diff options
Diffstat (limited to '13946-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 13946-0.txt | 7941 |
1 files changed, 7941 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/13946-0.txt b/13946-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6aa7c4b --- /dev/null +++ b/13946-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7941 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13946 *** + +Camp and Trail + +A Story of the Maine Woods + +by Isabel Hornibrook + +[Illustration] + +TO + +J.L.H. + +[Illustration: The Moose Was Now Snorting Like a War-Horse Beneath] + +Preface + + +In adding another to the list of stories bearing on that subject of +perennial interest to boys, adventures in camp and on trail among the +woods and lakes of Northern Maine, one thought has been the inspiration +that led me on. + +It is this: To prove to high-mettled lads, American, and English as +well, that forest quarters, to be the most jovial quarters on earth, +need not be made a shambles. Sensation may reach its finest pitch, +excitement be an unfailing fillip, and fun the leaven which leavens the +camping-trip from start to finish, even though the triumph of killing +for triumph’s sake be left out of the play-bill. + +“There is a higher sport in preservation than in destruction,” says a +veteran hunter, whose forest experiences and descriptions have in part +enriched this story. I commend the opinion to boy-readers, trusting +that they may become “queer specimen sportsmen,” after the pattern of +Cyrus Garst; and find a more entrancing excitement in studying the live +wild things of the forest than in gloating over a dying tremor, or +examining a senseless mass of horn, hide, and hoofs, after the +life-spring which worked the mechanism has been stilled forever. + +One other desire has trodden on the heels of the first: That Young +England and Young America may be inspired with a wish to understand +each other better, to take each other frankly and simply for the +manhood in each; and that thus misconception and prejudice may +disappear like mists of an old-day dream. + +ISABEL HORNIBROOK. + + +Contents + + Chapter I. Jacking For Deer + Chapter II. A Spill-Out + Chapter III. Life in a Bark Hut + Chapter IV. Whither Bound? + Chapter V. A Coon Hunt + Chapter VI. After Black Ducks + Chapter VII. A Forest Guide-Post + Chapter VIII. Another Camp + Chapter IX. A Sunday Among the Pines + Chapter X. Forward All! + Chapter XI. Beaver Works + Chapter XII. “Go It, Old Bruin!” + Chapter XIII. “The Skin Is Yours.” + Chapter XIV. A Lucky Hunter + Chapter XV. A Fallen King + Chapter XVI. Moose-Calling + Chapter XVII. Herb’s Yarns + Chapter XVIII. To Lonelier Wilds + Chapter XIX. Treed By a Moose + Chapter XX. Triumph + Chapter XXI. On Katahdin + Chapter XXII. The Old Home-Camp + Chapter XXIII. Brother's Work + Chapter XXIV. “Keeping Things Even” + Chapter XXV. A Little Caribou Quarrel + Chapter XXVI. Doc Again + Chapter XXVII. Christmas on the Other Side + +List Of Illustrations + + The Moose Was Now Snorting Like A War-Horse Beneath. + “There Is Moosehead Lake.” + Dol Sights A Friendly Camp. + In The Shadow Of Katahdin. + “Go It, Old Bruin! Go It While You Can!” + “Herb Heal.” + A Fallen King. + The Camp On Millinokett Lake. + “Herb Charged Through The Choking Dust-Clouds.” + Greenville,—“Farewell To The Woods.” + + + + +Camp And Trail + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter I. Jacking For Deer + + +“Now, Neal Farrar, you’ve got to be as still as the night itself, +remember. If you bounce, or turn, or draw a long breath, you won’t have +a rag of reputation as a deer-hunter to take back to England. Sneeze +once, and we’re done for. That means more diet of flapjacks and pork, +instead of venison steaks. And I guess your city appetite won’t rally +to pork much longer, even in the wilds.” + +Neal Farrar sighed as if there was something in that. + +“But, you know, it’s just when an unlucky fellow would give his life +not to sneeze that he’s sure to bring out a thumping big one,” he said +plaintively. + +“Well, keep it back like a hero if your head bursts in the attempt,” +was the reply with a muffled laugh. “When you know that the canoe is +gliding along somehow, but you can’t hear a sound or feel a motion, and +you begin to wonder whether you’re in the air or on water, flying or +floating, imagine that you’re the ghost of some old Indian hunter who +used to jack for deer on Squaw Pond, and be stonily silent.” + +“Oh! I say, stop chaffing,” whispered Neal impetuously. “You’re enough +to make a fellow feel creepy before ever he starts. I could bear the +worst racket on earth better than a dead quiet.” + +This dialogue was exchanged in low but excited voices between a young +man of about one and twenty, and a lad who was apparently five years +his junior, while they waded knee-deep in water among the long, rank +grasses and circular pads of water-lilies which border the banks of +Squaw Pond, a small lake in the forest region of northern Maine. + +The hour was somewhere about eleven +o’clock. The night was intensely still, without a zephyr stirring among +the trees, and of that wavering darkness caused by a half-clouded moon. +On the black and green water close to the bank rocked a light +birch-bark canoe, a ticklish craft, which a puff might overturn. The +young man who had urged the necessity for silence was groping round it, +fumbling with the sharp bow, in which he fixed a short pole or +“jack-staff,” with some object—at present no one could discern what—on +top. + +“There, I’ve got the jack rigged up!” he whispered presently. “Step in +now, Neal, and I’ll open it. Have you got your rifle at half-cock? +That’s right. Be careful. A fellow would need to have his hair parted +in the middle in a birch box like this. Remember, mum’s the word!” + +The lad obeyed, seating himself as noiselessly as he could in the bow +of the canoe, and threw his rifle on his shoulder in a convenient +position for shooting, with a freedom which showed he was accustomed to +firearms. + +At the same time his companion stepped into the canoe, having first +touched the dark object on the pole just over Neal’s head. Instantly +it changed into a brilliant, scintillating, silvery eye, which flashed +forward a stream of white light on a line with the pointed gun, cutting +the black face of the pond in twain as with a silver blade, and making +the leaves on shore glisten like oxidized coins. + +The effect of this sudden illumination was so sudden and beautiful that +the boy for a minute or two held his rifle in unsteady hands while the +canoe glided out from the bank. An exclamation began in his throat +which ended in an indistinct gurgle. Remembering that he was pledged to +silence, he settled himself to be as wordless and motionless as if his +living body had become a statue. + +From his position no revealing radiance fell on him. He sat in shadow +beside that glinting eye, which was really a good-sized lantern, fitted +at the back with a powerful silvered reflector, and in front with a +glass lens, the light being thrown directly ahead. It was provided also +with a sliding door that could be noiselessly slipped over the glass +with a touch, causing the blackness of a total eclipse. + +This was the deer-hunters’ “jack-lamp,” familiarly called by Neal’s +companion the “jack.” + +And now it may be readily guessed in what thrilling night-work these +canoe-men are engaged as they skim over Squaw Pond, with no swish of +paddle, nor jar of motion, nor even a noisy breath, disturbing the +brooding silence through which they glide. They are “jacking” or +“floating” for deer, showing the radiant eye of their silvery jack to +attract any antlered buck or graceful doe which may come forth from the +screen of the forest to drink at this quiet hour amid the tangled +grasses and lily-pads at the pond’s brink. + +Now, a deer, be it buck, doe, or fawn in the spotted coat, will stand +as if moonstruck, if it hears no sound; to gaze at the lantern, +studying the meteor which has crossed its world as an astronomer might +investigate a rare, radiant comet. So it offers a steady mark for the +sportsman’s bullet, if he can glide near enough to discern its outline +and take aim. There is one exception to this rule. If the wary animal +has ever been startled by a shot fired from under the jack, trust him +never to watch a light again, though it shine like the Kohinoor. + +As for Neal Farrar, this was his first attempt at playing the part of +midnight hunter; and I am bound to say that—being English +born and city bred—he found the situation much too mystifying for his +peace of mind. + +He knew that the canoe was moving, moving rapidly; for giant pines +along the shore, looking solid and black as mourning pillars, shot by +him as if theirs were the motion, with an effect indescribably weird. +Now and again a gray pine stump, appearing, if the light struck it, +twice its real size, passed like a shimmering ghost. But he felt not +the slightest tremor of advance, heard no swish or ripple of paddle. + +A moisture oozed from his skin, and gathered in heavy drips under the +brim of his hat, as he began to wonder whether the light bark skiff was +working through the water at all, or skimming in some unnatural way +above it. For the life of him he could not settle this doubt. And, +fearful of balking the expedition by a stir, he dared not turn his head +to investigate the doings of his comrade, Cyrus Garst. + +Cyrus, though also city bred, was an American, and evidently an old +hand at the present business. The Maine wilds had long been his +playground. He had studied the knack of noiseless paddling under the +teaching of a skilled forest guide until he fairly brought it +to perfection. And, in perfection, it is about the most wizard-like art +practised in the nineteenth century. + +The silent propulsion was managed thus: the grand master of the paddle +gripped its cross handle in both hands, working it so that its broad +blade cut the water first backward then forward so dexterously that not +even his own practised hearing could detect a sound; nor could he any +more than Neal feel a sensation of motion. + +The birch-bark skiff skimmed onward as if borne on unseen pinions. + +To Neal Farrar, who had been brought up amid the tumult of rival noises +and the practical surroundings of Manchester, England, who was a +stranger to the solitudes of primitive forests, and almost a stranger +to weird experiences, the silent advance was a mystery. And it began to +be a hateful one; for he had not even the poor explanation of it which +has been given in this record. + +It was only his third night in Maine wilds; and I fear that his friend +Cyrus, when inviting him to join in the jacking excursion, had +refrained from explaining the canoe mystery, mischievously promising +himself considerable fun from the English lad’s bewilderment. + +Neal’s hearing was strained to catch any sound of big game beating +about amid the bushes on shore or splashing in the water, but none +reached him. The night seemed to grow stiller, stiller, ever stiller, +as they glided towards the head of the pond, until the dead quiet +started strange, imaginary noises. + +There was a pounding as of dull hammers in his ears, a belling in his +head, and a drumming at his heart. + +He was tortured by a wild desire to yell his loudest, and defy the +brooding silence. + +Another—a midnight watchman—broke it instead. + +“Whoo-ho-ho-whah-whoo!” + +It was the thrilling scream of a big-eyed owl as he chased a squirrel +to its death, and proceeded to banquet in unwinking solemnity. + +“Whoo-ho-ho-whah-whoo!” + +Neal started,—who wouldn’t?—and joggled the canoe, thereby nearly +ending the night hunt at once by the untimely discharge of his rifle. + +He had barely regained some measure of steadiness, though he felt as if +needles were sticking into him all over, when at last there was a +crashing amid the bushes on the right bank, not a hundred yards +distant. + +Noiselessly as ever the canoe shot around, turning the jack’s eye in +that direction. A minute later a magnificent buck, swinging his antlers +proudly, dashed into the pond, and stooped his small red tongue to +drink, licking in the water greedily with a soft, lapping sound. + +Neal silently cocked his rifle, almost choking with excitement; then +paused for a few seconds to brace up and control the nervous terrors +which had possessed him, before his eye singled out the spot in the +deer’s neck which his bullet must pierce. But he found his operations +further delayed; for the animal suddenly lifted its head, scattered +feathery spray from its horns and hoofs, and retired a few steps up the +bank. + +In its former position every part of its body was visibly outlined +under the silver light of the jack. Now a successful shot would be +difficult, though it might be managed. The boy leaned slightly forward, +trying to hold his gun dead straight and take cool aim, when the most +curious of all the curious sensations he had felt this night ran +through him, seeming to scorch like electricity from his scalp to his +feet. + +From the stand which the deer had taken, +its body was in shadow. All that the sportsman could discern were two +living, glowing eyes, staring—so it appeared to him—straight into his, +like starry search-lights, as if they read the death-purpose in the +boy’s heart, and begged him to desist. + +It was all over with Neal Farrar’s shot. He lowered his rifle, while +the speech, which could no longer be repressed, rattled in his throat +before it broke forth. + +“I’ll go crazy if I don’t speak!” he cried. + +At the first word the buck went scudding like the wind through the +forest, doubtless vowing by the shades of his ancestors that he never +would stand to gaze at a light again. + +“And—and—I can’t shoot the thing while it’s looking at me like that!” +the boy blurted out. + +“You dunderhead! What do you mean?” gasped Cyrus, breaking silence in a +gusty whisper of mingled anger and amusement. “You won’t get a chance +to shoot it or anything else now. You’ve lost us our meat for +to-night.” + +“Well, I couldn’t help it,” Neal whispered back. “For pity’s sake, what +has been moving this canoe? The quiet was enough to set a fellow mad! +And then that buck stared +straight at me like a human thing. I could see nothing but two burning +eyes with white rings round them.” + +“Stuff!” was the American’s answer. “He was gazing at the jack, not at +you. He couldn’t see an inch of you with that light just over your +head. But it would have been a hard shot anyhow, for his nose was +towards you, and ten to one you’d have made a clean miss.” + +“Well,” he added, after five minutes of acute listening, “I guess we +may give over jacking for to-night. That first cry of yours was enough +to set a regiment of deer scampering. I’m only half mad after all at +your losing a chance at such a splendid buck. It was something to see +him as he stooped to drink in the glare of the jack, a midnight forest +picture such as one wants to remember. Long may he flourish! We +wouldn’t have started out to rid him of his glorious life if we weren’t +half-starved on flapjacks and ends of pork. Let’s get back to camp! I +guess you felt a few new sensations to-night, eh, Neal Farrar?” + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter II. A Spill-Out + + +Indeed, shocks and sensations seemed to ride rampant that night in +endless succession; a fact which Neal presently realized, as does every +daring young fellow who visits the Maine wilderness for the first time, +whatever be his object. + +Ere turning the canoe towards home, Cyrus drove it a few feet nearer to +shore, again warily listening for any further sound of game. Just then +another wild, whooping scream cleft the night air; and, on looking +towards the bank, Neal beheld his owlship, who had finished the +squirrel, seated on an aged windfall,[1] one end of which dipped into +the water. The gray bird on the gray old trunk formed a second +thrilling midnight picture, but at this moment young Farrar was in no +mood for studying effects. He felt rather unstrung by his recent +emotions; and, though he was by no means an imaginative youth, he +actually took it into his head half seriously that the whooping, +hooting thing was taunting him with making a failure of the jacking +business. Without pausing to consider whether the owl would furnish +meat for the camp or not, he let fly at him suddenly with his rifle. + + [1] A forest tree which has been blown down. + +The fate of that ghostly, big-eyed creature will be forever one of +those mysteries which Neal Farrar would like to solve. Whether the +heavy bullet intended for deer laid him open—which is improbable—or +whether it didn’t, nobody had a chance to discover. Being unused to +birch-bark canoes, the sportsman gave a slight lurch aside after he had +discharged his leaden messenger of death, startled doubtless by the +loud, unexpected echoes which reverberated through the forest after his +shot. + +“Hold on!” cried Cyrus, trying to avert a ducking by a counter-motion. +“You’ll tip us over!” + +Too late! The birch skiff spun round, +rocked crazily for a second or two, and keeled over, spilling both its +occupants into the black and silver water of the pond. + +Of course they ducked under, and of course they rose, gurgling and +spluttering. + +“You didn’t lose the rifle, Neal, did you?” gasped the American +directly he could speak. + +“Not I! I held on to it like grim death.” + +“Good for you! To lose a hundred-and-fifty-dollar gun when we’re +starting into the wilds would be maddening.” + +Then, just because they were extremely healthy, happy, vigorous +fellows, whose lungs had been drinking in pure, exhilarating ozone and +fragrant odors of pine-balsam and were thereby expanded, they took a +cheerful view of this duck under, and made the midnight forest echo, +echo, and re-echo, with peals and gusts and shouts of laughter, while +they struggled to right their canoe. + +The merry jingles rang on in challenge and answer, repeating from both +sides of the pond, until they reached at last the wooded slopes and +mighty bowlders of Old Squaw Mountain, a peak whose “star-crowned head” +could be imagined rather than discerned against the horizon, near the +distant shore from which the hunters had started. Here +echo ran riot. It seemed to their excited fancies as if the ghost of +Old Squaw herself, the disappointed Indian mother who had, according to +tradition, lived so long in loneliness upon this mountain, were joining +in their mirth with haggish peals. + +The canoe had turned bottom uppermost. On righting it they found that +the jack-staff had been dislodged. The jack was floating gayly away +over the ripples; its light, being in an air-tight case, was +unquenched. + +“Swim ashore with the rifle, Neal,” said Cyrus. “I’ll pick up the jack. +Did you ever see anything so absurdly comical as it looks, dodging off +on its own hook like a big, wandering eye?” + +With his comrade’s help young Farrar succeeded in getting the gun +across his back, slinging it round him by its leather shoulder-strap; +then he struck out for the bank, having scarcely twenty yards to swim +before he reached shallow water. + +Now, for the first time to-night, the moon shone fully out from her +veil of cloud, casting a flood of silver radiance, and showing him a +scene in white and black, still and clear as a steel engraving, of a +beauty so unimagined and grand that it seemed a little awful. It +gave him a sudden respect for the unreclaimed, seldom-trodden region to +which his craving for adventure had brought him. + +The outline of Old Squaw Mountain could be plainly discerned, a dark, +towering shape against the horizon. A few stars glinted like a diamond +diadem above its brow. Down its sides and from the base stretched a +sable mantle of forest, enwrapping Squaw Pond, of which the moon made a +mirror. + +“My! I think this would make the fellows in Manchester open their eyes +a bit,” muttered Neal aloud. “Only one feels as if he ought to see some +old Indian brave such as Cyrus tells about,—a Touch-the-Cloud, or +Whistling Elk, or Spotted Tail, come gliding towards him out of the +woods in his paint and feather toggery. Glad I didn’t visit Maine a +hundred years ago, though, when there’d have been a chance of such a +meeting.” + +Still muttering, young Farrar kicked off his high rubber boots, and +dragged off his coat. He proceeded to shake and wring the water from +his upper garments, listening intently, and glancing half expectantly +into the pitch-black shadows at the edges of the forest, as if he might +hear the stealthy steps and see +the savage form of the superseded red man emerge therefrom. + +“Ugh! I mind the ducking now more than I did a while ago,” he murmured. +“The water wasn’t cold. Why, we bathed at the other end of the pond +late last evening! But these wet clothes are precious uncomfortable. I +wish we were nearer to camp. Good Gracious! What’s that?” + +He stood stock-still and erect, his flesh shrinking a little, while his +drenched flannel shirt clung yet more closely and clammily to his skin. + +A distant noise was wafted to his ears through the forest behind. It +began like the gentle, mellow lowing of a cow at evening, swelled into +a quavering, appealing crescendo cadence, and gradually died away. +Almost as the last note ceased another commenced at the same low pitch, +with only the rest of a heart-beat between the two, and surged forth +into a plaintive yet tempestuous call, which sank as before. It was +followed by a third, terminating in an impatient roar. The weird solo +ran through several scales in its performance, rising, wailing, +booming, sinking, ever varying in expression. It marked a new era in +Neal’s experience of sounds, and +left him choking with bewilderment about what sort of forest creature +it could be which uttered such a call. + +He began to get out some bungling description when Cyrus joined him +shortly afterwards, but the American had had a lively time of it while +recovering his jack-light and righting the canoe on mid-pond. He was in +no mood for explanations. + +“Keep the yarn, whatever it is, till to-morrow, Neal,” he said. “I +didn’t hear anything special. Perhaps I was too far away. I’m so wet +and jaded that I feel as limp as a washed-out rag. Let’s get back to +camp as fast as we can.” + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter III. Life in a Bark Hut + + +It was two o’clock in the morning when the tired, draggled pair +stumbled ashore at the place where they embarked, hauled up their birch +skiff, leaving it to repose, bottom uppermost, under a screen of +bushes, and then stood for some minutes in deliberation. + +“I’m sure I hope we can find the trail all right,” said Cyrus. “Yes, I +see the blazes on the trees. Here’s luck!” + +He had been turning the jack-lamp on either side of him, trying to +discover the “blazes,” or notches cut in some of the trunks, which +marked the “blazed trail”—in other words, the spotted line through the +otherwise trackless forest, which would lead him whither he wanted to +go. + +It required considerable experience and unending watchfulness to follow +these “blazes”; but young Garst seemed to have the instinct of a true +woodsman, and went ahead unfalteringly, if vigilantly, while Neal +followed closely in his tracks. + +After rather a lengthy trudge, they reached a point where the ground +sloped gently upward into a low bluff. Still keeping to the trail, they +ascended this eminence, finding the forest not so dense, and the +walking easier than it had been hitherto. Gaining the top, they emerged +upon an open patch, which had been cleared of its erect, massive pines, +and the long-hidden earth laid bare to the sky by the lumberman’s axe. + +Here the eagerly desired sight—that sight of all others to the tired +camper; namely, the camp itself, with its cheery, blazing +camp-fire—burst upon their view, sheltered by a group of sapling pines, +which had grown up since their giant brothers went to make timber. + +Now, a Maine camp, as every one knows, may consist of any temporary +shelter you choose to name, according to the tastes and +opportunities of its occupants, from a fair white canvas home to a log +cabin or a hastily erected canopy of spruce boughs. In the present +instance it was a “wangen,” or hut of strong bark, such as is sometimes +used by lumbermen to rest and sleep in when they are driving their +floats of timber down one of the rivers of this region to a distant +town, which is a centre of the lumber trade. + +Cyrus and Neal were making across the clearing in the direction of the +camp-fire with revived spirits, when the American suddenly grabbed his +friend by the arm, and drew him behind a clump of low bushes. + +“Hold on a minute!” he whispered. “By all that’s glorious, there’s +Uncle Eb singing his favorite song! It’s worth hearing. You never +listened to such music in England.” + +“I don’t suppose I ever did,” answered Neal, suppressed laughter making +him shake. + +Upon a gray pine stump, beside the blaze, which he was feeding with a +hemlock bough, sat a battered-looking yet lively personage. Had he been +standing upright upon the remnant of trunk, he would certainly, in the +bright but changeful firelight, have deceived an onlooker into +believing him to be a continuation +of it; for the baggy tweed trousers which he wore on his immense legs, +and which partially hid his loose-fitting brogans, or woodsman’s boots, +his thick, knitted jersey, his mop of woolly hair, with the cap of +coon’s fur that adorned it, were a striking mixture of grays, all +bordering upon the color of the stump. His skin, however, was a fine +contrast, shining as he bent towards the flame like the outside of a +copper kettle. In daylight it would be three shades darker, because the +thick coral lips, gleaming teeth, and prominent, friendly eyes of the +individual, betrayed him to be in his own words, “a colored gen’leman;” +that is, a full-blooded negro, and a free American citizen. + +Beside him, squatting upon his haunches and wagging his shaggy tail, +was a good-sized dog, not of pure breed, but undoubtedly possessed of +fire and fidelity, as was shown by the eye he raised to his master. His +red coat and general formation showed that his father had been an Irish +setter, though he seemed to have other and fiercer blood in his veins, +mingling with that of this gentle parent. + +To him the negro was chanting a war-song,—some lines by a popular +writer which he +had found in an old newspaper, and had set to a curious tune of his own +composition, rendering the performance more inspiriting by sundry wild +whoops, and an occasional whacking of his teeth together. + +Here are two verses, under the influence of which the dog worked +himself up to such excitement that he seemed to feel the ghosts of +rabbits slain—for he could smell no live ones—hovering near him:— + +“I raise my gun whar de rabbit run— + Ketch him, Tiger, ketch him! +En de rabbit say: + ‘Gimme time ter pray, +Fer I ain’t got long fer to stay, to stay!’ + Oh, ketch him, Tiger, ketch him! + +“Ketch him, oh, ketch him! +Run ter de place en fetch him! +De bell done chime +Fer de breakfast time— + Oh, ketch him, Tiger, ketch him!” + + +“If there are any more verses, Uncle Eb, keep them until we’ve had +supper, or breakfast, or whatever you like to call a meal at this +unearthly hour. I’m so hungry that I could chew nails!” cried Cyrus, +springing from behind the bushes, and reaching the, camp-fire with a +few strides, Neal following him. + +“Sakes alive! yonkers; is dat you?” cried the darkey, uprearing his +gray figure. “I’se mighty glad to see you back. Whar’s yer meat? Left +it in de canoe mebbe? De buck too big to drag ’long to camp—eh?” + +There was a wicked rolling of Uncle Eb’s eyes while he spoke. Evidently +from the looks of the sportsmen he guessed immediately what had been +the result of their excursion. + +“No luck and no buck to-night!” answered Garst. “But don’t roast us, +Uncle Eb. Get us something to eat quicker than lightning or we’ll go +for you—at least we would if we weren’t entirely played out. It isn’t +everybody who can manage a hard shot as cleverly as you do, when he can +only see the eyes of an animal. And that was the one chance we got.” + +No man living ever heard a further word from Cyrus as to how his +English friend bore the scares of a first night’s jacking. + +“Ya-as, dat’s a ticklish shot. Most folks is skeered o’ trying it,” +drawled out Ebenezer Grout, a professional guide as well as “colored +gen’leman,” familiarly called by visitors to this region who hired the +use of his hut and his services, “Uncle Eb.” + +“There’s some comfort for you,” whispered Cyrus slyly into Neal’s ear. +Aloud he said, addressing the guide, “We had a spill-out, too, as a +crown-all. I’m mighty glad that this is the second of October, not +November, and that the weather is as warm as summer; otherwise we’d be +in a pretty bad way from chill. I feel shivery. Hurry up, and get us +some steaming hot coffee and flapjacks, Uncle Eb, while we fling off +these wet clothes. The trouble is we haven’t got any dry ones.” + +“Hain’t got no oder suits?” queried the woodsman. “Den go ’long, boys, +and rig yerselves up in yer blankets. Ye can pertend to be Injuns fer +to-night. Like enough dis ain’t de worst shift ye’ll have to make ’fore +ye get out o’ dese parts.” + +As the draggled pair were making towards the hut, which stood about six +feet from the fire, to follow his advice, its bark door was suddenly +pushed wide open. Forth stepped, or rather staggered, another boy, +younger and shorter than Neal. His tumbled fair hair was here and there +adorned with a green pine-needle, which was not remarkable, considering +that he had just arisen from a bed of pine boughs. Sundry others were +clinging to the surface of the warm, fleecy blankets in which he was +wrapped, and his feet were thrust into a pair of moccasins. He had the +appearance and voice of a person awaking from sound sleep. + +“I say, you fellows, it’s about time you got back!” he said, rubbing +his heavy eyes, and addressing the hunters. “I hope you’ve had some +luck. I dreamt that I was smacking my lips over a venison steak.” + +“Smack ’em w’en you git it, honey!” remarked Uncle Eb, while he mixed a +plain batter of flour, baking-powder, and cold water, which he dropped +in big spoonfuls on a frying-pan, previously greased, proceeding to fry +the mixture over his camp-fire. + +The thin, round cakes which presently appeared were the “flapjacks” +despised by Cyrus as insufficient diet. + +Without waiting to answer the new boy’s greeting, the hunters had +disappeared into the bark shanty. When next they issued forth they were +rigged up Indian fashion in moccasins and blankets, the latter being +doubled and draped over their underclothing,—of which luckily they had +a dry supply,—and gathered round their waists with leather straps. +Knitted caps, usually worn when sleeping, adorned their heads. + +“You see, we followed Dol’s example and your advice, Uncle Eb,” said +Cyrus, as they seated themselves by the camp-fire. “And I tell you +these make tip-top dressing-gowns when you’re feeling a little bit +chilly after a drenching. We didn’t bring along a second suit of tweeds +for the simple reason that we mean to do some pretty rough tramping +with our packs on our backs, and then a fellow is likely to grumble at +any unnecessary pound of weight he carries.” + +“Shuah—shuah!” assented Uncle Eb. + +“And that is why we left our fishing-rods behind,” continued Garst. +“You see, our main object this trip is neither hunting nor fishing. But +a creel of gamey trout from Squaw Pond would come in handy now to +replenish our larder.” + +“Wal, I b’lieve I’ll fix up a rod to-mo-oh an’ hook a few, fer de +pork’s givin’ out. Hain’t got mich use fer trout meself. Dey’s kind o’ +tasteless eatin’ if a man can git a bit o’ fat coon or a fatty [hare], +let ’lone ven’zon. Pork’s a sight better’n ’em to my mind.” + +While Uncle Eb was giving his views on food, he was hurriedly “bilin’” +coffee, frying unlimited flapjacks, and breaking up some +crystal cakes of maple sugar, which he melted into a sirup, and poured +over them. + +“De bell done chime +Fer de breakfast time!” + + +he shouted gleefully when all was accomplished. “Heah, yonkers! I guess +we may call dis meal breakfast jest as well as not, fer it’s neah to +dawn now.” + +And the trio fell to voraciously, as he handed them each a steaming tin +mug and an equally steaming plate. The newly awakened youngster, who +had been cuddling his head sleepily against Neal’s shoulder (a glance +showed that they were brothers), had clamored for his share of the +banquet. + +“You haven’t been lonely, Dol, I hope, have you?” said Cyrus, as a +whole flapjack, doubled over and drenched in sirup, disappeared down +his capacious throat. + +“Not I,” answered Dol (Adolphus Farrar, ladies and gentlemen), shutting +and opening a pair of steel-gray eyes with a sort of quick snap. “Uncle +Eb and I sat by the fire until twelve o’clock. He sang songs, and told +tip-top stories about coon hunts. I tell you it was fun! I’d rather see +a coon hunt than go out at night jacking, especially if I +got a ducking instead of a deer, like some bungling fellows I know.” + +“Don’t be saucy, Young England, or I’ll go for you when I’ve finished +eating,” laughed Cyrus good-humoredly. “Who told you what we got?” + +Dol winked at Uncle Eb, who had, indeed, entertained him with giggling +jokes about the unsuccessful hunters while they were stripping off +their wet garments. + +Adolphus, being the youngest of the camping-party, was favored with the +softest pine-bough bed and the best of the limited luxuries which the +camp possessed, with unlimited nicknames,—from “Young England” to +“Shaver” or “Chick,” according to the whims of his comrades. + +“Say, Uncle Eb, we’re having a fine old time to-night—all sorts of +experiences! I guess you may as well finish that song we interrupted +while we’re finishing our meal.” + +“All rightee, gen’lemen!” answered the jolly guide and cook. + +The dog Tiger had retreated to the back of the camp-fire, where he lay +blissfully snoozing; but at a booming “Whoop-ee!” from his master, +which formed a prelude to the following verses, he shot up like a +rocket, and +manifested all his former signs of excitement. + +“Dey’s a big fat goose whar de turkey roos’— + Ketch him, Tiger, ketch him! +En de goose—he say, + ‘Hit’ll soon be day, +En I got no feders fer ter give away!’ + Oh, ketch him, Tiger, ketch him! + +“Ketch him, oh, ketch him, +Run ter de roos’ en fetch him! +He ain’t gwine tell +On de dinner bell— + Ketch him, Tiger, ketch him!” + + +“Scoot ’long to bed now, you yonkers, or ye’ll look like spooks +to-mo-oh! Hit’s day a’ready,” cried the singer directly he had whooped +out his last note. + +And the “yonkers,” nothing loath, for they had finished their repast, +sprang up to obey him. + +“Isn’t it a comfort that we haven’t any trouble of undressing and +getting into our bedclothes, fellows?” Cyrus said, as they reached the +wangen, and prepared to throw themselves upon the fragrant camp-bed of +fresh green pine-boughs, which made the bark hut smell more healthily +than a palace. + +The natural mattress was wide enough to accommodate three. The boughs +were laid +down in rows with the under side up, and overlapped each other. To be +sure, an occasional twig might poke a sleeper’s ribs, but what mattered +that? To the English boys especially—having the charm of entire +novelty—it was a matchless bed, wholesome, restful, and rich with +balsamic odors hitherto unknown. + +The trio were stupidly tired; but on the American continent no happier +or healthier youths could have been found. + +It had, indeed, been a night big with experiences; and there was one +still to come, which, to Neal Farrar at any rate, was as novel as the +rest. He had thrown himself upon his bough couch, too weary to offer +anything but the gladness of his heart for worship, when Cyrus touched +his arm. + +“Look there!” he said. “If a fellow could see that without feeling some +sensations go through him which he never felt before, he wouldn’t be +worth much!” + +He pointed through the open door of the hut at the sky above the +clearing, over which was stealing a pearly hue of dawn, shot with a +tinge of rosy light, like the fire in the heart of an opal. + +This made a royal canopy over the towering +head of Old Squaw Mountain,—near by now and plainly visible,—which had +not yet lost its starry diadem, though the gems were paling one by one. +The shoulders of the peak wore a mantle of purple, and the forest which +clothed its bulk was changing from the blackness of a mourning robe to +the emerald green of a sea-nymph’s drapery. + +The shutters of Night were rolling back, and young Day was stepping out +to cast her first smile on a waiting earth. + +As the watchers in the hut caught that smile, every thought which rose +in them was a daybreak song to the God who is light, and the secret of +every dawning. + +With the day-smile kissing their faces they fell asleep, feeling that +they were wrapped in the embrace of the invisible King. + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter IV. Whither Bound? + + +“Where from? Whither bound?” It is not often that a man or boy burns to +put these questions—which ships signal to each other when they pass +upon the ocean—to some individual who hurries by him on a crowded +thoroughfare, whose name perhaps he knows, but whose hand he has never +clasped, of whose thoughts, feelings, and capabilities he is ignorant. + +But just let him meet that same fellow during a holiday trip to some +wild sea-beach or lonely mountain, let an acquaintance spring up, let +him observe the habits of the other traveller, discovering a few of his +weak points and some of his good ones, and then he wishes +to ask, “Where do you hail from? Whither are you bound?” + +Therefore, having encountered three fairly good-looking, jovial, +well-disposed young fellows amid the solitudes of a Maine forest, +having spent some eventful hours in their company, learning how they +behaved in certain emergencies, it is but natural that the reader +should wish to know their ordinary occupations, with their reasons for +venturing into these wilds, and the goal they wish to reach, before he +journeys with them farther. + +Just at present, being fast asleep, dreaming, and—if I must say +it—snoring like troopers, upon their mattresses of pine boughs, they +are unable to give any information about themselves. But the friend who +has been authorized to record their travels will be happy to satisfy +all reasonable curiosity. + +To begin, then, with the “boss” of the party, Cyrus Garst, the writer +would say that he is a student of Harvard University, and a brainy, +energetic, robust son of America. Among his college classmates he is +regarded as a bit of a hero; for, in spite of his comparative youth, he +is an enterprising traveller and a veteran camper, whose camp-fire has +blazed in some of the wildest solitudes of his native +land. For his hobby is natural history, and his playground the “forest +primeval,” where he studies American animals amid the lonely passes +which they choose for their lairs and beats. + +Every year when Harvard’s learned halls are closed for the long summer +vacation,—sometimes at other seasons too,—he starts off on a trip to a +wilderness region, with his knapsack on his back, his rifle on his +shoulder, and often carrying his camera as well. + +Once in a while he has been accompanied by a bosom friend or two. More +frequently he has gone alone, hiring the services of a professional +guide accustomed to the locality he visits. Now, such a guide is the +indispensable figure in every woodland trip. He is expected to supply +the main part of his employer’s camp “kit”; namely, a tent or some +shelter to sleep under, cooking utensils, axes, etc., as well as a boat +or canoe if such be required. And this son of the forest, whose foot +can make a bee-line to its destination through the densest wooded maze, +is not only leader, but cook and general-utility man in camp as well. +The guide must be equally grand-master of paddle, rifle, and +frying-pan. + +For these tireless woodland heroes Cyrus Garst has a general +admiration. He has always agreed with them famously—save on one point; +and he has never had to shorten his wanderings for fear of lengthening +their fees. For Cyrus has a millionnaire father in the Back Bay of +Boston, who is disposed to indulge his whims. + +The one point of variance is this: while all guides admire young Garst +as a crack shot with a rifle, he frequently dumfounds them by letting +slip stunning chances at game, big and little. They call him “a queer +specimen sportsman,”—understanding little his love for the wild +offspring of the woods,—because he never uses his gun save when the +bareness of his larder or the peril of his own life or his chum’s +demands it. + +Nevertheless, feeling the need of fresh meat, the naturalist was for +the moment hotly exasperated because his English comrade, Neal Farrar, +missed even a poor chance at a buck during the midnight excursion on +Squaw Pond. + +His friends are proud of stating that up to the present Cyrus had +proceeded well in his friendly acquaintance with wild creatures, his +desire being to study their habits when alive rather than to pore over +their anatomy when dead. And he has always reaped a plentiful harvest +of fun during his trips, declaring that he has “the pull over fellows +who go into the woods for killing,” seeing that he can thoroughly enjoy +the escape of a game animal if he can only catch a sight of it, and +perceive how its pluck or cunning enables it to baffle pursuing man. +There are those who call Cyrus a sportsman of the best type. Perhaps +they are right. + +Yet in the year of our story, when he had just attained his majority, +this student of forest life is still unsatisfied, because he has not +been able to obtain a good view of the behemoth of American woods, the +_ignis fatuus_ of hunters,—the mighty moose. + +Once only, when paddling on a still pond with his experienced guide for +company, the latter suddenly closed the slide of the jack-lamp, hiding +its light. At the same moment a dark, splendid monster, tall as a horse +and swinging a pair of antlers five feet broad, suddenly appeared upon +the bank, near to which the canoe lay in black shadow. The hunters +dared not breathe. It was at a season of year when the Maine law exacts +a heavy fine for the killing of a moose; and even the guide had no +desire to send his bullets through the law, though he might have +riddled the game without compunction. + +For a minute or two the creature halted at the pond’s brink, magnified +in the mirror of moonlit water into a gigantic, wavering shape. Then +with slow, solemn tread he walked along the bank ahead, gave a loud +snort something like the snort of a war-horse, made a crunching, +chopping noise with his jaws, resembling the sound of a dull axe +striking against wood, plunged into the lake, and swam across to the +opposite shore. + +“If we had fired, he might have come for us full tilt,” whispered the +guide so softly that his words were like a gliding breath. “And then I +tell you we’d have had a narrow squeak. He’d have kicked the canoe into +splinters and us out o’ time in short order.” + +“But a moose won’t charge unless he’s attacked, will he?” asked Cyrus, +later in the night, when a couple of quacking black ducks which had +received a dose of lead were lying silent at his feet, and the hunters +were returning to camp with food. + +“Not often,” was the reply. “Only at this time o’ year, if they’ve got +a mate to defend, you can’t say for sure what they’ll do. They won’t +always fight either, even if they’re +wounded, when they can get a chance to bolt. But a moose, if he has to +die, will be sure to die game, with his face to his enemy; and so will +every wild animal that I know. I’ve even seen a shot partridge flutter +up its feathers like a game-cock at the fellow who dropped it.” + +Well, this memorable glimpse of his mooseship was obtained in the year +before our story. And now, in the beginning of October, young Garst was +off into Maine wilds again, having arranged to “do” the forest +thoroughly after his usual fashion, seeing all he could of its +countless phases of life, and finally to meet this same guide—a +dare-devil fellow who was reported to have had adventures in +moose-hunting such as other woodsmen did not dream of—at a log camp far +in the wilderness. Thence they could proceed to solitudes where the +voice of man seldom echoed, where the foot of man rarely trod, and +where moose signs were pretty sure to be found. + +But there was one very unusual feature in his present expedition. The +student of nature, who generally started forth alone, was this year, +owing to a freak of fate and to his natural good-nature, accompanied by +two English lads. + +Early in the summer of this same year, Francis Farrar, a wealthy +cotton-merchant of Manchester, England, visited America on a +business-trip, and became the guest of Cyrus’s father. He brought with +him his two sons, Neal, aged sixteen and a half, and Adolphus, +familiarly called Dol, who was more than a year younger. + +Both boys had been at a large public school, and physically, as well as +mentally, were well developed. They were accustomed to spending long +vacations with their father at wild spots on the seashore, or amid +mountains in England and Scotland. They could tirelessly do a +sixty-mile spin on their “wheels,” were good football players, +excellent rowers, formed part of the crew of their father’s yacht, +could skilfully handle gun and fishing-rod, but they had never camped +out. + +They knew none of the delights of sleeping in woodland quarters, with +only a canvas or bark roof, or perhaps a few spruce boughs, between +them and the sky— + +“While a music wild and solemn + From the pine-tree’s height +Rolls its vast and sea-like volume + On the wind of night.” + + +Small wonder, then, that when they heard Cyrus Garst tell of his +camping excursions, of his jolly times, long tramps, and hairbreadth +escapes, their hearts swelled with a tremendous longing to accompany +him on the trip into northern Maine which he was then projecting for +the following October. + +Now, Cyrus at the first start-off conceived a liking for these English +fellows, to whom, for his father’s sake, he played the part of genial +host. With a lordly recognition of his superior years he pronounced +them “first-rate youngsters, with lots of snap in them.” And as the +acquaintance progressed, Neal Farrar, with his erect figure, broad +chest, musical voice, and wide-apart gray eyes,—so clear and honest +that their glance was a beam,—proved a personage so likable that the +student adopted him as “chum,” forgetting those five years which had +been a gulf between them. + +Dol, whose eyes were of a more steely hue than his brother’s, striking +fire readily and showing all manner of flinty lights, who had a +downright talent for mimicry, and a small share of juvenile +self-importance, came in for regard of a more indulgent and less equal +nature. + +Directly he got an inkling of the desire for a forest trip which +stirred in the boys’ breasts, making them yearn all day and toss all +night, Cyrus gave them both a cordial invitation to accompany him into +Maine. Mr. Farrar did not purpose returning to Europe till midwinter. +His consent was easily obtained. He presented each of his sons with a +new Winchester repeating rifle, with which they practised diligently at +a target ere the eventful day of the start dawned, though their leader +emphatically insisted that the prime pleasures of the trip were not to +be looked for in the slaughter done by their hands. + +Wearing the camper’s favorite dress of stout gray tweed, the trio left +Boston on a lovely September evening towards the close of the month, +taking a fast night train for Maine, brimful of enthusiasm about the +wild woods and free camp-life. The hue of their clothes was chosen with +a view to making their figures resemble the forest trunks, so that they +would be less likely to attract the notice of animals, and might get a +chance to creep upon them undetected. + +About their waists were their ammunition belts, with pouches well +stocked. Their large +knapsacks contained blankets, moccasins, and various other necessaries +of a camper’s outfit, including heavy knitted jerseys for chill days +and nights, and rubber boots reaching high on the legs for wear in +wading and traversing swampy tracts. + +About twenty-four hours later they dropped off the rattling, jingling +stage-coach which bore them over the latter part of their journey, at +the flourishing village of Greenville, on the borders of the Maine +wilds. + +Here they were greeted by a view, the loveliness of which made the +English boys, who had never looked on it before, experience strange +heart-leaps. + +A magnificent sheet of water nearly forty miles long and fourteen broad +lay before them, studded with islands, girt with evergreen forests and +wooded peaks. Under the rays of the setting sun its bosom was shot with +arrows of pale, quivering gold. Banners of gold and flame-color floated +over the crests of the hills, flinging streamers of light down their +emerald sides. + +“Fellows, there is Moosehead Lake; and I guess you’ll find few lakes in +America or elsewhere that can beat it for beauty,” said Cyrus, with a +patriotic thrill in his voice, for +he had a feeling that he was doing the honors of his country. + +His English comrades were warm with admiration, and here, in view of +the forest-land which was their El Dorado, tingled with anticipation of +the unknown. + +The three rested that night at Greenville, and began their tramping on +the following morning. They trudged a distance of seven miles or so to +the camp of Ebenezer Grout, which, as Garst knew, was situated between +Squaw Pond and Old Squaw Mountain, the latter being one of the finest +peaks near Moosehead Lake. + +“Uncle Eb” was an old acquaintance of Cyrus’s, a dusky, lively +woodsman, who spent a great part of the year in his lone bark hut, with +his dog Tiger for company. He subsisted chiefly on what he brought down +with his rifle, and sometimes earned three dollars a day for guiding +tourists up Old Squaw or through the adjacent forests. + + +Illustration: There Is Moosehead Lake. + + +He was not an ambitious hunter, and rarely pushed far into the +solitudes of the wilderness in search of moose or other big game. A +coon hunt was to him the climax of all fun. It was chiefly with a hope +that his comrades might enjoy some novel entertainment of this kind +that Cyrus made his first stoppage at Uncle Eb’s camp, purposing to +sojourn there for a few days. + +He was not disappointed. + +The stupidly tired trio had slept for about two hours, while the reader +has been receiving information second-hand about their past and future, +when a scratching, scraping, boring noise on the outside of their bark +roof temporarily disturbed their slumbers. Dol called out noisily, and, +as was the way of that youngster on sundry occasions, talked some +gibberish in his sleep. The scraping instantly ceased. + +A renewed and blissful season of snoring. Another awakening. More music +on the roof, evidently caused by the claws of some wild animal, while +each of the campers was startled by a loud “Cluck!” + +“Lie still, fellows! Don’t budge. Let’s see what the thing is,” +breathed Cyrus in a peculiarly still whisper which he had learned from +his moose-hunting guide of whom mention has been made. + +Dead silence in the hut. Redoubled scraping and rattling above, with a +scattering of bark chips. + +Then light appeared through a jagged hole +just over a string which was stretched across one corner of the cabin, +and from which dangled sundry articles of camp bric-a-brac, mostly of a +tinny nature, with Uncle Eb’s last morsel of “pork. + +“By all that’s glorious! it’s a coon,” breathed Cyrus, but so softly +that his companions did not hear. + +As for the two Farrars, they were working up to such a heat of +excitement that they felt as if life were now only beginning. They had +heard of the thievish raids made by the black bear on unprotected +camps, and of his special fondness for pork. Not knowing that there was +no chance of an encounter with Bruin so near to civilization as this, +they peered at that hole in the roof, expecting every moment to see a +huge, black, snarling snout thrust through it. + +It was a pointed gray muzzle which warily appeared instead—appeared and +disappeared on the instant. For at this crisis Tiger’s shrill +bugle-call resounded without, giving warning of an attack on the camp. +The thing, whatever it was, scrambled from the roof, and with a +strange, shrill cry of one note made towards the woods. The dog +followed it, barking for all he was worth. + +Now, too, Uncle Eb’s booming “Whoop-ee!” was heard. + +The hardy old woodsman, after his visitors had gone to roost, instead +of stretching himself as usual upon his pine mattress, had started off, +accompanied by Tiger, to visit some traps which he had set in the +forest, hoping to catch a marten or two. He took the precaution of +closing the door of the hut when he saw that its inmates were soundly +sleeping, thinking meanwhile, that, as day was dawning, there was +little chance of any wild “critter” coming round the camp during his +absence. + +But a greedy raccoon, which had been prowling near in the woods during +the night, and had been tantalized to desperation by the smell of the +late meal, especially by the odor of flapjacks frying in pork fat, had +stolen from cover after the departure of his natural enemy, the dog. + +Finding the coast clear and the camp unguarded, he made himself quietly +at home, rooted among some potato parings which the guide had thrown +aside a day or two before, devoured a cold flapjack, and cleaned the +camp frying-pan as it had never been cleaned before, with his tongue. +But his +appetite was whetted, not glutted. Scent or instinct told him that +pork, molasses, and other eatables were hidden in the bark hut. Here +was a golden opportunity for Mr. Coon. No one molested him. Meditating +a feast, he climbed to the roof, and began cautiously to scrape off +portions of the bark. The rising sun ought to have warned him back to +forest depths; but he persisted in his scratching, repeating now and +again a satisfied cluck. + +His hole was made. His keen nose told him that pork was almost within +reach, when the bugle-call of his enemy—Tiger’s challenging bark—smote +upon his ear. Guide and dog were opportunely returning to camp. + +Of course, as soon as the marauder scrambled off the roof, Cyrus and +the boys sprang from their couch. Barefooted, and in night costume, +they were already at the door of the hut before Uncle Eb was heard +booming,— + +“Boys! Boys! Tumble out—tumble out! Dere’s a reg’lar razzle-dazzle +fight goin’ on heah. Tiger’s nabbed de coon.” + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter V. A Coon Hunt + + +A razzle-dazzle fight it surely was! On one side of the camp, between +the camping-ground, which Uncle Eb had cleared with many a backache, +and the woods, was a narrow strip covered with a stunted, prickly +growth of wild raspberry bushes and tiny cherry-trees. These had sprung +up after the pines had been cut down, as soon as the sun peeped at the +long-hidden earth. + +Into it the bare-legged trio dared not venture, knowing that they would +get a worse scratching and tearing than if the coon itself mauled them. + +But they could see and hear a whirling, howling, clawing, spitting, +rough-and-tumble +conflict going on in the midst of this miniature jungle. + +“Whew! Whew!” gasped Cyrus. “Here’s your first sight of a wild coon, +boys. I wish to goodness it had been a different sight, but I suppose +he must pay for his thieving.” + +“Tiger’ll make him do dat. Bet yer life he will! He’s death on coons, +if ever a dog was,” yelled Uncle Eb, gambolling with excitement, his +eyes bulging and widening until they looked like oysters on the shell. + +The soft, battered, gray felt hat which replaced his fur cap in the +daytime surged off his gray wool, and frisked gently away towards the +camp-fire. There, coming in contact with a red