty proud to have him belong to our gang.

  Anyway, that’s the end of this story. Nothing else of any special importance happened until school started that fall. Maybe I’d better tell you that Circus’s dad never drank another drop of whiskey or beer as long as he lived, and his mother got well, and it was a happy family from then on, which goes to show what Jesus can do for a boy’s dad.

  I still kind of hate to stop writing, though, because I’d like you to know about Old Man Paddler and what happened one day that winter. It was a Saturday, I think, and the gang got to wondering if the old man had enough firewood to keep him warm. It had been a long time since we were up to his cabin, so we decided to take some groceries and things and go to see him. There were high drifts everywhere, and it was as cold as Santa Claus’s nose, but not too cold for boys to be out if they were dressed warmly enough.

  But that’s another story, which I hope I won’t forget to write for you sometime soon.

  3

  SUGAR CREEK GANG

  The WINTER

  RESCUE

  Paul Hutchens

  MOODY PUBLISHERS

  CHICAGO

  © 1940, 1997 by

  PAULINE HUTCHENS WILSON

  Revised Edition, 1997

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  All Scripture quotations are taken from the New American Standard Bible, © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, and 1994 by The Lockman Foundation, La Habra, Calif. Used by permission.

  Original Title: Further Adventures of the Sugar Creek Gang

  ISBN-10:0-8024-7007-6


  ISBN-13: 978-0-8024-7007-2

  We hope you enjoy this book from Moody Publishers. Our goal is to provide high-quality, thought-provoking books and products that connect truth to your real needs and challenges. For more information on other books and products written and produced from a biblical perspective, go to www.moodypublishers.com or write to:

  Moody Publishers

  820 N. LaSalle Boulevard

  Chicago, IL 60610

  10

  Printed in the United States of America

  PREFACE

  Hi—from a member of the Sugar Creek Gang!

  It’s just that I don’t know which one I am. When I was good, I was Little Jim. When I did bad things—well, sometimes I was Bill Collins or even mischievous Poetry.

  You see, I am the daughter of Paul Hutchens, and I spent many an hour listening to him read his manuscript as far as he had written it that particular day. I went along to the north woods of Minnesota, to Colorado, and to the various other places he would go to find something different for the Gang to do.

  Now the years have passed—more than fifty, actually. My father is in heaven, but the Gang goes on. All thirty-six books are still in print and now are being updated for today’s readers with input from my five children, who also span the decades from the ’50s to the ’70s.

  The real Sugar Creek is in Indiana, and my father and his six brothers were the original Gang. But the idea of the books and their ministry were and are the Lord’s. It is He who keeps the Gang going.

  PAULINE HUTCHENS WILSON

  The Sugar Creek Gang Series:

  1 The Swamp Robber

  2 The Killer Bear

  3 The Winter Rescue

  4 The Lost Campers

  5 The Chicago Adventure

  6 The Secret Hideout

  7 The Mystery Cave

  8 Palm Tree Manhunt

  9 One Stormy Day

  10 The Mystery Thief

  11 Teacher Trouble

  12 Screams in the Night

  13 The Indian Cemetery

  14 The Treasure Hunt

  15 Thousand Dollar Fish

  16 The Haunted House

  17 Lost in the Blizzard

  18 On the Mexican Border

  19 The Green Tent Mystery

  20 The Bull Fighter

  21 The Timber Wolf

  22 Western Adventure

  23 The Killer Cat

  24 The Colorado Kidnapping

  25 The Ghost Dog

  26 The White Boat Rescue

  27 The Brown Box Mystery

  28 The Watermelon Mystery

  29 The Trapline Thief

  30 The Blue Cow

  31 Treehouse Mystery

  32 The Cemetery Vandals

  33 The Battle of the Bees

  34 Locked in the Attic

  35 Runaway Rescue

  36 The Case of Missing Calf

  1

  Beginning to write a story is something like diving under a cold shower—or taking the first plunge into Sugar Creek when the water’s cold. It’s hard to get started. But after I’m in, paragraph deep, and my thoughts are splashing around a little, it certainly feels great. My words go swimming and diving and having a good time—in ink, of course, because I always use a pen when I write.

  So, hurrah! Here I am, already started, trudgening along faster than anything on a brand new Sugar Creek Gang story. Does it ever feel good to be writing again!

  In just a minute I’ll explain what I mean by “trudgening.” That is, I’ll explain it when I’m telling you about the last time our gang went in swimming before school started that fall.

  That was kind of a sad day for us—that last Saturday. Especially for Little Jim, and I’ll have to tell you about it even though I don’t like to write about sad things.

  Hm, I wonder how many miles the point of a boy’s pen travels while he’s writing a long story like this one’s going to be. Hundreds and hundreds of miles, I guess, although I never figured it up. Not liking arithmetic very well is the main reason.

  Well, none of us boys wanted school to begin, even though we knew every boy ought to have an education if he wanted to amount to anything. But at last that wonderful summer was over, and we knew there wasn’t any way to get out of it. Going to school is like starting to swim too. After you get in, it’s fun, and it’s good for you. It washes all the ignorance off a boy and makes him feel good.

