The return journey was hard paddling against strong waters, but otherwise uneventful. Once over any trail is enough to fix it in the memory of a woodman. They made no mistakes and their loads were light, so the portages were scarcely any loss of time, and in two days they were back at Hoag's cabin.
Of this they took possession. First, they gathered all things of value, and that was little since the furs and bedding were gone, but there were a few traps and some dishes. The stuff was made in two packs; now it was an overland journey, so the canoe was hidden in a cedar thicket, a quarter of a mile inland. The two were about to shoulder the packs, Quonab was lighting his pipe for a start, when Rolf said:
“Say, Quonab! that fellow we saw at the Falls claimed to be Hoag's partner. He may come on here and make trouble if we don't head him off. Let's burn her,” and he nodded toward the shanty.
“Ugh!” was the reply.
They gathered some dry brush and a lot of birch bark, piled them up against the wall inside, and threw plenty of firewood on this. With flint and steel Quonab made the vital spark, the birch bark sputtered, the dry, resinous logs were easily set ablaze, and soon great volumes of smoke rolled from the door, the window, and the chimney; and Skookum, standing afar, barked pleasantly aloud.
The hunters shouldered their packs and began the long, upward slope. In an hour they had reached a high, rocky ridge. Here they stopped to rest, and, far below them, marked with grim joy a twisted, leaning column of thick black smoke.
That night they camped in the woods and next day rejoiced to be back again at their own cabin, their own lake, their home.
Several times during the march they had seen fresh deer tracks, and now that the need of meat was felt, Rolf proposed a deer hunt.
Many deer die every winter; some are winter-killed; many are devoured by beasts of prey, or killed by hunters; their numbers are at low ebb in April, so that now one could not count on finding a deer by roaming at random. It was a case for trailing.
Any one can track a deer in the snow. It is not very hard to follow a deer in soft ground, when there are no other deer about. But it is very hard to take one deer trail and follow it over rocky ground and dead leaves, never losing it or changing off, when there are hundreds of deer tracks running in all directions.
Rolf's eyes were better than Quonab's, but experience counts for as much as eyes, and Quonab was leading. They picked out a big buck track that was fresh—no good hunter kills a doe at this season. They knew it for a buck, because of its size and the roundness of the toes.
Before long, Rolf said: “See, Quonab, I want to learn this business; let me do the trailing, and you set me right if I get off the line.”
Within a hundred yards, Quonab gave a grunt and shook his head. Rolf looked surprised, for he was on a good, fresh track.
Quonab said but one word, “Doe.”
Yes, a closer view showed the tracks to be a little narrower, a little closer together, and a little sharper than those he began with.
Back went Rolf to the last marks that he was sure of, and plainly read where the buck had turned aside. For a time, things went along smoothly, Quonab and Skookum following Rolf. The last was getting very familiar with that stub hoof on the left foot. At length they came to the “fumet” or “sign”; it was all in one pile. That meant the deer had stood, so was unalarmed; and warm; that meant but a few minutes ahead. Now, they must use every precaution for this was the crux of the hunt. Of this much only they were sure—the deer was within range now, and to get him they must see him before he saw them.
Skookum was leashed. Rolf was allowed to get well ahead, and crawling cautiously, a step at a time, he went, setting down his moccasined foot only after he had tried and selected a place. Once or twice he threw into the air a tuft of dry grass to make sure that the wind was right, and by slow degrees he reached the edge of a little opening.
Across this he peered long, without entering it. Then he made a sweep with his hand and pointed, to let Quonab know the buck had gone across and he himself must go around. But he lingered still and with his eyes swept the near woods. Then, dim gray among the gray twigs, he saw a slight movement, so slight it might have been made by the tail of a tomtit. But it fixed his attention, and out of this gray haze he slowly made out the outline of a deer's head, antlers, and neck. A hundred yards away, but “take a chance when it comes” is hunter wisdom. Rolf glanced at the sight, took steady aim, fired, and down went the buck behind a log. Skookum whined and leaped high in his eagerness to see. Rolf restrained his impatience to rush forward, at once reloaded, then all three went quickly to the place. Before they were within fifty yards, the deer leaped up and bounded off. At seventy-five yards, it stood for a moment to gaze. Rolf fired again; again the buck fell down, but jumped to its feet and bounded away.
They went to the two places, but found no blood. Utterly puzzled, they gave it up for the day, as already the shades of night were on the woods, and in spite of Skookum's voluble offer to solve and settle everything, they returned to the cabin.
“What do you make of it, Quonab?'
The Indian shook his head, then: “Maybe touched his head and stunned him, first shot; second, wah! I not know.”
“I know this,” said Rolf. “I touched him and I mean to get him in the morning.”
