“The poor ’n’ pious kin callate the crumbs fallin’ from the rich man’s table’ll be few ’n’ skimpy.”–Old Cy Walker.
Anenemy we can meet in the open need not appall us; but an enemy who creeps up to us by day, or still worse by night, in a vast wilderness, becomes a panther and an Indian combined.
Such a one had spied upon Martin’s camp that night, and all the tales of this half-breed’s cunning and fierce nature, told by Levi, were now recalled. Like a human brute whose fangs were tobacco-stained, whose one evil eye glared at them out of darkness, the half-breed had now become a creeping, crawling beast, impossible to trail, yet certain to bide his time, seize Chip, or avenge her loss upon her protectors.
Now another complication arose as Martin, Old Cy, and Levi left the spot where this enemy had watched them–what to do about Angie and the girl? From the first warning from Levi that they were in danger from the half-breed, Martin hadavoided all hint of it to them. Now they must be told, and all peace of mind at once destroyed. Concealment was no longer possible, however, and when Angie was told, her face paled. Her first intuition, and as the sequel proved, a wise one, was for them to at once pack up and quit the woods as speedily as possible.
But Martin was of different fibre. To run away like this was cowardly, and besides he cherished only contempt for a wretch who had played the rôle of this fellow, and was so vile of instinct. With no desire to do wrong, he yet felt that if sufficient provocation and the need of self-defence arose, the earth, and especially this wilderness, would be well rid of such a despicable creature.
Then Levi’s advice carried weight.
“We ain’t goin’ to ’scape him,” he said, “by startin’ out o’ the woods now. Most likely he’s got his eye on us this minute. He knows every rod o’ the way out whar we’d be likely to camp. He’d sure follow, an’ if he didn’t cut our canoes to pieces some night, he’d watch his chance ’n’ grab the gal ’n’ make off under cover o’ darkness. We’ve got a sort o’ human panther to figger on, an’ shootin’ under such conditions might mean killin’ the gal. We’ve got to go out sometime, but I don’t believein turnin’ tail fust go-off, ’n’ we may get a chance to wing the cuss, like ez not,” and the glitter in Levi’s eyes showed he would not hesitate to shoot this half-breed if the chance presented itself.
Old Cy’s opinion is also worth quoting:–“My notion is this hyena’s a coward, ’n’ like all sich’ll never show himself by daylight. He knows we’ve got guns ’n’ know how to use ’em. The camp’s as good as a fort. One on us kin allus be on guard daytimes, an’ when it’s time to go out–wal, I think we ought to hev cunnin’ ’nuff ’mongst us to gin one hyena the slip. Thar’s one thing must be done, though, ’n’ that is, keep the gal clus. ’Twon’t do to let her go over the hog-back arter berries, or canoein’ round the lake no more.”
And now began a state of semi-siege at Birch Camp.
Chip was kept an almost prisoner, hardly ever permitted out of Angie’s sight. One of the men, always with rifle handy, remained on guard–usually Old Cy, and for a few nights he lay in ambush near the shore, to see if perchance this enemy would steal up again.
With all these precautions against surprise, came a certain feeling of defiance in Martin. With Rayfor companion he went fishing once more, and with Levi as pilot he cruised about for game.
Only a few more weeks of his outing remained, and on sober second thought, he didn’t mean to let this sneaking enemy spoil those.
But Old Cy never relaxed his vigil. This waif of the wilderness and her pitiful position appealed to him even more than to Angie, and true to the nature that had made all Greenvale’s children love him, so now did Chip find him a kind and protecting father.
With rifle always with him, he took her canoeing and fishing; sometimes Angie joined them, and so life at Birch Camp became pleasant once more.
A week or more of happiness was passed, with no sight or sign of their enemy, and then one morning when Old Cy had journeyed over to the ice-house, he glanced across the lake to a narrow valley through which a stream known as Beaver Brook reached the lake, and far up this vale, rising above the dense woods, was a faint column of smoke.
The morning was damp, cloudy, and still–conditions suitable for smoke-rising, and yet so faint and distant was this that none but the keen, observant eyes of a woodsman would have noticed it. Yet there it was, a thin white pillar, clearly outlined against the dark green of the foliage.
Old Cy hurried back, motioned to Levi, and the two watched it from the front of the camp. Martin soon joined them, then Angie and Chip, and all stood and studied this smoke sign. It was almost ludicrous, and yet not; for at its foot must be a fire, and beside it, doubtless, the half-breed.
“Can you locate it?” queried Martin of his guide, as the delicate column of white slowly faded.
“It’s purty well up the brook,” Levi answered; “thar’s a sort of Rocky Dundar thar, ’n’ probably a cave. I callate if it’s him, he’s s’pected a storm, ’n’ so sneaked to cover.”
And now, as if to prove this, a few drops of rain began to patter on the motionless lake; thicker, faster they came, and as the little group hurried to shelter, a torrent, almost, descended. For weeks not a drop of rain had fallen here. Each morn the sun had risen in undimmed splendor, to vanish at night, a ball of glorious red.
But now a change had come. Wind followed the rain, and all that day the storm raged and roared through the dense forest about. The lake was white with driving scud, the cabin rocked, trees creaked, and outdoor life was impossible. When night came, it seemed a thousand demons werewailing, moaning, and screeching in the forest, and as the little party now grouped around the open stove in the new cabin watched it, the fire rose and fell in unison with the blasts.
“It’s the spites,” whispered Chip to Ray. “They allus act that way when it’s stormin’.”
The next day the gale began to lessen, and by night the moon, now half full, peeped out of the scurrying clouds. At bedtime it was smiling serenely, well down toward the tree-tops, and Chip’s spites had ceased their wailing.
