“Deer yarded for winter,” replied the Indian; “no travel in deep snow.”
“We'll soon need another,” said Rolf, which unfortunately was true. They could have killed many deer in early winter, when the venison was in fine condition, but they had no place to store it. Now they must get it as they could, and of course it was thinner and poorer every week.
They were on a high hill some days later. There was a clear view and they noticed several ravens circling and swooping.
“Maybe dead deer; maybe deer yard,” said the Indian.
It was over a thick, sheltered, and extensive cedar swamp near the woods where last year they had seen so many deer, and they were not surprised to find deer tracks in numbers, as soon as they got into its dense thicket.
A deer yard is commonly supposed to be a place in which the deer have a daily “bee” at road work all winter long and deliberately keep the snow hammered down so they can run on a hard surface everywhere within its limits. The fact is, the deer gather in a place where there is plenty of food and good shelter. The snow does not drift here, so the deer, by continually moving about, soon make a network of tracks in all directions, extending them as they must to seek more food. They may, of course, leave the yard at any time, but at once they encounter the dreaded obstacle of deep, soft snow in which they are helpless.
Once they reached the well-worn trails, the hunters took off their snowshoes and went gently on these deer paths. They saw one or two disappearing forms, which taught them the thick cover was hiding many more. They made for the sound of the ravens, and found that the feast of the sable birds was not a deer but the bodies of three, quite recently killed.
Quonab made a hasty study of the signs and said, “Panther.”
Yes, a panther, cougar, or mountain lion also had found the deer yard; and here he was living, like a rat in a grocer shop with nothing to do but help himself whenever he felt like feasting.
Pleasant for the panther, but hard on the deer; for the killer is wasteful and will often kill for the joy of murder.
Not a quarter of the carcasses lying here did he eat; he was feeding at least a score of ravens, and maybe foxes, martens, and lynxes as well.
Before killing a deer, Quonab thought it well to take a quiet prowl around in hopes of seeing the panther. Skookum was turned loose and encouraged to display his talents.
Proud as a general with an ample and obedient following, he dashed ahead, carrying fresh dismay among the deer, if one might judge from the noise. Then he found some new smell of excitement, and voiced the new thrill in a new sound, one not unmixed with fear. At length his barking was far away to the west in a rocky part of the woods. Whatever the prey, it was treed, for the voice kept one place.
The hunters followed quickly and found the dog yapping furiously under a thick cedar. The first thought was of porcupine; but a nearer view showed the game to be a huge panther on the ground, not greatly excited, disdaining to climb, and taking little notice of the dog, except to curl his nose and utter a hissing kind of snarl when the latter came too near.
But the arrival of the hunters gave a new colour to the picture. The panther raised his head, then sprang up a large tree and ensconced himself on a fork, while the valorous Skookum reared against the trunk, threatening loudly to come up and tear him to pieces.
This was a rare find and a noble chance to conserve their stock of deer, so the hunters went around the tree seeking for a fair shot. But every point of view had some serious obstacle. It seemed as though the branches had been told off to guard the panther's vitals, for a big one always stood in the bullet's way.
After vainly going around, Quonab said to Rolf: “Hit him with something, so he'll move.”
Rolf always was a good shot with stones, but he found none to throw. Near where they stood, however, was an unfreezing spring, and the soggy snow on it was easily packed into a hard, heavy snowball. Rolf threw it straight, swift, and by good luck it hit the panther square on the nose and startled him so that he sprang right out of the tree and flopped into the snow.
Skookum was on him at once, but got a slap on the ear that changed his music, and the panther bounded away out of sight with the valiant Skookum ten feet behind, whooping and yelling like mad.
It was annoyance rather than fear that made that panther take to a low tree while Skookum boxed the compass, and made a beaten dog path all around him. The hunters approached very carefully now, making little sound and keeping out of sight. The panther was wholly engrossed with observing the astonishing impudence of that dog, when Quonab came quietly up, leaned his rifle against a tree and fired. The smoke cleared to show the panther on his back, his legs convulsively waving in the air, and Skookum tugging valiantly at his tail.
“My panther,” he seemed to say; “whatever would you do without me?”
A panther in a deer yard is much like a wolf shut up in a sheepfold. He would probably have killed all the deer that winter, though there were ten times as many as he needed for food; and getting rid of him was a piece of good luck for hunters and deer, while his superb hide made a noble trophy that in years to come had unexpected places of honour.
Rolf still kept to the tradition of Sunday, and Quonab had in a manner accepted it. It was a curious fact that the red man had far more toleration for the white man's religious ideas than the white man had for the red's.
Quonab's songs to the sun and the spirit, or his burning of a tobacco pinch, or an animal's whiskers were to Rolf but harmless nonsense. Had he given them other names, calling them hymns and incense, he would have been much nearer respecting them. He had forgotten his mother's teaching: “If any man do anything sincerely, believing that thereby he is worshipping God, he is worshipping God.” He disliked seeing Quonab use an axe or a gun on Sunday, and the Indian, realizing that such action made “evil medicine” for Rolf, practically abstained. But Rolf had not yet learned to respect the red yarns the Indian hung from a deer's skull, though he did come to understand that he must let them alone or produce bad feeling in camp.