True to this resolve, he was there again at dawn, but examined the place in vain for a sign of blood. The red rarely shows up much on leaves, grass, or dust; but there are two kinds of places that the hunter can rely on as telltales—stones and logs. Rolf followed the deer track, now very dim, till at a bare place he found a speck of blood on a pebble. Here the trail joined onto a deer path, with so many tracks that it was hard to say which was the right one. But Rolf passed quickly along to a log that crossed the runway, and on that log he found a drop of dried-up blood that told him what he wished to know.
Now he had a straight run of a quarter of a mile, and from time to time he saw a peculiar scratching mark that puzzled him. Once he found a speck of blood at one of these scratches but no other evidence that the buck was touched.
A wounded deer is pretty sure to work down hill, and Quonab, leaving Skookum with Rolf, climbed a lookout that might show whither the deer was heading.
After another half mile, the deer path forked; there were buck trails on both, and Rolf could not pick out the one he wanted. He went a few yards along each, studying the many marks, but was unable to tell which was that of the wounded buck.
Now Skookum took a share in it. He had always been forbidden to run deer and knew it was a contraband amusement, but he put his nose to that branch of the trail that ran down hill, followed it for a few yards, then looked at Rolf, as much as to say: “You poor nose-blind creature; don't you know a fresh deer track when you smell it? Here it is; this is where he went.”
Rolf stared, then said, “I believe he means it”; and followed the lower trail. Very soon he came to another scrape, and, just beyond it, found the new, velvet-covered antler of a buck, raw and bloody, and splintered at the base.
From this on, the task was easier, as there were no other tracks, and this was pointing steadily down hill.
Soon Quonab came striding along. He had not seen the buck, but a couple of jays and a raven were gathered in a thicket far down by the stream. The hunters quit the trail and made for that place. As they drew near, they found the track again, and again saw those curious scrapes.
Every hunter knows that the bluejay dashing about a thicket means that hidden there is game of some kind, probably deer. Very, very slowly and silently they entered that copse. But nothing appeared until there was a rush in the thickest part and up leaped the buck. This was too much for Skookum. He shot forward like a wolf, fastened on one hind leg, and the buck went crashing head over heels. Before it could rise, another shot ended its troubles. And now a careful study shed the light desired. Rolf's first shot had hit the antler near the base, breaking it, except for the skin on one side, and had stunned the buck. The second shot had broken a hind leg. The scratching places he had made were efforts to regain the use of this limb, and at one of them the deer had fallen and parted the rag of skin by which the antler hung.
It was Rolf's first important trailing on the ground; it showed how possible it was, and how quickly he was learning the hardest of all the feats of woodcraft.
Every one who lives in the big woods gets lost at some time. Yes, even Daniel Boone did sometimes go astray. And whether it is to end as a joke or a horrible tragedy depends entirely on the way in which the person takes it. This is, indeed, the grand test of a hunter and scout, the trial of his knowledge, his muscle, and, above everything, his courage; and, like all supreme trials, it comes without warning.
The wonderful flocks of wild pigeons had arrived. For a few days in May they were there in millions, swarming over the ground in long-reaching hordes, walking along, pecking and feeding, the rearmost flying on ahead, ever to the front. The food they sought so eagerly now was chiefly the seeds of the slippery elm, tiny nuts showered down on wings like broad-brimmed hats. And when the flock arose at some alarm, the sound was like that of the sea beach in a storm.
There seemed to be most pigeons in the low country southeast of the lake, of course, because, being low, it had most elms. So Rolf took his bow and arrows, crossed in the canoe, and confidently set about gathering in a dozen or two for broilers.
It is amazing how well the game seems to gauge the range of your weapon and keep the exact safe distance. It is marvellous how many times you may shoot an arrow into a flock of pigeons and never kill one. Rolf went on and on, always in sight of the long, straggling flocks on the ground or in the air, but rarely within range of them. Again and again he fired a random shot into the distant mass, without success for two hours. Finally a pigeon was touched and dropped, but it rose as he ran forward, and flew ten yards, to drop once more. Again he rushed at it, but it fluttered out of reach and so led him on and on for about half an hour's breathless race, until at last he stopped, took deliberate aim, and killed it with an arrow.
Now a peculiar wailing and squealing from the woods far ahead attracted him. He stalked and crawled for many minutes before he found out, as he should have known, that it was caused by a mischievous bluejay.
At length he came to a spring in a low hollow, and leaving his bow and arrows on a dry log, he went down to get a drink.
As he arose, he found himself face to face with a doe and a fat, little yearling buck, only twenty yards away. They stared at him, quite unalarmed, and, determining to add the yearling to his bag, Rolf went back quietly to his bow and arrows.
The deer were just out of range now, but inclined to take a curious interest in the hunter. Once when he stood still for a long time, they walked forward two or three steps; but whenever he advanced, they trotted farther away.