Fortunately, however, Martin’s quest for game had been successful. A saddle of venison, a dozen or more partridges, and two goodly strings of trout hung in cold storage.
But utter and almost speechless astonishment awaited Old Cy at the ice-house when he visited it the next morning, for the venison was gone, not a bird remained, and one of the two strings of trout had vanished.
In front, on the sand, was the same tell-tale moccasin tracks.
“Wal, by the Great Horn Spoon! if that cuss hain’t swiped the hull business,” Old Cy ejaculated, as he looked in and then at the tracks. “Crossed over last night,” he added, noting where a canoe hadcut its furrow, “an’ steered plumb for my ice-house! The varmint!”
But Martin was angry, thoroughly angry, at the audacious insolence of the theft, and the thought that just now this sneaking half-breed was doubtless enjoying grilled venison and roast partridge in some secure shelter. It also opened his eyes to the fact that this chap would hang about, watching his chance, until they started out of the wilderness, and then capture the girl if he could. For a little while Martin pondered over the situation and then announced his plans.
“There’s law, and officers to execute it,” he said, “if a sufficient reward be offered; and to-morrow you and I, Levi, will start for the settlement and fetch a couple in. I’ll gladly give five hundred dollars to land this sneak behind the bars. If he can’t be caught, we can at least have two officers to guard us going out.”
All that day he and Levi spent in hunting. Another deer was captured, more birds secured, and when evening came plans to meet the situation were discussed.
“You or Ray must remain on guard daytimes near the cabin,” Martin said to Old Cy. “My wife and Chip had better keep in it, or near it mostof the time; and both of you must sleep there nights. One or the other can fish or hunt, as needed. We must be gone a week or more, even if we have good luck; but fetching the officers here is the best plan now.”
Levi was up early the next morning, and had the best canoe packed for a hurry trip ere breakfast was ready. No tent was to be taken, only blankets, a rifle, a bag of the simplest cooking utensils, pork, bread, and coffee. A modest outfit–barely enough to sustain life, yet all a woodsman carries when a long canoe journey with many carries must be taken.
There were sober faces at the landing when Martin was ready to start,–Chip most sober of all,–for now she realized as never before how serious a burden she had become.
No time was wasted in good-bys. Martin grasped the bow paddle, and with “Old Faithful” Levi wielding the stern one, they soon crossed the lake and vanished at its outlet.
And now, also, for the first time, Angie realized how much the presence of these two strong and resourceful men meant to her. All that day she and Chip clung to the cabin, while Old Cy, a long, lanky Leatherstocking, patrolled the premises, rifle in hand.
“We hain’t a mite o’ cause to worry,” he said,when nightfall drew near. “That pesky varmint’s a coward, ’n’ knows guns are plenty here, an’ we folks handy in usin’ ’em. I’ve rigged a fish line to the ice-house door, so it’ll rattle some tinware in the cabin if he meddles it again. I sleep with one eye ’n’ both ears open, an’ if he comes prowlin’ round night-times, he’ll hear bullets whizzin’ an’ think Fourth o’ July’s opened up arly.”
But for all his cheerful assurance, time passed slowly, and a sense of real danger oppressed Angie and Chip as well. Ray shared it also. He was not as yet hardened to the wilderness, and like all who are thus tender, its vast sombre solitude seemed ominous.
Only the hermit, with his moonlike eyes and impassive ways, showed no sign of trouble. What this half-breed wanted, other than food, he seemed not to understand; and while he helped about the camp work and followed Old Cy like a dog, he was of no other aid.
One, two, three days of watchful guard and evenings when even Old Cy’s cheerful philosophy or Ray’s banjo failed to dispel the gloom, and then, just as the sun was setting once again, a canoe with one occupant was seen to enter the lake and head for the landing.
“The more I see o’ the world, the better I like the woods.”–Old Cy Walker.
Martin’sjourney to the settlement was a rushing one. The first day they wielded paddles without rest, and aided by the current made rapid progress. Both carries were passed before sunset, a halt made for a supper of frizzled pork, coffee, and hard tack; then on again by moonlight, and not until wearied to the limit at almost midnight did they pause, and hiding themselves in the entrance to an old tote road, they slept the sleep of weariness.
Tim’s Place was sighted the next day, and now, at Levi’s suggestion, Martin lay down in the canoe as they passed it, concealed beneath a blanket.
“It’s best to be keerful,” Levi said, when proposing this; “I wouldn’t trust Tim a minute. Most likely he’s found out whar the gal is, an’ knows what Pete’s up to. The two are cahoots together, ’n’ if Tim saw you an’ I both leavin’, no tellin’ what’d happen.”
The journey from here on was slower, as no currentaided, and yet in three days and nights of paddling, Martin and Levi covered that hundred-mile journey and reached the settlement.
A stage and rail journey, consuming one day and night more, enabled Martin to reach the man he wanted–a well-informed and fearless officer named Hersey, and then, securing an assistant and a warrant for one Pete Bolduc, on the charge of theft, the three returned to the settlement where Levi had waited.
“I’m glad to get track of this half-breed,” Hersey said on the way. “He has been the pal of the notorious McGuire for many years, and besides has been smuggling whiskey into lumber camps and slaughtering game out of season all the time. Like McGuire, he is hard to locate. No guide or lumberman dare betray him, and so it’s a fruitless task to try to catch either. We have been after this McGuire for years. He killed one deputy and wounded another, as you may have heard. This Bolduc is a cat of the same color, but less courageous, I fancy, and yet as hard to catch. I think, for the sake of your guide,” he added, “we’d better not enter the woods together. You two go on, saying nothing. My mate and I will say we are on a pleasure trip, and follow and overtake you in a few hours.This will protect your man, and evade suspicion. Even these people at the settlement are half-hearted in aiding an officer. Most of them are fearful of house or barn burning if they give any information to us, a few are in secret league with these outlaws; and so you see our position.”
