[1]Lagoon.
Lagoon.
“Licker allus lets the cat out.”–Old Cy Walker.
Whenthe half-breed, Pete Bolduc, reached Tim’s Place, he was more dead than alive. A week of crawling through swamps, wading or swimming streams, sleeping under fallen trees, while sustaining life on frogs, raw fish, and one muskrat, had eliminated about all desire to obtain Chip, and left a murderous hate instead. And McGuire was its object.
Pete reasoned that he had bought the girl and paid for her. Her father, never intending to keep faith, had connived at her escape, and knowing of these campers, had hired her for a serving maid, and they would inevitably take her out when they left. It was all a part of McGuire’s plot and plan, and no doubt this stranger had also paid him for her possession.
Two other facts also seemed proof positive that these conclusions were correct. First, McGuire had never been seen at Tim’s Place since the girl’s escape; second, it would have been impossible for her to reach these campers without aid. But shewas lost to him for all time, as Pete now realized. The stern faces and ready rifles of her protectors had convinced him of that, and all that remained was to find McGuire, force him to give back the money, then obtain revenge.
Neither was this an easy task, for McGuire was a dangerous man, as Pete well knew, and the more he considered the matter, sojourning at Tim’s Place and nursing his hate meanwhile, the more he realized that the killing of McGuire must precede the obtaining of his money. And now, where to find McGuire became a question.
Pete knew that at this season he usually devoted a month or more to a trapping trip, that in starting out he always ascended the Fox Hole, and that his location for this purpose was the head waters of another stream, reached by a carry from the Fox Hole.
For a week Pete remained at Tim’s Place, and then, obtaining a canoe, returned to his hut on this stream.
And now, in the seclusion of his own domicile, certain other facts and conclusions bearing upon the present whereabouts of McGuire occurred to him.
For many years they had been friends in a way, or at least as much so as two such scamps ever are.Together they had made many canoe trips to the Provinces to obtain liquor. In these expeditions, McGuire had furnished the means; but outlawed as he was, had remained in hiding while Pete transacted the business and later shared the profits. Pete’s hut had also been used as headquarters, and near by it the smuggled liquor had been secreted.
On rare occasions, also, McGuire had broken away from his usual abstemiousness, and here, with Pete for companion, had indulged in an orgie. At these times he invariably boasted how cunning he had been in eluding all hated officers of the law, how much money he was worth, and how securely he had it hidden. The one most pertinent fact, the location of this hiding spot, he never betrayed. But now Pete–almost as shrewd as he–reasoned that it would most likely be somewhere in this region annually visited by him.
To find this was a hard problem; to find McGuire’s hiding spot for his money more so. It meant trailing a human being of greater cunning than any animal that roamed this wilderness; and yet with the double incentive of robbing and revenge now decided upon by this half-breed, he set about solving it.
A day’s journey up the Fox Hole brought him tothe carry over into another stream, and here a probably month-old trail, crossing and recrossing it, was found. Whoever left the tell-tale footprints wore boots, and as McGuire was the only hunter or trapper in this region known to wear them, this seemed evidence that it was he. Then as two trails led over, with only one returning, that proved he had made two trips across to carry his canoe and belongings and had not returned. This was plain enough, but when once over, the question of whether he went up or down stream was another matter. It was an even chance, however, and Pete decided to go up, and keep sharp watch for any signs which would indicate that he was on the right track. To trail any animal in this wilderness was child’s play to Pete; but to follow another trapper journeying by canoe was not so easy. Halts for night camps he must of course make, collections of drift in some narrow part of the stream he would inevitably disturb, and where a carry around a rapid came, a trail would be left. These were the only signs possible to discover, and for these Pete now watched.
The slow-running waterway he ascended the first day wound through a stately forest of spruce. Its banks were low and well defined, yet always covered by undergrowth. No breaks in them, no openingswhere a night halt would naturally be made; but ever of the same unvarying character, and shadowed by the overhang of interlaced boughs. With one eye keen to any even the slightest signs of human progress up this stream, and ears ever alert, Pete paddled on. Wildwood sights and sounds, however, were met in plenty. Once a lordly moose, seeing or smelling him, snorted and plunged away, crashing through the undergrowth. Deer were seen or heard at every turn of the stream, and dozens of muskrats were noticed swimming or diving off the bank, with now and then an otter or a mink, to vary this monotony.
But these were of no interest to Pete. He was trailing other game, and like an avenging Nemesis, slowly crept through this vast, sombre, and forbidding forest. When nightfall neared, he hauled his canoe out where a stretch of hard bank favored, and camped for the night, and when daylight came again, he pushed on. For three days this watchful, up-stream journey was continued, and then a range of low mountains began to close in, short rapids needing the use of a setting-pole were met, and at last a series of stair-like falls was sighted ahead. The sun was well down when these were reached. How long the necessary carry might be, he could nottell, and hauling out below the rapids, Pete took his rifle and crept up along the bank. So far not a sign indicating whether or not McGuire had gone up this stream had been found, but here, if anywhere, they must be met, and Pete watched eagerly for them.