To kill a deer with an arrow is quite a feat of woodcraft, and Rolf was keen to show his prowess; so he kept on with varying devices, and was continually within sight of the success that did not actually arrive.
Then the deer grew wilder and loped away, as he entered another valley that was alive with pigeons.
He was feeling hungry now, so he plucked the pigeon he had secured, made a fire with the flint and steel he always carried, then roasted the bird carefully on a stick, and having eaten it, felt ready for more travel.
The day was cloudy, so he could not see the sun; but he knew it was late, and he made for camp.
The country he found himself in was entirely strange to him, and the sun's whereabouts doubtful; but he knew the general line of travel and strode along rapidly toward the place where he had left the canoe.
After two hours' tramping, he was surprised at not seeing the lake through the trees, and he added to his pace.
Three hours passed and still no sign of the water.
He began to think he had struck too far to the north; so corrected his course and strode along with occasional spells of trotting. But another hour wore away and no lake appeared.
Then Rolf knew he was off his bearings. He climbed a tree and got a partial view of the country. To the right was a small hill. He made for that. The course led him through a hollow. In this he recognized two huge basswood trees, that gave him a reassuring sense. A little farther he came on a spring, strangely like the one he had left some hours ago. As he stooped to drink, he saw deer tracks, then a human track. He studied it. Assuredly it was his own track, though now it seemed on the south side instead of the north. He stared at the dead gray sky, hoping for sign of sun, but it gave no hint. He tramped off hastily toward the hill that promised a lookout. He went faster and faster. In half an hour the woods opened a little, then dipped. He hastened down, and at the bottom found himself standing by the same old spring, though again it had changed its north bearing.
He was stunned by this succession of blows. He knew now he was lost in the woods; had been tramping in a circle.
The spring whirled around him; it seemed now north and now south. His first impulse was to rush madly northwesterly, as he understood it. He looked at all the trees for guidance. Most moss should be on the north side. It would be so, if all trees were perfectly straight and evenly exposed, but alas! none are so. All lean one way or another, and by the moss he could prove any given side to be north. He looked for the hemlock top twigs. Tradition says they always point easterly; but now they differed among themselves as to which was east.
Rolf got more and more worried. He was a brave boy, but grim fear came into his mind as he realized that he was too far from camp to be heard; the ground was too leafy for trailing him; without help he could not get away from that awful spring. His head began to swim, when all at once he remembered a bit of advice his guide had given him long ago: “Don't get scared when you're lost. Hunger don't kill the lost man, and it ain't cold that does it; it's being afraid. Don't be afraid, and everything will come out all right.”
So, instead of running, Rolf sat down to think it over.
“Now,” said he, “I went due southeast all day from the canoe.” Then he stopped; like a shock it came to him that he had not seen the sun all day. Had he really gone southeast? It was a devastating thought, enough to unhinge some men; but again Rolf said to himself “Never mind, now; don't get scared, and it'll be all right. In the morning the sky will be clear.”
As he sat pondering, a red squirrel chippered and scolded from a near tree; closer and closer the impudent creature came to sputter at the intruder.
Rolf drew his bow, and when the blunt arrow dropped to the ground, there also dropped the red squirrel, turned into acceptable meat. Rolf put this small game into his pocket, realizing that this was his supper.
It would soon be dark now, so he prepared to spend the night.
While yet he could see, he gathered a pile of dry wood into a sheltered hollow. Then he made a wind-break and a bed of balsam boughs. Flint, steel, tinder, and birch bark soon created a cheerful fire, and there is no better comforter that the lone lost man can command.
The squirrel roasted in its hide proved a passable supper, and Rolf curled up to sleep. The night would have been pleasant and uneventful, but that it turned chilly, and when the fire burnt low, the cold awakened him, so he had a succession of naps and fire-buildings.
Soon after dawn, he heard a tremendous roaring, and in a few minutes the wood was filled again with pigeons.
Rolf was living on the country now, so he sallied forth with his bow. Luck was with him; at the first shot he downed a big, fat cock. At the second he winged another, and as it scrambled through the brush, he rushed headlong in pursuit. It fluttered away beyond reach, half-flying, half-running, and Rolf, in reckless pursuit, went sliding and tumbling down a bank to land at the bottom with a horrid jar. One leg was twisted under him; he thought it was broken, for there was a fearful pain in the lower part. But when he pulled himself together he found no broken bones, indeed, but an ankle badly sprained. Now his situation was truly grave, for he was crippled and incapable of travelling.
He had secured the second bird, and crawling painfully and slowly back to the fire, he could not but feel more and more despondent and gloomy as the measure of his misfortune was realized.
“There is only one thing that can shame a man, that is to be afraid.” And again, “There's always a way out.” These were the sayings that came ringing through his head to his heart; one was from Quonab, the other from old Sylvanne. Yes, there's always a way, and the stout heart can always find it.