Martin saw, and marvelled that any of the simple, honest dwellers at this small settlement, law-abiding as they seemed, would either aid or warn so red-handed a criminal as McGuire.
That fear of consequences might influence them, was possible, and yet all the more reason for assisting the law in ridding the forest of two such criminals.
But Martin, thorough sportsman that he was, and keen to all the world’s affairs, understood but little of the conditions existent in the wilderness, or about the lives and morals of those who find a living thus.
He knew, as all do, that a few thousand lumbermen entered each autumn, and, much to his regret, made steady inroads toward its despoilment. He knew, also, that these men included many of excellent habits–sober, industrious workers with families which they cheerfully supported, and that there were also many among them whose sole ambitionwas to earn a few hundred dollars in a season of hard work, that they might spend it in a few weeks, or even days, of drunken debauchery.
He was well aware that a few wandering hunters and trappers plied their calling here, and many of a mixed occupation, guiding sportsmen like himself in season, were engaged in lumbering or farming between times. This mixed and transient population, he knew, were neither better nor worse than the average of such pioneers–good-natured and good-hearted, though somewhat lax in speech and morals.
What he did not know, however, was that a few unscrupulous and disreputable men, half gamblers, half dive-keepers, followed these lumbermen into camp as ostensible hunters and trappers, but really gamblers, ready to turn a trick at cards, convoy a keg of whiskey in, or follow a moose on snow-shoes, kill and sell him, as occasion offered. Or that, when spring opened the streams, these same itinerant purveyors of vice spotted their possible victims, as a bunco man does a rural “good thing” visiting the metropolis, and when they reached town or city, steered them where harpies waited to share the spoil. A brief explanation of these facts were furnished to Martin by Warden Hersey, when,after overhauling him, the parties joined about one camp-fire.
“We have,” Hersey said, “in the case of this McGuire, a fair sample of the outcome liable to follow or attach to a man who makes a business of preying upon the vices and follies of the lumbering class. It is a sort of evolution in law-evasion and opportunity, encouraged and aided by the animosity which is sure to arise between the lumberman and us, whose duty it is to enforce the fish and game laws. These lumbermen, or a majority of them, feel and believe that the forest and all it contains is theirs by natural right; that no law forbidding them to obtain all the fish and game they can, is just; that such laws are enacted and accrue for the sole benefit of city sportsmen who, like yourself, come here for rest and recreation. It is all a wrong conclusion, as we know, and yet it exists. Now come these leeches like McGuire, who prey upon this hard-working class. Such as McGuire foster the prejudice and antagonism of the lumbermen in all ways possible, arguing that moose and deer are the natural perquisites of those who go into the woods for a livelihood, and belong to them as much as the trees which they have paid stumpage to cut. Also that we who come in to execute the laws are interlopers, who draw payfor the sole purpose of robbing them of their rights. Of course, we receive no welcome at a lumbering camp, and not one iota of information as to what is going on or where a law-breaker may be found. More than that, they will protect the leeches who fatten on them in every way possible, even after, as in McGuire’s case, they become murderers and outlaws, with a price set upon their capture. And here comes in the factor of terrorism. A few of these lumbermen might give information from a desire to aid the law, or to obtain a reward, did they not know that to do so would expose them to the inevitable fate of all betrayers.
“It is a community of interest, a sort of freemasonry that exists between these lumbermen and all who thrive upon their labors and hardships. Now this McGuire has preyed upon them for years, a notorious example of dive-keeper, gambler, smuggler, and pot-hunter. He is now in hiding somewhere in this wilderness, or, maybe, creeping up some stream with a canoe load of liquor bought in some Canadian town. He will meet and be welcomed by any lumber-cutting party just making camp next fall, sell them liquor at exorbitant prices, shoot and sell them venison, and when the snow is deep enough, he will follow and find moose yards,and do a wholesale slaughter act, and not satisfied with this, will absorb any and all money these lumbermen have left by card games. And yet the moment I enter the woods to arrest him, their camps are closed to me, and word of my coming is passed along to others. The guides even, who are at the beck and call of you sportsmen, are, many of them, in secret sympathy with such as McGuire; or if not, dare not give any clews, and many a wild-goose chase has resulted from following their supposed information. Some of the wisest among them are beginning to realize that they must cooperate with us in the protection of fish and game, or their occupation will be gone. But even those sensible fellows–and they are increasing–hate to become informer, fearing consequences.
“There is still another side to this game situation,” continued Hersey, filling and lighting his pipe, “and this is our laws, or rather, the selfishness of our lawmakers. We have plenty of laws–and good ones. We impose a license tax upon all non-residents for the privilege of shooting or fishing. We limit the season and number of moose, deer, or trout which may be taken. This license, which is all right, produces an annual fund sufficient to employ ten wardens, where the State only employs one.The result is that this vast wilderness is so poorly patrolled that a game warden is as much of a rarity as a white deer. Now and then one may be seen canoeing up or down some main stream, or loafing a week or two at some backwoods farm and having a good time. One may certainly be found at all points of egress; but a portion of the wilderness–the greater way-back region–is rarely visited by wardens.
“There is still one more point, and that is the pay which wardens receive. It is so small that capable, honest men cannot be obtained for what the State allows; and considering the large sums raised from this license tax, it is a mere pittance. The result is, we have to employ a class of men, many of whom are no respecters of the law themselves, or who may be bribed.”
It was a full and complete explanation of the conditions then existing in the wilderness, and as Martin glanced at “Old Faithful” Levi lounging on his elbow, he understood why that astute guide had always avoided all possible reference to McGuire.