ember, it scorched and +shrivelled into smoking, smelling ashes, all unnoticed in the tumult of +the fight. + +Whirling round and round, now under, now over, dog and coon rolled +presently forth from the bushes, nearer to the feet of the spectators. +Then Neal and Dol could get a clearer view of the strange animal. A +breeze of exclamations came from them, mingling with the yelping, +snarling, and clucking of the combatants. + +“Good gracious! Look at the stout body and funny little legs of the +fellow!” + +“Doesn’t he fight like a spitfire?” + +“I’m glad he’s not clawing me!” + +“He’s not much like any picture of a raccoon I ever saw in a Natural +History!” + +“I guess he wouldn’t resemble them greatly, especially in that +attitude, Dol,” said Cyrus, as soon as there was a lull in the boys’ +comments. + +The raccoon had now rolled on his back, and was fighting so fiercely +with teeth and claws that a despairing cry broke from Uncle Eb,— + +“Yah! He’s makin’ Tiger’s wool fly!” + +It was then that the old guide began to deliberate about rushing +forward and despatching his coonship with the butt end of his rifle. +Cyrus would gladly have stopped the tussle long before, for there was +too much savagery about it to suit him; but he could only have done so +by stunning or killing one of the combatants. + +A heart-rending howl from Tiger. The coon had caught him by his lower +jaw. Uncle Eb, clutching his empty rifle like a club, was starting to +the rescue, when the dog with a sudden, desperate jerk freed himself. +Mad with rage and pain, he tried to seize the raccoon’s throat. But his +enemy managed to +elude the strangling grip, and getting on his feet, again caught Tiger, +this time by the cheek, causing another agonizing yelp. + +Now, however, the undaunted dog whirled round and round with such +rapidity as to make Mr. Coon relax his hold, and, gathering all his +strength, flung the wild animal off to a distance of several feet. + +Probably the raccoon felt that he had enough of the conflict, and was +doubtful about its final issue. He seized the chance for escape. While +the spectators gasped with excitement, they beheld him, with his head +doubled under his stomach, roll over and over like a huge gray +India-rubber ball, until he reached the nearest tree, which happened to +be one of the young pines that shaded the camp. Quick as lightning he +climbed up its trunk, uttering a second shrill, far-reaching cry of one +note. + +“Listen! Listen, fellows!” cried Cyrus. “That raccoon is a +ventriloquist. The cry seemed to come from somewhere far above him. I +had a tame coon long ago, and I often heard him call like that. I tell +you he’s a ventriloquist, and a mighty clever one too. + +“The one piercing note was to warn his mate,” went on the naturalist, +after a moment’s +pause; “or in all probability, though we have been speaking of the +animal as ‘he,’ it is really a female, for I have heard that peculiar +call given more frequently by a mother to warn her cubs.” + +All that could now be seen of the animal—on whose gender new light had +been cast—was a gray ball curled up on a tasselled bough near the top +of the pine-tree, and a glimpse of a black nose over the edge of the +limb. + +“Wal! ’tain’t no matter wedder de critter is a male or a fimmale; I’m +a-goin’ to bring it down from dar mighty quick,” said Uncle Eb, +fumbling with the cartridge-box which was attached to his broad leather +belt, and preparing to load his rifle, while he cast murderous looks +aloft. + +“No, you don’t, then!” said Cyrus hotly. “The creature has fought +pluckily, and it deserves to get a fair chance for its life. I’ll see +that it does too. You oughtn’t to be hard on it for liking pork, Uncle +Eb.” + +“Coons will be gittin’ into eatin’ order soon,” murmured the guide, +smacking his lips, and handling his gun undecidedly. “Roast coon’s a +heap better’n roast lamb.” + +“Well, they’re not in eating order yet, and +won’t be till next month,” answered Garst. “Come, you’ve got to let +this one go, Uncle Eb, to please me.” + +“Tell ye wot: I’ll call Tiger off” (Tiger was alternately licking his +wounds and baying furiously for vengeance about the tree which +sheltered his enemy), “den, wen de coon finds de place clear, bime-by +he’ll light down from dat limb, I’ll start off de dog, and let ’em +finish de game atween ’em.” + +Cyrus considered for a minute, then decided that on the coon’s behalf +he might safely accept the compromise. + +“Let’s get into our clothes, fellows!” he cried to Neal and Dol. “Now +we’re going to have some fair fun! I guess there won’t be any more +fighting; and I want you to see how cunningly the raccoon will cheat +the dog and escape, if he gets an even chance.” + +In five minutes the trio were out of their blankets and in their +ordinary day apparel. The old guide had hung the wet tweeds to dry by +the blazing camp-fire before he started out to visit his traps, +carefully stretching them to prevent their “swunking” (shrinking). Thus +they were again fit for wear. + +A half-hour of waiting ensued, during which every one was on the tiptoe +of expectation. They had all withdrawn to some distance from the tree. +Uncle Eb had been obliged to drag Tiger away, and was bathing his cuts +out of the camp water-bucket in a shady corner. The dog, recognizing +that he was a patient, submitted without a growl or budge, until his +master, who had been keeping a keen eye on that pine-tree, suddenly +loosed him, and started him off afresh with a loud “Whoop-ee!” and a— + +“Ketch him, Tiger! ketch him!” + + +The coon had “lighted down.” + +Away went the wild creature into the woods. Away after him, went dog, +guide, student, and boys, plunging, tumbling, rushing along +helter-skelter, with a yell on every lip. + +“There he is! See him? That gray ball rolling over and over!” shouted +Cyrus. “I’ll tell you what, now; he’s going to resort to his clever +dodge of ‘barking a tree.’ There never was a general yet who could beat +a coon for strategy in making a retreat.” + +The forest surrounding the eminence on which Uncle Eb’s camp was +situated consisted mostly of pines, with here and there the brilliant +autumn foliage of a maple or +birch showing amid the evergreens. The trees down the sides of the hill +were not densely crowded, but grew in irregular clumps instead of an +unbroken mass. This, of course, afforded a better opportunity for the +pursuers to catch glimpses of the fugitive animal. + +On finding that it was again chased, the raccoon at first took shelter +in a dense thicket of scrub oak, which formed in places a tangled +undergrowth. Tiger quickly followed up its trail, and it was driven +thence. + +Then Cyrus and the boys caught sight of it spinning over and over like +a ball, towards a maple-tree with widely projecting limbs and thick +foliage; for it knew well that in speed it was no match for the dog, +and therefore resorted to a neat little stratagem. The next minute, +being hotly pressed, it scrambled up the friendly trunk. + +“He’s treed again, yonkers! Come on!” shouted the guide, indifferent to +the creature’s probable gender. + +Tiger sat on his haunches at the foot of the maple, setting up a slow, +steady bark. + +“Keep where you are, fellows! Watch the other side of the tree!” +whispered Cyrus, his face twitching with excitement. + +In his character of naturalist he had managed +to find out more about the coon’s various dodges than even the old +guide had done. + +In breathless wonder the Farrars presently beheld that ingenious +raccoon steal along to the end of the most projecting limb on a +different side of the tree from the one it had climbed, so that a +screen of boughs and the trunk were between it and its adversary. + +Then it noiselessly dropped from the tip of the branch to the ground, +alighting, like a skilled acrobat, on its shoulders, doubled its +pointed black nose under its stomach, and again rolled over and over +for a considerable distance, when it got on its short legs and scurried +away, while Tiger still bayed at the foot of the maple-tree, thinking +the vanished prey was above. + +“That’s what I called the coon’s dodge of ‘barking a tree,’” said +Cyrus. “Don’t you see, when hard pressed, he runs up the trunk, leaving +his scent on the bark; then he creeps to the other side under cover of +the foliage, and drops quietly to the ground. So he breaks the scent +and cheats the dog.” + +“Good gracious!” exclaimed Neal with an expressive whistle. + +“Perhaps it’s because of his long gray hairs that he has so much +wisdom,” Dol suggested. + +“A bright idea, Chick!” chuckled the student, tapping the boy’s +shoulder. + +“We keep on speaking of him as ‘he’ when you said the thing was +probably a female,” put in Neal. + +“That doesn’t matter. I’m not certain. Look at old Tiger! He’s having +fits now that he has discovered how he’s been tricked.” + +The dog was circling out from the tree, with wild, uncertain movements, +nosing everywhere. Presently he struck the scent again, and darted off +like a streak. + +But the raccoon had by this time reached a dark stream of water which +coursed through the over-arching forest at the foot of the hill, as if +it was flowing through a tunnel. Here this astute animal crossed and +recrossed under the gloom of interlocking trees, mid dense undergrowth, +until its trail was altogether lost. + +Tiger, having further “fits,” nosing about, darting hither and thither, +venting short, baffled barks, finally gave up in despair. + +The pursuing party turned back to camp. + +“Did ye ever see ennyting to ekal de cunnin’ o’ de critter,” said Uncle +Eb gloomily; “runnin’ up dat tree on’y to jump off, so as he’d break de +scent an’ fool de dog? Ye’ll learn a heap o’ queer tings in dese woods, +chillun, ’fore ye get t’rough,” he added, addressing the English lads. + +“We’ve learned queerer things than we ever imagined or dreamed of, +already, Uncle Eb,” Neal answered. + +Meanwhile, Cyrus and Dol had begun to discuss the size of the escaped +coon. + +“I should think it measured about two feet from the tip of its nose to +the beginning of the tail, and that would add ten or eleven inches. +Probably it weighed over thirty pounds,” said the experienced Garst. + +“A fine tail it had too!” answered Dol; “all ringed with black and +buff—not black and white as the books say. There was hardly an inch of +white about the animal anywhere. Its thick gray hair was marked here +and there with black; wasn’t it, Cy?” + +“Rather with a darker shade of gray, bordering on black. I think old +Tiger can testify that the creature had capable teeth; and it possesses +a goodly number of them—forty in all; that’s only two less than a bear, +an animal that might make six of it in size.” + +“Whew! No wonder it’s a good fighter!” ejaculated Dol. + +“But the funniest of the coon’s or—to give the animal its proper +name—the raccoon’s +funny habits is, that while it eats anything and everything, it souses +all meat in water before beginning a feed. That’s what it would have +done with our bit of pork,—dragged it to a stream, and washed it well +before swallowing a morsel. + +“I caught glimpses of a raccoon chasing a jack-rabbit in this very +section of the woods, last year,” went on the student, seeing that Dol +was breathlessly listening. “The big animal killed the little one under +a dead limb; and I traced its tracks through some mud, where it tugged +the rabbit to the brink of the nearest brook to be dipped and devoured. + +“After the meal, Mr. Coon halted on an old bit of stump as gray as +himself, close to where I lay under cover, trying to get a peep at his +operations, but, unluckily, in my excitement I touched a bush, and +broke a twig not as big as my little finger. I tell you he just jumped +off that stump as if it scorched him, and disappeared.” + +“What about that tame coon you owned, Cy?” Dol asked. “You haven’t got +him now.” + +“Bless your heart, I should think not!” Here the student indulged in a +chuckle of mirth. “That coon was the fun and bane +of my life. No fear of my being dull while I had him! I had him as a +present, when he was only a cub, from a man out here who is my special +chum among woodsmen, Herb Heal, the guide in whose company we’re going +to explore for moose, and the soundest fellow in wind, limb, and temper +that ever I had the luck to meet. I guess you English boys will say the +same when you know him. + +“Well! when my friend Herb bestowed upon me that baby raccoon, I called +the little innocent ‘Zip,’ and kept him in-doors, letting him roam at +will. But after he grew to manhood, I was obliged to banish him to our +yard and chain him up; and there his piteous, sky-piercing calls, which +seemed to come from the roof of a house near him, first showed me what +a ventriloquist the animal can be.” + +“Why on earth did you banish him?” asked Neal. + +“Because his plan of campaign, when loose, was to follow me about like +a devoted cat, climbing over me whenever he got the chance, with +slobbery fondness. But as soon as I was out of the way he’d steal every +mortal thing I possessed, from my most precious instruments to my +latest tie and handkerchiefs. I never saw anything to equal his +ingenuity in ferreting out such articles, and his incorrigible mischief +in destroying them. I chained him in the yard after he had torn my +father’s silk hat into shreds, and made off with his favorite +spectacles. Whether he wore them or not I don’t know; he chewed up the +case; the glasses no man thereafter saw. I couldn’t endure his piteous +cries for reconciliation while he was in banishment, so I gave him away +to a friend who was suffering from an imaginary ailment, and needed +rousing. + +“Talking of fathers, boys, reminds me that I feel responsible to +Francis Farrar, Esq., for the welfare of his lusty sons. Neal had a +pretty tiring time last night, and only about two hours’ sleep since. I +don’t suppose any of us are outrageously hungry, seeing that we had +some kind of breakfast at an unearthly hour. Here we are at camp! I +propose that we turn in, and try to sleep until noon. What do you say?” + +Their leader having wound up his talk, thus, neither of his comrades +ventured to oppose his suggestion, though they felt little inclined for +slumber. + +“Pleasant day-dreams to you, fellows!” said Cyrus three minutes +afterwards, flinging off his coat, and throwing himself on his mattress +of boughs, while he wiped the steady drip of perspiration from his +forehead and cheeks. “This day is going to be too warm for any more +rushing. Our variable climate occasionally gives us these hot spells up +to the middle of October; but they don’t last. So much the better for +us! We don’t want sizzling days and oppressive nights, with mosquitoes +and black flies to make us miserable. October in this country is the +camper’s ideal—month”— + +The last sentence was broken by a great yawn, followed presently by a +snort and an attempt at a shout, which quavered away into a queer +little whine. Garst had passed into dreamland, where men revel in +fragmentary memories and pell-mell visions. + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter VI. After Black Ducks + + +If Cyrus’s dreams were ruffled after the morning’s excitement, those of +his comrades were a perfect chaos. + +A slight wind hummed wordless songs through the tasselled tops of the +pine-trees about the camp. The music was tender and drowsy as a +mother’s lullaby. Contrary to their expectations, Neal and Dol were +lulled to sleep by it like babies, with a feeling as if some guardian +spirit were gliding among the tree-tops. + +But when slumber held them, when the murmur increased to a surge of +sound, sank to a ripple and again rolled forth, in their dreams they +imagined it the scurrying of a +deer’s hoofs along some lonely forest deer-path, the rustling of a buck +through bushes, the splashing of a mighty moose among lily-pads and +grasses at the margin of a dark pond, the startled cluck of a coon. In +fact, that rolling music of the pines was translated into every forest +sound which they had heard, or expected to hear. + +The excitement of wild scenes, new sensations, strange knowledge, still +thrilled them even in sleep. Their visions were accordingly wild, +rushing, jumbled, yet all set in a light so bright as to be +bewildering—a sign that health and happiness as great as human boys can +enjoy were the possession of the dreamers. + +By and by their pulses grew steadier. Out of this confused rush of +imaginings grew in the mind of each one steady, absorbing dream. Neal +fancied that he was on the top of Old Squaw Mountain, and that beneath, +above, around him, sounded the strangely prolonged weird call, which he +had heard at a distance on the previous night while Cyrus was +recovering the jack-light. Owing to the ever-changing excitements of +camp-life, he had not questioned his comrade again about it. + +Dol’s visions resolved themselves into a +mighty coon hunt. He tossed on his pine boughs, kicked and jabbered in +his sleep, with sundry odd little cries and untranslatable mutterings,— + +“Go it, Tiger! Go it, old dog! There he is—up the tree! Ah” +(disgustedly), “you’re no good!” + +A lull. Then the dreamer rolled out a string of what may be called +gibberish, seeing that it consisted of fragments of words and was +unintelligible, followed by,— + +“The coon’s eating the pork—no, he’s b-b-b-barking it! Hu-loo-oo!” + +“Oh, say, Chick, give us a chance! We can’t sleep with you chirping +into our ears.” + +It was Cyrus who spoke, shaking with drowsy laughter, and Cyrus’s big +hand gently shook the dreamer’s arm. + +“What? what? wh-wh-at?” gasped Dol, awaking. “I wasn’t talking out +loud, was I?” + +“Not talking aloud! Well, I should smile!” answered the camp captain. +“You were making as much noise as a loon, and that’s the noisiest thing +I know. Go to sleep again, young one, and don’t have any more crazy +spells before dinner-time.” + +Cyrus removed his hand, shut his eyes, and in a minute or two was +breathing heavily. Neal, who had been aroused too, followed his +example, laughing and mumbling something about “it’s being an old trick +of Dol’s to hunt in his sleep.” + +But the junior member of the party remained awake. After his dreams had +been dissipated he cared no more for slumber. When he could venture it +without disturbing his companions, he rose to a sitting posture, and, +after squatting for a while in meditation, got on his feet, picked up +his coat and moccasins, and, stealthily as an Indian, crept out of the +hut. + +The rolling music among the pine-tops had died down; only at long +intervals a soft, random rustle swept through them. It was nearly +midday. The camp-fire was almost dead, quenched by the dazzling +sunlight which fell in patches on the camping-ground, and flooded the +clearing beyond the shadow of the pines. + +Moreover, the camping-ground was deserted. Neither Uncle Eb nor Tiger +could be seen, though Dol’s eyes sought for them wistfully. But +something caught his attention. It was a ray of light filtering through +the pine boughs and glinting on the trigger of an old-fashioned +muzzle-loading shot-gun, +which leaned against a corner of the hut. An ancient, glistening +powder-horn and a coon-skin ammunition pouch hung above it. + +Dol lifted the antiquated weapon, withdrew to a short distance, and +examined it closely. He knew it belonged to the guide, but was rarely +used by him since he had purchased the 44-calibre Winchester rifle, +with which he could do uncommon feats in shooting. + +The shot-gun interested the boy mightily. There was a facsimile of it, +swathed in green baize, stowed away somewhere in his father’s house in +Manchester. The first time he had ever used fire-arms was on a +memorable day when his fingers pulled its trigger in his father’s +garden under Neal’s direction, and a lean starling fell before his +shot. After that he had often taken out a fowling-piece of a newer +style, and had done pretty well with it too. + +As he handled the shot-gun, which the guide had bought away back in the +year ’55, musing about it under the pines, the thought suddenly tumbled +out of a corner of his brain that at present there was a brilliant +opportunity for him to use the gun and all the shooting skill he +possessed for the benefit of his comrades and himself. + +There was no meat in the camp for dinner or supper save the pork on +which they had feasted since they arrived there, and that was fast +giving out. Cyrus, in addition to his knapsack, had hauled over from +Greenville, where articles of camp fare could be procured in abundance, +a goodly supply of tea, coffee, condensed milk, flour, salt, sugar, +etc., in a stout canvas bag, Neal at intervals helping him with the +burden. For the rest he had trusted to Nature’s larder, and such food +as he might purchase from his guides, desiring to go into the woods as +“light” as possible. + +Uncle Eb had baked bread for his guests after a fashion of his own on +the camp frying-pan, setting the pan on some glowing coals a foot or so +from the fire; he had fried unlimited flapjacks, and had cheerfully +placed what stores he had at their disposal. His three luxuries were +novelties to the English lads, being pork, maple sugar,—drawn from the +beautiful maple-trees near his camp,—and a small wooden keg of sticky, +dark molasses. The sugar was the only one which Dol found palatable; +and he knew that the Bostonian, Cyrus, shared his feeling. To tell the +truth, the juvenile Adolphus was not fastidious, but +he was suddenly seized with an ambitious desire to vary the diet of the +camp. + +“Uncle Eb said that I could use this ‘ole fuzzee,’ as he called it, +whenever I liked,” he muttered, looking wistfully at the shot-gun; “and +I’ve a big mind to give those lazy fellows in there a surprise. They +spent the night out jacking, and didn’t get any meat because Cyrus let +Neal do the shooting, and he bungled it. It’s my turn next to go after +deer, but I’m not going to wait for that.” + +Here his steel-gray eyes fell on the moccasins which he had not yet put +on, and struck fire instantly. His ambition was doubled. For if there +is one thing more than another which in the forest will stir the pluck +of a novice, and make him feel like an old woodsman, it is the sight of +his Indian footwear. Dol put his on, admired their light, comfortable +feeling, their soft buckskin, and rashly decided that he could dispense +with the loose inner soles which Cyrus had fitted into them to protect +his feet. + +Then, being very much of a stranger to American woods, he communed with +himself after this fashion,— + +“Cyrus says that different tribes of Indians wear differently made +moccasins, and one redskin, if he sees the tracks of another in soft +mud or snow, can tell what tribe he belongs to by his footmarks. That’s +funny! I suppose if any old brave was knocking about and saw my tracks +in a boggy spot, he’d think it was a Kickapoo who had passed that +way—not Dol Farrar of Manchester, England. These are of the shape worn +by the Kickapoo tribe—so Cy says. + +“I’m the kid of the camp, I know,” he went on, with another flash in +his eyes, as if there was a bit of flint somewhere in his make-up which +had struck their steel. “But I’ll be bound I can do as well or better +than the others can. I’m off now to Squaw Pond. I think I can follow +the trail easily enough. Uncle Eb showed me yesterday where he had +spotted some of the trees all the way along to the water. And if I +don’t shoot a couple of black ducks for dinner or supper, I’m a duffer, +and not fit for camping.” + +He took down the powder-horn and slung it round him, saw that there was +plenty of meat in the ragged coon-skin ammunition pouch which hung +beside it, fastened that to his belt, slipped on his coat, and started +off, with the “ole fuzzee” on his shoulder. + +Never a sound did he make as he crossed the clearing, passing the clump +of bushes behind which Cyrus and Neal had lingered on the previous +night to hear Uncle Eb’s song. Owing to his Indian footwear, silently +as the gliding redskin himself he entered the woods at a point where he +saw a tree with a fresh notch carved in it. He knew this marked the +beginning of the “blazed trail,” and that he must be very wide-awake +and show considerable “gumption” if he wanted to follow that line to +the pond. + +Not every tree was spotted. Only at intervals of fifteen or twenty +yards he came upon a trunk with two small pieces chopped out of it on +opposite sides. These were Uncle Eb’s way-marks. One set of notches +would catch his eye as he went towards the water, the other would lead +him back to camp. Once or twice Dol got away from the trail, but he +quickly found it again; and in due time emerged from the forest +twilight into the broad glare of the sun, to see Squaw Pond lying +before him like a miniature mother-of-pearl sea, so protected by its +evergreen woods that scarcely a ripple stirred it. + +He heard the shrill, wild call of a loon, the noisy bird to which Cyrus +had likened him, and saw its white breast rising above the water, as it +swam about among the reeds near the opposite bank. The cry was oft +repeated, making an unearthly din, now joyous, now dreary, among the +echoes around the lake. + +Dol paused for a minute to listen; but he was bent on business, and did +not want to be very long away from camp lest his absence should cause +alarm. He took a careful survey of the scene. Not beholding any fleet +of black ducks as yet, he loaded his gun, and warily proceeded along +the bank towards the head of the pond. + +Keeping a sharp lookout, he by and by detected something moving among +the water grasses a little way ahead, and heard a hoarse, squalling +“Quack! quack!” + +Immediately afterwards a flock of half a dozen ducks sailed forth from +their shelter, nodding and quacking inquisitively. + +A wild drumming was at Dol’s heart, and a reckless singing in his ears, +as he raised his gun to his shoulder, and fired among them. +Nevertheless, his aim was sure and deadly. Two quackers were killed +with one shot! The others rose from the water, and with much fluttering +and hoarse noise winged their way to safety. + +“How’ll they be for meat, I wonder? Won’t I have a crow over those +fellows?” shouted Adolphus aloud, with a yell entirely worthy of a +Kickapoo Indian, when he had recovered from surprise at the success of +his own shot. + +He laid down the gun, pulled off his moccasins and socks, rolled up his +trousers, and waded in for the prize. Truly luck was with him—so far—in +his first venture in this region of the unknown. The water was so +shallow that, having grabbed the ducks, he splashed out of it, kicking +shiny drops from his toes, without wetting an inch of his garments. + +“I’m the kid of the camp, I know; but I’ll be the first fellow to bring +any decent meat into it. Hooray!” he whooped again. “Shouldn’t wonder +if these moccasins brought me wonderful luck; one can steal about so +quietly in them.” + +He had hit upon the supreme advantage which the Indian footwear +possesses over every other for the woodsman. A little later he was to +learn its disadvantage, having, with foreign inexperience, disdained +the extra soles because they were not “Indian” enough for his taste; +for the soft buckskin could not +protect from roots and stones a wearer whose flesh was not hardened to +every kind of forest travelling. + +But at present Dol bepraised his moccasins; for they had enabled him to +sneak upon his birds, the wildest of the duck tribe, who generally, at +a single hoarse “Quack!” from their leader, will cease their antics in +lake or stream, and disappear like a skimming breeze before a sportsman +can get a fair shot at them. + +For a quarter of an hour Dol Farrar sat by this forest pond engaged in +the cheerful occupation of “booming himself,” as his friend Cyrus would +have said. He told himself that he had made a pretty smart beginning, +not alone in shooting a brace of black ducks, but in successfully +following a difficult trail on his fourth day in the woods. Henceforth, +he thought, there would be little reason for him to dread the unknown +in this great wilderness. + +He reclothed his legs, gathered the stiffening claws of the defunct +quackers in his left hand, picked