Rolf prepared and cooked the two birds, made a breakfast of one and put the other in his pocket for lunch, not realizing at the time that his lunch would be eaten on this same spot. More than once, as he sat, small flocks of ducks flew over the trees due northward. At length the sky, now clear, was ablaze with the rising sun, and when it came, it was in Rolf's western sky.
Now he comprehended the duck flight. They were really heading southeast for their feeding grounds on the Indian Lake, and Rolf, had he been able to tramp, could have followed, but his foot was growing worse. It was badly swollen, and not likely to be of service for many a day—perhaps weeks—and it took all of his fortitude not to lie down and weep over this last misfortune.
Again came the figure of that grim, kindly, strong old pioneer, with the gray-blue eyes and his voice was saying: “Jest when things looks about as black as they can look, if ye hold steady, keep cool and kind, something sure happens to make it all easy. There's always a way and the stout heart will find it.”
What way was there for him? He would die of hunger and cold before Quonab could find him, and again came the spectre of fear. If only he could devise some way of letting his comrade know. He shouted once or twice, in the faint hope that the still air might carry the sound, but the silent wood was silent when he ceased.
Then one of his talks with Quonab came to mind. He remembered how the Indian, as a little papoose, had been lost for three days. Though, then but ten years old, he had built a smoke fire that brought him help. Yes, that was the Indian way; two smokes means “I am lost”; “double for trouble.”
Fired by this new hope, Rolf crawled a little apart from his camp and built a bright fire, then smothered it with rotten wood and green leaves. The column of smoke it sent up was densely white and towered above the trees.
Then painfully he hobbled and crawled to a place one hundred yards away, and made another smoke. Now all he could do was wait.
A fat pigeon, strayed from its dock, sat on a bough above his camp, in a way to tempt Providence. Rolf drew a blunt arrow to the head and speedily had the pigeon in hand for some future meal.
As he prepared it, he noticed that its crop was crammed with the winged seed of the slippery elm, so he put them all back again into the body when it was cleaned, knowing well that they are a delicious food and in this case would furnish a welcome variant to the bird itself.
An hour crawled by. Rolf had to go out to the far fire, for it was nearly dead. Instinctively he sought a stout stick to help him; then remembered how Hoag had managed with one leg and two crutches. “Ho!” he exclaimed. “That is the answer—this is the 'way.”'
Now his attention was fixed on all the possible crutches. The trees seemed full of them, but all at impossible heights. It was long before he found one that he could cut with his knife. Certainly he was an hour working at it; then he heard a sound that made his blood jump.
From far away in the north it came, faint but reaching;
“Ye-hoo-o.”
Rolf dropped his knife and listened with the instinctively open mouth that takes all pressure from the eardrums and makes them keen. It came again: “Ye-hoo-o.” No mistake now, and Rolf sent the ringing answer back:
“Ye-hoo-o, ye-hoo-o.”
In ten minutes there was a sharp “yap, yap,” and Skookum bounded out of the woods to leap and bark around Rolf, as though he knew all about it; while a few minutes later, came Quonab striding.
“Ho, boy,” he said, with a quiet smile, and took Rolf's hand. “Ugh! That was good,” and he nodded to the smoke fire. “I knew you were in trouble.”
“Yes,” and Rolf pointed to the swollen ankle.
The Indian picked up the lad in his arms and carried him back to the little camp. Then, from his light pack, he took bread and tea and made a meal for both. And, as they ate, each heard the other's tale.
“I was troubled when you did not come back last night, for you had no food or blanket. I did not sleep. At dawn I went to the hill, where I pray, and looked away southeast where you went in the canoe. I saw nothing. Then I went to a higher hill, where I could see the northeast, and even while I watched, I saw the two smokes, so I knew my son was alive.”
“You mean to tell me I am northeast of camp?”
“About four miles. I did not come very quickly, because I had to go for the canoe and travel here.
“How do you mean by canoe?” said Rolf, in surprise.
“You are only half a mile from Jesup River,” was the reply. “I soon bring you home.”
It was incredible at first, but easy of proof. With the hatchet they made a couple of serviceable crutches and set out together.
In twenty minutes they were afloat in the canoe; in an hour they were safely home again.
And Rolf pondered it not a little. At the very moment of blackest despair, the way had opened, and it had been so simple, so natural, so effectual. Surely, as long as he lived, he would remember it. “There is always a way, and the stout heart will find it.”
If Rolf had been at home with his mother, she would have rubbed his black and swollen ankle with goose grease. The medical man at Stamford would have rubbed it with a carefully prepared and secret ointment. His Indian friend sang a little crooning song and rubbed it with deer's fat. All different, and all good, because each did something to reassure the patient, to prove that big things were doing on his behalf, and each helped the process of nature by frequent massage.
Three times a day, Quonab rubbed that blackened ankle. The grease saved the skin from injury, and in a week Rolf had thrown his crutches away.