“This half-breed, Bolduc, is another sample of his class,” continued Hersey, “and while we have no criminal charge, we can prove we know he is a pot-hunter, and I’ll be glad to nab him, for anexample. I judge he is lurking about your camp, watching a chance to abduct this girl, and while it’s an unusual case, it may serve our purpose nicely–a sort of bait, useful in alluring him into our hands. How we can catch him, however, is not an easy problem. He knows the forest far better than we do; every stream, lake, defile, or cave is familiar to him, and, cunning as a fox, all pursuit would be useless. Our only hope is to patrol the woods about your camp as hunters, or watch for another night visit, and halt him, at the muzzle of a rifle.”
And now Martin turned the conversation to a more interesting subject–Chip herself.
“I saw the girl at Tim’s Place,” Hersey said, “and knowing her ancestry, felt curious to observe her. She appeared bright as a new dollar and a willing worker for Tim. Of course, it seemed unfortunate that she should be left to grow up there without education; and while her natural guardian being an outlaw gave the State an ample right to interfere, the proper officer has never seen fit to do so. It has been a case of ‘out of sight, out of mind,’ I presume, and while we have a law obliging parents to send their children to public schools so many months a year until a certain age, this is a case where no one has seen fit to enforce it.”
“But what about her parents?” queried Martin, curious on this point. “Do you know whether they were legally married?”
“Why, no-o, only by hearsay,” Hersey responded. “I’ve been told her mother was a Nova Scotia girl, a mill worker in one of our larger cities, and as no one ever hinted otherwise, I think it safe to assume that they were married. If not, there would surely have been some one to spread the sinister fact. It’s the way of the world. I presume Tim knows the girl’s history, but he is such a surly Irishman that I never questioned him. In fact, his surroundings, as you may have noticed, do not invite long visits.”
But no visit or even halt at Tim’s Place was now considered advisable. In fact, as Levi said, it was best to pass that spot at midnight. This suggestion was carried out, and in five days from leaving the settlement, Martin and the officers made their last camp at the lake where he had once seen a spectral canoeist.
“A swelled heart may cost ye money, but a swelled head’ll cost ye ten times more.”–Old Cy Walker.
Anunexpected canoe entering a lake so secluded and so seldom visited as this lake must needs awaken the keenest surprise, and especially in the case of a party situated as this one was. Ray, who had just returned from a berry-picking trip over at the “blow down,” and Old Cy, carrying his suggestive rifle, were at the landing some time before this canoe reached it, while Angie and Chip waited almost breathlessly on the cabin piazza. A stout, bare-headed Indian, clad in white man’s raiment, was paddling. He glanced at the two awaiting him at the landing, with big black, emotionless eyes, and then up to the cabin.
As his canoe now grated on the sandy beach close by, he laid aside his paddle, stepped forward and out, drew his craft well up, and folding his arms glanced at Old Cy again, as if waiting for a welcome. None was needed, however, for on the instant, almost, came an exclamation of joy from Chip, andwith a “Hullo, Poppy Tomah,” she was down the bank, with both her hands in his.
A faint smile of welcome spread over his austere face as he looked down at the girl, but not a word, as yet, came.
Old Cy, quick to see that he was a friend, now advanced.
“We’re glad to see ye,” he said, “an’ as ye seem to be a friend o’ the gal’s, we’ll make ye welcome.”
The Indian bowed low, and a “How do,” like a grunt, was his answer. A calm, slow, motionless type of a now almost extinct race, as he seemed to be, he would utter no word or move a step farther until invited. But now, led by Chip, he advanced up the path.
“It’s Tomah, old Poppy Tomah,” she said with pride, as Angie rose to meet them, “and he’s the only body who was ever good to me.”
“I am glad to see you, sir,” Angie said, with a gracious bow and smile, “and you are welcome here.”
“I thank the white lady–I not forget,” came the Indian’s dignified answer with a stately bow.
Not a word of greeting for Chip or of surprise at finding her here–only the eagle glance, accustomed to bright sunlight or to following the flight of a bird far out of white man’s vision.
“We shall have supper soon,” Angie added, uncertain what to say to this impassive man, “and some for you.”
It was a deft speech, for Angie, accustomed to take in every detail of a man from the condition of his nails to the cut of his clothing, as all women will, had ere now absorbed the appearance of this swarthy redskin, and was not quite sure whether to invite him to share their table or say nothing.
But the Indian solved his own problem, for spying the outdoor fire to which Old Cy now retreated, he bowed again and strode away toward it.
“Me cook here?” he said to Old Cy. With an “Of course, an’ you’re welcome to,” the question was settled.
Chip soon drew near, and now for the first time the Indian’s speech seemed to return, and while Old Cy busied himself about the cooking, these two began to visit.
Chip, as might be expected, did most of the talking, asked questions as to Tim’s Place, when he was there, and what they said about her running away, in rapid succession. Her own adventures and how she came here soon followed, and it was not long before he knew all that was to be known about her.
His replies were blunt and brief, after the manner of such. Now and then an expressive nod or grunt filled in the place of an ordinary answer. He knew but little about the recent happenings at Tim’s Place, as he had stayed there only one night since Chip departed with her father–as he was told. He had been away in the woods, looking for places to set traps later, and had no idea Chip was here.
As to Pete’s movements, he was equally in the dark, and when Chip told him what her friends here suspected, he merely grunted. As he seemed to wish to do his own cooking, Old Cy, having completed his task, offered him a partridge and a couple of trout fresh from the ice-house, also pork and potatoes, and left him to care for himself.