Every rock where a human foot might scrape away the moss was scanned. Each bending bough and bush was observed, and when, perforce, he had to leave the rock-lined bank and make a detour, he still watched for signs.
At the top of this long pitch, the tall trees also ended, and here the stream issued from a vast bush-grown swamp devoid of timber. A few dead trees rose from it, and climbing a low spruce, Pete saw this whitened expanse of spectral cones extended for miles. It was a forbidding prospect. The stream’s course appeared visible only a few rods. It seemed hardly probable the man he was trailing would cross this swamp. No signs of his ascending this waterway had so far been met, and Pete, now discouraged, was about to return to his canoe and on the morn go back, when, glancing across the stream, he saw a tiny opening in the bushes, as if they had been pushed aside.
To cross, leaping from rock to rock in the rapids below, was his next move, and returning to wherethe fall began, there, just back from this point, and beside a ledge, were the charred embers of a camp-fire.
Weeks old, without doubt, for rain had fallen on them, and all about were the footprints of some one wearing boots.
“’Tain’t allus the bell cow that gives the most milk.”–Old Cy Walker.
Old Cywas, above all, a peaceable man, and while curiosity had led him to follow the trail of this robber and to cross this vast swamp, now that he saw the suggestive smoke sign, he hesitated about venturing nearer.
“I guess we’d best be keerful,” he whispered to Ray, “or we may wish we had been. I callate our pirate friend’s got a hidin’ spot over thar, ’n’ most likely don’t want callers. He may be only a queer old trapper a little short o’ scruples ag’in’ takin’ what he finds, ’n’ then ag’in he may be worse’n that. His campin’ spot’s ag’in’ him, anyhow.”
But the sun was now very low; a camp site must soon be found, and scarce two minutes from the time he saw this rising column of smoke, Old Cy dipped his paddle and slowly drew back into the protecting forest. Once well out of sight, the canoe was turned and they sped back down-stream and into the swamp once more. Here he turned aside into a lagoon theyhad passed, and at its head they pulled their canoe out into the bog.
The two gathered up their belongings, and picking their way out of the morass, reached the belt of hard bottom skirting the ridge. They were now out of sight from the lake, but still too near the stream to risk a camp-fire, and so Old Cy led the way along this belt until a more secluded niche in the ridge was reached, and here they began camp-making. It was a simple process. A level spot was cleared from brush, two convenient saplings denuded of their lower limbs, a cross pole was placed in suitable crotches, near-by spruces were attacked with the axe, and a bark wigwam soon resulted, and just as the darkness began to gather, a fire was started.
Both Old Cy and Ray had worked with a will, and none too soon was so much accomplished, for night was upon them, and only by the firelight could they see to complete the needful preparations.
A peculiar effect of the time, place, and their position was also noticeable; for although at least a mile away from where this smoke sign had warned them, and screened from it by a high ridge, both spoke only in whispers. More than that, the camp-fire was kept low, barely enough to cook a modest meal, and when the flame chanced to flare up, OldCy glanced aloft into the tree-tops to see if they were illumed. Not much was said, for Old Cy’s thoughts were far away, and when supper was eaten he lit his pipe and sat watching the embers while Ray studied him. Ray, too, spoke scarcely a word. All that day he had felt much the same, and while he had the most implicit confidence in Old Cy’s wisdom, now that he had advised retreat, the reasons for it became ten times more ominous to Ray.
Then again, the sombre nook in which they had camped and the vast swamp that lay between them and the protecting cabin, all had an effect. This weird feeling was also added to by the occasional cry of some night prowler far away in the forest or out in the swamp. Chip’s spites, those uncanny creatures of the imagination, also began to gather, and Ray fancied he could hear them crawling cautiously about.
“I don’t like this,” he whispered at last, “and I wish we hadn’t come. Don’t you think we had better go back soon as it’s daylight?”
“Wal, mebbe,” answered Old Cy, smiling at Ray’s nervousness. “I’ve kinder figgered we might watch out from a-top o’ the ridge when mornin’ came ’n’ see what we kin see. We might ketch sight o’ the pirate chap ’cross the lake.”
“But suppose he catches sight of us,” returned Ray, “what then?”
“I don’t mean he shall,” answered Old Cy, “so don’t git skeered. I’ll take keer on ye.”
That night, however, was the longest ever passed by Ray, for not until near morning did he fall into a fitful slumber, and scarcely had he lost himself before Old Cy was up and watching for the dawn.
Its first faint glow was visible when Ray’s eyes opened, and without waiting for fire or breakfast, they started for the top of the ridge. From here a curious sight met their eyes, for the lake and also the ridges out of which the smoke had risen were hidden beneath a white pall of fog. Back of them also, and completely coating the immense swamp, was the same sea of vapor. It soon vanished with the rising sun, and just as the ledges across the lake outlined themselves, once more that smoke sign rose aloft.