The month of May was nearly gone; June was at hand; that is, the spring was over.
In all ages, man has had the impulse, if not the habit, of spring migration. Yielding to it he either migrated or made some radical change in his life. Most of the Adirondack men who trapped in the winter sought work on the log drives in spring; some who had families and a permanent home set about planting potatoes and plying the fish nets. Rolf and Quonab having neither way open, yet feeling the impulse, decided to go out to Warren's with the fur.
Quonab wanted tobacco—and a change.
Rolf wanted a rifle, and to see the Van Trumpers—and a change.
So June 1st saw them all aboard, with Quonab steering at the stern, and Skookum bow-wowing at the bow, bound for the great centre of Warren's settlement—one store and three houses, very wide apart.
There was a noble flush of water in the streams, and, thanks to their axe work in September, they passed down Jesup's River without a pause, and camped on the Hudson that night, fully twenty-five miles from home.
Long, stringing flocks of pigeons going north were the most numerous forms of life. But a porcupine on the bank and a bear in the water aroused Skookum to a pitch of frightful enthusiasm and vaulting ambition that he was forced to restrain.
On the evening of the third day they landed at Warren's and found a hearty welcome from the trader, who left a group of loafers and came forward:
“Good day to ye, boy. My, how ye have growed.”
So he had. Neither Rolf nor Quonab had remarked it, but now they were much of the same height. “Wall, an' how'd ye make out with yer hunt?—Ah, that's fine!” as each of them dropped a fur pack on the counter. “Wall, this is fine; we must have a drink on the head of it,” and the trader was somewhat nonplussed when both the trappers refused. He was disappointed, too, for that refusal meant that they would get much better prices for their fun But he concealed his chagrin and rattled on: “I reckon I'll sell you the finest rifle in the country this time,” and he knew by Rolf's face that there was business to do in that line.
Now came the listing of the fur, and naturally the bargaining was between the shrewd Yankee boy and the trader. The Indian stood shyly aside, but he did not fail to help with significant grunts and glances.
“There, now,” said Warren, as the row of martens were laid out side by side, “thirty martens—a leetle pale—worth three dollars and fifty cents each, or, to be generous, we'll say four dollars.” Rolf glanced at Quonab, who, unseen by the trader shook his head, held his right hand out, open hollow up, then raised it with a jerk for two inches.
Quickly Rolf caught the idea and said; “No, I don't reckon them pale. I call them prime dark, every one of them.” Quonab spread his hand with all five fingers pointed up, and Rolf continued, “They are worth five dollars each, if they're worth a copper.”
“Phew!” said the trader. “you forget fur is an awful risky thing; what with mildew, moth, mice, and markets, we have a lot of risk. But I want to please you, so let her go; five each. There's a fine black fox; that's worth forty dollars.”
“I should think it is,” said Rolf, as Quonab, by throwing to his right an imaginary pinch of sand, made the sign “refuse.”
They had talked over the value of that fox skin and Rolf said, “Why, I know of a black fox that sold for two hundred dollars.”
“Where?”
“Oh, down at Stamford.”
“Why, that's near New York.”
“Of course; don't you send your fur to New York?”
“Yes, but it costs a lot to get it there.
“Now,” said Warren, “if you'll take it in trade, I'll meet you half-way and call it one hundred dollars.”
“Make it one hundred and twenty-five dollars and I'll take a rifle, anyway.”
“Phew!” whistled the trader. “Where do ye get such notions?”
“Nothing wrong about the notion; old Si Sylvanne offered me pretty near that, if I'd come out his way with the stuff.”
This had the desired effect of showing that there were other traders. At last the deal was closed. Besides the fox skin, they had three hundred dollars' worth of fur. The exchange for the fox skin was enough to buy all the groceries and dry goods they needed. But Rolf had something else in mind.
He had picked out some packages of candies, some calico prints and certain bright ribbons, when the trader grasped the idea. “I see; yer goin' visitin'. Who is it? Must be the Van Trumpers!”
Rolf nodded and now he got some very intelligent guidance. He did not buy Annette's dress, because part of her joy was to be the expedition in person to pick it out; but he stocked up with some gorgeous pieces of jewellery that were ten cents each, and ribbons whose colours were as far beyond expression as were the joys they could create in the backwoods female heart.
Proudly clutching his new rlile, and carrying in his wallet a memorandum of three hundred dollars for their joint credit, Rolf felt himself a person of no little importance. As he was stepping out of the store, the trader said, “Ye didn't run across Jack Hoag agin, did ye?”
“Did we? Hmph!” and Rolf told briefly of their experience with that creature.
“Just like him, just like him; served him right; he was a dirty cuss. But, say; don't you be led into taking your fur out Lyons Falls way. They're a mean lot in there, and it stands to reason I can give you better prices, being a hundred miles nearer New York.”