Sunday had become a day of rest and Quonab made it also a day of song and remembrance.
They were sitting one Sunday night by the fire in the cabin, enjoying the blaze, while a storm rattled on the window and door. A white-footed mouse, one of a family that lived in the shanty, was trying how close he could come to Skookum's nose without being caught, while Rolf looked on. Quonab was lying back on a pile of deer skins, with his pipe in his mouth, his head on the bunk, and his hands clasped back of his neck.
There was an atmosphere of content and brotherly feeling; the evening was young, when Rolf broke silence:
“Were you ever married, Quonab?”
“Ugh,” was the Indian's affirmative.
“Where?”
“Myanos.”
Rolf did not venture more questions, but left the influence of the hour to work. It was a moment of delicate poise, and Rolf knew a touch would open the door or double bar it. He wondered how he might give that touch as he wished it. Skookum still slept. Both men watched the mouse, as, with quick movements it crept about. Presently it approached a long birch stick that stood up against the wall. High hanging was the song-drum. Rolf wished Quonab would take it and let it open his heart, but he dared not offer it; that might have the exact wrong effect. Now the mouse was behind the birch stick. Then Rolf noticed that the stick if it were to fall would strike a drying line, one end of which was on the song-drum peg. So he made a dash at the mouse and displaced the stick; the jerk it gave the line sent the song-drum with hollow bumping to the ground. The boy stooped to replace it; as he did, Quonab grunted and Rolf turned to see his hand stretched for the drum. Had Rolf officiously offered it, it would have been refused; now the Indian took it, tapped and warmed it at the fire, and sang a song of the Wabanaki. It was softly done, and very low, but Rolf was close, for almost the first time in any long rendition, and he got an entirely new notion of the red music. The singer's face brightened as he tummed and sang with peculiar grace notes and throat warbles of “Kaluscap's war with the magi,” and the spirit of his people, rising to the sweet magic of melody, came shining in his eyes. He sang the lovers' song, “The Bark Canoe.” (See F. R. Burton's “American Primitive Music.)
“While the stars shine and falls the dew, I seek my love in bark canoe.”
And then the cradle song,
“The Naked Bear Shall Never Catch Thee.”
When he stopped, he stared at the fire; and after a long pause Rolf ventured, “My mother would have loved your songs.”
Whether he heard or not, the warm emanation surely reached the Indian, and he began to answer the question of an hour before:
“Her name was Gamowini, for she sang like the sweet night bird at Asamuk. I brought her from her father's house at Saugatuck. We lived at Myanos. She made beautiful baskets and moccasins. I fished and trapped; we had enough. Then the baby came. He had big round eyes, so we called him Wee-wees, 'our little owl,' and we were very happy. When Gamowini sang to her baby, the world seemed full of sun. One day when Wee-wees could walk she left him with me and she went to Stamford with some baskets to sell. A big ship was in the harbour. A man from the ship told her that his sailors would buy all her baskets. She had no fear. On the ship they seized her for a runaway slave, and hid her till they sailed away.
“When she did not come back I took Wee-wees on my shoulder and went quickly to Stamford. I soon found out a little, but the people did not know the ship, or whence she came, or where she went, they said. They did not seem to care. My heart grew hotter and wilder. I wanted to fight. I would have killed the men on the dock, but they were many. They bound me and put me in jail for three months. 'When I came out Wee-wees was dead. They did not care. I have heard nothing since. Then I went to live under the rock, so I should not see our first home. I do not know; she may be alive. But I think it killed her to lose her baby.”
The Indian stopped; then rose quickly. His face was hard set. He stepped out into the snowstorm and the night. Rolf was left alone with Skookum.
Sad, sad, everything seemed sad in his friend's life, and Rolf, brooding over it with wisdom beyond his years, could not help asking: “Had Quonab and Gamowini been white folk, would it have happened so? Would his agony have been received with scornful indifference?” Alas! he knew it would not. He realized it would have been a very different tale, and the sequent questions that would not down, were, “Will this bread cast on the waters return after many days?” “Is there a God of justice and retribution?” “On whom will the flail of vengeance fall for all these abominations?”
Two hours later the Indian returned. No word was spoken as he entered. He was not cold. He must have walked far. Rolf prepared for bed. The Indian stooped, picked up a needle from the dusty ground, one that had been lost the day before, silently handed it to his companion, who gave only a recognizant “Hm,” and dropped it into the birch-bark box.
There had been a significant cessation of robbery on their trap line after the inconclusive visit to the enemy's camp. But a new and extreme exasperation arose in the month of March, when the alternation of thaw and frost had covered the snow with a hard crust that rendered snowshoes unnecessary and made it easy to run anywhere and leave no track.
They had gathered up a fisher and some martens before they reached the beaver pond. They had no beaver traps now, but it was interesting to call and see how many of the beavers were left, and what they were doing.
Bubbling springs on the bank of the pond had made open water at several places, now that the winter frost was weakening. Out of these the beavers often came, as was plainly seen in the tracks, so the trappers approached them carefully.