And now the two watchers could better see whence it came. Old Cy had expected to obtain sight of some hut or bark shack nestling among these rocks; but none was visible. Instead, the smoke rose out of a jagged rock, and there was not a cabin roof or sign of one anywhere.
“That feller’s in a cave,” he whispered to Ray, “an’ the smoke’s comin’ out o’ a crack, sure’s a gun!”
It seemed so, and for a half-hour the two watched it in silent amazement.
Then came another surprise, for suddenly Old Cy caught sight of a man just emerging from behind a rock fully ten rods from the rising smoke; he stooped, lifted a canoe into view, advanced to the shore, slid it halfway into the water, returned to the rock, picked up a rifle, then pushed the canoe off, and, crossing the lake, vanished into the outlet.
The two watchers on the ridge exchanged glances.
“He’s goin’ to tend his traps, an’ mebbe ourn,” Old Cy said at last, and then led the way back to their bark shack. Here he halted, and placing one hand scoop-fashion over his ear, listened intently until he caught the faint sound of a paddle touching a canoe gunwale. First slightly, then a more distinctive thud, and then less and less until the sound ceased.
“The coast’s clear,” he added, now in an exultant whisper, “an’ while the old cat’s away we’ll take a peek at his den.”
A hurried gathering of their few belongings was made, the canoe was shoved into the lagoon, and no time was lost until the lake was crossed and they drewalongside of where the smoke was still rising in a thin film. No landing was possible here, for the shore was a sheer face of upright slate, and only where this lone trapper had launched his canoe could they make one.
From here a series of outcropping slate ledges rose one above another, and between them and parallel to the shore, narrow, irregular passages partially closed by broken rock. It was all of slaty formation, jagged, serrated, and gray with moss.
Following one of these passages, Old Cy and Ray came to the ledge out of which the smoke was rising from a crevasse. It was a little lower than one in front, perhaps forty feet in breadth, double that in length, and of a more even surface. At each end was a short transverse passage hardly wide enough to walk in, and a few feet deep.
And now, after a more careful examination of the crevasse out of which the thin film of smoke rose, Old Cy began a search. Up and down each narrow passway he peeped and peered, but nowhere was a crack or cranny to be found in their walls. In places they were as high as his head, sheer faces of slate, then broken, serrated, moss-coated, or of yellow, rusty color. Here and there a stunted spruce had taken root in some crack, and over,back from the topmost ledge, this green enclosure began and continued up the low mountain. Here, also, in a sunny nook below this belting tangle of scrub spruce, were ample signs of a trapper’s occupation in the way of pelts stretched upon forked sticks and hanging from a cord crossing this niche. They were of the usual species found in this wilderness,–a dozen muskrat, with a few mink and otter skins and one lynx.
Another sign of human presence was also noted, for here a log showing axe-marks, with split wood and chips all about, was seen.
“Some o’ them pelts is ourn,” Old Cy ejaculated, glancing at the array, “an’ I’ve a notion we’d best hook on to ’em. Mebbe not, though,” he added a moment later, “it might git us into more trouble.”
But Ray was getting more and more uneasy each moment since they had landed there. It seemed to him a most dangerous exploit, and while Old Cy had hunted over this curious confusion of slate ledges and stared at the rising film of smoke, Ray had covertly watched the lake’s outlet.
“I don’t think we’d better stay here much longer,” he said at last. “We can’t tell how soon that man may come back and catch us.”
“Guess you’re right,” Old Cy asserted tersely, and after one more look at the inch-wide crack out of which the smoke rose, he led the way to their canoe.
“Thar’s a cave thar, sure’s a gun,” he muttered, as they skirted the bold shore once more, “an’ that smoke’s comin’ out on’t. I wish I dared stay here a little longer ’n’ hunt fer it.”
Old Cy was right, there was a cave there beneath the slate ledge–in fact, two caves; and in one, safe and secure, as its owner the notorious McGuire believed, were concealed the savings of his lifetime.
More than that, so near do we often come to an important discovery and miss it, Old Cy had twice leaned against a slab of slate closing the entrance to this cave and access to a fortune, the heritage of Chip McGuire.
Ray’s fears, while well founded, were needless, however. McGuire–for it was this outlaw whom they had ample reason to avoid–was many miles away. And yet so potent was the sense of danger, that neither Old Cy nor Ray thought of food, or ceased paddling one moment, until they had crossed the vast swamp and once more pulled their canoe out at the point where they had entered it the day before.
Here a brief halt for food and rest was taken; then they shouldered their light craft and started for Birch Camp.
In the meantime another canoe was ascending this winding stream, and long before nightfall, Pete Bolduc, sure that he was on the trail of McGuire, entered the ledge-bordered lake.