And that lesson was not forgotten. The nearer New York the better the price; seventy-five dollars at Lyons Falls; one hundred and twenty-five dollars at Warren's; two hundred dollars at New York. Rolf pondered long and the idea was one which grew and bore fruit.
“Nibowaka”—Quonab always said “Nibowaka” when he was impressed with Rolf's astuteness—“What about the canoe and stuff?”
“I think we better leave all here. Callan will lend us a canoe.” So they shouldered the guns, Rolf clung to his, and tramped across the portage, reaching Callan's in less than two hours.
“Why, certainly you can have the canoe, but come in and eat first,” was the kindly backwoods greeting. However, Rolf was keen to push on; they launched the canoe at once and speedily were flashing their paddles on the lake.
The place looked sweetly familiar as they drew near. The crops in the fields were fair; the crop of chickens at the barn was good; and the crop of children about the door was excellent.
“Mein Hemel! mein Hemel!” shouted fat old Hendrik, as they walked up to the stable door. In a minute he was wringing their hands and smiling into great red, white, and blue smiles. “Coom in, coom in, lad. Hi, Marta, here be Rolf and Quonab. Mein Hemel! mein Hemel! what am I now so happy.”
“Where's Annette?” asked Rolf.
“Ach, poor Annette, she fever have a little; not mooch, some,” and he led over to a corner where on a low cot lay Annette, thin, pale, and listless.
She smiled faintly, in response, when Rolf stooped and kissed her.
“Why, Annette, I came back to see you. I want to take you over to Warren's store, so you can pick out that dress. See, I brought you my first marten and I made this box for you; you must thank Skookum for the quills on it.”
“Poor chile; she bin sick all spring,” and Marta used a bunch of sedge to drive away the flies and mosquitoes that, bass and treble, hovered around the child.
“What ails her?” asked Rolf anxiously.
“Dot ve do not know,” was the reply.
“Maybe there's some one here can tell,” and Roll glanced at the Indian.
“Ach, sure! Have I you that not always told all-vays—eet is so. All-vays, I want sumpin bad mooch. I prays de good Lord and all-vays, all-vays, two times now, He it send by next boat. Ach, how I am spoil,” and the good Dutchman's eyes filled with tears of thankfulness.
Quonab knelt by the sufferer. He felt her hot, dry hand; he noticed her short, quick breathing, her bright eyes, and the untouched bowl of mush by her bed.
“Swamp fever,” he said. “I bring good medicine.” He passed quietly out into the woods. When he returned, he carried a bundle of snake-root which he made into tea.
Annette did not wish to touch it, but her mother persuaded her to take a few sips from a cup held by Rolf.
“Wah! this not good,” and Quonab glanced about the close, fly-infested room. “I must make lodge.” He turned up the cover of the bedding; three or four large, fiat brown things moved slowly out of the light. “Yes, I make lodge.”
It was night now, and all retired; the newcomers to the barn. They had scarcely entered, when a screaming of poultry gave a familiar turn to affairs. On running to the spot, it proved not a mink or coon, but Skookum, up to his old tricks. On the appearance of his masters, he fled with guilty haste, crouched beneath the post that he used to be, and soon again was, chained to.
In the morning Quonab set about his lodge, and Rolf said: “I've got to go to Warren's for sugar.” The sugar was part truth and part blind. As soon as he heard the name swamp fever, Rolf remembered that, in Redding, Jesuit's bark (known later as quinine) was the sovereign remedy. He had seen his mother administer it many times, and, so far as he knew, with uniform success. Every frontier (or backwoods, it's the same) trader carries a stock of medicine, and in two hours Rolf left Warren's counter with twenty-five pounds of maple sugar and a bottle of quinine extract in his pack.
“You say she's bothered with the flies; why don't you take some of this new stuff for a curtain?” and the trader held up a web of mosquito gauze, the first Rolf had seen. That surely was a good idea, and ten yards snipped off was a most interesting addition to his pack. The amount was charged against him, and in two hours more he was back at Van Trumper's.
On the cool side of the house, Quonab had built a little lodge, using a sheet for cover. On a low bed of pine boughs lay the child. Near the door was a smouldering fire of cedar, whose aromatic fumes on the lazy wind reached every cranny of the lodge.
Sitting by the bed head, with a chicken wing to keep off the few mosquitoes, was the Indian. The child's eyes were closed; she was sleeping peacefully. Rolf crept gently forward, laid his hand on hers, it was cool and moist. He went into the house with his purchases; the mother greeted him with a happy look: Yes, Annette was a little better; she had slept quietly ever since she was taken outdoors. The mother could not understand. Why should the Indian want to have her surrounded by pine boughs? why cedar-smoke? and why that queer song? Yes, there it was again. Rolf went out to see and hear. Softly summing on a tin pan, with a mudded stick, the Indian sang a song. The words which Rolf learned in the after-time were:
“Come, Kaluskap, drive the witches; Those who came to harm the dear one.”