up his empty “ole fuzzee,” which had +done such good service despite its age, and set forth on his return to +camp. + +Retracing his steps along the bank, after some searching he found the +beginning of the +trail, and started along it with a know-it-all, cheerful confidence in +the little bit of wood-lore which he had acquired. Hence he now found +it considerably more difficult to follow the spotted trees. His brain +was excited and preoccupied; and when once in fancied security he +suffered his eyes and thoughts to stray for a minute from the trail, +every unfamiliar woodland sight and sound tempted them to wander +farther. + +First it was an old fox, which poked its sharp, inquisitive nose out of +a patch of undergrowth near at hand. Dol uttered a mad “Whoop-ee!” and +heedlessly dashed off a few steps in pursuit. Reynard whisked his brush +as much as to say, “You can’t get the better of me, stranger!” and +defiantly trotted away. + +Recovering his senses, the boy managed to recover the trail too, and +was keeping to it carefully when a second temptation beset him. A +chattering squirrel, seated on the low bough of a maple-tree, with his +fore paws against his white breast, his eyes like twinkling beads, and +his restless little head playing bo-peep with the intruding boy, began +to scold the latter for venturing into his forest playground. + +Dol’s first thought was full of delighted interest. His second was a +sanguinary one; namely, that a pair of ducks would only be one meal for +four campers who were “camp-hungry,” and that Uncle Eb had spoken of +squirrels as “fust-rate eatin’.” He handled his gun uncertainly, +deliberating whether or not he would load it, and try a shot at the +bright-eyed chatterbox. + +Before he had decided one way or the other, the squirrel, still +scolding and playing bo-peep, scampered off his bough, and up the trunk +of the maple. Thence he quickly made good his escape from one tree to +another, affording a whisking, momentary view now and again of his +white breast or bushy tail. Dol absolutely forgot the blazed trail, +forgot the stories which he had heard about forest perils, forgot every +earthly thing but his admiration for the pretty, tantalizing fellow; +though to do the lad justice, he soon came to the conclusion that the +camp must be in a worse strait for want of provisions before he could +have the heart to shoot him. He gave chase nevertheless, plunging along +in a ziz-zag way over a carpet of moss and dry pine-needles, and +through some dense tangles of undergrowth, uttering a welcoming screech +whenever he saw the bright eyes of the little trickster peering down at +him from a bough. + +He had travelled farther than he knew before his interest in the game +waned. He began to feel that it was rather beneath the dignity of a +fellow who wore moccasins, carried coon-skin pouch and powder-horn, and +who was bound for remote solitudes in search of the lordly moose, to be +interested in such an insignificant phase of forest life as the doings +of a red squirrel. + +Then he started back to find the trail. He walked a considerable +distance. He searched hither and thither, straining his eyes anxiously +through the bewildering gloom of the forest, but never a notched tree +could he see. Whereupon Dol Farrar called himself some pretty hard +names. He remarked that he had been a “hair-brained fool” and a +“greenhorn” ever to leave the spotted track, but that he wasn’t going +to be “downed;” he would search until he found it. + +And he certainly was enough of a greenhorn not to know that every step +he now took was carrying him away from the trail, and plunging him into +a hopeless, pathless labyrinth of woods. For Dol had lost all knowledge +of directions, and was completely “turned round;” which means that he +was miserably lost. + +The disaster came about in this way. The forest here was very dense, +the giant trees interlocked above his head letting so little light +filter through their foliage that he could scarcely see twenty yards +ahead of him, and that in a puzzling, shadowy gloom resembling an +English twilight. + +When he ceased chasing the squirrel, he imagined that he retraced his +steps directly towards the point where he had quitted the trail. In +reality, seeing nothing to aim for in this bewildering maze of endless +trees, turned out of his way continually as he dodged in and out around +massive trunks, he gradually worked farther and farther off the course +by which he had come, drifting in random directions like a rudderless +ship on mid-ocean. This helpless state is called, in the phraseology of +the northern woods, being “turned round.” + +But Dol Farrar was spared for the present a thorough realization of the +dreadful mishap which had befallen him. He had a shocked, breathless, +flurried feeling, as if scales had suddenly fallen from his eyes, and +he saw the dangers of the unknown as he had not before seen them. But +even in the midst of abusing himself for his rash self-confidence, he +uttered a cheerful “Hurrah!” + +“Why, good gracious!” he cried. “Here’s another trail! Now, where on +earth does this lead to? I don’t see any spotted trees”—looking +carefully about—“but it’s a well-beaten track, a regular plain path, +where people have been walking. It must lead to our camp. I’ll follow +it up, anyhow. That will be better than dodging around here until I get +‘wheels in my head,’ as Uncle Eb says he did once when he lost his way +in the woods, and kept wandering round and round in a circle.” + +Puffing with excitement and revived hope, the boy started off on this +new trail, which he blessed at first—oh, how he blessed it!—as if it +had been a golden clew to lead him out of his difficulty. To be sure, +it was not a blazed trail; there were no notches in the trees, but the +ground showed distinct signs of being frequently and recently travelled +over. Though footprints were not traceable, moss, earth, and in some +places the forest undergrowth of dwarfed bushes, were thoroughly +pressed and trodden. + +Dol never doubted but that it was a human trail, a track continually +used by some woodsman; but he thought that the unknown traveller, +whoever he was, must have agile legs and a taste for athletics, for +many times he had to hoist himself, his gun, and the ducks over some +big windfall which lay right across the way. The dead quackers he +pitched before him, fearing that by the time he got back to camp—if +ever he did?—their flesh would be too bruised to look like respectable +meat; for he was obliged to have one hand free to help him in +scrambling over each fallen tree. + +Once or twice this strange trail led him through thickets where the +bushes grew so high as to lash his face. He came to regard slippery, +projecting roots and rough stones, which galled his feet, protected +only by the thin soles of his moccasins, as matters of course. His wind +decreased, and his blessings ceased. Yet he followed on, walking, +walking, interminably walking, with now and again an interval of +climbing or stumbling headlong, accompanied by ejaculations of +thankfulness that his gun was not loaded. + +His breath came in hot, strangling gasps, the veins in his head were +swollen and stinging like whipcords, there was a dull, pounding noise +in his ears, and a drumming at his heart. He confessed that he was +thoroughly “winded” when he had been following the trail for nearly two +hours, so he seated himself upon a withered stump beside it to rest. + +He had relinquished the idea that the track would bring him out near +Uncle Eb’s camp. Had it led thither, he would have rejoined his +comrades long before this. His only hope now was that by patiently +following it on he might reach the camp of some other traveller, or the +lonely log cabin of a pioneer farmer. He had heard of such +farm-settlements being scattered here and there on forest clearings. + +So presently Dol Farrar got to his feet again, when he had recovered +breath and strength, and told himself pluckily that “he wasn’t going to +knock under,” that “he had been in bad scrapes before now, and had not +shown the white feather.” He gritted his teeth, and resolved that he +would not show that craven pinion, even in the desperate solitude of +these baffling woods where no eye could see his weakness. He did not +want to have a secret, humiliating memory by and by that he had been +faltering and distracted when his life depended on his wits and +endurance. + +He squared his shoulders sturdily, as if to make the most of the +budding manhood that was in him, and trudged ahead. And, indeed, he had +need to take his courage in both hands, and force it to stand by him; +for he had not gone far when, though the forest still continued dense, +he became aware that he was beginning a steep ascent. Was the trail +going to lead him up a mountain-side? The way grew yet more rugged. +Every step was a misery. Jagged edges of rock and never-ending roots +seemed to brand themselves with burning friction upon his feet, through +their soft buckskin covering. He tried to hearten himself into a belief +that he must soon reach some mountain camp or settlement. + +But a bleak horror threw a gray shade upon his face as his staring eyes +saw that the trail was growing fainter—fainter—fainter. At the foot of +a steep crag, where a mass of earth, stones, and dead spruce-trees +showed that there had lately been a landslide on the mountain above, he +lost it altogether. It had led him to a pile of rubbish. + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter VII. A Forest Guide-Post + + +At the foot of that crag Dol stood still, while a great shiver crept +from his neck up the back of his head, stirring his hair. He peered in +every direction; but there was no sign of a camp, nothing to show that +any human foot before his had disturbed the solitude of this +mountain-side, and no further marks on the ground, save one impression +on a bed of earth at his feet where some animal had lately lain. + +The disappointment was stupefying. + +At last a fog of terror settled down upon him,—a fog which blotted out +every sight and sound, blotted out even his own thoughts, all except +one, which, like a danger-signal in a mist, kept booming through his +brain: “Lost! Lost!” + +By and by he was sitting on the piled-up stones and dirt of the slide; +but he had no remembrance of getting to this resting-place, for he was +still befogged. + +Something snorted close to his right ear,—loud snort, which banished +stupor, and set his pulses jumping. It was a deer, a beautiful doe in a +coat of reddish-drab, matching the autumnal tints of the forest, +wherever maples, birches, and cedars mingled with the evergreens. She +had bounded upon him suddenly from behind a dead spruce and a mound of +earth. + +It was long since the game on this part of the mountain had been +disturbed. Madam Doe had in all probability never seen a man before, +therefore her behavior was not peculiar. A shock of surprise thrilled +through her graceful body as she vented that snort, when she caught +sight of the new-fangled gray animal who had intruded upon her world, +and who sat spell-bound, gazing at her with hopeless eyes, in which +gradually a light broke. + +But she did not fear him,—this creature in gray. She stood stock-still, +and stared at him, so near that he could see her wink her +starry eyes, with the white rings round them. She stamped one hoof, +kicked an insect from her ear with another, snorted again, wheeled +around, and at last broke away for the thick shelter of the trees, +lightly and swiftly as a breeze which skims from one thicket to +another. + +Seeing his mother go for the woods, her spotted fawn, which had been +frolicking among the branches of the fallen spruce-tree, skipped from +it, passed Dol with a bound which carried him a few feet, and +disappeared like a whiff too. + +Here was a rouser, indeed, which no boy, unless he was in a far-gone +state of suffering, could withstand. Dol Farrar forgot his terrible +predicament. The fog had cleared away from his senses, leaving him free +to think and act once more. + +“Well, I never!” he ejaculated, springing to his feet in amazement. +“Wasn’t she a beauty? And wasn’t she a snorter? I didn’t think a deer +could make such a row as that. And to stand still and stare at me! I +wonder whether she took me for some new-fashioned sort of animal or a +gray old stump.” + +It was a few minutes before he again thought of his plight, and then he +was not +overcome. He stood perfectly still, trying to review the position +coolly, and to get a tight grip of his feelings, so that terror might +not again master him. + +“I’m in a worse scrape than I ever dreamt of,” he muttered, puckering +his forehead to do some tall thinking. “And I must do something to get +out of it. But what? That’s the question. + +“I wonder if I loaded this ‘ole fuzzee,’”—the lad was making a valiant +effort to cheer himself by being jocular,—“and blazed away with it for +a while like mad, whether there is any human being around who would +hear me. Some fellow might be hunting or trapping in this part of the +forest, or farther up the mountain. But what a blockhead I am! Why on +earth didn’t I do that before I started on this wretched trail?” + +But alas! as this was Dol Farrar’s first adventure in American woods, +it had not occurred to him to do the right thing at the right time. Had +he fired a round of signal shots when first he lost the line of spotted +trees, he would probably have been heard at his camp, and would have +been spared the worst scare he ever had in his life. The negligence was +scarcely his fault, however; for Cyrus Garst, who had never before +undertaken the responsibility of entertaining a pair of inexperienced +boys in woodland quarters, had not, at this early stage of the trip, +arranged with his comrades to fire a certain number of shots to signify +“Help wanted!” if one of them should stray, or otherwise get into +trouble. The idea now cropped up in Dol’s perplexed mind, through a +confused recollection of tales about forest misadventures which Uncle +Eb had told him by the cheery camp-fire. + +So he loaded the old shot-gun. It belched forth fire and smoke into +space. And the thunder of his shot went rolling off in a reverberating +din among the mountain echoes, until a hundred tongues repeated his +appeal for help. Again he loaded rapidly and fired. And yet again, with +nervous, eager fingers. So on, till he had let off half a dozen shots +in quick succession. + +Then he waited, listening as if every pulse in his body had suddenly +become an ear. + +But when the last growling echo had died away, not a sound broke the +almost absolute silence on the mountain-side. Evidently not a human +soul was near enough to hear or understand his signals of distress. + +In these bitter minutes some sensations ran through Dol Farrar which he +had never known before; and, as he afterwards expressed it, “they were +enough to cover any fellow with goose-flesh.” + +He felt that he had reached the dreariest point of the unknown, and was +a lonely, drifting atom in this immense solitude of forest and rock. + +Never in his life before or afterwards did he come so near to Point +Despair as when he stumbled down the mountain, spurning that +treacherous trail, and going wherever his jaded feet found travelling +tolerably easy. He had picked up the shot-gun; but the black ducks, the +primary cause of his misadventure, he clean forgot, leaving them lying +amid the chaos at the foot of the crag, to have their bones picked by +some lucky raccoon or fox. + +Wandering along in a zigzag way, he by and by reached the base of the +mountain at a point where there was a break in the forest. A patch of +dreary-looking swamp was before him, covered with clumps of +alder-bushes—a true Slough of Despond. + +Dol Farrar knew none of the miseries of plunging through an +alder-swamp, but he luckily recalled in time a warning from Cyrus that +a slight wetting would render his moccasins useless. While he halted +undecidedly on its brink, he pulled out his watch; one glance at this, +and another at the sky, which now lay open like a scroll above him, +gave him a sickening shock. He had started from camp at noon; now it +was after five o’clock. Little more than another hour, and not +twilight, but the blackness of a total eclipse, would reign in the +forest. + +The blood rushed to his head, and his mouth grew feverish at the +thought. As he licked his cracking lips, he caught a faint, tinkling, +rumbling sound of falling water somewhere to the right. Of a sudden his +sufferings of mind and body were merged into one burning desire to +drink, and he turned eagerly in that direction. + +At the edge of the woods he found a little fairy, foamy waterfall, +which had tumbled down from the mountain to be lost in the dismal +swamp. But Dol felt that it had accomplished its mission when he +unfastened the tin drinking-mug which hung from his belt, and +drank—drank—drank! He straightened himself again, feeling that some of +the bubbling life of the mountain torrent had passed into him. His eyes +lit on a towering pine-tree just beyond it. And then— + +Well! if that sky-piercing pine had suddenly changed at a jump into a +gray post, bearing the inscription, “One mile to Boston,” Dol Farrar +could not have been more astonished and relieved than when he saw for +the first time a rude forest guide-post. + +To the dark, knotted trunk was fastened a piece of light, delicate +bark, stripped from a white-birch tree. On this was scrawled in big +letters, by some instrument evidently not intended for penmanship:— + +“FOLLOW THE BLAZED TRAIL AND YOU ARE SAFE.” + + +“Another blazed trail! Hurrah!” shouted Dol. “Won’t I follow it? I +never will follow any other again if I live to be a hundred, and come +to these woods every year till I die!” + +The height of his relief could only be measured by the depth of his +past misery, which would truly have been enough to set a weaker boy +crazy. With watering eyes and panting breaths that came near to being +sobs of gladness, he started upon the new trail. It led him off into +the forest surrounding the swamp. + +The pine that had been chosen for guide-post was the first in the line +of spotted trees. The others followed it closely, with intervals of +eight or ten yards between them; and as the notches in their trunks +were freshly cut, Dol followed the track without any difficulty for +twenty minutes. He had a suspicion that he was nearing the end of it; +though he was still in forest gloom, with light coming in meagre, +ever-lessening streaks through the pine-tufts above. Then he started +more violently than when the deer snorted near his ear. + +Suddenly and shrilly the blast of a horn rang through the darkening +woodland aisles, followed, after a pause of a minute or two, by a +second and louder blast. + +Then a well-pitched, far-reaching voice sang out:—“Come to supper, +boys! Come to supper!” + +“Good gracious!” said Dol, conscious on the instant that he was as +hollow as a drum. “There are enough surprises in these forests to raise +the hair on a fellow’s head half a dozen times a day!” + +A matter of forty yards more, and a burst of light swam before his +eyes. He had reached the end of the blazed trail. + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter VIII. Another Camp + + +“Hello! Come to supper, boys! Come to supper right away!” + +Half eagerly, half shrinkingly, Dol emerged from the woods, feeling a +very torment of hunger quickened in him by the tantalizing sound of +that oft-repeated invitation. + +A sight met him which, because of what went before and all that came +after, will be forever chief among the forest pictures which rise in +exciting panorama before his memory, when camping is a thing of the +past. + +A broad dash of evening light, the sun’s afterglow, fell upon a patch +of clearing bordered by clumps of slim, outstanding pines, the scouts +of their massive brethren. That this was used as a camping-ground the +first glance revealed. A camp which looked to the tired eyes of the +lost boy a real “home-camp,” though it consisted of rude log cabins, +occupied it. A couple of birch-bark canoes reposed amid a network of +projecting roots. Withered stumps and tree-tops littered the ground. + +In the foreground of the picture stood a man with a horn in his +uplifted hand, which he had just taken from his mouth. He was minus a +coat; and the rough-and-tumble disarray of his attire showed that he +had been lounging by his camp-fire, or perhaps overseeing the +preparation of supper. Dol had a vague impression that the individual +was not a forest-guide like Uncle Eb, nor a rough lumberman such as he +had heard of. He would have taken him for a pioneer farmer,—not having +yet encountered such a character,—but there could be no farm on this +little bit of clearing. And he was too dazed to see that there were +signs of a cultivated intelligence in the tanned, beaming face under +the horn-blower’s broad-brimmed hat. Indeed, the hat itself, its +wearer, log huts, canoes, and trees seemed to have a strange propensity +to waltz before the lad’s eyes, and there was a queer waving sensation +in his own legs, as if they, too, would join in the spinning movement. +For as he advanced into the light out of the sombre shadows, a +dizziness from long tramping in the woods, and from a hunger such as he +had never before experienced, overcame him. He reeled against an +outstanding tree, troubled by an affliction which Uncle Eb had called +“wheels in his head.” + +“Ho! you boys. Where in thunder are you? Come to supper, or the venison +will be spoiled!” shouted the possessor of the horn again, shutting one +eye into which a crimson ray was pouring, while he swept the skirts of +the woods with the other; and there was music as well as bluster in his +shout. + +Lo! the first to answer this fetching invitation was the foot-sore, +leg-weary boy, pale from exhaustion, with his strange equipment of +powder-horn, coon-skin pouch, and ancient shot-gun, who, getting partly +the better of his giddiness, crossed the clearing slowly, as if he was +groping his way. Within a few feet of the horn-blower he halted; for +the man had lowered his horn, and was gazing at him with keen, +questioning eyes. Dol tried to find suitable speech to express his +need; but though words came with considerable effort, his voice sounded +hoarse and creaky in his own ears, and threatened to crack off +altogether. + +He was doing his best to brace up and speak plainly, when his sentence +was stopped by a noise of pounding footsteps. The next moment he saw +himself surrounded by three well-grown, daring-looking lads, one about +his own age, one older, one younger, who were gazing at him with +critical curiosity. All the pluck in Dol Farrar rose to meet this +emergency. He felt as if his legs were threatening to smash under him +like pipe-stems. There was a whirling and buzzing in his head. It +seemed as if his words had such a long way to travel from his brain to +his tongue that they got confused and changed before he uttered them. + +But through it all he was conscious of one clear thought: that he was +an Old-World boy on parade before these strapping New-World lads. He +set his teeth, drove his gun hard against the ground, and, as it were, +anchored himself to it, while strange, doubting lights came into his +eyes as he tried to get a grip of his senses. + + +Illustration: Dol Sights A Friendly Camp. + + +He succeeded. At last he addressed the gentleman with the horn, knowing +that he was speaking to the point,— + +“Good-evening, sir,” he said. “I—I—we’re camping out somewhere in the +woods. I—I got lost to-day. I’ve walked an awful distance. Perhaps you +could tell me”— + +But the man stepped suddenly forward, with a blaze of welcome in his +eyes; for he saw the brave effort which the lad was making, and that +his strength was giving out. He put a kindly arm through Dol’s, as if +to warmly greet a fellow-camper, but really to support him. + +“I’ll not tell you about anything until you’ve had a good, square +meal,” he said. “That’s our way in woodland quarters,—to eat first, and +talk afterwards. If you’re lost, you’ve struck a friend’s camp, and at +the right time too, son; so cheer up! After supper you can tell us your +yarn, and I guess we can set you right.” + +Here at last was a surprise of unmixed blessedness for poor Dol; +namely, the brotherly hospitality which is always extended to a +stranger in a Maine camp, whether that be the temporary home of a +millionnaire or the shanty of a poor logger. + +His new friend led him into the largest of the cabins, which contained +a fireplace built of huge stones, where red flames frisked around +fragrant birch logs, a camp-bed of evergreen boughs about ten feet +wide, a rude table, a bench, and a few stools of pine-wood. + +Over the camp-fire was stooping a bright-eyed, muscular fellow, whose +dress somewhat resembled Uncle Eb’s, but who had no negro blood in his +veins. He was frying meat; and such tempting whiffs mingled with the +steam which floated up from his pan, that Dol’s nostrils twitched, and +his hungry longing grew almost unbearable as he inhaled them. + +“I guess this chunk of ven’zon is about cooked, Doc,” said this +personage, as Dol’s kindly host entered the hut, with him in tow, +followed closely by the boys of his own camp. + +“All right, then! Let’s have it!” was the reply. “I’m pretty glad our +camp-fare is decent to-night, Joe, for we’ve a visitor here; a hungry +bird who has strayed from his own camp, and has wandered through the +forest until he looks like a death’s head. But we’ll soon fix him up; +won’t we, Joe? Give him a mug of hot tea right away. Hot tea is worth a +dozen of any other drink in the woods for a pick-me-up.” + +A spark of fun kindled in Dol’s eyes when he heard himself described as +“a hungry bird.” It brightened into an appreciative beam as the +reviving tea trickled down his throat. + +“Eatin’s wot he wants, I guess,” said Joe, the camp guide and cook, +placing some meat and a slab of bread of his own baking on a tin plate +for the guest. + +Dol began on them greedily; and though the first mouthful or two +threatened to sicken him, his squeamishness wore off, and he gained +strength with every morsel. + +“How do you like Maine venison, my boy? Like it well enough to have +another piece, eh?” asked his host, when he saw that the haggard, gray +look was leaving the wanderer’s face, and that the appalled, dazed +expression, the result of being lost in the woods, had disappeared from +his eyes. + +“I think it’s the best meat I ever tasted,” answered Dol heartily. +“It’s so tender, and has a splendid taste.” + +“Ha! ha! It ought to be prime,” chuckled the owner of the camp. “It was +cut from the quarters of a buck which my nephew here, Royal Sinclair,” +pointing out the tallest of three lads, “shot four days ago. He was a +regular crackerjack—that buck! I mean, he was as fine a deer as ever I +saw; weighed over two hundred pounds, had seven prongs to his horns on +one side and six on the other. Royal is going to take the antlers home +with him to Philadelphia. We were mighty glad to get him, too; for we +have been camping here for five weeks, and were running short of +provisions. Roy had quite an attack of buck-fever over it, though he +didn’t think he was killing the ‘fatted calf’, to entertain a visitor; +did you, Roy?” + +“I guess not, Uncle! But I’m pretty glad, all the same,” answered +Royal, with a smiling glance at Dol. + +Young Farrar found himself in very pleasant quarters; and, now that he +was recovering, his laugh rang from one log wall to the other. + +“What’s ‘buck-fever’?” he questioned, while Joe filled his plate with +more venison. + +“A sort of disease of which you’ll learn the meaning before you leave +these woods,” answered his host merrily. “It attacks a man when he’s +out after a deer, and makes him feel as if one leg stands firm under +him, while the other shakes as if it had the palsy. + +“Now I guess you’d like to know whose +camp you’re in, my boy, and then you can tell your story. Well, to +begin with the most useful member of the party. That knowing-looking +fellow over there, who cooked your supper, is