“If most on us cud see ourselves as the rest see us, we’d want to be hermits.”–Old Cy Walker.
Totrail an enemy who is never without a rifle and the will to use it, requires courage and Indian cunning as well. Pete Bolduc had both, and after observing the many signs of a trapper’s presence in the swamp, he knew, after he crossed it and reached this lake, that somewhere on its shores, his enemy, McGuire, had his lair.
He paused at the outlet, as did Old Cy, to scan every rod of its rocky shores, not once, but a dozen times.
The sun was now halfway down. A mellow autumn haze softened the encircling mountains and the broad, frowning peak to the right. A gentle breeze rippled the upper end of the lake, and here, in the wild rice growing along its borders, stood a deer, belly-deep in the green growth.
No thought of the blessed harmony of lake, sky, and forest, or the sequestered beauty of this spot, came to the half-breed. Revenge and murder–twindemons of his nature–were in his heart, and the Indian cunning that made him hide while he watched for signs of his enemy. The bare peak overlooking the lake soon impressed him as a vantage point, and after a half-hour of watchful listening he laid his rifle across the thwart, handy to grasp on the instant, and, seizing his paddle once more, crossed the lake to the foot of the peak.
To hide his canoe here, ascend this with pack and rifle, was the next move of this human panther, and here in a sheltering crevasse he lay and watched for his enemy.
Two hours later, and just at sunset, McGuire returned to the lake.
As usual, he, too, paused at the outlet to scan its shores. He believed himself utterly secure here, and thought no human being was likely to find this lakelet. But for all that, he was watchful. Some exploring lumberman or some pioneer trapper might cross this vast swamp and find this lake during his absence.
A brief scrutiny assured him that he was still safe from human eyes, and he crossed the lake.
From the bare cliff a single keen and vengeful eye watched him.
As usual, also, McGuire made his landing at aconvenient point, some fifty rods from his cave, and carried his canoe up and turned it over, back of a low-jutting ridge of slate. He skinned the half-dozen prizes his traps had secured that day and followed a shallow defile to his lair. Here his pelts were stretched, a slab of slate was lifted from its position in a deep, wide crevasse between two of these ledges, and McGuire crawled into his den.
Most of these movements were observed by the half-breed, who, watching ever while he plotted and planned how best to catch his enemy unawares, saw him emerge from amid the ledges again, go down to the lake, return with a pail of water, and vanish once more.
All this was a curious proceeding, for he, like Old Cy, had expected to find McGuire occupying some bark shelter, and even now he supposed there was one among this confusion of bare rocks.
Another surprise soon came to this distant watcher, for he now saw a thin column of smoke rise from a ledge and continue in varying volume until hidden by twilight.
And now, secure in his cave and quite unconscious of the watcher with murderous intent who had observed his actions, McGuire was enjoying himself. He had built a little slate fireplace within his cave.A funnel of the same easily fitted material carried the smoke up to a long, inch-wide fissure in the roof. He had a table of slate to eat from, handy by a bed filled with moss and dry grass, also pine knots for needed light.
Opening into this small cave was a lesser one, always cool and dry, for no rain nor melting snow could enter it, and here was McGuire’s pantry, and here also a half-dozen tin cans, safely hidden under a slab of slate, stuffed with gold and banknotes.
To still further protect this inner cave, he had fitted a section of slate to entirely fill its entrance.
When the last vestige of sunset had vanished and twinkling stars were reflected from the placid lake, the half-breed descended from his lookout point, and, launching his canoe, followed close to the shadowed shore and landed just above where McGuire disembarked. Indian that he was, he chose the hours of night and darkness to crawl up to the bark shelter which he expected to find, his intention being to thrust a rifle muzzle close to his enemy’s head and then pull the trigger.
But to do this required a long wait and extreme caution. His enemy surely had a camp-fire behind a ledge, and shelter as well. The smoke had seemedto rise out of a ledge, but certainly could not, and so–still unaware of McGuire’s position, yet sure that he was amid these ledges, and near a shelter–Pete grasped his rifle and crept ashore.
It was too early to surprise his enemy–time to fall asleep must be allowed. Yet so eager was the half-breed to deal death to him, that he must needs come here to wait. No chances must be taken when he did crawl up to his victim, for a false step or the rattle of a loose stone, or his form outlined against the starlit sky as he crawled over a ledge, might mean death to him instead of McGuire. And so, crouching safely in a dark nook above the landing, Pete waited, watched, and listened.
One hour passed–it seemed two–and then the half-breed crept stealthily up to where the smoke had been seen. Not by strides, or even steps, but as a panther would, lifting one foot and feeling where it would rest and then another, and all the while listening and advancing again.
It was McGuire’s habit, while staying here, to look at the weather prospects each night, and also to obtain a drink of cool lake water before going to sleep.