Annette moved not, but softly breathed, as she slept a sweet, restful slumber, the first for many days.
“Vouldn't she be better in de house?” whispered the anxious mother.
“No, let Quonab do his own way,” and Rolf wondered if any white man had sat by little Wee-wees to brush away the flies from his last bed.
Deep feelin's ain't any count by themselves; work 'em off,an' ye're somebody; weep 'em off an' you'd be more use witha heart o' stone—Sayings of Si Sylvanne.
“Quonab, I am going out to get her a partridge.” “Ugh, good.”
So Rolf went off. For a moment he was inclined to grant Skookom's prayer for leave to, follow, but another and better plan came in mind. Skookum would most likely find a mother partridge, which none should kill in June, and there was a simple way to find a cock; that was, listen. It was now the evening calm, and before Rolf had gone half a mile he heard the distant “Thump, thump, thump, thump—rrrrrrr” of a partridge, drumming. He went quickly and cautiously toward the place, then waited for the next drumming. It was slow in coming, so he knelt down by a mossy, rotten log, and struck it with his hands to imitate the thump and roll of the partridge. At once this challenge procured response.
“Thump—thump—thump,, thump rrrrrrrrrrrr” it came, with martial swing and fervour, and crawling nearer, Rolf spied the drummer, pompously strutting up and down a log some forty yards away. He took steady aim, not for the head—a strange gun, at forty yards—for the body. At the crack, the bird fell dead, and in Rolf's heart there swelled up a little gush of joy, which he believed was all for the sake of the invalid, but which a finer analysis might have proved to be due quite as much to pride in himself and his newly bought gun.
Night was coming on when he got back, and he found the Dutch parents in some excitement. “Dot Indian he gay no bring Annette indoors for de night. How she sleep outdoors—like dog—like Bigger—like tramp? Yah it is bad, ain't it?” and poor old Hendrik looked sadly upset and mystified.
“Hendrik, do you suppose God turns out worse air in the night than in the day?”
“Ach, dunno.”
“Well, you see Quonab knows what he's doing.”
“Yah.”
“Well, let him do it. He or I'll sleep alongside the child she'll be all right,” and Rolf thought of those horrible brown crawlers under the bedding indoors.
Rolf had much confidence in the Indian as a doctor, but he had more in his own mother. He was determined to give Annette the quinine, yet he hesitated to interfere. At length, he said: “It is cool enough now; I will put these thin curtains round her bed.”
“Ugh, good!” but the red man sat there while it was being done.
“You need not stay now; I'll watch her, Quonab.”
“Soon, give more medicine,” was the reply that Rolf did not want. So he changed his ruse. “I wish you'd take that partridge and make soup of it. I've had my hands in poison ivy, so I dare not touch it.”
“Ach, dot shall I do. Dot kin myself do,” and the fat mother, laying the recent baby in its cradle, made cumbrous haste to cook the bird.
“Foiled again,” was Rolf's thought, but his Yankee wit was with him. He laid one hand on the bowl of snake-root tea. It was lukewarm. “Do you give it hot or cold, Quonab?”
“Hot.”
“I'll take it in and heat it.” He carried it off, thinking, “If Quonab won't let me give the bark extract, I'll make him give it.” In the gloom of the kitchen he had no difficulty in adding to the tea, quite unseen, a quarter of the extract; when heated, he brought it again, and the Indian himself gave the dose.
As bedtime drew near, and she heard the red man say he would sleep there, the little one said feebly, “Mother, mother,” then whispered in her mother's ear, “I want Rolf.”
Rolf spread his blanket by the cot and slept lightly. Once or twice he rose to look at Annette. She was moving in her sleep, but did not awake. He saw to it that the mosquito bar was in place, and slept till morning.
There was no question that the child was better. The renewed interest in food was the first good symptom, and the partridge served the end of its creation. The snakeroot and the quinine did noble work, and thenceforth her recovery was rapid. It was natural for her mother to wish the child back indoors. It was a matter of course that she should go. It was accepted as an unavoidable evil that they should always have those brown crawlers about the bed.
But Rolf felt differently. He knew what his mother would have thought and done. It meant another visit to Warren's, and the remedy he brought was a strong-smelling oil, called in those days “rock oil”—a crude petroleum. When all cracks in the bed and near wall were treated with this, it greatly mitigated, if it did not quite end, the nuisance of the “plague that walks in the dark.”
Meanwhile, Quonab had made good his welcome by working on the farm. But when a week had flown, he showed signs of restlessness. “We have enough money, Nibowaka, why do we stay?”