He became more sociable later, and when supper was over and the rest had, as usual, gathered on the piazza of the new cabin, he joined them.
And now came a recital from Ray of far more interest to these people than they suspected.
“I saw a bear over back of the ridge this afternoon,” he said, “or I don’t know but it was a wildcat. I’d just filled my pail with berries, when way up, close to the rocks, I saw something moving. I crouched down back of a bush, thinking it might bea bear, and if it was, I’d get a chance to see it nearer. I could only see the top of its back above the bushes, and once I saw its head, as if it was standing up. Then I didn’t see it for quite a spell, and then I caught sight of its back again, a good deal nearer, and then it went into one of the gullies in the hog-back. I didn’t wait to see if it came out, but cut for home.”
“Did this critter sorter wobble like a woodchuck runnin’?” put in Old Cy.
“No, it just crept along evenly,” answered Ray, “I’d see it when it would come out between the bushes.”
“’Twa’n’t a b’ar,” muttered Old Cy, and then, as if the unwisdom of waking suspicion in Angie’s mind occurred, he added hastily, “but mebbe ’twas a doe, walkin’ head down ’n’ feedin’.”
No further notice was taken of Ray’s adventure. The sight of deer everywhere about was a ten-times-daily occurrence, and Old Cy’s dismissal of the matter ended it.
His thoughts, however, were a different matter. Full well he knew it was no bear thus moving. A deer would never enter a crevasse, nor a wildcat or lynx ever leave the shelter of woods to wander in open sunlight.
“I’ll go over thar in the mornin’,” he said to himself; “I may git a chance to wing that varmint ’n’ end our worryin’.”
And now Angie, more interested in spites and the weird belief which she heard that this Indian held than in the sight of a doe, began to ply Old Tomah with questions, and bit by bit she led him on toward that subject.
It was not an easy task. His speech came slowly. Deeds, not words, are an Indian’s form of expression, and this fair white lady, serene as the moon and as suave and smiling as culture could make her, was one to awe him.
With Chip he had been fluent enough. She had been almost a protégée of his, a big pappoose whom he had taught to manage a canoe, for whom he had made moccasins, a fur cap and cape, who had listened to all his strange theories with wide-open, believing eyes, and, best of all, a helpless waif whom he had learned to love.
But this white lady, awe-inspiring as she was, now failed to induce him to talk.
Chip, however, keen to catch the drift of Angie’s wishes and anxious to have her own faith defended, soon came to the rescue and induced Old Tomah to speak–not fluently at first, the “me” in place of“I” always occurring, adjectives following nouns, prepositions left out in many cases; and yet, as he warmed up to his subject, his coal-black eyes were fierce or tender, and the inborn eloquence of his race glowed in face and speech.
And what a wild tale he told! Some of it was the history of his own race, beginning long before white men came. He related the contests of his people with wild animals, their deeds of valor, their torturing of prisoners, their own scorn of death and stoical endurance of pain. His own ancestors had been mighty chieftains. They had led the tribe through many battles, swept down upon their white enemies, an avenging horde, and were now roaming the happy hunting-grounds where he would soon join them. Mingled with this tale of warfare and conquest, and always an unseen force for good or evil, were the spites–the souls of all brute creation. How they followed or led the hunter! How they warned their own kind of his coming! How they lured him into unseen danger, and how they continually sought to avenge their own deaths! There were also two kinds of them,–some evil and the others good. The evil ones predominated, the good ones feared them, yet sought to interfere in all evil effort. These two hosts also had their ownwarfares. They fought oftenest when storms raged in the forest. Then they swept the tree-tops and scurried over the hills in vast numbers, shrieking and screaming defiance.
Another apparition was oft referred to in this weird talk. A great white spectre and chieftain of all spites, who sprang from his abode in the north, whose breath was a blast of snow, howling as it swept over the wilderness–this ghost, so vast that it covered miles and miles of wilderness, was altogether evil. It spared neither man nor beast. The hunter trailing his game met death on the instant and was left rigid and upright in his tracks. Squaws and children huddled in wigwams shared the same speedy fate. Lynxes and panthers, deer and moose by the score, were touched by the same mystic and awful wand of death.
It was all an uncanny, eerie, ghostly recital; yet all real and true to Chip, whose eyes never once left the Indian’s face while he was speaking. Angie, too, was spellbound. Never had she heard anything like it; and while believing it was all a mere myth and legend, a superstitious fancy, maybe, of this strange Indian, its telling was none the less interesting.
Ray was also enthralled, and he was half convincedthat the forest might, after all, contain spooks and goblins.
But Old Cy was only a curious listener. He, too, had woven many a fantastic tale of the sea, its storms and monsters leaping from the crests of waves, and all such figments of the imagination, and this fable was but the same. The only feature of passing interest to him was the fact that any Indian had such a vivid imagination and could relate such a mingled ghost story so coherently.
Old Tomah ceased speaking even more abruptly than he began, then looked from one to another of the group, perhaps to see if they all believed him, and then without a word or even “good night,” he rose and stalked out of the cabin.
For a few moments Chip watched Angie and the rest, anxious to see how this explanation of her own belief affected them, and then Old Cy spoke.
“I’d hate to be campin’ with that Injun,” he said, “or sharin’ a wigwam with him night-times. It ’ud be worse’n a man I sot up with once that had the jim-jams, ’n’ I’d see spites and spooks for a week arter.”
Angie’s sleep was troubled that night, and in her dreams she saw white spectres and a man with a hideously scarred face and one eye watching her.
Ray also felt the uncanny influence of such a tale and “saw things” in his sleep. But Old Cy, who had securely barred the doors and then had rolled himself in a blanket with rifle handy, thought only of what Ray had seen that day and who it might be.