They were scrutinizing one of them from behind a log, Quonab with ready gun, Rolf holding the unwilling Skookum, when the familiar broad, flat head appeared. A large beaver swam around the hole, sniffed and looked, then silently climbed the bank, evidently making for a certain aspen tree that he had already been cutting. He was in easy range, and the gunner was about to fire when Rolf pressed his arm and pointed. Here, wandering through the wood, came a large lynx. It had not seen or smelt any of the living creatures ahead, as yet, but speedily sighted the beaver now working away to cut down his tree.
As a pelt, the beaver was worth more than the lynx, but the naturalist is strong in most hunters, and they watched to see what would happen.
The lynx seemed to sink into the ground, and was lost to sight as soon as he knew of a possible prey ahead. And now he began his stalk. The hunters sighted him once as he crossed a level opening in the snow. He seemed less than four inches high as he crawled. Logs, ridges, trees, or twigs, afforded ample concealment, till his whiskers appeared in a thicket within fifteen feet of the beaver.
All this was painfully exciting to Skookum, who, though he could not see, could get some thrilling whiffs, and he strained forward to improve his opportunities. The sound of this slight struggle caught the beaver's ear. It stopped work, wheeled, and made for the water hole. The lynx sprang from his ambush, seized the beaver by the back, and held on; but the beaver was double the lynx's weight, the bank was steep and slippery, the struggling animals kept rolling down hill, nearer and nearer the hole. Then, on the very edge, the beaver gave a great plunge, and splashed into the water with the lynx clinging to its back. At once they disappeared, and the hunters rushed to the place, expecting them to float up and be an easy prey; but they did not float. At length it was clear that the pair had gone under the ice, for in water the beaver was master.
After five minutes it was certain that the lynx must be dead. Quonab cut a sapling and made a grappler. He poked this way and that way under the ice, until at length he felt something soft. With the hatchet they cut a hole over the place and then dragged out the body of the lynx. The beaver, of course, escaped and was probably little the worse.
While Quonab skinned the catch, Rolf prowled around the pond and soon came running back to tell of a remarkable happening.
At another open hole a beaver had come out, wandered twenty yards to a mound which he had castorized, then passed several hard wood trees to find a large poplar or aspen, the favourite food tree. This he had begun to fell with considerable skill, but for some strange reason, perhaps because alone, he had made a miscalculation, and when the tree came crashing down, it had fallen across his back, killed him, and pinned him to the ground.
It was an easy matter for the hunters to remove the log and secure his pelt, so they left the beaver pond, richer than they had expected.
Next night, when they reached their half-way shanty, they had the best haul they had taken on this line since the memorable day when they got six beavers.
The morning dawned clear and bright. As they breakfasted, they noticed an extraordinary gathering of ravens far away to the north, beyond any country they had visited. At least twenty or thirty of the birds were sailing in great circles high above a certain place, uttering a deep, sonorous croak, from time to time. Occasionally one of the ravens would dive down out of sight.
“Why do they fly above that way?”
“That is to let other ravens know there is food here. Their eyes are very good. They can see the signal ten miles away, so all come to the place. My father told me that you can gather all the ravens for twenty miles by leaving a carcass so they can see it and signal each other.”
“Seems as if we should look into that. Maybe another panther,” was Rolf's remark.
The Indian nodded; so leaving the bundle of furs in a safe place with the snowshoes, that they carried on a chance, they set out over the hard crust. It was two or three miles to the ravens' gathering, and, as before, it proved to be over a cedar brake where was a deer yard.
Skookum knew all about it. He rushed into the woods, filled with the joy of martial glory. But speedily came running out again as hard as he could, yelling “yow, yow, yowl” for help, while swiftly following, behind him were a couple of gray wolves. Quonab waited till they were within forty yards; then, seeing the men, the wolves slowed up and veered; Quonab fired; one of the wolves gave a little, doglike yelp. Then they leaped into the bushes and were lost to view.
A careful study of the snow showed one or two trifling traces of blood. In the deer yard they found at least a dozen carcasses of deer killed by the wolves, but none very recent. They saw but few deer and nothing more of the wolves, for the crust had made all the country easy, and both kinds fled before the hunters.
Exploring a lower level of willow country in hopes of finding beaver delayed them, and it was afternoon when they returned to the half-way shanty, to find everything as they left it, except that their Pack of furs had totally disappeared.
Of course, the hard crust gave no sign of track. Their first thought was of the old enemy, but, seeking far and near for evidence, they found pieces of an ermine skin, and a quarter mile farther, the rest of it, then, at another place, fragments of a muskrat's skin. Those made it look like the work of the trapper's enemy, the wolverine, which, though rare, was surely found in these hills. Yes! there was a wolverine scratch mark, and here another piece of the rat skin. It was very clear who was the thief.
“He tore up the cheapest ones of the lot anyway,” said Rolf.
Then the trappers stared at each other significantly—only the cheap ones destroyed; why should a wolverine show such discrimination? There was no positive sign of wolverine; in fact, the icy snow gave no sign of anything. There was little doubt that the tom furs and the scratch marks were there to mislead; that this was the work of a human robber, almost certainly Hoag.
He had doubtless seen them leave in the morning, and it was equally sure, since he had had hours of start, he would now be far away.
“Ugh! Give him few days to think he safe, then I follow and settle all,” and this time the Indian clearly meant to end the matter.