Rolf was hauling a bucket of water from the well at the time. He stopped with his burden on the well-sweep, gazed into the well, and said slowly: “I don't know.” If the truth were set forth, it would be that this was the only home circle he knew. It was the clan feeling that held him, and soon it was clearly the same reason that was driving Quonab to roam.
“I have heard,” said the Indian, “that my people still dwell in Canada, beyond Rouse's Point. I would see them. I will come again in the Red Moon (August).”
So they hired a small canoe, and one bright morning, with Skookum in the bow, Quonab paddled away on his voyage of 120 miles on the plead waters of Lakes George and Champlain. His canoe became a dark spot on the water; slowly it faded till only the flashing paddle was seen, and that was lost around a headland.
The next day Rolf was sorry he let Quonab go alone, for it was evident that Van Trumper needed no help for a month yet; that is, he could not afford to hire, and while it was well enough for Rolf to stay a few days and work to equalize his board, the arrangement would not long continue satisfactory to both.
Yet there was one thing he must do before leaving, take Annette to pick out her dress. She was well again now, and they set off one morning in the canoe, she and Rolf. Neither father nor mother could leave the house. They had their misgivings, but what could they do? She was bright and happy, full of the childish joy that belongs to that age, and engaged on such an important errand for the first time in her life.
There was something more than childish joy showing in her face, an older person would have seen that, but it was largely lost on Rolf. There was a tendency to blush when she laughed, a disposition to tease her “big brother,” to tyrannize over him in little things.
“Now, you tell me some more about 'Robinson Crusoe,'” she began, as soon as they were in the canoe, and Rolf resumed the ancient, inspiring tale to have it listened to eagerly, but criticized from the standpoint of a Lake George farm. “Where was his wife?” “How could he have a farm without hens?” “Dried grapes must be nice, but I'd rather have pork than goat,” etc.
Rolf, of course, took the part of Robinson Crusoe, and it gave him a little shock to hear Quonab called his man Friday.
At the west side they were to invite Mrs. Callan to join their shopping trip, but in any case they were to borrow a horse and buckboard. Neither Mrs. Callan nor the buckboard was available, but they were welcome to the horse. So Annette was made comfortable on a bundle of blankets, and chattered incessantly while Rolf walked alongside with the grave interest and superiority of a much older brother. So they crossed the five-mile portage and came to Warren's store. Nervous and excited, with sparkling eyes, Annette laid down her marten skin, received five dollars, and set about the tremendous task of selecting her first dress of really, truly calico print; and Rolf realized that the joy he had found in his new rifle was a very small affair, compared with the epoch-making, soul-filling, life-absorbing, unspeakable, and cataclysmal bliss that a small girl can have in her first chance of unfettered action in choice of a cotton print.
“Beautiful?” How can mere words do justice to masses of yellow corn, mixed recklessly with green and scarlet poppies on a bright blue ground. No, you should have seen Annette's dress, or you cannot expect to get the adequate thrill. And when they found that there was enough cash left over to add a red cotton parasol to the glorious spoils, every one there beamed in a sort of friendly joy, and the trader, carried away by the emotions of the hour, contributed a set of buttons of shining brass.
Warren kept a “meal house,” which phrase was a ruse that saved him from a burdensome hospitality. Determined to do it all in the best style, Rolf took Annette to the meal-house table. She was deeply awed by the grandeur of a tablecloth and white plates, but every one was kind.
Warren, talking to a stranger opposite, and evidently resuming a subject they had discussed, said:
“Yes, I'd like to send the hull lot down to Albany this week, if I could get another man for the canoe.”
Rolf was interested at once and said: “What wages are you offering?”
“Twenty-five dollars and board.”
“How will I do?”
“Well,” said Warren, as though thinking it over: “I dunno but ye would. Could ye go to-morrow?”
“Yes, indeed, for one month.”
“All right, it's a bargain.”
And so Rolf took the plunge that influenced his whole life.
But Annette whispered gleefully and excitedly, “May I have some of that, and that?” pointing to every strange food she could see, and got them all.
After noon they set out on their return journey, Annette clutching her prizes, and prattling incessantly, while Rolf walked alongside, thinking deeply, replying to her chatter, but depressed by the thought of good-bye tomorrow. He was aroused at length by a scraping sound overhead and a sharp reprimand, “Rolf, you'll tear my new parasol, if you don't lead the horse better.”
By two o'clock they were at Callan's. Another hour and they had crossed the lake, and Annette, shrill with joy, was displaying her treasures to the wonder and envy of her kin.
Making a dress was a simple matter in those and Marta promised: “Yah, soom day ven I one have, shall I it sew.” Meanwhile, Annette was quaffing deep, soul-satisfying draughts in the mere contempt of the yellow, red, green, and blue glories in which was soon to appear in public. And when the bed came, she fell asleep holding the dress-goods stuff in arms, and with the red parasol spread above her head, tired out, but inexpressibly happy.