“An honest man’s the best critter God ever made, an’ the skeercest.”–Old Cy Walker.
Old Cy’ssuspicions were correct. It was neither bear, deer, nor wildcat that Ray saw skulking along the ridge, but the half-breed.
Believing Chip’s father had taken her out of the wilderness, or more likely up-stream to find a place with these campers, he had come here to seek her. To find her here, as he of course did, only convinced him that his suspicions were true and that her father had thus meant to rob him.
Two determined impulses now followed this discovery: first, to make the girl he had bought a prisoner, carry her into the woods, and then, when the chance came, revenge himself on McGuire. No sense of law, or decency even, entered his calculation. He was beyond such scruples, and what he wanted was his only law.
The fear of rifles, which he knew were plenty enough at this camp, was the only factor to be considered. For days he watched the camp from acrossthe lake, hoping that the girl he saw canoeing with a boy so often might come near enough for him to make a capture. Many times, when darkness served, he paddled close to where the cabin stood, and once landed and watched it for hours.
Growing bolder, as the days wore on, he hid his canoe below the outlet of the lake and taking advantage of this outcropping slate ledge with its many fissures, secreted himself and watched.
But some shelter, at least to cook and eat in, he must have, and this he found in a distant crevasse of this same ledge, and from this he sneaked along back of it until he could hide and watch the camp below. From this vantage-point, he saw that the girl no longer went out upon the lake, but remained near the cabin; then later, he noticed the two men leave the lake one morning. This encouraged him, and now he grew still bolder, even descending the ridge and watching those remaining at the cabin, from a dense thicket.
From this new post he saw that but one man seemed on guard, and almost was he tempted to shoot him from ambush and make a dash to capture his victim. Cautious and cunning, he still waited a chance involving less risk.
And now he saw that certain duties were performedby these people; that one man and the boy always started the morning fire; that the girl invariably went to the landing alone for water, at about the same time. Here for the moment she was out of sight from either cabin, and now in this act of hers, he saw his opportunity to land from his canoe near this spot before daylight, and hide in the bushes fringing the shore here and below the bank, watch his chance and seize and gag her before an outcry could be made. To tie her hands and feet and to push the other canoe out into the lake, thus avoiding pursuit until they could get a good start, was an easy matter.
It was risky, of course. She might hear or see him in time to give one scream. The old man who had said foolish things to him, and now seemed to be on guard, would surely send bullets after him as he sped away; but once out of the lake, he would be safe. It was a dangerous act; yet the other two men might return any day, and with this in prospect, this wily half-breed now resolved to act.
Old Cy was up early that fatal morning. Somehow a sense of impending danger haunted him, and calling Ray, he unlocked the cabin door and began starting the morning fire. He wanted to get breakfast out of the way as speedily as possible, and thenvisit this ridge, feeling almost sure that he would find where this half-breed had been watching them.
When Ray came out, and before the hermit or Chip appeared, Old Cy hurried over to the ice-house, and now Chip came forth as usual, and without a word to any one, she took the two pails and started for the landing. It was, perhaps, ten rods to this, down a narrow path winding through the scrub spruce. The morning was fair, the lake without a ripple.
Above the ridge, and peeping through its topping of stunted fir, came the first glance of the sun, and Chip was happy.
Old Tomah, her one and only friend for many years, was here. A something Ray had whispered the night before, now returned like a sweet note of music vibrating in her heart, and as if to add their cheer, the birds were piping all about.
For weeks the cheerful words of one of Ray’s songs had haunted her with its catchy rhythm:–
“Dar was an old nigger and his name was Uncle Ned,He died long ’go, long ’go.”
“Dar was an old nigger and his name was Uncle Ned,
He died long ’go, long ’go.”
They now rose to her lips, as she neared the lake. Here she halted, filled a pail, and set it on the log landing.
Nearer and nearer that unconscious girl it crept!
Nearer and nearer that unconscious girl it crept!
From behind a low spruce one evil, sinister eye watched her.
And now Chip, still humming this ditty, glanced up at the rising sun and out over the lake.
A crouching form with hideous face now emerged from behind the bush; step by step, this human panther advanced. A slow, cautious, catlike movement, without sound, as each moccasined foot touched the sand. Nearer and nearer that unconscious girl it crept! Now twenty feet away, now ten, now five!
And now came a swift rush, two fierce hands enclosed the girl’s face and drew her backward on to the sand.
Ray and the hermit were beside the fire, and the Indian just emerging from the hut where he had slept, when Old Cy returned from the ice-house.
“Where’s Chip?” he questioned.
“Gone after water,” answered Ray. And the two glanced down the path.
One, two, five minutes elapsed, and then a sudden suspicion of something wrong came to Old Cy, and, followed by Ray, he hurried to the landing.
One pail of water stood on the float, both their canoes were adrift on the lake, and as Old Cy looked out, there, heading for the outlet, was a canoe!
One swift glance and, “My God, he’s got Chip!” told the story, and with face fierce in anger, he darted back, grasped his rifle, and returned.
The canoe, its paddler bending low as he forced it into almost leaps, was scarce two lengths from the outlet.
Old Cy raised his rifle, then lowered it.
Chip was in that canoe!
His avenging shot was stayed.
And now Old Tomah leaped down the path, rifle in hand.
One look at the vanishing canoe, and his own, floating out upon the lake, told him the tale, and without a word he turned and, plunging into the undergrowth, leaping like a deer over rock and chasm, vanished at the top of the ridge.
“The man that won’t bear watchin’ needs it.” –Old Cy Walker.
WhileChip, bound, gagged, and helpless in the half-breed’s canoe, was just entering the alder-choked outlet of this lake, twenty miles below and close to where the stream entered another lake, four men were launching their canoes.