Often when the evenings were not too cold, hewould sit by the lake shore for a half-hour, smoking and watching its starlit or moon-glittering surface, and listening to the calls of night prowlers.
In spite of being an outlaw, devoid of moral nature, and one who preyed upon his fellow-man, he was not without sentiment, and the wild grandeur of these enclosing mountains, and the sense of security they gave, were pleasant to him. His life had been a harsh and brutal one. He had dealt in man’s lust and love of liquor. He measured all humankind by his own standard of right and wrong, and believed that he must rob others or they would rob him. He had followed that belief implicitly from the start, and would so long as he lived. He felt that every man’s hand was against him, and no reproaches of conscience had resulted from his cold-blooded killing of an officer. Never once did the thought return of the few years when a woman’s hand sought his in tenderness, nor any sense of the unspeakable horror he had decreed for his own child.
So vile a wretch seemed unfit for God’s green earth; and yet the silence of night beside this lake, and the stars mirrored on its motionless surface, soothed and satisfied him.
He grasped and struck at this enemy in a blind instinct of self-preservation.
He grasped and struck at this enemy in a blind instinct of self-preservation.
He had now and then another impulse–to some day take his savings of many years, secreted here, and go to some other country, assume another name, and lead a different life.
And now, while an unsuspected enemy was waiting for him to enter a sleep that should know no waking, he left his cave and seated himself on a shelf-like projection close to the lake, which was deep here, and the ledge shore a sheer face rising some ten feet above the water.
One hour or more this strange compound of brute and man sat there contemplating the stars, and then he suddenly detected a sound–only a faint one, the mere click of one pebble striking another.
He arose and listened.
Soon another soft, crushing sound reached him. Some animal creeping along in the passage between the ledges, he thought.
He stepped quickly to the end of the shelf. On that instant a crouching form rose upward and confronted him.
He had one moment only, but enough to see a tall man a step below him, the next a flash of spitting fire, a stinging pain in one shoulder, and this human panther leaped upon McGuire!
But life was sweet, even to McGuire, and as he grasped and struck at this enemy in a blind instinct of self-preservation as both closed in a death-grapple,one instant of awful agony came to him as a knife entered his heart–a yell of mingled hate and deadly fear, as two bodies writhed on the narrow shelf, a plunging sound, as both struck the water below–and then silence.
Death and vengeance were clasped in one eternal embrace.
“Thar’s two things it don’t pay to worry ’bout,–those ye can help ’n’ and those ye can’t.”–Old Cy Walker.
WhenOld Cy and Ray once more made their way up the Beaver Brook valley, it was with the feeling that this lone and sinister trapper might be met at any moment. They dared not leave their canoe where it might be easily found, but adopting Indian tactics, Old Cy cunningly hid it in a rank growth of swamp grass, and oft doubling on their own tracks and wading the shallow stream, left only a confusing trail.
When the deadfalls had been visited and they began gum-gathering again, they watched constantly for an enemy.
A dense forest of tall spruces is at best a weird and ill-omened spot. Its vastness appalls, its shadows seem spectral, and every natural object becomes grotesque and distorted. An overturned stump with bleaching roots appears like a hideous devilfish with arms ready to entwine and crush. A twisted tree trunk, prone, rotting, and coated withmoss, looks like a huge green serpent, and even a knot in the side of a big spruce will resemble a grinning gnome. Even the sunlight flitting through the dense canopy plays fantastic tricks, and every breath of wind becomes the moan of troubled spirits.
Something of this weird impress now assailed Old Cy and more especially Ray, and after two days of unpleasant work in this part of the wilderness, they gave it up.
“I don’t like feelin’ I’m bein’ watched,” Old Cy observed when they once more started for home, “an’ to-morrer I guess we’d best go ’nother way. Thar’s a good spruce growth over beyond the hog-back, ’n’ I’d feel safer leavin’ the canoe whar Amzi kin keep an eye on’t. We kin come up now once a week ’n’ tend the deadfalls ’n’ not leave the canoe more’n an hour.”
Little did Old Cy realize how groundless his fears now were, or that fathoms deep, in a cold, mountain-hid lake, the thieving McGuire and the implacable half-breed were now locked in the clasp of death.
A change of location, however, banished somewhat of this spectral presence, and although Old Cy was ever alert and watchful, he showed no sign of it.
Ray, more volatile and with implicit faith in hisprotector, soon returned to normal condition of mind and once more entered into the spirit of their work and sport with a keen zest.
The traps gave increased returns, the little bin where they stored their gum was filling slowly but surely, and their life at this wildwood home became enjoyable.
Neither was it all labor, for the ducks now migrating southward were alighting in the lake by thousands, a few hours’ shooting at them from ambush made glorious sport, and what with all the partridges they had secured and these additions, their ice-house was soon unable to hold another bird.