Joe Flint, the best guide +that ever pulled a trigger or handled a frying-pan in this +region—barring one. These three rascals,” here the speaker beamed upon +the strapping lads, with whom Dol had been exchanging sympathetic +glances of curiosity, “are my nephews, Royal, Will, and Martin +Sinclair. And I—I— + +“Good gracious! Listen to that, Joe! What’s up now? Another fellow lost +in the woods? Somebody is firing a round with his rifle! Perhaps he +wants help. Those are signal shots, anyhow!” + +The camper whose horn had been Dol’s signal of deliverance, broke off +abruptly in his introductions, just as he had arrived at the most +interesting point, and was proclaiming his own identity. He rattled off +his short exclamations in excitement, and dashed out of the cabin, +followed by Joe, his nephews, and Dol, the latter limping painfully, +for his feet now felt like hot-water bags. + +“That Winchester has spoken eight or ten times,” said the leader, +counting the shots fired by somebody away in the dark recesses of the +forest from a powerful repeating-rifle. “Let’s give the fellow, whoever +he is, an answer, Joe!” + +He seized his own rifle hastily, loaded the magazine with blank +cartridges, and fired a noisy salute. + +In the pause which followed, while all strained their ears to listen, +the sound of a shrill, distant “Coo-hoo!” the woodsman’s hail, reached +them from the forest. + +Joe instantly responded with a vehement “Coo-hoo! Coo-hoo-oo!” the +first call being short and brisk, the second prolonged into a roar +which showed the strength of the guide’s lungs,—a roar that might carry +for miles. + +Shortly afterwards there was a crashing and tearing amid some +undergrowth near the edge of the forest. A man bounded forth from the +pitch-black shadows into the clearing, where a little daylight still +lingered. As he approached the group, Dol, who was in the background, +gave a startled, yearning cry; but it was drowned in a loud burst from +his host. + +“Why, Cyrus Garst!” exclaimed the latter, peering into the new-comer’s +face. “How goes it, man? I never expected to see you +here. Surely you haven’t come to grief in the woods? You look scared to +death!” + +Cyrus—for it was he—grasped the welcoming hand which the owner of this +camp extended to him. But his dark eyes did not linger a moment meeting +the other’s. They turned hither and thither, flashing in all directions +restlessly, like search-lights. + +“I’m glad to see you, Doc,” he said. “I didn’t know you were anywhere +near. But I’m half distracted just now. A youngster belonging to our +camp is missing. I’ve been scouring the forest for hours, and firing +signals, hoping he might hear them. But”— + +Here Cyrus caught sight of Dol, who with a cry which in its changing +inflections was longing, penitent, joyful, was making towards him. The +Harvard student strode forward, and gripped the boy by his elbows. In +the dusk their eyes were near together; Garst’s were stern, Dol’s +blinking and unsteady. + +“Adolphus Farrar,” began Cyrus in a voice as if he was making an +arrest, “have you been here in this camp, or where have you been, while +your brother and I were searching the woods like maniacs? What +unheard-of folly possessed you to go off by yourself?” + +Dol made a gurgling attempt to answer, but his voice rattled and died +away in his throat. His eyes grew decidedly leaky. + +“Say, Cyrus!” interrupted the man who had befriended him and now proved +his champion, “let the youngster get breath and tell his story from +start to finish before you blow him up. I guess he wasn’t much to +blame; and if he was, he has suffered for it. He found his way here not +quite half an hour ago, so played out from wandering through the forest +that he was ready to drop in his tracks. And I tell you he showed his +grit too; for he managed to brace up and keep on his feet, though he +was as exhausted a kid as ever I saw.” + +The “kid,” forgiving this objectionable term because of the soothing +allusion to a trying time when he had behaved like a man, winked and +gulped to get rid of his emotion, and twisted his elbows out of Cyrus’s +hold. The latter lost his angry look, and released them. + +“I must fire three shots to let Neal and Uncle Eb know I’ve found you,” +he said. “We parted company a while ago, and they’re beating about the +woods in another direction. Whoever first came upon any trace of you +was to fire his rifle three times.” + +The signal was instantly given. + +More far-reaching “Coo-hoos!” were exchanged. Ere long Neal was beside +his brother, looking at him with eyes which showed the same tendency to +leak that Dol’s had done a while ago, and battling with a desire to +squeeze the wanderer in a breathless hug. He relieved his feelings +instead by “blowing up” Dol with withering fire and a rough choke in +his voice. + +But when, in response to an invitation from the genial camper whom +Cyrus and Joe called “Doc,” the whole party, guides included, had +gathered around the camp-fire in the big log hut, and Dol told his +story from start to finish, he became the hero of the evening. + +His only fault had been a rash venturing into the unknown; and well it +was that he had not followed the unknown to his death. + +“Why, boy!” exclaimed Cyrus, with a strong shudder, when Dol had +described the false trail which led him to the foot of the crag, “that +wasn’t a human trail at all. It was a deer-road. The deer spend their +day up in the mountains, and come down to the ponds at evening to feed +and drink. Now, a buck or doe in its regular journeys to and fro will +follow one line, to which it becomes accustomed. Perhaps fifty others, +seeing the ground trodden, will run in the same track. And there you +have your well-used path, which looks as if it was made by men’s feet! + +“You may thank your lucky star, Dol, every hour of this night, that the +false trail didn’t lead you away—away—higher—higher—up the mountain, +until you dropped in your tracks, and died there alone, as others have +done before.” + +A shocked hush fell upon the group around the camp-fire. Even the +guides were silent. But the fragrant birchen logs sputtered and glowed, +darting out playful tongues of flame. They seemed to call upon +everybody to dismiss gloomy thoughts of what might have been; to crack +jokes, sing songs, tell yarns, and be as merry as befitted men who had +a log hut for a shelter, fresh whiffs of forest air stealing to them +through an open doorway, and such a camp-fire. + +Joe began to prepare supper for the three who had searched so long and +distractedly for Dol that they confessed to not having eaten for hours. +While more venison was being cooked, the juveniles, American and +English, who had been secretly taking stock of each other, cast aside +restraint, and became as “chummy” as if they had been acquainted for +years instead of hours. + +Such a carnival of fun and noise was started through their combined +efforts in the old log camp, that its owner declared he “couldn’t hear +himself think.” Seizing his horn, he blew a blast which called for +order. + +“Say, my boy, let me have a look at your feet,” he said, cornering Dol. +“A deer-road isn’t a king’s highway, as I dare say you’ve found out to +your cost. Pull off your moccasins and socks, and let me doctor your +poor trotters.” + +Young Farrar very gladly did as he was bidden. + +“Humph!” said his friend. “I thought so. They’re a mass of bruises and +blisters. You’ve been pretty well branded, son. Moccasins aren’t much +use to protect the feet from roots and sharp stones, if you happen to +strike a bad place in forest travelling, unless you have taken the +precaution to put double soles in them; didn’t you know that? Now, +Cyrus Garst,” turning to the student, “you’re all going to camp with us +to-night. This lad can’t tramp any more. As a doctor I forbid it.” + +“Are you a doctor, sir?” questioned Dol, with a thrill of surprise, +which he managed to conceal. + +“Something of the kind, boy,” answered his host, smiling. “I don’t look +much like a city physician, do I? I graduated from a medical college in +Philadelphia, and took my degree. But I had an enthusiasm for the +woods. One hour of forest life in dear old Maine was to me worth a year +spent amid streets, alleys, and sky-scraping buildings; so I fixed my +headquarters at Greenville, and have spent most of my time in the +wilderness.” + +“Where every trapper, guide, and lumberman knows Dr. Phil Buck, whom +they disrespectfully and affectionately call ‘Doc,’” put in Cyrus. “And +many a poor fellow owes his life or limbs to Doc’s knowledge and +nursing in some hard time of sickness, or after one of the dreadful +accidents common in the forests.” + +Dol could well understand this; for he now was benefiting by Dr. Phil’s +lively desire to relieve suffering, and was silently breathing +blessings on his head. The doctor had bathed his puffy feet in warm +water taken from Joe’s camp-kettle, and was anointing them with a +healing salve, after which he tucked them into a loose pair of slippers +of his own. Meanwhile, he chatted pleasantly. + +“This isn’t the first time that your friend Cyrus and I have run +against each other in the wilds,” he said, “nor the first time that +we’ve camped together, either. Bless you! we could make you jump with +some of our stories. Do you remember that night in ’89, Cy, when you, +with your guide, came upon me lying under a rough shelter of bark and +spruce boughs, which I had rigged up for myself near Roaring Brook, on +the side of Mount Katahdin?” + +“I guess I do remember it,” answered Cyrus, laughing. + +“A mighty hungry man I was, too, that evening,” went on Doc; “for I had +no food left but one little package of soup-powder and a few beans. I +had been trying all day to get a successful shot at a moose or deer, +and muffed it every time. It wasn’t the lucky side of the moon for me. +Well, you behaved like the Good Samaritan to me, then, Cy; shared your +meat and all your stuff, and we slept like twin brothers under my +shelter.” + +“Yes; and a bear visited our temporary camp in the night!” exclaimed +Cyrus, bursting into uproarious mirth over some over-poweringly funny +recollection; “he made off with my knapsack, which I had left lying by +the camp-fire. I suppose old Bruin thought he’d find something good in +it to eat; but he didn’t. So he tore my one extra shirt and every +article in the pack to shreds, and chewed up the handle of my razor, so +that I couldn’t shave again until I got back to civilization, when I +was as bristly as a porcupine.” + +“Perhaps Bruin tried to shave himself,” suggested Dol. + +“At all events, he had wisdom enough not to cut his throat,” answered +the story-teller. “We three—Doc, my guide, and myself—were stupidly +tired, and slept so soundly that we did not discover the theft nor who +the marauder was until the following morning. Then we found my knapsack +gone, and the tracks of a huge bear in some soft earth near our +shelter. We traced his footprints through a bog until we found the +spot, not far off, where, overcome by greed or curiosity, he ripped up +that strong leather knapsack as if it was _papier maché_ and made hay +of its contents.” + +The boys had all crowded near to listen. It was now the social hour for +campers. By the camp-fire more reminiscences followed; and the two +guides chimed in it with moose stories, bear stories, panther stories, +wild tales of every imaginable and unimaginable kind of adventure, +until the lads thought no mythology which they had ever learned could +rival in marvels the forest lore. + +At this opportune time, Neal suddenly thought of describing, or +attempting to describe, that strangest of strange calls which he had +heard, after the capsizing of the canoe, on the preceding night, when +Cyrus and he were jacking for deer on Squaw Pond. + +Joe grunted expressively. “So help me! it was the moose call!” he +ejaculated. “What say, Doc?” + +“I guess it was,” answered Dr. Phil. “It was either the cow-moose +herself calling, or some hunter imitating her with his birch-bark +trumpet. It’s a weird sort of experience, to hear that call for the +first time; I shouldn’t wonder if your heart went whack-whack, lad?” + +“I only hope he’ll get a chance to hear it again before he goes back to +England,” said Cyrus. + +Forthwith, the Harvard man proceeded to explain that he was bent on +pressing forward for a distance of sixty miles or so, to the heart of +the wilderness, to search for moose, but that he intended to do the +journey in a leisurely, zigzag fashion, camping for a couple of nights +at various points, in order to do the honors of the forest to his +English comrades. + +“So you’re English, are you! Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho!” exclaimed the doctor, +looking at the young Farrars. “Well, I suppose we’ll have to put our +best foot foremost to give you a good time in American woods.” + +“I think that’s what we’re having, sir—such a jolly good time that +we’ll never forget it,” answered Neal courteously. + +“Yes, it’s jolly enough now; but I tell you I didn’t find it so +to-day,” grumbled Dol, while his eyes gleamed like polished steel with +the light of present fun. “But as long as I live I’ll remember the +sound of your horn, Doctor, when I was dead-beat.” + +“Is that so? Well, I guess I’ll have to make you a present of that +horn, boy, when we part company, and you go back to civilization, and +of the piece of birch-bark, too, which led you to our camp. ’Twas Joe +who fixed that to the pine near the swamp; for my lads had a habit of +following the trail to the alders, looking for moose or deer signs. He +scrawled his sentence on it with the end of a cartridge. I guess it +would be a sort of curiosity in England.” + +Dol whooped his delight. + +“I’ll put it under a glass shade! I’ll”— + +While he was casting about in his mind for some way of immortalizing +that bit of white bark, Doc’s genial bluster was heard again,— + +“Come! come! you fellows! No more skylarking in this camp to-night! +It’s high time for all campers to be snoring. Turn in! Turn in!” + +But nobody was in a hurry to obey the summons to bed. While hands and +feet were being stretched out to the sizzling birch logs for a final +toast, Royal Sinclair, who had a trick of speaking very quickly, with a +slight click in his utterance, as if his tongue struck his teeth, began +to pour some communications into Neal’s ear in rapid dashes of talk,— + +“This is just about the jolliest night we ever had in the forest, and +we’ve had a staving time all through. We live in Philadelphia, and +Uncle Phil—we call him ‘Doc’ like everybody else—brought us out here +for our summer vacation. This old log camp was built several years ago +by a hunting-party, of whom he was one. The walls were getting mouldy; +but he cleaned up the largest of the huts, with Joe’s help, and made it +our headquarters. He never needs a guide himself; not a bit of it! He +can find his way anywhere through the woods with his compass. But he is +a good deal away, so he engaged Joe to go out with us. + +“He often starts off at a moment’s notice, and travels dozens of miles +on foot, or in a birch canoe, if he hears of a bad accident far away in +the forest. Sometimes a lumberman or trapper cuts his foot in two, or +nearly chops off his leg with his axe; and these poor fellows would +probably die while their comrades were lugging them through the woods +on a litter, trying to reach a settlement, if it weren’t for our Doc. + +“Once in a while, when he comes to visit us in Philadelphia, a few +people call him a crank, because he lives out here and dresses like a +settler; but I call him a regular brick.” + +“So do I,” said Neal with spirit. + +“You’re awfully lucky to be able to camp out during October,” rattled +on Roy. “That’s the month for moose-hunting, jacking, and all the most +exciting sort of fun. We have +to go home in a day or two, for our school has reopened, unless”— + +“When Royal Sinclair gets a streak of talking, you might as well try to +bottle up the Mississippi as to stop him,” said Dr. Phil, laughing. “I +can’t hear what he’s saying, but I know that his tongue is clicking +like a telegraph instrument. But I hope it has given its last message +for to-night. You really must turn in, boys. I let you have an extra +social hour, because to-morrow will be Sunday, a day of rest after the +travels and excitements of the week. Think of it, lads! A Sunday in the +woods—God’s first cathedral! May it do us all good!” + +The guide, Joe, built up the fire. Fresh birch logs blistered and +sputtered as creeping curls of bluish flame enwrapped them. Kindling +rapidly, they threw out fantastic lights, which danced like a regiment +of red elves around the old log walls of the cabin. + +“If a fellow could only drop off to sleep every night in the year +seeing and smelling such a fire as that!” breathed Neal, as, accepting +a share of Royal’s blankets, he stretched his tired limbs on the +evergreen mattress. + +“Then life would be too jolly for anything,” answered Roy. + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter IX. A Sunday Among the Pines + + +“Men and boys learn a good many wholesome lessons in the forest, one of +which is that it pays better to take a day of rest in seven if they +want to make the most of themselves and their opportunities. Therefore, +lads, we’ll do no tramping to-day. And we’ll have a bit of a service by +and by over there under the pines.” + +So spoke Doctor Phil on the following morning, when the two sets of +campers, now one joyous, brotherly crowd, were sitting or lounging +about the pine-wood table, leisurely emptying tin mugs of tea or +coffee, and eating porridge and rolls of Joe’s baking. + +“You haven’t told us yet, Cyrus,” he went on, “what point you’re bound +for. I know you’re level-headed, and plan every forest trip beforehand, +to economize time.” + +“Yes, a fellow likes to do that; it adds to the pleasures of +anticipation,” Garst answered. “But it’s precious little use, after +all, when you’re visiting a region which is as full of surprises as an +egg is full of meat. However, I have arranged to meet Herb Heal, the +guide whom I generally employ, at a hunting-camp near Millinokett +Lake.” + +“A good moose country,” put in Doc. + +“I know it. At all events, it is a good place for a home-camp; one can +make excursions into the dense forests at the foot of Katahdin, which +are unrivalled for big game—so Herb says, and he’s an authority. These +English fellows may expect to have an attack of buck-fever, or +_moose-fever_ rather, which will set their blood on fire. Not that +we’re out chiefly for killing; we’re willing to let his mooseship keep +a whole skin, and go in peace to replenish the forests, unless he grows +cantankerous and charges us.” + +“If he happens to be an old bull, and gits his mad up, he may do that; +it’s as likely as not,” chimed in Joe Flint, who was listening. + +“Well, it there’s a man in Maine who can be warranted to start a moose, +and to follow up his trail until he gets a sight of him, living or +dead, that man is Herb Heal,” said the doctor. “And his adventures go +ahead of those of any woodsman up to date. You must get him to tell you +how he swam across a pond at the tail of a bull-moose, holding with his +fingers and teeth to the creature’s long hair, then got astraddle of +its back, and severed its jugular vein with his hunting-knife. How’s +that! It was the liveliest swim I ever heard of. But I mustn’t spoil +his yarns. He must tell them himself. + +“A fine son of the woods is Herb Heal!” went on the speaker, with +enthusiasm. “I ran across him first five years ago, when he was +trapping for fur-bearing animals in the dense forests you mentioned +near the foot of Mount Katahdin. He had a partner with him then, a +half-breed Indian, whom woodsmen called ‘Cross-eyed Chris,’ a willing, +plucky, honest fellow when he was sober. But he loved fire-water. Let +him once taste spirits, or smell them, and he went clean crazy. He did +a dog’s trick to Herb,—stole all his furs and savings, with a splendid +pair of moose antlers, while he was away from camp one day, and skipped +out of the State. Herb swore he’d shoot him. But I don’t think he has +ever come across him since. And if he should, he wouldn’t stick to his +threat. He’s not built that way.” + +There was a general hum of interest over this story, which even Cyrus +had not heard before. + +“Now, how are you going to reach your camp on Millinokett Lake?” asked +Dr. Phil, when the buzz had subsided. “That’s the next question.” + +“We intend to tramp the entire distance by easy stages, and get there +about the middle of October,” answered young Garst for himself and his +comrades. “Uncle Eb will go along with us as guide; and he’ll supply a +tent, so that we can rest for two or three nights at a time if we +choose.” + +“Hum!” said the doctor doubtfully, laying his hand on Dol’s shoulder. +“This youngster oughtn’t to do much tramping for a few days, Cyrus. +That deer-road did up his feet pretty badly. I’ll be travelling in your +direction myself the day after to-morrow. I want to visit a +farm-settlement within a dozen miles of the lake, where the farmer has +a sickly child, the only treasure in his log shanty. The mite frets if +Doc doesn’t come to see her once in a while. + +“Therefore, I propose that we join forces, and press forward together. +I guess I’ll keep my nephews out here for a week longer, and take the +responsibility of their missing that time at school. Now that they have +fallen in with your friends, it would be a shame to separate Young +England and Young America without giving them a chance to get +friendly.” + +Here Dr. Phil beamed upon the five boys, who, after one night in the +forest, sleeping in a light-hearted row on the evergreen boughs, with +their feet to the fire, had reached a brotherly intimacy which years of +city life might not have bred. + +“I further propose,” he went on, “that we hire a roomy wagon and a pair +of strong horses from a settler who has a clearing about two miles from +here. There is an old logging-road which runs through the woods towards +the point for which we’re heading. We could follow that for the first +half of our journey. It isn’t a turnpike, you know. In fact, it’s only +a broad track where the underbrush has been cleared away, and the trees +cut down, with strips of corduroy road sandwiched in. But the lumbermen +still haul supplies over it to their camps, and I propose that we +follow their example. We can pile our tent, camp duffle [stores], and +all our packs into the wagon, together with the hero of the +deer-road,”—winking at Dol,—“and the rest of us can take turns in +riding. It will be a big lark for these youngsters to travel over a +corduroy road. A very bracing ride they’ll have in more senses than +one; but they can spin plenty of yarns about it when they get home.” + +The “youngsters,” one and all, signified their approval of the +suggestion. Cyrus, who, as a college man, was above this category, was +pleased to acquiesce too. + +“When can we get the wagon, Doctor?” asked Neal, burning to press +onward. + +“Oh! the day after to-morrow, I guess. And now, lads!” Dr. Phil’s voice +was serious, but exultant, “we’re a thoroughly happy set of fellows, in +accord with each other and our surroundings. We feel our brains clear, +our gladness springing up, and our lungs swelling to double their size +with the whiffs which reach us from those sky-piercing pines yonder. So +we will remember that ‘the wide earth is our Father’s temple.’ Over +there in the woods we will worship him, while millions of forest +creatures about us, flying, bounding, or building, in obedience to his +laws, simply worship too.” + +A music soft, deep, sighing, like the murmur of an organ under the +fingers of a master musician, rolled through the pine-tops as the band +of campers, guides included, followed Doc into the forest. They passed +the clumps of slender trees near the camp, and reached a dimly-lit +green aisle. + +Towering pines, so tall and erect that they seemed shooting upward to +kiss the clouds, were the pillars of their cathedral. Its roof of +tasselled boughs was stabbed by flashing needles of sunlight, which let +in a flickering, mellow radiance, and traced a pattern on the woodland +carpet. Every whiff of forest air was natural incense. + +Dr. Phil stood as if in the audience-chamber of the King, and removed +his wide-brimmed hat. + +“Now unto the King eternal, immortal, invisible, the only wise God, be +honor and glory, for ever and ever. Amen!” he said. + +Then Cyrus’s voice led the worship. + +“Praise God, from whom all blessings flow!” + + +he sang, in a strong, glad outburst. + +Boys and guides, in a great chorus, swelled the familiar words. Each +sweetly chirping woodland bird, after its own manner, echoed them. The +music among the pine-tops mingled with them. The forest fairly rang +with a magnificent, adoring Doxology. + +“We ought to be decent kind of fellows after this,” said Cyrus, when +the little service was over. + +And the doctor answered,— + +“I tell you, boy, the church was never built where a man feels so ready +to worship the God-Father in spirit and in truth as he does in the wild +woods.” + +And looking on the six fresh, manly faces before him, Dr. Phil saw that +this happy woodland trip would have grander results than adding to the +campers’ inches and to the breadth of their shoulders. For each one of +them had realized this morning that behind all strength and beauties of +forest growth, behind their own souls’ gladness, was a Presence which +they could “almost palpably feel.” + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter X. Forward All! + + +Speculations about the journey, and in especial about the corduroy +road, were rife in the boys’ minds during the forty and odd hours which +elapsed between the Sunday service and the time of their start. + +The travellers met at the settler’s cabin early on Tuesday morning, +having broken camp shortly after daybreak. On Monday evening Cyrus and +Neal, with Uncle Eb, had returned to the bark hut to pack their +knapsacks, and make ready for a forward march. On the way thither, it +being just the hour for the deer to be running,—that is, descending +from the hills for an evening meal,—Neal got a successful shot at a +small two-year-old buck. This was a stroke of luck for the campers, and +a necessary deed of death. It supplied them with venison for their +journey; and, as Cyrus said, “they had already put a shamefully big +hole in Dr. Phil’s stores, and must procure a respectable supply of +meat to make up for it.” + +It also provided Tiger with plenty of bones to crunch during his +master’s absence; for the dog was left behind in charge of the hut, as +indeed he often was for a week or more while Uncle Eb was away guiding. +The sportsmen who engaged the latter’s services were generally averse +to the creature’s presence with the party, lest he should scare their +game. + +Cyrus and Neal bade him a pathetic farewell, remembering the exciting +fun he had given them with the raccoon. Dol sent him lots of approving +messages, which were duly delivered, with rough pats and shakes, by +Uncle Eb, who fully believed that the brute understood every word of +them. Indeed, the sign language of Tiger’s expressive tail confirmed +this opinion. + +Dol had remained at the log camp with his new friends, Dr. Phil +thinking it well that he should rest his feet until the morning of the +start. His brother promised to bring his knapsack and rifle to the +settler’s cabin. Uncle Eb repossessed himself of his shot-gun, pouch, +and powder-horn, which he carried back to his hut, and left under +Tiger’s protection, telling Dol that “if he wanted to bag any more +black ducks he’d have to give ’em a dose wid de rifle, for he warn’t +a-goin’ to lug dat ole fuzzee t’rough de woods.” + +It was the perfection of an October morning, sunshiny and pleasant, +with a mellow freshness in the air which matched the mellow tints of +the forest, when the travellers joined forces at the farm-settlement. + +Engaged in the thrilling work of felling a pine-tree to extend his +father’s clearing, they found the settler’s son, a brawny fellow about +Cyrus’s