A feller as weeps for pity and never does a finger-tap tohelp is 'bout as much use as an overcoat on a drowning man.—Sayings of Si Sylvanne.
SOME remarkable changes of weather made some remarkable changes in their plan and saved their enemy from immediate molestation. For two weeks it was a succession of thaws and there was much rain. The lake was covered with six inches of water; the river had a current above the ice, that was rapidly eating, the latter away. Everywhere there were slush and wet snow that put an end to travel and brought on the spring with a rush.
Each night there was, indeed, a trifling frost, but each day's sun seemed stronger, and broad, bare patches of ground appeared on all sunny slopes.
On the first crisp day the trappers set out to go the rounds, knowing full well that this was the end of the season. Henceforth for six months deadfall and snare would lie idle and unset.
They went their accustomed line, carrying their snowshoes, but rarely needing them. Then they crossed a large track to which Quonab pointed, and grunted affirmatively as Rolf said “Bear?” Yes! the bears were about once more; their winter sleep was over. Now they were fat and the fur was yet prime; in a month they would be thin and shedding. Now is the time for bear hunting with either trap or dog.
Doubtless Skookum thought the party most fortunately equipped in the latter respect, but no single dog is enough to bay a bear. There must be three or four to bother him behind, to make him face about and fight; one dog merely makes him run faster.
They had no traps, and knowing that a spring bear is a far traveller, they made no attempt to follow.
The deadfalls yielded two martens, but one of them was spoiled by the warm weather. They learned at last that the enemy had a trap-line, for part of which he used their deadfalls. He had been the rounds lately and had profited at least a little by their labours.
The track, though two days old, was not hard to follow, either on snow or ground. Quonab looked to the lock of his gun; his lower lip tightened and he strode along.
“What are you going to do, Quonab? Not shoot?”
“When I get near enough,” and the dangerous look in the red man's eye told Rolf to be quiet and follow.
In three miles they passed but three of his marten traps—very lazy trapping—and then found a great triangle of logs by a tree with a bait and signs enough to tell the experienced eye that, in that corner, was hidden a huge steel trap for bear.
They were almost too late in restraining the knowledge-hunger of Skookum. They went on a mile or two and realized in so doing that, however poor a trapper the enemy might be, he was a good tramper and knew the country.
At sundown they came to their half-way shelter and put up there for the night. Once when Rolf went out to glimpse the skies before turning in, he heard a far tree creaking and wondered, for it was dead calm. Even Skookum noticed it. But it was not repeated. Next morning they went on.
There are many quaint sounds in the woods at all times, the rasping of trees, at least a dozen different calls by jays, twice as many by ravens, and occasional notes from chicadees, grouse, and owls. The quadrupeds in general are more silent, but the red squirrel is ever about and noisy, as well as busy.
Far-reaching sounds are these echoes of the woods—some of them very far. Probably there were not five minutes of the day or night when some weird, woodland chatter, scrape, crack, screech, or whistle did not reach the keen ears of that ever-alert dog. That is, three hundred times a day his outer ear submitted to his inner ear some report of things a-doing, which same report was as often for many days disregarded as of no interest or value. But this did not mean that he missed anything; the steady tramp, tramp of their feet, while it dulled all sounds for the hunter, seemed to have no effect on Skookum. Again the raspy squeal of some far tree reached his inmost brain, and his hair rose as he stopped and gave a low “woof.”
The hunters held still; the wise ones always do, when a dog says “Stop!” They waited. After a few minutes it came again—merely the long-drawn creak of a tree bough, wind-rubbed on its neighbour.
And yet, “Woof, woof, woof,” said Skookum, and ran ahead.
“Come back, you little fool!” cried Rolf.
But Skookum had a mind of his own. He trotted ahead, then stopped, paused, and sniffed at something in the snow. The Indian picked it up. It was the pocket jackscrew that every bear trapper carries to set the powerful trap, and without which, indeed, one man cannot manage the springs.
He held it up with “Ugh! Hoag in trouble now.” Clearly the rival trapper had lost this necessary tool.
But the finding was an accident. Skookum pushed on. They came along a draw to a little hollow. The dog, far forward, began barking and angrily baying at something. The men hurried to the scene to find on the snow, fast held in one of those devilish engines called a bear trap—the body of their enemy—Hoag, the trapper, held by a leg, and a hand in the gin he himself had been setting.
A fierce light played on the Indian's face. Rolf was stricken with horror. But even while they contemplated the body, the faint cry was heard again coming from it.
“He's alive; hurry!” cried Rolf. The Indian did not hurry, but he came. He had vowed vengeance at sight; why should he haste to help?
The implacable iron jaws had clutched the trapper by one knee and the right hand. The first thing was to free him. How? No man has power enough to force that spring. But the jackscrew!
“Quonab, help him! For God's sake, come!” cried Rolf in agony, forgetting their feud and seeing only tortured, dying man.
The Indian gazed a moment, then rose quickly, and put on the jackscrew. Under his deft fingers the first spring went down, but what about the other? They had no other screw. The long buckskin line they always carried was quickly lashed round and round the down spring to hold it. Then the screw was removed and put on the other spring; it bent, and the jaws hung loose. The Indian forced them wide open, drew out the mangled limbs, a the trapper was free, but so near death, it seemed they were too late.