  It was Saturday, the last Saturday of our summer, and it was noon at our house. I took the last bite of my three-cornered piece of blackberry pie and chewed it as long as I could because it tasted so good I hated to swallow it. Then I looked across the table at my dad’s bushy blackish-red eyebrows to see if he was going to say no when I asked him if I could go swimming.

  Charlotte Ann, my three-month-old, black-haired baby sister, was in her blue-and-white bassinet, kind of half lying down and half sitting up like a baby bird in a nest full of pillows. She was smiling as if she was happier than anything and was gurgling and drooling, which means she was making bubbles of saliva tumble out of her soft little lips. And her arms and legs were going like four windmills whirling all at once. Her pretty little ears looked like the halves of dried peaches, which somebody had glued onto the side of her head.

  She’s getting prettier all the time, I thought. If only she doesn’t get red hair like mine. I could see that someday maybe there’d be freckles on her nose, and I felt sorry for her because I had freckles myself and didn’t like them. In fact, there were freckles all over my face.

  Dad’s big eyebrows were halfway between up and down, and Mom was busy eating her pie and smiling back at Charlotte Ann. In fact, Dad was looking at Charlotte Ann too, as if Bill Collins—that’s my name—wasn’t even important anymore. I had had to take second place at our house ever since Charlotte Ann was born. That’s what a boy has to do when a new baby comes to his house to live.

  I sighed, thinking about how hot it was and looking over the top of a stack of dirty dishes in the sink by the window. I was wishing I was outdoors running through the woods toward the spring, where I knew Dragonfly, Poetry, Circus, Big Jim, and Little Jim would be waiting for me and where old Sugar Creek would be almost screaming for us to come and jump into it.

  The creek wanted to prove to us its water was still warm enough to swim in, even if it was going to be fall pretty soon. Then it would be winter, and Sugar Creek would have a cold, sad face until the spring rains came and washed it again and the sun melted its ice coat and made it happy. Say, if I were old Sugar Creek, about the only time I could ever be happy would be when a gang of boys was swimming in my warm, sparkling water.

  I looked away from the window without seeing the dishes and was looking at the little Scottish terrier design on Charlotte Ann’s bassinet when I said, “Look at her wave her arms and legs, Dad! I’ll bet she could swim without even having to learn how.”

  My dad could read my thoughts just like I could read an electric sign on a city store. You should have seen his big eyebrows drop like a grassy ledge caving in along Sugar Creek. “Those aren’t swimming movements,” he said, taking a last bite of pie. “Those are movements a boy’s hands make when he is doing the dishes.”

  That’s why I was the last one of our gang to get to the spring that day.

  It seemed to take almost an hour to wash those dishes. While I was doing them, I looked down at Charlotte Ann, who was still making spit bubbles. Her lips were like two red rose petals all wet with dew, and I thought, Go on, little innocent child, and have your play! Someday you’ll grow up, and then you’ll have to work! And for a minute I was mad at her for not growing faster.

  But pretty soon the dishes were all done and set away, and I was feeling happy again. I made a dive for my straw hat, which was on the floor in a corner where I wasn’t supposed to put it. Mom always wanted me to hang it up. A jiffy later I was outside, my bare feet carrying me lickety-sizzle down the path through the woods to the spring.

  I tell
you, it was great to be with the gang again. Maybe I’d better tell you about our gang just in case you may not have read my other Sugar Creek Gang stories—although it seems everybody in the world ought to know about us, with all the newspaper publicity we got after Little Jim killed that fierce old mother bear. If he hadn’t, she might have ripped him all to pieces with her horrible teeth and claws or maybe hugged him to death the way bears do.

  Well, this was our gang: Big Jim, our leader, who was so big he had actually shaved his fuzzy mustache once and who had been a Scout; Little Jim, a great little guy with blue eyes like Charlotte Ann’s and the best Christian in the world; Circus, our acrobat, who right that very minute was sitting on the first limb of a maple sapling looking like a chimpanzee; Poetry, who was short and globular—which means “round, like a globe”—and who knew 101 poems by heart; Dragonfly, whose eyes were very large like a dragonfly’s eyes—he could see better than the rest of us; and me, Bill Collins.

  The new member of our gang was there too, Little Jim’s pet bear, the little black baby bear whose savage mother got killed in my last story. That brown-nosed bear was the cutest, most awkward little fellow you ever saw. He could already do a half dozen tricks. We had named him Triangle because there was a three-cornered white spot on his chest like black baby bears sometimes have.

  Little Jim had put a new leather collar on Triangle’s neck with the word Triangle engraved on it. And Little Jim’s favorite Bible verse was right below that: “Train up a child in the way he should go, even when he is old he will not depart from it.”

  I never saw anybody in my life who was a better Christian than Little Jim, and he wasn’t ashamed of being one either. In fact, he was proud of it.

  Poetry had made up a good poem about Triangle, which started like this:

  Black little, bad little, brown-nosed bear,