age, in buckskin leggings and coon-skin cap, who wielded his +axe with arms which were tough and knotted as pine limbs. He bawled to +them in the forceful language of the backwoods, which to unaccustomed +ears sounded a trifle barbaric, to keep out of the way until his tree +had fallen. + +When the pine at last tumbled earthward with a thud which reverberated +for miles through the forest, he gave a mighty yell, waved his skin +cap, and came towards the visitors. + +“Hulloa, Lin!” boomed the doctor, greeting this native as an old +acquaintance. + +“Hello, Doc!” answered Lin. “By the great horn spoon! I didn’t expect +to see you here. Who are these fellers?” + +The doctor introduced his comrades. Lin greeted them with bluff +simplicity, and called them one and all by their Christian names as +soon as these could be found out. Doc alone came in for his short +title—if such it could be called. Luckily the campers of both +nationalities, from Cyrus downward, were without any element of +snobbery in their dispositions. It seemed to them only a jolly part of +the untrammelled forest life that man should go back to his primitive +relations with his brother man; that in the woods, as Doc said, +“manhood should be the only passport,” and that titles and distinctions +should never be thought of by guides or anybody else. They were +well-pleased to be taken simply for what they were,—jolly, +companionable fellows,—and to be valued according to the amount of grit +and good-temper they showed. + +And they learned this morning to appreciate the pioneer courage and +resolute spirit of the rugged settlers who had cleared a home for +themselves amid the surrounding wilderness of forest and stream. Their +roughness of speech was as nothing in comparison with their brave +endurance of hardships, their deeds of heroism, and their free-handed +hospitality. + +Lin led his visitors straight to a log cabin, before which his father, +a veteran woodsman, who bore the scars of bears’ teeth upon his body, +was digging and planting. This old farmer, too, greeted Doc as a +friend, and when the wagon was talked about, was quite willing to do +anything to serve him. + +“But ye must have a square meal afore ye travel,” he said. “Jerusha! I +couldn’t let ye go without eatin’. Mother!” shouting to his wife, who +was inside the cabin. “Say, Mother! Ha’n’t ye got somethin’ fer these +fellers to munch?” + +Forthwith a big, rosy woman, who had herself fought a bear in her time, +and had shot him, too, before he attacked her farmyard, hustled round, +and got up such a meal as the travellers had not tasted since they +entered the woods. They had a splendid “tuck-in,” consisting of fried +ham, boiled eggs, potatoes, hot bread, yellow butter, and coffee. And +the meal was accompanied with thrilling stories from the lips of the +old settler about the hardships and desperate scenes of earlier +pioneering days. Doc coaxed him to relate these for the boys’ benefit. +And many eyes dilated as he told of blood-curdling adventures with the +“lunk soos,” or “Indian devil,” the dreadful catamount or panther, +which was once the terror of Maine woodsmen. + +“So help me! I’d a heap sooner meet a ragin’ lion than a panther,” said +the old man. “My own father came near to bein’ eaten alive by one when +I was a kid. He was workin’ with a gang o’ lumbermen in these forests +at timber-makin’, and was returnin’ to their camp, when the beast +bounced out of a thicket all of a suddint. Poor dad was skeered stiff. +The thing screeched,—a screech so turrible that it was enough to turn a +man’s sweat to ice-water, an’ a’most set him crazy. Dad hadn’t no gun +with him; so he shinned up the nighest tree like mad, an’ hollered fit +to bust his windpipe, hopin’ t’other fellers at the camp ’ud hear him. + +“But the panther made up another tree hard by, an’ sprang ’pon him. +Fust it grabbed dad by the heel. Then it tore a big piece out o’ the +calf of his leg, an’ devoured it. Think of it, boys! Them’s the sort o’ +dangers that the fust settlers an’ lumbermen in these woods had to +face. + +“Wal, dad reckoned he was a goner, sure. But he managed to cut a limb +from the tree with his huntin’-knife, an’ tied the knife to the end of +it. With that he fought the beast while his comrades, who had heard his +mad yells, were gittin’ to him. With the fust shot that one of ’em +fired the catamount made off. + +“Dad was the sickest man ye ever saw fer a spell. His wound healed +after a bit, under the care of an Injun doctor; but his hair, which had +been soot-black on that evenin’ when he was returnin’ to camp, was as +white as milk afore he got about again; an’ he was notional and +narvous-like as long as he lived. + +“He said the animal was like a tremenjous big cat, about four feet high +an’ five or six feet in length. It was a sort o’ bluish-gray color. An’ +it had a very long tail curled up at the end, which it moved like a +cat’s. + +“Boys, that catamount is the only animal that an Indian is skeered of. +Ask a red man to hunt a moose, a bear, or a wolf, an’ he’s ready to +follow it through forest an’ swamp till he downs it or drops. But ask +him to chase a panther, an’ he’ll shake his head an’ say, ‘He all one +big debil!’ He calls the beast, in his own lingo, ‘lunk soos,’ which +means ’Injun devil;’ an’ so we woodsmen call it too.” + +It was at this moment that Lin put his head in at the cabin-door, and +announced that “the wagon an’ hosses war a’ ready.” + +“Wal, boys, I swan! it’s many a long year since a panther was seen in +these forests, so ye needn’t feel skeery about meetin’ one,” said the +old settler, as he stood outside his log home, and watched his guests +start. “I’ll ’low ye won’t find travellin’ too easy ’long the ole +corduroy road. Come again!” + +There was much waving of hats as the wagon, a roomy, four-wheeled +vehicle, moved off, with a creaking in its joints as if it were +squealing a protest against its load, which consisted of the five lads, +together with knapsacks, guns, tents, and the camp duffle. + +“Forward, all!” shouted Dr. Phil, who had been chosen to act as captain +of the two companies during the few days while they journeyed together. + +Lin, who was charioteer, cracked a long whip above his horses. The boys +cheered, while Doc, Cyrus, and the two guides fell behind, choosing to +follow the wagon on foot for the first few miles of the journey. + +“Where did you buy that, Lin?” asked Neal, climbing over to a perch +beside the driver, and pointing to a heavy Colt’s revolver which the +young settler was buckling round his waist. + +“Didn’t buy it. I traded a calf for it at Greenville more’n a year +ago,” was the reply. “Fust-rate gun it is, too, I vum! I’ve stood at +our cabin-door, and killed many a buck with it. On’y ’tain’t much good +for tackling a bear. Wish’t the bears ud get as scarce as the panthers! +Then we’d be rid o’ two master pests. Hello! Don’t y’u git to tumbling +out jist yet! That’s on’y a circumstance to the jolts there’ll be when +we strike a bit o’ corduroy road.” + +Lin Hathaway grabbed young Farrar by the elbow while he spoke, and held +him steady with the horny hand which had swung the axe against the +doomed pine-tree. For Neal had shown a sudden inclination to pitch +headlong out of the wagon, as its right wheels were hoisted a foot or +more above the left ones by rolling over a mossy bump in the ground. + +For the first five miles the forest road had been simply constructed +thus: First, the bushy undergrowth had been cut away and thrown to one +side, the space cleared being about eight feet wide; then all trees +growing in the range of this track had been sawn off close to the +ground, and windfalls which barred the way were removed. It was a rude +highway, with plenty of deformities, such as ends of rotting stumps, +twisted roots, ridges and bumps which had never been levelled; yet it +was beautiful beyond any smooth, well-graded road which the travellers +had ever seen. As it wound along in graceful curves through the woods, +it was shaded now by an emerald arch of evergreens, now by a royal +crimson canopy of maple branches, while patches of buff, orange, and +dull red commingled where other trees interlaced with these to whisper +woodland secrets. + +But the boys soon understood what Doc meant when he spoke of their +having “a bracing ride in more senses than one;” for the motion of the +wagon was a giddy series of jolts and bounces, with just sufficient +interval between each shock for them to brace themselves, with +stiffened backbones, for the next upheaval. They had already begun, as +Royal said, “to have kinks in all their limbs,” when Lin suddenly +announced,— + +“Yon’s a bit o’ corduroy road, I declar’!” + +He pointed with his whip ahead, and the travellers shot out their necks +to see this novel highway. It extended for about a quarter of a mile +over a swamp, and spoke volumes for the energy and ingenuity of the +hardy lumbermen who constructed it. + +These brawny heroes, who are fine types of American grit and manhood, +when clearing a broad track over which their great timber logs could be +hauled from the depths of the forest to the landing on some big river, +had found the swampy tracts an impassable obstacle for animals +trammelled with harness and a heavy load. + +They bridged them by laying down logs cut to even lengths in a slightly +slanting position across the way for the entire extent of miry ground. +Each piece of timber was tightly wedged in by its fellow; nevertheless, +there was a space of several inches between their rounded tops. Hence +the track presented a striped appearance, which suggested to some +spirited genius among woodsmen its name of “corduroy road.” + +“Well, Neal, do you think you can tell your folks a thing or two about +forest travelling when you get back to England?” asked Doc, when the +order of march was changed, young Farrar and the Sinclairs turning out +to do their share of tramping, while the doctor, Cyrus, and the guides +benefited by “a lift.” + +“I rather think I can,” answered Neal; “but goodness! I feel as if +there were aches and bruises all over me. Once or twice my head seemed +jumping straight off my shoulders. No more going in a wagon over +corduroy roads for me! I’d rather be leg-weary any day.” + +The travellers halted that evening about five o’clock on the banks of a +lonely stream. The guides pitched the two tents—Joe had provided one +for his party—facing each other on a patch of clearing, with a space of +about fifteen feet between them, in the centre of which blazed a +roaring camp-fire. Now all the axes and knifes among the band were in +demand for cutting and sharpening stakes and ridge-poles on which to +stretch their canvas. + +Moreover, no evergreen boughs could be procured for beds; and the boys +had to work with a will, helping Uncle Eb and Joe to cut bundles of the +long, rank grass that grew by the water to form a bed for their tired +bodies. + +Every one was camp-hungry, as they had not halted for a meal since +leaving the settlement. After a splendid supper of venison, broiled +over sizzling logs, bread, and fried potatoes,—for they had added to +their stores at the farm,—they had a glorious social hour by the +camp-fire. Joe got off any amount of “ripping” stories; and the sound +of many a jolly chorus, led by Cyrus, and swelled by the musical +efforts of the entire crew, mingled with the lonely rustle of the night +wind among faded and drifting leaves. + +When Doc’s summons came to turn in, they stretched themselves upon the +grassy beds, not undressing, as the night was chilly and the temporary +quarters were not so snug as their previous ones. Still in their warm +jerseys, trousers, woollen stockings, and knitted caps, with the heat +from the piled-up camp-fire streaming under the raised flaps of the +tents, they slept as cosily as if they lay on spring mattresses, +surrounded by pictured walls. + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter XI. Beaver Works + + +About noon on the following day they were obliged to bid farewell to +Lin Hathaway, his wagon and horses, as the logging-road went no +farther. The young settler turned homeward rather regretfully. It might +be many months again before he got a chance of talking to anybody +beyond his father and mother, and the boys had brought a dash of +outside life into his woodland solitude. + +The travellers proceeded on foot through a dense forest, which, luckily +for Dol, had little undergrowth and mostly a soft carpet of moss or dry +pine needles. Still they had plenty of climbing over windfalls, with +many rough pokes and jibes from forward boughs and rotten limbs, to rob +the way of sameness. Through this labyrinth they were safely piloted by +Uncle Eb and Joe, the latter with his compass in his hand, and the +former simply studying the “Indian’s compass,” which is observing how +the moss grows upon the tree-trunks, there being always a greater +quantity on the side which faces north. + +Before nightfall they reached another log cabin, tenanted by a man who +had just settled down for the purpose of clearing up a farm. Here they +were lodged for the night, without trouble of making camp. + +The third day of their journey was marked by two sensations. They +halted for a short rest at a point where there was an extensive break +in the forest. Scarcely had they emerged from the gloom of a dense +growth of cedars, when Dol exclaimed.— + +“Good gracious! That looks as if people had been building a jolly high +railroad out here.” + +On the right rose a bare, steep ridge of sand and gravel, nearly ninety +feet in height, and closely resembling a railway embankment. + +“Well, boy,” laughed Dr. Phil, “if that’s a railroad, Nature built it, +and by a mighty curious process too. The sand, rocks, and +gravel of which it is mostly formed must have been swept here by a +great rush of waters that once prevailed over this land. We call the +ridge a ‘Horseback.’ If you like, we’ll climb to the top of it, after +we’ve had our snack [lunch], and you can get a peep at the surrounding +country.” + +So they did. The top was level, and wide enough for two carriages to +drive abreast; and the view from it was one which could never be +forgotten. Around them were millions of acres of forest land, beautiful +with the contrasts of October; here dipping into a cedar valley, in the +midst of which they saw the silver smile of a woodland lake, there +rising into a hill crowned with towering pines, some of them over a +hundred feet in height. + +But, most thrilling sight of all, they beheld, only half a dozen miles +away, rising in sublime grandeur against the sky, the mountain of +mountains in Maine,—great Katahdin. They had caught glimpses of its +curved line of peaks before. Now they saw its forests, and the rugged +slides where avalanches of bowlders and earth from the top had ploughed +heavily downward, sweeping away all growth. + +Cyrus lifted his hat, and waved it at the distant mass. + +“Hurrah!” he cried. “There’s the home of storms! There’s old Katahdin! +The Indians named it Ktaadn ‘the biggest mountain.’” + +“Want to hear the Indian legend about it, lads?” asked Dr. Phil. + +A general chirp of assent was his reply, and the doctor began:— + +“Well, when the redskins owned these forests, they believed that the +summit of Katahdin was the home of their evil spirit, or, as they call +him, ‘The Big Devil.’ He was named Pamolah. And he was a mighty +unpleasant sort of neighbor. Once, so tradition says, he ran away with +a beautiful Indian maiden, and carried her up to his lonely lair among +those peaks. When her tribe tried to rescue her, he let loose great +storms upon them, his artillery being thunder, lightning, hail, and +rain, before which they were forced to flee helter-skelter. An old red +chief long ago told me the story, and added gravely that ‘it was sartin +true, for han’some squaw always catch ’em debil.’ + +“The foundation of the legend lies in the fact that there really is a +very curious granite basin among Katahdin’s peaks, and it is the +birthplace of most storms which sweep over our State. I myself have +seen clouds forming in it, when I made an ascent of the mountain in my +younger days, and whirling out in all directions. The roar of its winds +may sometimes be heard miles away. There are several ponds in the +basin; one of them, a tiny, clear lake, without any visible outlet, is +Pamolah’s fishing-ground. That’s the yarn about the mountain as I heard +it.” + + +Illustration: In The Shadow Of The Katahdin. + + +“Ain’t it a’most time for us to be gittin’ down from this Horseback, +Doc?” asked Joe, who had been listening with the others. “I thought +we’d reach the farm you’re heading for to-night, but we’re half a dozen +miles off it yet; and we can’t do more’n another mile or two afore +it’ll be time to halt and make camp. There’s some pretty bad travelling +and a plaguy bit of swamp ahead.” + +“I guess you’re about right, Joe,” said Doc, rising with alacrity from +the stone where he had seated himself while telling his yarn. + +Joe’s bad travelling meant a great deal of tripping and floundering +through soft mud and mire, with slippery moss-stones sandwiched in, and +dwarfed bushes which ran along the ground, and twisted themselves in an +almost impassable tangle. These had a knack of catching a fellow’s +feet, and causing him to sprawl forward on his face and hands, +whereupon his knapsack would hit him an astounding thwack on the back. + +After three-quarters of an hour of this fun, very muddy, clammy with +perspiration, and thoroughly winded, the party reached firmer ground, +and the guides called a halt. + +“Guess we’d better rest a bit,” said Joe, “afore we go farther. There’s +nothing in forest travelling that’ll take the breath out of a man like +crossing a swamp,” eying compassionately the city folk; for he himself +was as “fit” as when he started. “Then we’d better follow that stream +till we strike a good place for a camping-ground. What say, Doc?” + +Dr. Phil, as captain, signified his assent. After a short +breathing-spell he again gave the command, “Forward!” And his company +pushed on into the woods, following the course of a dark stream which +had gurgled through the swamp. + +“There used to be an old beaver-dam somewheres about here,” broke forth +Joe presently, when they had made about a quarter of a mile, the +younger guide taking the lead, for he was evidently more at home in +this part of the forest land than his senior, Uncle Eb. “Hullo, now! +there it is. Look, gentlemen!” + +He pointed to a curved bank of brushwood, mostly alder branches, piled +together in curious topsyturvy fashion, which formed a dam across the +stream. It bristled with sticks, poking out and up in every direction; +for the bushy ends of the boughs had been heavily plastered with mud +and stones, to keep them down. + +“That a beaver-dam!” gasped Neal in amazement. “Why, I always had an +idea that beavers were half human in intelligence, and wove their +branches in and out in a sort of neat basketwork when making dams. +That’s a funny rough-and-tumble looking old pile.” + +“It’s a good water-tight dam, for all that,” answered Cyrus. “And don’t +you begin to underrate Mr. Beaver’s intelligence until you see more of +his works. I’ve torn the bottom out of a dam like this on a cold, rainy +night,—beavers like rainy nights for work,—and then hidden myself in +some bushes to watch the result. It was a trial of strength and +patience, I assure you, to remain there for six mortal hours,—though I +had rubber overalls on,—with wet twigs and leaves slapping my face. But +the sight I saw was more wonderful than anything I could have imagined. +There was a cloudy, watery moon; and shortly after it rose, five +beavers appeared upon the dam, scrambling up and down, and examining +the great hole through which the water was fast leaking out of their +pond. Then, following a big fellow, who was evidently the boss beaver, +they swam to the bank. He stationed himself near a tree about twenty +inches in circumference, and his four boys at once started to fell it. +I tell you they worked like hustlers, each one sawing on it in turn +with his sharp teeth, and sometimes two of them together on different +parts of the trunk. + +“At last the tree—it was an ash—fell, toppling into the water just +where the beavers wanted it. They pushed and tugged it down-stream for +about ten yards, to the dam, and propped it against the opening which I +had made. I couldn’t see the rest of the operations clearly; but I +caught glimpses of them, marching about on their hind-legs, carrying +mud snug up to their chins like this,” here Cyrus folded his arms +across his chest. “And before daybreak that dam was perfectly repaired, +with never a leak in it. + +“You know they build the dams in very shallow water, only a few inches +deep; and they generally roll in a couple of long logs for a solid +foundation. It was one of these which I had torn out. Now, Neal, what +do you say about the beaver’s intelligence?” + +“If I didn’t know you, Cyrus, I’d say you were making up as you went +along,” answered Neal. “It seems one of those things which a fellow can +scarcely believe in. Hulloa! What’s that?” + +A loud report, like the bang of a gun, made all the boys, who had been +standing very quietly, gazing at the dam, suddenly jump. + +“It’s only a beaver striking the water with his tail,” laughed Cyrus. +“He has been swimming about somewhere up-stream, and has scented us, +and dived. I have heard one do that a dozen times in the night, if he +detected the presence of man; but it’s very unusual in the daytime, for +they rarely venture out in broad light. In diving, if suddenly alarmed, +they strike the surface of the water a tremendous whack with their +tails, as a signal of alarm, making this report, which in still weather +resounds for a great distance. + +“I’m very glad you heard it, boys; for your chances of seeing the +master beaver or any of his colony are mighty slim. But we’ll probably +come on their lodge a little higher up.” + +Above the shallow water where the dam was built, the stream widened +into a broad, deep pool. About fifty yards ahead, in the centre of +this, was a tiny island. On its extreme edge Joe pointed out the beaver +lodge. It was shaped something like a huge beehive, being about a dozen +feet in diameter and five feet high. The outside seemed to be entirely +covered with mud and fibrous roots, through which the sticks which +formed its framework poked out here and there. + +“The doors are all underwater,” said Cyrus, “and so far down that +they’ll be beneath the ice when the stream freezes in winter. Otherwise +the beavers could not reach their pile of food-wood, which they keep at +the bottom, and would starve to death. They are clerks of the weather, +if you like. They seem to know when the first hard frost is coming, and +sink their stores a day or two before. Man has not yet discovered their +mysterious knack of sinking wood, and keeping it stationary through +many months. + +“They feed on the inner bark of poplar, white birch, and willow trees. +In autumn they fell these along the banks, generally so that they will +fall into the water, tug and push them down-stream, and float them near +to their lodges. If the trees are too big to be easily handled, they +saw them into convenient lengths.” + +“I call it tough luck, not being able to get a sight of the animals, +after seeing so much of their works,” grumbled Royal. + +“Ye might wait here till midnight, and not have any better,” said Joe. +“That fellow’s tail was like a fire-alarm to them. They ain’t to home +now, you bet! They’ve dusted out of their house as if it was on fire; +and they’ve either dived to the bottom, or hidden themselves in holes +along the bank. Guess we’d better be moving on. It’s a’most time to +think about making camp.” + +“The beavers have been working here!” exclaimed the guide a few minutes +later, as he strode ahead. “These white birches were felled by ’em; and +a dandy job they did too.” + +He pointed to two slim birches which lay prone with their tops in the +water, and to a third, the trunk of which was partly sawn through in +more than one place. The ground was strewn with little clippings of +timber, bearing the saw-marks of the beavers’ teeth. The boys gathered +them up as curiosities. + +“Oh, the skilful little animals can beat this work by long odds!” +exclaimed Doc. “These trunks only measure from eight to twelve inches +in circumference. I’ve seen a tree fully two feet round which was +felled by them. Say, Joe! don’t you think we’d better camp to-night +somewhere on the _brûlée?