Rolf spread his coat. The Indian made a fire. In fifteen minutes they were pouring hot tea between victim's lips. Even as they did, his feeble throat gave out again the long, low moan.
The weather was mild now. The prisoner was not actually frozen, but numbed and racked. Heat, hot tea, kindly rubbing, and he revived a little.
At first they thought him dying, but in an hour recovered enough to talk. In feeble accents and broken phrases they learned the tale:
“Yest—m-m-m. Yesterday—no; two or three days back—m-m-m-m-m—I dunno; I was a goin'—roun' me traps—me bear traps. Didn't have no luck m-m-m (yes, I'd like another sip; ye ain't got no whiskey no?) m-m-m. Nothing in any trap, and when I come to this un—oh-h—m-m; I seen—the bait was stole by birds, an' the pan—m-m-m; an' the pan, m-m-m—(yes, that's better)—an' the pan laid bare. So I starts to cover it with—ce-ce-dar; the ony thing I c'd get—m-m-m-w—-wuz leanin' over—to fix tother side—me foot slipped on—the—ice—ev'rything was icy—an'—m-m-m-m—I lost—me balance—me knee the pan—O Lord—how I suffer!—m-m-m it grabbed me—knee an'—h-h-hand—” His voice died to a whisper and ceased; he seemed sinking.
Quonab got up to hold him. Then, looking at Rolf, Indian shook his head as though to say all was over; the poor wretch had a woodman's constitution, and in spite of a mangled, dying body, he revived again. They gave him more hot tea, and again he began in a whisper:
“I hed one arm free an'—an'—an'—I might—a—got out—m-m—but I hed no wrench—I lost it some place—m-m-m-m.
“Then—I yelled—I dun—no—maybe some un might hear—it kin-kin-kinder eased me—to yell m-m-m.
“Say—make that yer dog keep—away—will yer I dunno—it seems like a week—must a fainted some M-m-m—I yelled—when I could.”
There was a long pause. Rolf said, “Seems to me I heard you last night, when we were up there. And dog heard you, too. Do you want me to move that leg around?”
“M-m-m—yeh—that's better—say, you air white—ain't ye? Ye won't leave me—cos—I done some mean things—m-m-m. Ye won't, will ye?”
“No, you needn't worry—we'll stay by ye.”
Then he muttered, they could not tell what. He closed his eyes. After long silence he looked around wildly and began again:
“Say—I done you dirt—but don't leave me—don't leave me.” Tears ran down his face and he moaned piteously. “I'll—make it—right—you're white, ain't ye?”
Quonab rose and went for more firewood. The trapper whispered, “I'm scared o' him—now—he'll do me—say, I'm jest a poor ole man. If I do live—through—this—m-m-m-m—I'll never walk again. I'm crippled sure.”
It was long before he resumed. Then he began: “Say, what day is it—Friday!—I must—been two days in there—m-m-m—I reckoned it was a week. When—the—dog came I thought it was wolves. Oh—ah, didn't care much—m-m-m. Say, ye won't leave me—coz—coz—I treated—ye mean. I—ain't had no l-l-luck.” He went off into a stupor, but presently let out a long, startling cry, the same as that they had heard in the night. The dog growled; the men stared. The wretch's eyes were rolling again. He seemed delirious.
Quonab pointed to the east, made the sun-up sign, and shook his head at the victim. And Rolf understood it to mean that he would never see the sunrise. But they were wrong.
The long night passed in a struggle between heath and the tough make-up of a mountaineer. The waiting light of dawn saw death defeated, retiring from the scene. As the sun rose high, the victim seemed to gain considerably in strength. There was no immediate danger of an end.
Rolf said to Quonab: “Where shall we take him? Guess you better go home for the toboggan, and we'll fetch him to the shanty.”
But the invalid was able to take part in the conversation. “Say, don't take me there. Ah—want to go home. 'Pears like—I'd be better at home. My folks is out Moose River way. I'd never get out if I went in there,” and by “there” he seemed to mean the Indian's lake, and glanced furtively at the unchanging countenance of the red man.
“Have you a toboggan at your shanty?” asked Rolf.
“Yes—good enough—it's on the roof—say,” and he beckoned feebly to Rolf, “let him go after it—don't leave me—he'll kill me,” and he wept feebly in his self pity.
So Quonab started down the mountain—a sinewy man—a striding form, a speck in the melting distance.
In two hours the red man reached the trapper's shanty, and at once, without hesitation or delicacy, set about a thorough examination of its contents. Of course there was the toboggan on the roof, and in fairly good condition for such a shiftless owner.
There were bunches of furs hanging from the rafters, but not many, for fur taking is hard work; and Quonab, looking suspiciously over them, was 'not surprised to see the lynx skin he had lost, easily known by the absence of wound and the fur still in points as it had dried from the wetting. In another bundle, he discovered the beaver that had killed itself, for there was the dark band across its back.
The martens he could not be sure of, but he had a strong suspicion that most of this fur came out of his own traps.
He tied Hoag's blankets on the toboggan, and hastened back to where he left the two on the mountain.