“It was here,” Martin was saying to Hersey, “one moonlight night a year ago, that a friend of mine and myself saw a spectral man astride a log, just entering that bed of reeds, as I told you. Who or what it was, we could not guess; but as that spook canoeman went up this stream, we followed and discovered our hermit’s home.”
“Night-time and moonshine play queer pranks with our imagination,” Hersey responded. “I’m not a whit superstitious, and yet I’ve many a time seen what I thought to be a hunter creeping along the lake shore at night, and I once came near plugging a fat man in a shadowy glen. I was up on a cliff watching down into it, the day was cloudy, and’way below I saw what I was sure was a bear crawling along the bank of the stream. I had my rifle raised and was only waiting for a better sight, when up rose the bear and I saw a human face. For a moment it made me faint, and since then I make doubly sure before shooting at any object in the woods.”
And now these four men, Levi wielding the stern paddle of Martin’s canoe, and Hersey’s deputy that of his, entered the broad, winding stream. The tall spruce-tops meeting darkened its currentless course, long filaments of white moss depended from every limb, and as they twisted and turned up this sombre highway, the air grew stifling. Not a breeze, not a sound, disturbed the solemn silence, and except for the swish of paddles and faint thud as they touched gunwales, the fall of a leaf might have been heard. So dense was this dark, silent forest, and so forbidding its effect, that for an hour no one scarce spoke, and even when the two canoes finally drew together, converse came in whispers. Another hour of steady progress, and then the banks began to outline themselves ahead, the trees opened more, a sign of current was met, and the sun lit up their pathway.
By now the spectral beard had vanished from thetrees, white clouds were reflected from the still waters, and the gleam of sandy bottom was seen below. The birds, inspired perhaps by the absence of gloom, also added their cheering notes, Nature was smiling once more, and not a hint or even intuition of the fast-nearing tragedy met those men.
And then, as a broad, eddying bend in the stream held their canoes, by tacit consent a halt was made.
Martin, his paddle crossed on the thwarts in front, dipped a cup of the cool, sweet water and drank. Levi wiped the sweat from his face, and Hersey also quenched his thirst. The day was hot. They had paddled ten miles. There was no hurry, and as pipes were drawn forth and filled, conversation began. But just at this moment Levi’s ears, ever alert, caught the faint sound of a paddle striking a canoe gunwale. Not as usual, in an intermittent fashion, as would be the case with a skilled canoeist, but a steady, rhythmic thud.
“Hist,” he said, and silence fell upon the group.
In the wilderness all sounds are noticed and noted, by night especially, because then they may mean a bear crawling softly through the undergrowth, or a wildcat, yellow-eyed and vicious, creeping near. But by day as well they are always heeded, and the crackleof a twig, or the sound of a deer’s foot striking a stone, or any slight noise, becomes of keen interest.
And now, from far ahead, came the steady tap, tap, tap. It soon increased, and then it assured those waiting, listening men that some canoe was being urged down-stream.
Without a word they glanced at one another, and then, as if an intuition came to both at the same time, Martin and Hersey reached for their rifles.
On and on came the steady thump, thump.
Just ahead the stream narrowed and curved out of sight. A few foam flecks from an unseen rill above floated down. The white sandy bottom showed in the clear water.
And then, as those stern-faced, watching, listening men, rifles in hand, almost side by side, waited there, out from behind this bend shot a canoe.
“My God, it’s Pete Bolduc! Look out!” almost yelled Levi, and “Halt! Surrender!” from Hersey, as two rifles were levelled at the oncomer. Then one instant’s sight of a red and scarred face, a quick reach for a rifle, a splash of water, an overturned canoe, and with a curse the astonished half-breed dived into the undergrowth.
Two rifles spoke almost at the same instant from the waiting canoes, one answered from out thethicket. A thrashing, struggling something in the filled canoe next caught all eyes, and Levi, leaping into the waist-deep stream, grasped and lifted a dripping form.
It was Chip!
A brief yet bloodless tragedy, all over in less time than the telling; yet a lifetime of horror had been endured by that waif, for as Levi bore her to the bank, cut the thongs that bound her, and freed her mouth from a pad of deerskin, she grasped his hand and kissed it.
And then came another surprise; for down a sloping, thick-grown hillside, something was heard thrashing, and soon Old Tomah, his clothing in shreds, his face bleeding, appeared to view.
Calculating to a nicety where he could best intercept and head off the escaping half-breed, he had crossed four miles of pathless undergrowth in less than an hour, and reached the stream at the nearest point after it left the lake.
How Chip, still sobbing from the awful agony of mind, and dripping water as well, greeted Old Tomah; how Hersey, chagrined at the escape of the half-breed, gave vent to muttered curses; how Martin joined them in thought; and how they all gathered around Chip and listened to her tale ofhorror, are but minor features of the episode, and not worth the telling.
When all was said and done, Old Tomah, grim and silent as ever, although he had done what no white man could do or would try to do, washed his bloody face in the stream, drank his fill of the cool water, and lifting Pete’s half-filled canoe as easily as if it were a shingle, tipped it, turned the water out, and set it on the sloping bank.
“Me take you back and watch you now,” he said to Chip. “You no get caught again.”
And thus convoyed, poor Chip, willing to clasp and caress the feet or legs of any or all of those men, and more grateful than any dog ever was for a caress, was escorted back to the lake.
All those waiting at the cabin were at the landing when the rescuers arrived. Angie, her eyes brimming, first embraced and then kissed the girl. Ray would have felt it a proud privilege to have carried her to the cabin, and Old Cy’s wrinkled face showed more joy than ever gladdened it in all his life before.
Somehow this hapless waif had grown dearer to them all than she or they understood.