But the halcyon days of autumn were fast passing and signs of nearing winter were now visible. Ice began to form in little coves, the ducks ceased coming, soon the last of them had departed, the leaves of all hardwood trees were now joining in a hurry-scurry dance with every passing breeze, the days were of a suggestive shortness, and soon the grim and merciless snow–the White Spirit of Old Tomah–would be sweeping over the wilderness.
And then one night the Frost King silently touched that rippled lake with his wand and the next morning Old Cy and Ray looked out upon its motionless expanse of black ice. The sky was also leaden, an ominous stillness brooded over forest, lake, andmountain, and midway of that day, the first snowfall came.
Old Cy and Ray were a mile away from the cabin, busy at gum-gathering, when the first flakes sifted down through the canopied spruce tops. Soon the carpet of needles began to whiten, and by mid-afternoon they had to abandon work and return.
“I guess we come pretty clus to bein’ prisoners now,” Old Cy ejaculated when he shook himself free from the white coating on the cabin porch, “but we’ve got to make the best on’t. We’ll git warm fust ’n’ then go ’n’ fetch our canoe up ’n’ stow it in the shed. We ain’t like to want it ag’in ’fore spring. One thing is sartin,” he added, when the fire began to blaze in the open fireplace, “we are sure o’ keepin’ warm ’n’ ’nuff to eat this winter, ’n’ that’s all we really need in life, anyway. The rest on’t is mostly imagination.”
But in spite of his serene philosophy, Old Cy had dreaded the coming of winter more than Ray could guess, and all on account of that lad. He himself knew what a winter meant in this wilderness cabin, while Ray did not. Separated as they were from civilization by a full hundred miles, and from Tim’s place by forty, they were, as he stated, practically prisoners for the next five months.
To escape on snow-shoes was possible, of course, if the need arose, and yet it would be a pretty serious venture, after all.
They were in no particular danger, however. With plenty of food and fuel, they need not suffer. If the cabin burned, they could erect another shelter or use the old one. Something of diversion could be obtained from ice-fishing or gum-gathering on warm days; but not enough, as Old Cy feared, to keep Ray content and free from the megrims.
None of these fears escaped Old Cy, however. He was too wise for that; and moreover, in order to inspire Ray, he now began to affect an almost boyish interest in the snow coming and its enjoyments.
“We can’t do much more trappin’,” he said that first winter evening beside the fire while the snow beat against the windows, “but we kin hev some fun keepin’ warm an’ cookin’, ’n’ when the snow hardens a bit we kin go fer gum again, or set tip-ups. We’ve got more’n a million shiners in the cage up the brook, ’n’ ’fore it gits too cold, we’ll ketch a lot o’ trout.”
It was this faculty for adaptation to the situation, this making the best of all circumstances and seizing all opportunities for pleasure or profit, that was Old Cy’s woodwise characteristic. No matter if itstormed, he knew that the sun shone behind the clouds. No matter if they were utterly isolated in this wilderness, he still saw ways of enjoyment, and even when snowbound, or shut in by zero weather, he would still find interest in cooking, keeping warm, or getting ready to fish, or in gathering gum, when the chance came.
But winter had now come upon them with a sudden swoop. The next day snow fell incessantly, and when the sun shone again, a two-foot level of it hid the lake.
Then, as if to test Ray’s spirits, the temperature kept well below freezing for the next week, the wind blew continuously, sweeping the snow into drifts, and all the three could do, as Old Cy said, was to “cook vittles and keep warm.”
And now for the first time, Ray began to show homesickness. From the day Chip had left, not once had he mentioned her or his aunt or uncle in any way. He had kept step, as it were, with Old Cy in all things adventurous as well as labor and sport.
The possible, even certain gain in the money value of the furs and gum which they had secured, coupled with their adventurous life, had occupied his every thought; but now that he could only help Old Cy indoors, he began to mope.
“I wonder what they are doing now down in Greenvale,” he said one evening after they had gathered about the fire. “I wish we could hear from ’em.”
It was the first sign of homesickness which Old Cy had so long dreaded to see in him.
“Oh, they ain’t havin’ half the fun we are,” Old Cy answered cheerfully. “Jest now I callate Chip’s studyin’ ’longside o’ Aunt Comfort’s fire; mebbe Angie ’n’ Martin’s over to Dr. Sol’s, swappin’ yarns. To-morrer Chip’ll go ter school, ez usual, ’n’ when Sunday comes they’ll all dress up ’n’ go ter meetin’. One thing is sartin, they ain’t takin’ any more comfort’n we are, or gittin’ better things to eat. If the weather warms up, ez I callate it will in a day or two, we’ll pull some trout out o’ the lake that ’ud make all Greenvale stare. They allus bite sharp arter a cold spell. Ez fer Chip,” he continued, eying Ray’s sober face, “she ain’t goin’ to fergit ye, never fear, an’ when I take ye out o’ the woods in the spring ’n’ start ye fer Greenvale with five hundred dollars in yer inside pocket, ez I callate, ye’ll feel’s though ye owned the hull town when ye git thar, an’ Chip’ll feel ez tho’ she owned ye.”