Skookum met him long before he was near. Skookum did not enjoy Hoag's company.
The cripple had been talking freely to Rolf, but the arrival of the Indian seemed to suppress him.
With the wounded man on the toboggan, they set out, The ground was bare in many places, so that the going was hard; but, fortunately, it was all down hill, and four hours' toil brought them to the cabin.
They put the sick man in his bunk, then Rolf set about preparing a meal, while Quonab cut wood.
After the usual tea, bacon, and flour cakes, all were feeling refreshed. Hoag seemed much more like himself. He talked freely, almost cheerfully, while Quonab, with Skookum at his feet, sat silently smoking and staring into the fire.
After a long silence, the Indian turned, looked straight at the trapper, and, pointing with his pipestem to the furs, said, “How many is ours?”
Hoag looked scared, then sulky, and said; “I dunno what ye mean. I'm a awful sick man. You get me out to Lyons Falls all right, and ye can have the hull lot,” and he wept.
Rolf shook his head at Quonab, then turned to the sufferer and said: “Don't you worry; we'll get you out all right. Have you a good canoe?”
“Pretty fair; needs a little fixing.”
The night passed with one or two breaks, when the invalid asked for a drink of water. In the morning he was evidently recovering, and they began to plan for the future.
He took the first chance of wispering to Rolf, “Can't you send him away? I'll be all right with you.” Rolf said nothing.
“Say,” he continued, “say, young feller, what's yer name?”
“Rolf Kittering.”
“Say, Rolf, you wait a week or ten days, and the ice 'll be out; then I'll be fit to travel. There ain't on'y a few carries between here an' Lyons Falls.”
After a long pause, due to Quonab's entry, he continued again: “Moose River's good canoeing; ye can get me out in five days; me folks is at Lyons Falls.” He did not say that his folks consisted of a wife and boy that he neglected, but whom he counted on to nurse him now.
Rolf was puzzled by the situation.
“Say! I'll give ye all them furs if ye git me out.” Rolf gave him a curious look—as much as to say, “Ye mean our furs.”
Again the conversation was ended by the entry of Quonab.
Rolf stepped out, taking the Indian with him. They had a long talk, then, as Rolf reentered, the sick man began:
“You stay by me, and git me out. I'll give ye my rifle”—then, after a short silence—“an' I'll throw in all the traps an' the canoe.”
“I'll stay by you,” said Rolf, “and in about two weeks we'll take you down to Lyons Falls. I guess you can guide us.”
“Ye can have all them pelts,” and again the trapper presented the spoils he had stolen, “an' you bet it's your rifle when ye get me out.”
So it was arranged. But it was necessary for Quonab to go back to their own cabin. Now what should he do? Carry the new lot of fur there, or bring the old lot here to dispose of all at Lyons Falls?
Rolf had been thinking hard. He had seen the evil side of many men, including Hoag. To go among Hoag's people with a lot of stuff that Hoag might claim was running risks, so he said:
“Quonab, you come back in not more than ten days. We'll take a few furs to Lyons Falls so we can get supplies. Leave the rest of them in good shape, so we can go out later to Warren's. We'll get a square deal there, and we don't know what at Lyon's.”
So they picked out the lynx, the beaver, and a dozen martens to leave, and making the rest into a pack, Quonab shouldered them, and followed by Skookum, trudged up the mountain and was lost to view in the woods.
The ten days went by very slowly. Hoag was alternately querulous, weeping, complaining, unpleasantly fawning, or trying to insure good attention by presenting again and again the furs, the gun, and the canoe.
Rolf found it pleasant to get away from the cabin when the weather was fine. One day, taking Hoag's gun, he travelled up the nearest stream for a mile, and came on a big beaver pond. Round this he scouted and soon discovered a drowned beaver, held in a trap which he recognized at once, for it had the (” ' “') mark on the frame. Then he found an empty trap with a beaver leg in it, and another, till six traps were found. Then he gathered up the six and the beaver, and returned to the cabin to be greeted with a string of complaints:
“Ye didn't ought to leave me like this. I'm paying ye well enough. I don't ax no favours,” etc.
“See what I got,” and Rolf showed the beaver. “An' see what I found;” then he showed the traps. “Queer, ain't it,” he went on, “we had six traps just like them, and I marked the face just like these, and they all disappeared, and there was a snowshoe trail pointing this way. You haven't got any crooked neighbours about here, have you?”
The trapper looked sulky and puzzled, and grumbled, “I bet it was Bill Hawkins done it”; then relapsed into silence.
When it comes to personal feelin's better let yer friendsdo the talkin' and jedgin'. A man can't handle his owncase any more than a delirious doctor kin give hisself theright physic—Sayings of Si Sylvanne.
The coming of springtime in the woods is one of the gentlest, sweetest advents in the world. Sometimes there are heavy rains which fill all the little rivers with an overflood that quickly eats away the ice and snow, but usually the woodland streams open, slowly and gradually. Very rarely is there a spate, an upheaval, and a cataclysmal sweep that bursts the ice and ends its reign in an hour or two. That is the way of the large rivers, whose ice is free and floating. The snow in the forest melts slowly, and when the ice is attacked, it goes gradually, gently, without uproar. The spring comes in the woods with swelling of buds and a lengthening of drooping catkins, with honking of wild geese, and cawing of crows coming up from the lower countries to divide with their larger cousins, the ravens, the spoils of winter's killing.