There was also feasting and rejoicing that night at Martin’s wildwood home, and mingled with it all an oft-repeated tale.
Old Cy told one end of it in his droll way, Martin related the other, and Chip filled up the interim. Levi had his say, and Hersey supplied more or less–mostly more–of this half-breed’s history.
Old Tomah, however, said nothing. To him, who lived in the past of a bygone race which looked upon lumbermen as devastating vandals ever eating into its kingdom, and whose thoughts were upon the happy hunting-grounds soon to be entered, this half-breed’s lust and cunning were as the fall of the leaf. Were it needful he would, as he had, plunge through bramble and brier and leap over rock and chasm to rescue his big pappoose, but now that she was safe again, he lapsed into his stoical reserve once more. Shadowy forms and the mysticism of the wilderness were more to his taste than all the pathos of human life; and while his eyes kindled at Chip’s smile, his thoughts were following some storm or tempest sweeping over a vast wilderness, or the rush and roar of the great white spectre.
“Chip is good girl,” he said to Angie the next morning, “and white lady love her. Tomah’s heart is like squaw heart, too; but he go away and forget. White lady must not forget,” and with that mixture of tenderness and stoicism he strode away, and the last seen of him was when he enteredthe outlet without once looking back at the cabin where his “big pappoose” was kept.
More serious, however, were the facts Martin and Hersey now had to consider, and a council of war, as it were, was now held with Levi, Old Cy, and the deputy as advisers.
What the half-breed would now do, and in what way they could now capture him were, of course, discussed, and as usual in such cases, it was of no avail, because they were dealing with absolutely unknown quantities. The facts were these: Bolduc, a cunning criminal, fearless of all law, had set his heart upon the possession of this girl. Her story, unquestionably true, that he had paid a large sum for this right and title, must inevitably make him feel that he would have what was his at any cost. His first attempt at securing her had been thwarted. He had been shot at by minions of the law,–an act sure to make him more vengeful,–his canoe had been taken, and what with the loss of the girl, money, and canoe also, one of his stamp would surely be driven to extreme revenge.
He was now at large in this wilderness, knew where the girl and his enemies were, and as Hersey said, “He had the drop on them.”
“I believe in standing by our guns,” that officercontinued, after all these conclusions had been admitted. “We are here to rid the woods of this scoundrel. We have five good rifles and know how to use them. The law is on our side, for he refused to surrender, and returned our shots; and if I catch sight of him, I shall shoot to cripple, anyway.”
Old Cy’s advice, however, was more pacific.
“My notion is this feller’s a cowardly cuss,” he said, “a sort o’ human hyena. He’ll never show himself in the open, but come prowlin’ ’round nights, stealin’ anything he can. He may take a pop at some on us from a-top o’ the ridge; but I callate he’ll never venture within gunshot daytimes. His sort is allus more skeered o’ us’n we need be o’ him.”
In spite of Old Cy’s conclusions, however, the camp remained in a state of siege that day and many days following.
Angie and Chip seldom strayed far from the cabin. Ray assumed the water-bringing, night and morning. Old Cy and Levi patrolled the premises, while Martin, Hersey, and his deputy hunted a little for game and a good deal for moccasined footprints or a sight or a sign of this half-breed.
Hersey, more especially, made him his object of pursuit. He had come here for that purpose, his pride and reputation were at stake, and the thousand dollars Martin had agreed to pay was a minor factor. He and his mate passed hours in the mornings and late in the afternoon watching from wide apart outlooks on the ridge. They made long jaunts up the brook valley to where the smoke sign had been seen, they found where this half-breed had built a fire here, and later another lair, a mile from the cabins and in this ridge. Long detours they made in other directions. Old Tomah’s trail through the forest was crossed; but neither in forest nor on lake shore were any recent footprints of the half-breed found. Old ones were discovered in plenty. An almost beaten trail led from his lair in the ridge to a crevasse back of the cabins, but to one well versed in wood tracks, it was easy to tell how old these tracks were.
A freshly made trail in the forest bears unmistakable evidence of its date, and no woodwise man ever confounds a two or three days’ old one with it. One footprint may not determine this occult fact; but followed to where the moss is spongy or the earth moist, a matter of hours, even, can be decided.
A week of this watchfulness, with no sign of theirenemy’s return, not even to within the circuit patrolled time and again, began to relieve suspense and awaken curiosity. They had been so sure, especially Martin, that he would come back for revenge, that now it was hard to account for his not doing so.
“My idee is he got so skeered at them two shots,” Old Cy asserted, “he hain’t stopped runnin’ yit.” And then the old man chuckled at the ludicrous picture of this pernicious “varmint” scampering through a wilderness from fright.
But Old Cy was wrong. It was not fear that saved them from a prompt visitation from this half-breed, but lack of means of defence. The one shot remaining in his rifle at the moment of meeting had been sent on its vengeful errand, all the rest of his ammunition was in his canoe, and now on the bottom of the stream. Being thus crippled for means to act, the only course left to him was a return to his cabin seventy-five miles away, with only a hunting-knife to sustain life with.
Even to a skilled hunter and trapper like him, this was no easy task. It meant at least a week’s journey through almost impassable swamps and undergrowth, with frogs, raw fish, roots, and berries for food.
How that half-breed, unconscious that the millsof God had ground him the grist he deserved, fought his way through this pathless wilderness; how he ate mice and frogs to sustain his worthless life; how he cursed McGuire as the original cause of his wretched plight and Martin’s party as aids; and how many times he swore he would kill every one of them, needs no description.
He lived to reach his hut on the Fox Hole, and from that moment on, this wilderness held an implacable enemy of McGuire’s, sworn to kill him, first of all.