“I wish I could hear how they are once in a while,” Ray rejoined. “They may be sick.”
That “they” meant Chip was self-evident.
Once a mood comes upon a person, it is hard to change it, and of all the moods that torture poor human beings, the love mood is the most implacable. While the zest of trapping was upon Ray, he was himself and a cheerful enough lad. There had also been the spice of danger from this unknown, thieving trapper; but when both had vanished, and all that was left for excitement was the monotony of indoor life, with occasional half-days when fishing through the ice was permissible, his spirits fell to low tide.
Old Cy had feared this from the outset, but believing that the experience here was the best possible for the boy, to say nothing of the financial side, he had brought it about. And now he had his hands full.
But he was equal to it. Next to sport, work, he knew, was the best panacea for any mental disorder, and work a-plenty he now found for Ray. First, it had been the making of tip-ups for use on the lake, then snow-shoes for both of them, and then cutting and splitting more wood. They had an ample supply already, piled high in a lean-to alongside the big cabin, but Old Cy asserted that it was not enough, and so more was added.
The paths, one to the lake to obtain water and one to the ice-house, were allotted to Ray to keep open.
A few days were consumed in filling the ice-house once more, and when a warm day came, Old Cy led the way to the sheltered side of the lake, as enthusiastic as a boy, to begin cutting holes and setting lines for fishing.
This especially interested Ray, and one good day with a fine catch of trout would revive his spirits for some time.
Each and every evening, also, when the social side came, Old Cy, always a prolific story-teller, would engage in his favorite pastime for a purpose.
And what a marvellous fund he had to draw from! All the years when he, a sailor boy, had sailed afar, all the strange countries and people he had visited, and all the mishaps he had met were now levied upon.
When these failed–and it was not soon–his wilderness wanderings before he settled down at Greenvale furnished tales, and when facts became scarce, his fancies came into play, and many a thrilling shipwreck and hair-breadth escape that never happened, held Ray’s attention for a long evening.
The banjo also helped out for many an hour. The old hermit with his jews’-harp joined in, and although Ray’s fingers were prone to stray to “solemn” tunes, Old Cy persisted in his calls for livelier songs, even to the extent of adding his voice; and so the first few weeks of winter wore away.
When Christmas neared, however, Ray had a “spell.” It had been a calendar day in his memory, and he had been one of the crowd of young folks who made merry in the usual ways; but now no cheer was possible, he believed, and once more he began to look glum.
It may seem rank foolishness and doubtless was, yet Ray, like all humanity, must be measured by his years and judged by his surroundings.
In Greenvale he had been one of fifty schoolmates whose lives and moods were akin, and whose enjoyments must be much the same. Here he was, in a way, utterly alone so far as age means companionship, and worse than that, one of his two companions was morose and misanthropic. True, he twanged his jews’-harp in tune with Ray’s plantation melodies, but when that bond of feeling ceased, he lapsed into chill silence once more.
But Old Cy, wise philosopher that he was, saw and felt every mood and tense that came to Ray, and, seeing thus, forestalled each and every one.
“Christmas is ’most here,” he said to Ray, a few days before, “an’ I’ve been figgerin’ we three ought to celebrate it ’cordin’ to the best o’ our means. We can’t do much in the way o’ gifts, but we kin bust ourselves with vittles ’n’ have some fun, just the same. I’ve kinder mapped out the day sorter this way, if it’s pleasant. Fust, we’ll hev an arly breakfast, then pack a lot o’ things on the hand-sled, go ’cross the lake ’n’ round to the cove facin’ the south. Here we’ll cut a few holes, set some lines, ’n’ while you’re tendin’ ’em, Amzi ’n’ me’ll clear a spot under the bank, build a bough lean-to facin’ the sun, spread blankets in it, ’n’ when noon comes, cook a meal fit fer the gods. We kin hev briled venison, fried trout jist out o’ the water, boiled taters, hot coffee, ’n’ an appetite that’ll make ye lick yer fingers ’n’ holler fer more. If only the sun shines, we kin hev a heap o’ fun.”
It was all a boyish diversion as planned by Old Cy, and the sole object was to tide Ray over a day that might add to his homesickness. The weather favored this kindly interest.
Christmas morn opened warm, and but for the deep snow it might have been an October day. Old Cy’s romantic plan also materialized to the fullest, and when his green bough shed, with carpet of the same, was completed, the fire in front blazing cheerfully and dinner cooking, it was all a picture well worth a study.
Then as if to prove that good luck trots in double harness, about this time the trout began to bite, and the line of tip-ups across the cove were flagging exciting signals that kept Ray and the old hermit on the jump. Even when their picturesque Christmas dinner was spread upon an improvised table in front of the bough shelter, Ray could hardly leave the sport to eat, and Old Cy had to interfere.