The small birds from the South appear with a few short notes of spring, and the pert chicadees that have braved it all winter, now lead the singing with their cheery “I told you so” notes, till robins and blackbirds join in, and with their more ambitious singing make all the lesser roundelays forgot.
Once the winter had taken a backward step—spring found it easy to turn retreat into panic and rout; and the ten days Quonab stayed away were days of revolutionary change. For in them semi-winter gave place to smiling spring, with all the snow-drifts gone, except perhaps in the shadiest hollows of the woods.
It was a bright morning, and a happy one for Rolf, when he heard the Indian's short “Ho,” outside, and a minute later had Skookum dancing and leaping about him. On Hoag the effect was quite different. He was well enough to be up, to hobble about painfully on a stick; to be exceedingly fault-finding, and to eat three hearty meals a day; but the moment the Indian appeared, he withdrew into himself, and became silent and uneasy. Before an hour passed, he again presented the furs, the gun, the canoe, and the traps to Rolf, on condition that he should get him out to his folks.
All three were glad to set out that very day on the outward trip to Lyons Falls.
Down Little Moose River to Little Moose Lake and on to South Branch of Moose, then by the Main Moose, was their way. The streams were flush; there was plenty of water, and this fortunately reduced the number of carries; for Hoag could not walk and would not hobble. They sweat and laboured to carry him over every portage; but they covered the fifty miles in three days, and on the evening of the third, arrived at the little backwoods village of Lyons Falls.
The change that took place in Hoag now was marked and unpleasant. He gave a number of orders, where, the day before, he would have made whining petitions. He told them to “land easy, and don't bump my canoe.” He hailed the loungers about the mill with an effusiveness that they did not respond to. Their cool, “Hello, Jack, are you back?” was little but a passing recognition. One of them was persuaded to take Rolf's place in carrying Hoag to his cabin. Yes, his folks were there, but they did not seem overjoyed at his arrival. He whispered to the boy, who sullenly went out to the river and returned with the rifle, Rolf's rifle now, the latter supposed, and would have taken the bundle of furs had not Skookum sprung on the robber and driven him away from the canoe.
And now Hoag showed his true character. “Them's my furs and my canoe,” he said to one of the mill hands, and turning to the two who had saved him, he said: “An' you two dirty, cutthroat, redskin thieves, you can get out of town as fast as ye know how, or I'll have ye jugged,” and all the pent-up hate of his hateful nature frothed out in words insulting and unprintable.
“Talks like a white man,” said Quonab coldly. Rolf was speechless. To toil so devotedly, and to have such filthy, humiliating words for thanks! He wondered if even his Uncle Mike would have shown so vile a spirit.
Hoag gave free rein to his tongue, and found in his pal, Bill Hawkins, one with ready ears to hear his tale of woe. The wretch began to feel himself frightfully ill-used. So, fired at last by the evermore lurid story of his wrongs, the “partner” brought the magistrate, so they could swear out a warrant, arrest the two “outlaws,” and especially secure the bundle of “Hoag's furs” in the canoe.
Old Silas Sylvanne, the mill-owner and pioneer of the place, was also its magistrate. He was tall, thin, blacklooking, a sort of Abe Lincoln in type, physically, and in some sort, mentally. He heard the harrowing tale of terrible crime, robbery, and torture, inflicted on poor harmless Hoag by these two ghouls in human shape; he listened, at first shocked, but little by little amused.
“You don't get no warrant till I hear from the other side,” he said. Roff and Quonab came at call. The old pioneer sized up the two, as they stood, then, addressing Rolf, said:
“Air you an Injun?” “No, sir.” “Air you half-breed?” “No, sir.” “Well, let's hear about this business,” and he turned his piercing eyes full on the lad's face.
Rolf told the simple, straight story of their acquaintance with Hoag, from the first day at Warren's to their arrival at the Falls. There is never any doubt about the truth of a true story, if it be long enough, and this true story, presented in its nakedness to the shrewd and kindly old hunter, trader, mill-owner and magistrate, could have only one effect.
“Sonny,” he said, slowly and kindly, “I know that ye have told me the truth. I believe every word of it. We all know that Hoag is the meanest cuss and biggest liar on the river. He's a nuisance, and always was. He only promised to give ye the canoe and the rifle, and since he don't want to, we can't help it. About the trouble in the woods, you got two witnesses to his one, and ye got the furs and the traps; it's just as well ye left the other furs behind, or ye might have had to divide 'em; so keep them and call the hull thing square. We'll find ye a canoe to get out of this gay metropolis, and as to Hoag, ye needn't a-worry; his travelling days is done.”
A man with a bundle of high-class furs is a man of means in any frontier town. The magistrate was trader, too, so they set about disposing of their furs and buying the supplies they needed.
The day was nearly done before their new canoe was gummed and ready with the new supplies. When dealing, old Sylvanne had a mild, quiet manner, and a peculiar way of making funny remarks that led some to imagine he was “easy” in business; but it was usual to find at the end that he had lost nothing by his manners, and rival traders shunned an encounter with Long Sylvanne of the unruffled brow.