“We ain’t ketchin’ fish to sell,” he said to Ray, “but jist fer fun. You’ve got more’n we kin eat in two weeks, so give ’em a rest.”
When dinner was over there came a lazy lounging hour on the fir boughs in the warm sun, while Old Cy smoked his pipe of content.
Ray, however, could not resist the signal flags any longer, and as soon as the meal was eaten he was out tending them again.
When the sun was halfway down, again thehappy trio broke camp and returned to the cabin, carrying fish enough to feed a multitude. That evening Old Cy told stories as usual, Ray picked his banjo and sang lively songs, and so ended Christmas in the wilderness.
Our lives are but a succession of moods, varying ever as our surroundings change; and so it was with Ray, isolated as he was with two old men for companions. With work or sport to interest him, he was cheerful and content. But when, as now happened, another long and heavy snowfall succeeded that mellow Christmas Day, he grew morose. It was selfish, perhaps, and thoughtless, as youth ever is, and yet not surprising; for when the sun shone again, they were practically buried under snow. It took an entire day, with all three working, to shovel paths to the lake and ice-house, and when that was done there was naught else except to cook and keep the fire going. A few days of this bore heavily on Ray’s spirits, and he became so glum that Old Cy took him to task.
“You’ve got to brace up, my boy,” he said one evening, “an’ likewise count yer blessin’s. We are shut up fer a spell, but think how much worse off ye might be. We’ve got plenty to eat ’n’ keepwarm with, thar’s a good three hundred pounds o’ gum we got, an’ it’s worth over four hundred dollars, say nothin’ o’ the furs, ’n’ all yourn. Then, ’nother thing, ye mustn’t keep broodin’ over yer own lonesomeness so much. I’ll ’low ye’re kind o’ anxious to see the little gal ag’in, as is nat’ral; but s’pose it was two years ye hed to look forrard to, a-waitin’, an’ then on top o’ that, arter waitin’ so long, ye hed to face three more, with never a chance to larn whether she was dead or alive!”
And now Old Cy paused, and watched the low-burning fire as if living once more in bygone days.
“It seems a long time, these months,” he continued at last, glancing at Ray, “an’ so ’tis; but I had a longer spell on’t once, an’ it ended the way I hope your waitin’ won’t. It all happened more’n forty years ago, ’n’ I’ve never told nobody ’bout it since.
“I was born in Bayport, that’s a seaport town, an’ me ’n’ my only brother took to the sea at an arly age. We had sweethearts, too, and, curislike, they was sisters. Mine was Abbie Grey–sweet Abbie Grey they used to call her, an’ she well desarved it.
“Wal, I used to see her ’tween viages, mebbe a week or two, onct in six or twelve months o’waitin’, an’ them was spells I’ve lived over hundreds o’ times, I kin tell ye. We ’greed to hitch up finally arter I made one more viage, ’n’ I went off, feelin’ life ahead was all apple orchards ’n’ sunshine.”
He paused, looked long at the dying embers once more, and then continued: “Life is all a mix-up o’ hopes ’n’ disapp’intments, tho’, an’ the brighter the hopes the more sartin they are to be upset. I started on that viage feelin’ heaven was waitin’ fer me at shore, ’n’ I seemed to ’a’ sailed right into the other place, fer our ship sprung a leak ’n’ foundered. We took to the boats, ez I told ye onct. Most o’ my crew died afore I was picked up, ’n’ then the whaler that took me aboard was bound on a four years’ viage. That was bad enough, but worse was possible, fer she fetched up on a coral island one night toward the last on’t, and ’twas plumb six years ’fore I heard from home ’n’ Abbie. Things had happened thar in that time, too, an’ I was told my brother had been given up ez lost, ’n’ Abbie, believin’ we both was dead, had married ’nother man. I was so upsot I never let her know I was alive, ’n’ she don’t know it to-day, if she’s still livin’, which I hope she is.”
For a long time now Old Cy remained silent,his head bowed, his eyes closed, as that long-ago page of memories returned, while Ray watched him.
“Life is a curis puzzle,” he added at last, “an’ we all live in to-morrers. Fust we are like boys chasin’ Jack-lanterns, rushin’ on all the time, ’spectin’ most o’ the trouble is past ’n’ the future is all rosy. We don’t figger much on to-day, but callate next week, next month, next year, is goin’ to be more sunshiny, till we get old ’n’ gray ’n’ grumpy, ’n’ nobody wants us ’round.”
Once more he ceased speaking, and once more his eyes closed. Five, ten, twenty minutes passed while Ray watched Old Age in repose and the fire quite died away.
“It’s gittin’ chilly,” Old Cy said at last, suddenly rousing himself from his dream of the long ago and sweet Abbie Grey, “an’ we’d best turn in.”