When business was done—keen and complete—he said: “Now, I'm a goin' to give each of ye a present,” and handed out two double-bladed jackknives, new things in those days, wonderful things, precious treasures in their eyes, sources of endless joy; and even had they known that one marten skin would buy a quart of them, their pleasant surprise and childish joy would not have been in any way tempered or alloyed.
“Ye better eat with me, boys, an' start in the morning.” So they joined the miller's long, continuous family, and shared his evening meal. Afterward as they sat for three hours and smoked on the broad porch that looked out on the river, old Sylvanne, who had evidently taken a fancy to Rolf, regaled them with a long, rambling talk on “fellers and things,” that was one of the most interesting Rolf had ever listened to. At the time it was simply amusing; it was not till years after that the lad realized by its effect on himself, its insight, and its hold on his memory, that Si Sylvanne's talk was real wisdom. Parts of it would not look well in print; but the rugged words, the uncouth Saxonism, the obscene phrase, were the mere oaken bucket in which the pure and precious waters were hauled to the surface.
“Looked like he had ye pinched when that shyster got ye in to Lyons Falls. Wall, there's two bad places for Jack Hoag; one is where they don't know him at all, an' take him on his looks; an' t'other is where they know him through and through for twenty years, like we hev. A smart rogue kin put up a false front fer a year or maybe two, but given twenty year to try him, for and bye, summer an' winter, an' I reckon a man's make is pretty well showed up, without no dark corners left unexplored.
“Not that I want to jedge him harsh, coz I don't know what kind o' maggots is eatin' his innards to make him so ornery. I'm bound to suppose he has 'em, or he wouldn't act so dum like it. So I says, go slow and gentle before puttin' a black brand on any feller; as my mother used to say, never say a bad thing till ye ask, 'Is it true, is it kind, is it necessary?' An' I tell you, the older I git, the slower I jedge; when I wuz your age, I wuz a steel trap on a hair trigger, an' cocksure. I tell you, there ain't anythin' wiser nor a sixteen-year-old boy, 'cept maybe a fifteen-year-old girl.
“Ye'll genilly find, lad, jest when things looks about as black as they kin look, that's the sign of luck a-comin' your way, pervidin' ye hold steady, keep cool and kind; something happens every time to make it all easy. There's always a way, an' the stout heart will find it.
“Ye may be very sure o' this, boy, yer never licked till ye think ye air an' if ye won't think it, ye can't be licked. It's just the same as being sick. I seen a lot o' doctorin' in my day, and I'm forced to believe there ain't any sick folks 'cept them that thinks they air sick.
“The older I git, the more I'm bound to consider that most things is inside, anyhow, and what's outside don't count for much.
“So it stands to reason when ye play the game for what's inside, ye win over all the outside players. When ye done kindness to Hoag, ye mightn't a meant it, but ye was bracin' up the goodness in yerself, or bankin' it up somewher' on the trail ahead, where it was needed. And he was simply chawin' his own leg off, when he done ye dirt. I ain't much o' a prattlin' Christian, but I reckon as a cold-blooded, business proposition it pays to lend the neighbour a hand; not that I go much on gratitude. It's scarcer'n snowballs in hell—which ain't the point; but I take notice there ain't any man'll hate ye more'n the feller that knows he's acted mean to ye. An' there ain't any feller more ready to fight yer battles than the chap that by some dum accident has hed the luck to help ye, even if he only done it to spite some one else—which 'minds me o' McCarthy's bull pup that saved the drowning kittens by mistake, and ever after was a fightin' cat protector, whereby he lost the chief joy o' his life, which had been cat-killin'. An' the way they cured the cat o' eatin' squirrels was givin' her a litter o' squirrels to raise.
“I tell ye there's a lot o' common-sense an' kindness in the country, only it's so dum slow to git around; while the cussedness and meanness always acts like they felt the hell fire sizzlin' their hind-end whiskers, an' knowed they had jest so many minutes to live an' make a record. There's where a man's smart that fixes things so he kin hold out a long time, fer the good stuff in men's minds is what lasts; and the feller what can stay with it hez proved hisself by stayin'. How'd ye happen to tie up with the Injun, Rolf?”
“Do ye want me to tell it long or short?” was the reply. “Wall, short, fer a start,” and Silas Sylvanne chuckled.
So Rolf gave a very brief account of his early life.
“Pretty good,” said the miller; “now let's hear it long.”
And when he had finished, the miller said: “I've seen yer tried fer most everything that goes to make a man, Rolf, an' I hev my own notion of the results. You ain't goin' to live ferever in them hills. When ye've hed yer fling an' want a change, let me know.”
Early next day the two hunters paddled up the Moose River with a good canoe, an outfit of groceries, and a small supply of ready cash.
“Good-bye, lad, good-bye! Come back again and ye'll find we improve on acquaintance; an' don't forget I'm buying fur,” was Si Sylvanne's last word. And as they rounded the point, on the home way, Rolf turned in the canoe, faced Quonab, and said: “Ye see there are some good white men left;” but the Indian neither blinked, nor moved, nor made a sound.