_” + +“Just what I’m planning, Doc,” answered Joe. “We must be pretty near it +now.” + +A few minutes afterwards the party filed out of the dense woods, passed +through a grove of young spruces, forded a brook which emptied itself +into the stream they were following, and came upon a scene blasted, +barren, and unutterably dreary. + +The band of boys, who, in spite of swamps and jungles, had learned to +love the forest dearly, for its many beauties, and for the wild +offspring with which it teemed, sorrowfully gasped, as if they saw the +skeleton of a friend. + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter XII. “Go It, Old Bruin!” + + +Before them lay a ruined tract of country, extending northward farther +than eye could reach. It is called by Maine woodsmen a _brûlée_, name +borrowed from their French-Canadian neighbors, who dwell across the +boundary line which separates the Dominion from the United States. + +The word signifies “burnt tract;” but it gives a feeble idea of the +fire-smitten, blackened region on which the lads looked. + +The forest until now had been a wilderness truly, but a wilderness +where every kind and size of growth, from the giant pine to the +creeping wintergreen and shaded mosses, mingled in beautiful confusion. +Here it became a desert. For the terrible forest fires, the woodsman’s +tragic enemy, had swept over it not long before, devastating an area of +many square miles. Millions of dollars worth of valuable timber had +been reduced to rotting embers. Storm-defying pines had crashed to the +earth, and were overridden by the flames in their wild rush onward. +Sometimes only a smutty stump showed where they had stood; sometimes, +robbed of life and every limb, portions of the fire-eaten trunks still +remained erect,—bare, blackened poles. All smaller growth, and even the +surface of the ground, parched by summer heats, had burned like tinder. +Rocks and stones were baked and crumbling. + +“Boys, that’s the most mournful sight a woodsman can see,” said Doc, +looking away over the wrecked region, touched with golden lights from +an October sunset. “It makes one who loves the woods feel as if he had +lost a living friend.” + +“Well, ’tain’t no manner o’ use to fret over it,” declared Joe +energetically. “Nature don’t waste time in fretting, you bet! She +starts in and tries to cover the stripped ground, as if she was sort of +ashamed to have it seen.” + +The guide pointed earthward. At his feet a dwarfed growth of blueberry +bushes and tiny trees was already springing up to screen the unsightly, +ash-strewn land. + +“True enough, Joe! Nature is a grand one for remedies,” answered the +doctor. “Still, it will be half a century or more before she can raise +a timber growth here again. Hulloa! Dol, what are you fellows up to?” + +While his elders were studying the _brûlée_, Dol, who objected to +dreary sights, had marched down to the brink of the stream, accompanied +by Royal’s young brothers, Will and Martin Sinclair. The little river +gurgled and frisked along beside the burnt tract, like a line of life +bordering death. It seemed to the boys to prattle about its victory +over the flames when it stopped their sweeping course, so that the +woods on its opposite bank were uninjured, as were those beyond the +brook in the rear. + +“We’re studying the ways of the great sea-serpent!” shouted back Dol, +who was splashing about in a sedgy pool. + +By and by when the guides had finished their work of making camp, when +they had pitched the tents, cut boughs for beds and fuel in the spruce +grove behind, and were cooking an odorous supper, the three juveniles +came slowly towards the camp-fire from the water. + +“What on earth have you got there, young one?” asked Dr. Phil; for +Adolphus Farrar was bareheaded, and carried his hat very gingerly, with +its corners clutched together to form a bag. + +“The big sea-serpent himself,” answered Dol mysteriously. + +Of a sudden he opened his dripping hat, and spilled out a small +water-snake, about ten inches long, upon the doctor’s lap. + +There was a great roar of laughter, in which Dol’s abettors, Will and +Martin, joined with cheerful shouts. The little joke had the effect of +winning everybody’s thoughts from roaring flames, wrecked forests, and +the dreary _brûlée_. Uncle Eb killed the snake, maintaining that +water-snakes were “plaguy p’isonous,” while Cyrus scouted the idea. The +supper that evening was a merry enough meal. The camp, lit by the ruddy +glow from its great fire, looked an oasis of light, warmth, and jollity +in the black and burnt desert. + +The darky, hearing Cyrus declare that he was fearfully hungry, mixed +some flapjacks to form a second course, after the venison steaks and +potatoes. He had exhausted his stock of maple sugar, but he produced a +small wooden keg of the apparently inexhaustible molasses. + +“He! he! he! Dat jest touches de spot, don’t it?” he chuckled, when, +having carefully served each member of the party, he seated himself +about three feet from the camp-fire, with a round dozen of the thin +cakes for his own eating. + +He coated them with the thick molasses, and set the keg down side by +side with a bag of potatoes which had been brought from the settlement. + +There these provisions remained when, earlier than usual, the party +turned in, and stretched their tired limbs to rest, lying down, as they +had done before when sleeping under canvas, with all their garments on +save coats and moccasins. Whether Uncle Eb forgot his “m’lasses,” or +whether he purposely left it without, there not being a spare inch of +room in the small tents, no one then or afterwards inquired. + +As a result of the jolly intimacy that had sprung up between the two +companies during the few days when they had all things in common, the +boys disposed of themselves for the night as they pleased. Neal turned +in with the doctor, Royal, and Joe, the four stretching themselves on +the evergreen boughs, with their feet to the opening of the tent, and +their rifles and ammunition within reach. Of course the Winchesters +were empty, it being a strict rule that firearms should not be brought +into camp loaded. + +The younger Sinclairs, with Cyrus, Dol, and Uncle Eb, occupied the +other tent. + +It seemed to Neal that he had hardly slept one hour,—probably it was +nearer to three,—during which time he had been dreaming with vague +foreshadowings of the final and crowning sport of the trip, the grand +moose-stalking, and of Herb Heal, the mighty hunter, when he was +awakened by a shrill scream just outside the canvas. He started, with +his heart going whackety-whack. The cry was sudden and intensely +startling, appearing twice as loud as it really was when it broke the +pathetic stillness of the _brûlée_, where not a tree rustled or twig +snapped, and the night wind only sighed faintly and fitfully through +the newly springing growth. + +Again sounded that startling screech; and yet again, making a dreary, +piercing din. + +“By all that’s funny! it’s another coon,” gasped Neal; and he gently +pinched the shoulder of Joe, who lay on his left. + +“Joe!” he whispered. “Wake up! There’s a raccoon just outside the tent. +I heard his cry.” + +The guide was awake and alert in an instant. So, too, was Dr. Phil. + +“What’s up, boys?” asked the latter, hearing a murmur. + +“There’s a coon close by,” said Neal again. “Listen to him!” + +Even while he spoke, young Farrar caught sight of two feathered things +hopping along the avenue of light which lay between him and the +camp-fire, the red flare of the flames mingling with the white radiance +of a cloudless moon. At the same time the screech sounded and +resounded. + +“Coon!” exclaimed Joe derisively. “That’s no coon. It’s only a little +owl. Bless ye! I’ve had five or six of ’em come right into this tent of +a night, and ding away at me till I had to talk to ’em with the rifle +to scare ’em off. I’ll give ’em a dose o’ lead now if they don’t scoot +mighty quick; that’ll stop their song an’ dance.” + +“Their cry is pretty much like a raccoon’s, Neal,” said Doc. “Only it’s +a great deal weaker. Lie down, boy. Go to sleep, and don’t mind them.” + +The owls perhaps apprehended danger. At all events, they were silent +for a while; and in three minutes each occupant of the tent was fast +asleep again, with the exception of Neal. The sharp awakening had upset +his nerves a bit. He obeyed the doctor, and hugged his blankets round +him, hoping sleep would return; but he lay with eyes narrowed into two +slits, peeping at the ruddy camp-fire, involuntarily listening for the +screeching of the birds, and wishing that he had not been such a +greenhorn as to disturb his comrades for nothing. Royal, who lay on his +right, was of a less excitable temperament. Although he had been +awakened, he was now snoring lustily, insomnia being a rare affliction +in camps. + +“What’s that?” + +About half an hour had passed when Neal Farrar suddenly and sharply +rapped out these words close to Joe’s ear. He felt certain that he +would not now bring upon him the woodsman’s good-natured scorn for +making a disturbance about nothing. A heavy, stealthy tread, as of some +big animal, was crushing the pygmy bushes near the tent. Immediately +afterwards he saw an uncouth black shape in the lane of light between +himself and the fire. It disappeared while his heart was giving one +jump, and he heard a dull, mumbling noise, such as a pig might make +when rooting amid rubbish, varied with an occasional low growl. + +Joe was already awake. His hunter’s instinct told him that something +truly exciting was on now. + +“My cracky! I b’lieve it’s a bear!” he muttered, forming his words away +down in his throat, so that Neal only caught the last one. “Keep still +as death!” + +The guide reached out a long arm, and clutched his rifle. Hurriedly he +jammed half a dozen cartridges into its magazine. Then lightly and +silently, as if he was made of cork, he got upon his feet, and bounded +out of the tent, Neal copying his actions nimbly and noiselessly as he +could; though, in his excitement, he only succeeded in getting two +cartridges into his Winchester. + +Royal’s snoring ceased. Doc’s eager question, “What’s up now, boys?” +reached the two just as they quitted shelter, and passed into the broad +moonlight, crossed with red gleams from their fire. + +“A bear!” yelled Joe in answer, his rifle and he breaking silence +together. + +Three times the Winchester sharply cracked. + +Then with a mad “Halloo!” the guide seized a flaming stick from the +fire, and, swinging it above his head, started after the big black +animal of which Neal had caught a glimpse before. He now saw it plainly +as, already fifty yards ahead, it made off at a plunging gallop across +the moonlit _brûlée_. + +Young Farrar had been the champion runner of his school, and he blessed +his trained legs for giving him a prominent part in the wild chase that +followed. Still imitating the woodsman, he pulled another half-lighted +stick from the camp-fire, and waved it in a frenzy of excitement, while +he ran like a buck at Joe’s side. + +“Tumble out! Tumble out, boys! A bear! A bear!” now rang from one tent +to another. + +In two minutes every camper, in his stocking feet, just as he had risen +from his bed, was tearing across the _brûlée_ in the wake of Bruin, +yelling, leaping, and swinging smouldering firebrands. + +It was a scene and a chase such as the boys, in their most far-fetched +dreams, had never pictured,—the white moonlight glimmering on the black +stumps and tottering trunks of the ruined tract, the hunted bear +plunging off among them, frightened by the shouting and the lights, the +heavy, lumbering gallop enabling it at first to distance its pursuers. + +Owing to their fleetness and the odds they had at the start, the guide +and Neal kept far ahead of their comrades. The noise which Bruin made +as he lumbered over the pygmy growth, and the charred, rotting timber +that littered the ground beneath it, were quiet enough to guide Joe +unerringly in the bear’s wake, even when that bulky shape was not +distinguishable. + +“What’s this?” screeched the woodsman suddenly, as he stumbled upon +something at his feet. “By gracious! it’s our keg of m’lasses. He made +off with that, and has dropped it out o’ sheer fright, or because he’s +weakening. I know I hit him twice when I fired; but he’s not hurt too +badly to run, or to fight like a fiend if we come to close quarters. +Like as not ’twill be a narrow squeak with us if we tackle him. If +you’re scared a little bit, Neal, let up, an’ I’ll finish him alone.” + +“Scared!” Neal flung the word back with scorn, as if he was returning a +blow. For the life of him he could not bring out another syllable, +going at a faster rate than ever he had done in the most stubbornly +contested handicap. The strong-winded guide rapped out his sentences as +he ran, apparently without waste of breath. + +The feverish enthusiasm of the hunter, which he had never felt before, +was now alive in Neal. His blood raced through his veins like liquid +fire. He had been long enough in Maine to know that in wreaking +vengeance on Bruin for many misdeeds he would be acting in the +interests of justice. For the black bear is still such a master pest to +the settlers who are trying to establish their farms amid the forests +where it roams, that the State has outlawed the beast, and pays a +bounty for its skin. + +Joe thought little about this; for a gentleman whom he had guided early +in the summer had lately written to him, offering a price of fifteen +dollars for a good bearskin. + +Here was the woodsman’s golden opportunity—an opportunity for which he +had been thirsting since the receipt of that letter. + + +Illustration: “Go It, Old Bruin! Go It While You Can!” + + +He already regarded his triumph over the bear as secure, and its hide +as forfeited. He nearly caused Neal Farrar to burst a blood-vessel from +the combined effects of struggling laughter and running, when he began +to apostrophize the flying foe with grim humor, thus:— + +“Go it, old Bruin! Go it while ye can! There ain’t a hair on yer back +that b’longs to ye!” + +But it soon became evident that the bear couldn’t go on much longer at +this breakneck pace. Its pursuers heard its steps with increasing +distinctness, and then its labored breathing. They were gaining on it +fast. + +The brute came into full view about forty yards ahead, as it ascended a +slight elevation, crowned with blasted tree trunks. + +“I’ll draw bead on him from here,” said Joe, stopping short. “Get ready +to fire, lad, if he turns. It’ll take lots o’ lead to finish that +fellow.” + +Twice Joe’s rifle spoke again. One shot took effect. There was a +fearful growl from the beast, but it was not yet mortally wounded. + +Maddened and desperate, it wheeled about, and came straight for its +pursuers. Again the guide fired. Still the bear advanced, gnashing its +teeth and mumbling horribly; Neal saw its black shape not thirty yards +from him. + +“Shoot! shoot, boy!” screamed Joe. “Or give me your rifle. I haven’t +got a charge left!” + +For half a minute Farrar shook all over as with ague. His nostrils felt +choked. His mouth was wide open in his efforts to breathe. His heart +pounded like a sledge-hammer. With that mumbling brute advancing upon +him, he felt as if he couldn’t fire so as to hit a haystack or a flock +of hens at a barn-door. + +Then, suddenly, he was cool again, seeing and hearing with +extraordinary clearness. The ignominious alternative of giving his +rifle to Joe produced a revulsion. His fingers were on the trigger, his +left hand firmly gripped the barrel of his Winchester; he brought it to +his shoulder. + +“Aim low! Try to hit him in the front of the neck where it joins the +body,” said Joe, in tones sharp as a razor, which cut his meaning into +Neal’s brain. + +Bruin was only fifteen yards away when Farrar’s rifle cracked +once—twice—sending out its messengers of death. + +There was a last terrible growl, a plunge, and a thud which seemed to +shake the ground under Neal’s feet. As the smoke of his shots cleared +away, Joe beheld him leaning on his +rifle, with a face which in the moonlight looked white as chalk, and +the bear lying where it had fallen headlong towards him. It made a +desperate struggle to regain its feet, then rolled on its side, dead. + +One bullet had pierced the spot which Joe mentioned, and had passed +through the region of the heart. + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter XIII. “The Skin Is Yours.” + + +A regular war-dance was performed about the slain marauder by the young +Sinclairs and Dol Farrar, when these laggards in the chase reached the +spot where he fell. The firebrands had all died out before the enemy +turned; but in the white moon-radiance the bear was seen to be a big +one, with an uncommonly fine skin. + +Neal took no part in the triumphal capers. He still leaned upon his +rifle, his breath coming in gusty puffs through his nostrils and mouth. +Not alone the desperate sensations of those moments when he had faced +the gnashing, mumbling brute, but the unexpected success of his first +shot at big game, had unhinged him. By his endurance in the chase, by +the pluck with which he stood up to the bear, above all, by his being +able, as Joe phrased it, to “take a sure pull on the beast at a +paralyzing moment,” he had eternally justified his right to the title +of sportsman in the eyes of the natives. The guides, Joe and Eb, were +not slow in telling him that he had behaved from start to finish like +no “greenhorn,” but a regular “old sport.” + +“My cracky! ’twas lucky for me that you had game blood in you, which +showed up,” exclaimed Joe, catching the boy’s arm in a friendly grip, +with an odd respect in his touch, which marked the admission of young +Farrar into the brotherhood of hunters. “I hadn’t a charge left, an’ +not even my hunting-knife. Lots o’ city swells ’u’d have been plumb +scared before a growler like that,”—touching Bruin’s carcass with his +foot,—“even if they had a small arsenal to back ’em up. They’d have +dropped rifle and cartridges, and hugged the nearest trunk. I’ve seen +fellers do it scores o’ times, bless ye! after they came out here +rigged up in sporting-book style, talking fire about hunting bears and +moose. But that was all the fire there was to ’em.” + +Yet Neal’s triumph over the poor brute, which had raced well for its +life, was not without a faint twinge of pain; and he was too manly to +look on this as a weakness. A sportsman he might be, of the sort who +can shoot straight when necessity demands it, but never of that class +who prowl through the forests with fingers tingling to pull the +trigger, dreading to lose a chance of “letting blood” from any +slim-legged moose or velvet-nosed buck which may run their way. It +needed Doc’s praise to make him feel fully satisfied with his deed. + +“It was a crack shot, boy,” said the doctor proudly. “And I guess the +farmer at the next settlement will feel like giving you a medal for it. +Old Bruin has only got what he gave to every creature he could master.” + +There being no tree conveniently near to which they could string up the +dead bear, the guides decided to leave the ugly matter of skinning and +dissecting him for morning light. The excited party returned to camp, +but not to sleep. They built up their scattered fire, squatted round +it, and discoursed of the night’s adventure until a clear dawn-gleam +brightened the eastern sky. Then Uncle Eb and Joe started out again +across the _brûlée_. They reappeared before breakfast-time, bringing +Bruin’s skin and a goodly portion of his meat. + +Joe laid the hide at Neal’s feet. + +“There, boy,” he said, “the skin is yours. It belongs rightly to the +man who killed the bear; and I guess the brute wasn’t mortally hurt at +all till your bullet nipped him in the neck.” + +“But what about the fifteen dollars from that New York man, Joe? You’ll +lose it,” faltered young Farrar, with a triumphant heart-leap at the +thought of taking this trophy back to England, but loath to profit by +the woodsman’s generosity. + +“Don’t you bother about that; let it go,” answered Joe, whose business +of guiding was profitable enough for him. “’Tain’t enough for the skin, +anyhow. Nary a finer one has been taken out o’ Maine in the last five +years; and mighty lucky you Britishers were to git a chance of a +bear-hunt at all. Old Bruin must have been powerful hungry to come +around our camp.” + +There was a grand breakfast before the travellers broke camp that +morning. The guides and Doc—who had got accustomed to the luxury during +visits to settlers and lumber-camps—feasted off bear-steaks. Cyrus and +the boys, American and English, declined to touch it. The whole +appearance of Bruin as he lay stretched on the ground the night before +made their “department of the interior” revolt against it. + +When a start was made for the settlement, Joe bundled up the skin, and, +as a tribute of respect to Neal’s “game blood,” carried it, in addition +to his heavy pack, for a distance of four miles over the desolate +_brûlée_ and across a soft, miry bog. On reaching the farm clearing, he +cut the stem of a tall cedar bush, which he bent into the shape of a +hoop, binding the ends together with cedar bark. He then pricked holes +all around the edges of the hide with the sharp point of his +hunting-knife, stretched it to its full extent, and fastened it to the +hoop, which he hung up to a tree near the settler’s cabin, telling Neal +that in a few days it would be dry enough to pack away in a bag. + +But as it was a cumbersome article to carry while tramping a dozen +miles farther to the camp on Millinokett Lake, the farmer offered to +take charge of it for its owner until he passed that way again on his +return journey; an offer which Neal thankfully accepted. The old +backwoodsman was, truth to tell, delighted to see hanging up near his +cabin door the skin of an enemy who had ofttimes plundered him so +unmercifully. + +He made the travellers royally welcome, let them have the roomy kitchen +of his log shanty to sleep in, with a soft bed of hay. Here he lay with +them, while his wife and sickly little girl occupied an adjoining space +about twelve feet square, which had been boarded off. This was all the +accommodation the log home afforded. + +The forest child was a puzzle to the lads. To them she looked as if the +soul of a grandmother had taken possession of a thin, long-limbed body +which ought to belong to a girl of ten. Her pinched features and +over-wise eyes told a tale of suffering, and so did her high-pitched, +quivering voice, as it made elfishly sharp remarks about the boys until +they blenched before her. + +This was the little one of whom the doctor had said “that she fretted +if he did not come to see her once in a while.” And with Doc she was a +different being. Her voice softened, her eyes became childlike, and +thin tinkles of laughter broke from her as she clung to him, and +received certain presents of medicines and picture-books which he had +brought for her in a corner of his knapsack. + +For two nights the travellers slept in a row on their hay bed; for two +long-remembered days the five boys roamed the country round the +clearing, starting deer, catching glimpses of a wildcat, a marten or +two, and of another coon. Then came, to use Dol’s expression, “the +beastly nuisance of saying good-by.” + +Dr. Phil was obliged to return to Greenville; and he declared that now +he must surely start his nephews homeward, for Royal expected to +graduate from the High School during the following year, and to let him +waste more time from study would be questionable kindness. Joe Flint of +course would go back with his party. And here Cyrus paid Uncle Eb’s +fees for guiding, and dismissed him too. + +Only a dozen miles of tolerably easy travelling now separated Garst and +his English comrades from the camp on Millinokett Lake, where they were +to meet the redoubtable Herb Heal. The settler, knowing this tract of +country as thoroughly as he knew his own few fields, offered to lead +our trio for the first half of their onward march; and as they could +follow a plain trail for the remainder of the +way, they had no further need of their guide’s services. They promised +to visit Eb at his bark hut on their return journey, to bid him a final +farewell, and hear one more stave of:— + +“Ketch him, Tiger, ketch him!” + + +“Good-by, you lucky fellows!” said Royal Sinclair huskily, as he +gripped Neal’s hand, then Dol’s, in a brotherly squeeze when the hour +of parting came. “I wish I was going on with you. We’ve had a stunning +good time together, haven’t we? And we’ll run across each other in +these woods some time or other again, I know! You’ll never feel +satisfied to stay in England, where there’s nothing to hunt but hares +and foxes, after chasing bears and moose.” + +“Oh! we’ll come out here again, depend upon it,” answered Neal. “Drop +me a line occasionally, won’t you, Roy? Here’s our Manchester address.” + +“I will, if you’ll do the same.” + +“Agreed. Good-by again, old fellow!” + +“I’ve got the slip of birch-bark and the horn safe in my knapsack, +Doc,” Dol was saying meanwhile, feeling his eyes getting leaky as he +bade farewell to the doctor. “I—I’ll keep them as long as I live.” + +Doctor Phil had been as good as his word. He had made Joe rip the slip +of white bark, with the rude writing on it, off the pine-tree near the +swamp, and had presented it to Dol ere the boy quitted his camp. + +“Well, confusion to partings anyhow!” broke in Joe. “Don’t like ’em a +bit. Hope you’ll get that bear-skin safe to England, Neal. When you +show it to your folks at home, tell ’em Joe Flint said he knew one +Britisher who would make a woodsman if he got a chance. Don’t you +forgit it.” + +“Good-by,” said the doctor, as he clasped in turn the hands of the +departing three. “Good luck to you, boys! Keep your souls as straight +as your bodies, and you’ll be a trio worth knowing. We’ll meet again +some day; I’m sure of it.” + +Martin and Will were chirping farewells, and lamenting that they would +have no more chances of studying water-snakes in sedgy pools with Dol. +Amid cheers and waving of hats the campers separated. + +“Forward, Company Three!” cried Cyrus encouragingly, stepping briskly +ahead, his comrades following. “Now for a sight of the ‘Jabberwock’ of +the forest, the mighty moose. Hurrah for the wild woods and all +woodsmen!” + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter XIV. A Lucky Hunter + + +Amid cracking of jokes, and noise which would have disgraced a squad of +Indians, “Company Three,” as Cyrus dubbed his reduced band, reached the +crowning-point of their journey, the log camp on the shore of +Millinokett Lake. + +During the first half-dozen miles of the way, though each one manfully +did his best to be lively, a sense of loss made their fun flat and +pointless. Royal’s tear-away tongue, his brothers’ racket, Joe’s racy +talk, Uncle Eb’s kind, dark face, and more than all, Doc’s +companionship, which was as tonic to the hearts of those who travelled +with him, were missed. + +But spirits must be elastic in forest air. When they halted at noon to +eat their “snack” on the side of a breezy knoll, with a tiny brook +purling through a pine grove beneath them, with Katahdin’s rugged sides +and cloud-veiled peaks looming in majesty to the north, the thought of +what lay behind was inevitably lost in what lay before. Enthusiasm +replaced depression. + +“It’s no use grizzling because we can’t have those fellows with us all +the time,” remarked Neal philosophically. “’Twas a big piece of luck +our running against them at all. And I’ve a sort of feeling that this +won’t be the end of it; we’ll come across them again some day or +other.” + +“And at all events we’ll probably get a sight of Doc at Greenville as +we go back,” said Dol, to whom this was no small comfort. + +“Well, needless to say, I’d have been glad of their company for the +rest of the trip. But still, if they had taken a notion to come on with +us, it would have reduced to nothing our chances of seeing a moose. +We’re a big party already for moose-calling or stalking—three of us, +with Herb;” this from Cyrus. + +“Now, fellows, don’t you think we’d better get a move on us?” added the +leader. “We’ve half a dozen miles to do yet; but the trail begins right +here, and is clearly blazed all the way to our camp. Let’s keep a stiff +upper lip, and the journey will soon be over.” + +It was very delightful to sit there in the crisp October air, with the +brook seemingly humming tender legends of the woods, which witless men +could not translate, with an uncertain breeze playing through the newly +fallen maple-leaves, now turning them one by one in lazy curiosity, +then of a sudden making them caper and swirl in a scarlet +merry-go-round. Still, the young Farrars were not loath to move on. Now +that they were nearing the climax of their journey, their minds were +full of Herb Heal. Their longing to meet this lucky hunter grew with +each mile which drew them nearer to him. + +They pressed hard after their leader, looking neither right nor left, +while he carefully followed the trail; and one hour’s tramping brought +them to the shores of Millinokett Lake. + +Here, despite their eagerness to reach their new camp, they were forced +to stop and admire the great sheet of forest-bound water, smiling back +the sky in tints of turquoise and pearl, dotted with apparently +countless islets, like specks upon the face of a mirror. + +The irregular shores of the lake were broken by “logons,” narrow little +bays curving into the land, shining arms of water, sometimes bordered +by evergreens, sometimes by graceful poplars and birches. From the +opposite bank the woods stretched away in undulating waves of ridge and +valley to the foot of Mount Katahdin, which still showed grandly to the +northward. + +“Millinokett Lake,” said Cyrus, prolonging the syllables with a soft, +liquid sound. “It’s an Indian name, boys; it signifies ‘Lake of +Islands.’ Whatever else the red men can boast of, the music of their +names is unequalled. I don’t know exactly how many of those islets +there are, but I believe Millinokett has over two hundred of them +anyhow. Our camp is on the western shore. Shall we be moving?” + +After skirting the water for another mile or two, the travellers +reached a broad, open tract, bare of timber. At the farther end of this +clearing were two log cabins, low, but very roomy, situated at a +distance of a few hundred yards from the lake, with a background of +splendid firs and spruces, the lively green of the latter making the +former look black in contrast. + +“Is that our camp? How perfectly glorious!” boomed Neal and Dol +together. + +“It’s our camp, sure enough,” answered Garst, with no less enthusiasm. +“At least the first cabin will be ours. I don’t know whether there are +any hunters in the other one just now.” + +The log shanties had been put up by an enterprising settler to +accommodate sportsmen who might penetrate to this far part of the wilds +in search of moose or caribou. Cyrus had arranged for the use of one +during the months of October and November. Here it was that Herb Heal +had engaged to await him. And as he had commissioned this famous guide +to stock the camp with all such provisions as could be procured from +neighboring settlements, such as flour, potatoes, pork, etc., he +expected to slide into the lap of luxury. + +In one sense he did. When the trio, their hearts thumping with +anticipation, reached the low door of the first cabin, they found it +securely fastened on the outside, so that no burglar-beast could force +an entrance, but easily opened by man. Cyrus hurriedly undid the bolts, +and stepped under the log roof, followed by his comrades. The camp was +in beautiful order, clean, well-stocked, and provided with primitive +comforts. An enticing-looking bed of fresh fir-boughs was arranged in a +sort of rude bunk which extended along one side of the cabin, having a +head-board and foot-board. The latter was fitted to form a bench as +well. A man might perch on it, and stretch his toes to the fire in the +great stone fireplace only two feet distant. + +The boys could well imagine that this would make an ideal seat for a +hunter at night, where he might lazily fill his pipe and tell big +yarns, while the winter storm howled outside, and snow-flurries drifted +against his log walls. But they looked at it wistfully now, for it was +empty. There was no figure of a moccasined forest hero on bench or in +bunk. There was no Herb Heal. + +“Bless the fellow! Where on earth is he?” Garst exclaimed. “He’s been +here, you see, and has the camp provisioned and ready. Perhaps he’s +only prowling about in the woods near. I’ll give him a ‘Coo-hoo!’” + + +Illustration: “Herb Heal.” + + +He stepped forth from the cabin to the middle of the clearing, and sent +his voice ringing out in a distance-piercing hail. He loaded his rifle +and blazed away with it, firing a volley of signal-shots. + +Neither shout nor shots brought him any answer. + +The second cabin was likewise empty, and, judging from the withered +remains of a bed, had evidently been long unused. + +“Well, fellows!” said the leader, with manifest chagrin, “we’ll only +have to fix up something to eat, make ourselves comfortable, and wait +patiently until our guide puts in an appearance. Herb Heal never broke +an engagement yet. He’s as faithful a fellow as ever made camp or +spotted a trail in these forests. And he promised to wait for me here +from the first of October, as it was uncertain when I might arrive. I’m +mighty hungry. Who’ll go and fetch some water from the lake while I +turn cook?” + +Dol volunteered for this business, and brought a kettle from the cabin. +He found it near the hearth, on which a fire still flickered, side by +side with a frying-pan and various articles of tinware. Cyrus rolled up +his sleeves, took the canisters of tea and coffee with other small +stores from his knapsack, proceeded to mix a batter for flapjacks, and +showed himself to be a genius with the pan. + +The meal was soon ready. The food might be a little salt and greasy; +but camp-hunger, after a tramp of a dozen miles, is not dulled by such +trifles. The trio ate joyously, washing the fare down with big draughts +of tea, rather fussily prepared by Neal, which might have “done credit +to many a Boston woman’s afternoon tea-table”—so young Garst said. + +Yet from time to time longing looks were cast at the low camp-door. And +when daylight waned, when stars began to glint in a sky which was a +mixture of soft grays and downy whites like a dove’s plumage, when the +islets on Millinokett’s bosom became black dots on a slate-gray sheet, +and no laden hunter with rifle and game put in an appearance, even +Cyrus became fidgety and anxious. + +“I hope the fellow hasn’t come to grief somewhere in the woods,” he +said, while a shiver of apprehension shot down his back. “But Herb has +had so many hairbreadth escapes that I believe the animal has yet to be +born which could get the better of him. And he can find his way +anywhere without a compass. Every handful of moss on a trunk or stone, +every turn of a woodland stream, every sun-ray which strikes him +through the trees, every glimpse of the stars at night, has a meaning +for him. He reads the forest like a book. No fear of his getting lost +anyhow. Come, boys, I guess we’d better build up our fire, make things +snug for the night, and turn in.” + +Rather dejectedly the trio set about these preparations. In twenty +minutes’ time they were stretched side by side in the wide bunk, with +their blankets cuddled round them, already venting random snores. + +“Hello! So you’ve got here at last, have you?” + +The exclamations were loud and snappy, and awoke the sleeping campers +like the banging of rifle-shots. With jumping pulses they sprang up, +feeling a wave of cold air sweep their faces; for the cabin-door, which +they had closed ere lying down, was now ajar. + +The camp was almost in darkness. Only one dull, red ray stole out from +the fire, on which fresh logs had been piled. But while the young +Farrars rubbed their sleep-dimmed eyes, and slowly realized that the +woodsman whom they had been expecting had at last arrived, a strangely +brilliant illumination lit up the log walls. + +This sudden and bewildering light showed them the figure of a hunter in +mud-spattered gray trousers, with coarse woollen stockings of lighter +hue drawn over them above his buckskin moccasins. His battered felt hat +was pushed back from his forehead, a guide’s leathern wallet was slung +round him, and the rough, clinging jersey he wore, being stretched so +tightly over his swelling muscles that its yarn could not hold +together, had a rent on one shoulder. + +His slate-gray eyes with jetty pupils, which were miniatures of +Millinokett Lake at this hour, gazed at the awakened trio in the bunk, +with a gleam of light shooting athwart them, like a moonbeam crossing +the face of the lake. + +The hunter held in his hand a big roll of the inflammable paper-like +bark of the white birch-tree, which he had brought in with him to +kindle his fire, expecting that it had gone out during his absence. +Seeing a glow still on the hearth, and feeling instantly that the cabin +was tenanted, he had applied a match to his bark, causing the vivid +flare which revealed him to the eyes of those who had longed for his +presence. + +“Herb Heal, man, is it you?” shouted Cyrus, his voice like a midnight +joy-chime, as he sprang from the fir-boughs and gripped the woodsman’s +arm. “I’m delighted to see you, though I was ready to swear you +wouldn’t disappoint us! I didn’t fasten the cabin-door, for I thought +you might possibly get back to camp during the night.” + +“Cyrus, old fellow, how goes it?” was Herb’s greeting. “I had a’most +given up looking for you. But I’m powerful glad you’ve got here at +last.” + +The hunter’s voice had still the quick snap and force which made it +startling as a rifleshot when he entered the cabin. + +“These are my friends, Neal and Adolphus Farrar,” said Cyrus, +introducing the blanketed youths, who had now risen to their feet. +“Boys, this is Herb Heal, our new guide, christened Herbert Healy—isn’t +that so, Herb?” + +“I reckon it is;” answered the young hunter, laughing. “But no woodsman +could spring a sugary, city-sounding name like that on me. I’ve been +Herb Heal from the day I could handle a rifle.” + +He nodded pleasantly as he spoke to the strange lads, and began to chat +with them in prompt familiarity, looking straight and strong as a young +pine-tree in the halo of his birch torch. Garst, whose inches his +juniors had hitherto coveted, was but a stripling beside Herb Heal. + +“Is this your first trip into Maine woods, younkers?” he asked. “Well, +I guess you’ve come to the right place for sport. I’m sorry I wasn’t on +hand to welcome you when you arrived. A pretty forest guide you must +have thought me. But I guess I’ll show you a sight to-morrow that’ll +wipe out all scores.” + +There was such triumph in the hunter’s eye that the voices of the trio +blended into one as they breathlessly asked,— + +“What sight is it?” + +“A dead king o’ the woods, boys,” answered Herb Heal, his voice +vibrating. “A fine young bull-moose, as sure as this is a land of +liberty. I dropped him by a logon on the east bank of Fir Pond, about +four miles from here. I started out early, hoping to nab a deer; for I +had no fresh meat left, and I didn’t want to have a bare larder when +you fellows came along. But the woods were awful still. There didn’t +seem to be anything bigger than a field-mouse travelling. Then all of a +sudden I heard a tormented grunting, and the moose came tearing right +onto me. I was to leeward of him, so he couldn’t get my scent. A man’s +gun doesn’t take long to fly into position at such times, and I dropped +him with two shots. There he lies now by the water, for I couldn’t get +him back to camp till morning. He’s not full-grown; but he’s a fine +fellow for all that, and has a dandy pair of antlers. By George! I’d +give the biggest guide’s fees I ever got if you fellows had been there +to hear him striking the trees with ’em as he tore along. He was a +buster. + +“But you’ll see him to-morrow anyhow, and have a taste of moose-meat +for the first time in your lives, I guess.” + +Here Herb waved the fag-end of his bark roll, threw it down as it +scorched his horny fingers, and stamped upon it. + +The interior of the log cabin, ere it was extinguished, was a scene for +a painter,—the lithe, muscular figure, tanned face, and gleaming eyes +of the lucky hunter shown by the flare of his birch torch, and the +three staring listeners, with blankets draped about them, who feared to +miss one point of his story. + +Cyrus was grinding his teeth in vexation that he had narrowly missed +seeing the moose alive. The two Farrars were burning with excitement at +the thought of beholding the monarch of the forest at all, even in +death. For they had heard enough wood-lore to know that the bull-moose, +with his extreme caution, is like a tantalizing phantom to hunters. +Continually he lures them to disappointment by his uncouth noises, or +by a sight of his freshly made tracks, while his sensitive ears and +super-sensitive nose, which can discriminate between the smell of man +and every other smell on earth, will generally lead him off like a +wind-gust before man gets a sight of him. + +“I’m sorry to keep you awake, boys,” said Herb Heal, making for the +fire, after he had finished his story; “but I haven’t had a bite since +morning, and I’m that hungry I could chaw my moccasins. I’ll get +something to eat, and then we’ll turn in. We’ll have mighty hard work +to-morrow, getting the moose to camp.” + +Herb was not long in making ready the stereotyped camp-fare of +flapjacks and pork. To light his preparations, he took a candle out of +a precious bundle which he had brought from a town a hundred miles +distant, and set it in a primitive candlestick. This was simply a long +stick of white spruce wood, one end of which was pointed, and stuck +into the ground; the other was split, and into it the candle was +inserted, the elasticity of the fresh wood keeping the light in place. + +The tired hunter did not dawdle over his supper. In a quarter of an +hour he had finished it, and was building up the fire again. Then he +stretched himself beside the trio in the rude bunk, drawing one thin +blanket over him. Neal, who lay on his right, was conscious of some +prickings of excitement at having such a bedfellow on the +fir-boughs,—the camper’s couch which levels all. There flashed upon the +fair-haired English boy a remembrance of how Cyrus had once said that +“in the woods manhood is the only passport.” He thought that, measured +by this standard, Herb Heal had truly a royal charter, and might be a +president of the forest land; for he looked as free, strong, and +unconquerable as the forest wind. + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter XV. A Fallen King + + +The hunter was the only one who slept soundly that night on the +fragrant boughs. Nevertheless, the moose was on his mind. Again in his +dreams he imagined himself back by the quiet, shining logon, listening +to the ring of the antlers as they struck the trees, and to the heaving +snorts and deep grunts of the noble game as it tore through the forest +to its death. + +The moose was on the minds of his companions too. Again and again they +awoke, and pictured him lying by the pond, where he had fallen,—a dead +monarch. They tossed and grumbled, longing for day. + +Neal and Dol surprised themselves and their elders by being up and +dressed shortly after five, before a streak of light had entered the +cabin. But their guide was not much behind them. Herb had the camp-fire +going well, and was preparing breakfast before six o’clock. The campers +tucked away a substantial meal of fried pork, potatoes, and coffee. The +first glories of the young sun fell on their way as they started across +the clearing and away through the woods beyond, towards the distant +pond where the hunter had got his moose. + +Lying amid the small growth and grasses, by a lonely, glinting logon, +they found the conquered king, sleeping that sleep from which never sun +again would wake him. A bullet-hole, crusted with dark blood, showed in +his side. The slim legs were bent and stiff, and the mighty forefeet +could no more strike a ripping blow which would end a man’s hunting +forever. The antlers which had made the forest ring were powerless +horn. + +“Do you know, boys,” said Herb, as he stooped and touched them, +fingering each prong, “I’ve hunted moose in fall and winter since I was +first introduced to a rifle. I’ve still-hunted ’em, called ’em, and +followed ’em on snowshoes; but I never felt so thundering mean about +killing an animal as I did about dropping this fellow. After his antics +in the woods, when he tramped out onto the open patch where I was +waiting under cover of those shrubs, I popped up and covered him with +my Winchester. He just raised the hair on his back and looked at me, +with a way wild animals sometimes have, as if I was a bad riddle. Like +as not he’d never seen a human being before, and a moose’s eyes ain’t +good for much as danger-signals. It’s only when he hears or smells +mischief that he gets mad scared. + + +Illustration: A Fallen King. + + +“Well, I was out for meat, and bound to have it; so I pulled the +trigger, and killed him with two shots. When the first bullet stung him +he reared up, making a sharp noise like a wounded horse. Then he swung +round as if to bolt; but the second went straight through his heart, +and he fell where you see him now. I made sure that he was past +kicking, and crept close to his head, thinking he was dead. He wasn’t +quite gone, though; for he saw me, and laid back his ears, the last +pitiful sign a moose makes when a hunter gets the better of him. I tell +you it made me feel bad—just for a minute. I’ve got my moose for this +season, and I’m sort o’ glad that the law won’t let me kill another +unless it’s a life-saving matter.” + +“How tall should you say this fellow was when alive?” asked Cyrus, +stroking the creature’s shaggy hair, which was a rusty black in color. + +“Oh! I guess he stood about as high as a good-sized pony. But I’ve shot +moose which were taller than any horse. The biggest one I ever killed +measured between seven and eight feet from the points of his hoofs to +his shoulders, and the antlers were four feet and nine inches from tip +to tip. He was a monster—a regular jing-swizzler! A mighty queer way I +got him too! I’ll tell you all about it some other time.” + +“Oh! you must,” answered Garst. “You’ll have to give us no end of +moose-talk by the camp-fire of evenings. These English fellows want to +learn all they can about the finest game on our continent before they +go home.” + +“Why, for evermore!” gasped Herb, in broad amazement. “Are you +Britishers? And have you crossed the ocean to chase moose in Maine +woods? My word! You’re a gamy pair of kids. We’ll have to try to +accommodate you with a sight of a moose at any rate—a live one.” + +Though they would gladly have appropriated the compliment, the “gamy +kids” were obliged to acknowledge that hunting had not been in their +thoughts when they traversed the Atlantic. But they avowed that they +were the luckiest fellows alive, and that the American forest-land, +with its camps and trails and wild offspring, was such a glorious old +playground that they would never stop singing its praises until a swarm +of boys from English soil had tasted the novel pleasures which they +enjoyed. + +“Now, then, gentlemen!” said the guide, “I haven’t much idea that we’ll +be able to haul this moose along to camp whole. If I skin and dress him +here, are you all ready to help in carrying home the meat?” + +The trio briskly expressed their willingness, and Herb began the +dissecting business; while from a tree near by that strange bird which +hunters call the “moose-bird” screamed its shrill “What cheer? What +cheer?” with ceaseless persistence. + +“Oh, hold your noise, you squalling thing!” said the guide, answering +it back. “It’s good cheer this time. We’ll have a feast of moose-meat +to-night, and there’ll be pickings for you.” + +He then explained, for the benefit of the English lads, that this bird, +whose cry is startlingly like the hunters’ translation of it, haunts +the spot where a moose has been killed, waiting greedily for its meal +off the creature after men have taken their share of the meat. Herb +declared that it had often followed him for hours while he was +stealthily tracking a moose, to be in at the death. And now it kept up +the din of its unceasing question until he had finished his +disagreeable work. + +As the party started back to camp, each one weighted with forty pounds +or more of meat, Herb carrying a double portion, with the antlers +hooked upon his shoulders, they heard the moose-bird still insatiably +shrieking “What cheer?” over its meal. + +“Say, boys,” said the guide, as he stalked along with his heavy load, +never blenching, “if you want to get a pair o’ moose-antlers, now’s +your time. I ain’t a-going to sell these, but I’ll give ’em outright to +the first fellow who can learn to call a moose successfully while he’s +hunting with me. I know what sort of sportsman Cyrus Garst is. He’ll go +prowling through the woods, starting moose and coolly letting ’em get +off without spilling a drop of blood, while he’s watching the length of +their steps. I b’lieve he’d be a sight prouder of seeing one crunch a +root than if he got the finest head in Maine. So here’s your chance for +a trophy, boys. I guess ’twill be your only one.” + +“Hurrah! I’m in for this game!” cried Neal. + +“I too,” said Cyrus. + +“I’m in for it with a vengeance!” whooped Dol. “Though I’m blessed if +I’ve a notion what ‘calling a moose’ means.” + +“How much have you larned, anyhow, Kid, in the bit o’ time you’ve been +alive?” asked the woodsman, with good-humored sarcasm. + +“Enough to make my fists talk to anybody who thinks I’m a duffer,” +answered Dol, squaring his shoulders as if to make the most of himself. + +“Good for you, young England!” laughed Cyrus. + +Herb turned his eyes, and regarded the juvenile Adolphus with amused +criticism. + +“Britisher or no Britisher, I’ll allow you’re a little man,” he +muttered. “Keep a stiff upper lip, boys; we’re not far from camp now.” + +A word of cheer was needed. Not one of the trio had growled at their +load, but the flannel shirts of the two Farrars clung wetly to their +bodies. Their breath was coming in hard puffs through spread nostrils. +A four-mile tramp through the woods, heavily laden with raw meat, was a +novel but not an altogether delightful experience. + +However, the smell of moose-steak frying over their camp-fire later on +fully compensated them for acting as butcher’s boys. When the taste as +well as the smell had been enjoyed, the rest which followed by the +blazing birch-logs that evening was so full of bliss that each camper +felt as if existence had at last drifted to a point of superb content. + +Their camp-door stood open for ventilation; and a keen touch of frost, +mingling with the night air which entered, made the fragrant warmth +delightful. + +When supper was ended, and the tin vessels from which it had been +eaten, together with all camp utensils, were duly cleaned, Herb seated +himself on the middle of the bench, which he called “the deacon’s +seat,” and luxuriously lit his oldest pipe. His brawny hands had +performed every duty connected with the meal as deftly and neatly as +those of a delicate-fingered woman. + +“Well, for downright solid comfort, boys, give me a cosey camp-fire in +the wilderness, when a fellow is tired out after a good day’s outing. +City life can offer nothing to touch it,” said Cyrus, as he spread his +blankets near the cheerful blaze, and sprawled himself upon them. + +Neal and Dol followed his example. The three looked up at their guide, +on whose weather-tanned face the fire shed wavering lights, in lazy +expectation. + +“Now, Herb,” said Garst, “we want to think of nothing but moose for the +remainder of this trip; so go ahead, and give us some moose-talk +to-night. Begin at the beginning, as the children say, and tell us +everything you know about the animal.” + +Herb Heal swung himself to and fro upon his plank seat, drawing his +pipe reflectively, and letting its smoke filter through his nostrils, +while he prepared to answer. + +“Well,” he said at last, slowly, “it seems to me that a moose is a +troublesome brute to tackle, however you take him. It’s plaguy hard for +a hunter to get the better of him, and if it’s only knowledge you’re +after, he’ll dodge you like a will-o’-the-wisp till you get pretty +mixed in your notions about his habits. I guess these English fellows +know already that he’s the largest animal of the deer tribe, or any +other tribe, to be seen on this continent, and as grand game as can be +found on any spot of this here earth. I hain’t had a chance to chase +lions an’ tigers; but I’ve shot grizzlies over in Canada,—and that’s +scarey work, you better b’lieve!—and I tell you there’s no sport +that’ll bring out the grit and ingenuity that’s in a man like +moose-hunting. Now, boys, ask me any questions you like, an’ I’ll try +to answer ’em.” + +“You said something to-day about moose ‘crunching twigs,’” began Neal +eagerly. “Why, I always had a hazy idea that they fed on moss +altogether, which they dug up in the winter with their broad antlers.” + +“Land o’ liberty!” ejaculated the woodsman. “Where on earth do you city +men pick up your notions about forest creatures—that’s what I’d like to +know? A moose can’t get its horns to the ground without dropping on its +knees; and it can’t nibble grass from the ground neither without +sprawling out its long legs,—which for an animal of its size are as +thin as pipe-stems,—and tumbling in a heap. So I don’t credit that yarn +about their digging up the moss, even when there’s no other food to be +had; though I can’t say for sure it’s not true. In summer moose feed +about the ponds and streams, on the long grasses and lily-pads. They’re +at home in the water, and mighty fine swimmers; so the red men say that +they came first from the sea. + +“In the fall, and through the winter too, so far as I can make out, +they eat the twigs and bark of different trees, such as white birches +and poplars. They’re powerful fond of moose-wood—that’s what you call +mountain ash. I guess it tastes to them like pie does to us.” + +“Well, Dol, I feel that you’re twitching all over with some question,” +said Cyrus, detecting uneasy movements on the part of the younger boy +who lay next to him. “What is it, Chick? Out with it!” + +“I want to hear about moose-calling,” so spoke Dol in heart-eager +tones. + +The guide swung his body to the music of a jingling laugh. + +“Oh; that’s it; is it?” he said. “You’re stuck on winning those +antlers; ain’t you, Dol? Well, calling is the ‘moose-hunter’s secret,’ +and it’s a secret that he don’t want to give away to every one. When a +man is a good caller he’s kind o’ jealous about keeping the trick to +himself. But I’ll tell you how it’s done, anyhow, and give you a lesson +sometime. Sakes alive! if you Britishers could only take over a +birch-bark trumpet, and give that call in England, you’d make nearly as +much fuss as Buffalo Bill did with his cowboys and Injuns. Only ’twould +be a onesided game, for there’d be no moose to answer.” + +The young Farrars were silent, breathlessly waiting for more. The +camp-firelight showed their absorbed faces; it played upon bronzed +cheeks, where the ruddy tints of English boyhood had been replaced by a +duller, hardier hue. On Neal’s upper lip a fine, fair growth had +sprouted, which looked white against his sun-tinged skin. As for Cyrus, +he had never brought a razor into the woods since that memorable trip +when the bear had overhauled his knapsack; so the Bostonian’s chin was +covered with a thick black stubble. + +Neither of the youths, however, was at present giving a thought to his +hirsute adornment, about which questionable compliments were frequently +bandied. Their minds were full of moose, and their ears alert for the +guide’s next words. + +“P’raps you folks don’t know,” went on the woodsman, “that there are +four ways o’ hunting moose. The first and fairest is still-hunting ’em +in the woods, which means following their signs, and getting a shot in +any way you can, _if_ you can. But that’s a stiff ‘if’ to a hunter. +Nine times out o’ ten a moose will baffle him and get off unhurt, even +when a man has tracked him for days, camping on his trail o’ nights. +The snapping of a twig not the size of my little finger, or one +tramping step, and the moose’ll take warning. He’ll light out o’ the +way as silently as a red man in moccasins, and the hunter won’t even +know he’s gone. + +“The second way is night-hunting, going after ’em in a canoe with a +jack-light; same thing as jacking for deer. I guess you’ve tried that, +so you’ll know what it’s like—skeery kind o’ work.” + +Neal nodded an eloquent assent, and Herb went on:— + +“The third method is a dog’s trick. It’s following ’em on snowshoes +over deep snow. I’ve tried that once, and I’m blamed if I’ll ever try +it again. It’s butchery, not sport. The crust of snow will be strong +enough for a man to run on, but it can’t support the heavy moose. The +creature’ll go smashing through it and struggling out, until its slim +legs are a sight to see for cuts and blood. Soon it gets blowed, and +can stumble no farther. Then the hunter finishes it with an axe.” + +Disgust thickened the voices of the listening three, as with one accord +they raised an outcry against this cruel way of butchering a game +animal, without giving it a single chance for its life. When their +indignation had subsided, the hunter went on to describe the fourth and +last method of entrapping moose—the calling in which Dol was so +interested. + +“P’raps you won’t think this is fair hunting either,” he said; “for +it’s a trick, and I’ll allow that there’s times when it seems a pretty +mean game. Anyhow, I’d rather kill one moose by still-hunting than six +by calling. But if you want to try work that’ll make your blood race +through your body like a torrent one minute, and turn you as cold as if +your sweat was ice-water the next, you go in for moose-calling. I guess +you know all about the matter, Cyrus; but as these Britishers do not, +I’ll try and explain it to’ em. + +“Early in September the moose come up from the low, swampy lands where +they have spent the summer alone, and begin to pair. Then the +bull-moose, as we call the male, which is generally the most wide-awake +of forest creatures, loses some of his big caution, an’ goes roaming +through the woods, looking for a mate. This is the time for fooling +him. The hunter makes a horn out o’ birch-bark, somewheres about +eighteen inches long, through which he mimics the call of the +cow-moose, to coax the bull within reach of his rifle-shots.” + +“What is the call like?” asked Neal, his heart thumping while he +remembered that strange noise which had marked a new era in his +experience of sounds, as he listened to it at midnight by Squaw Pond. + +“Sho! a man might keep jawing till crack o’ doom, and not give you any +idea of it without you heard it,” answered Herb Heal, the dare-all +moose-hunter. “The noise begins sort o’ gently, like the lowing of a +tame cow. It seems, if you’re listening to it, to come +rolling—rolling—along the ground. Then it rises in pitch, and gets +impatient and lonely and wild-like, till you think it fills the air +above you, when it sinks again and dies away in a queer, quavery sound +that ain’t a sigh, nor a groan, nor a grunt, but all three together. + +“The call is mostly repeated three times; and the third time it ends +with a mad roar as if the lady-moose was saying to her mate, ‘_Come_ +now, or stay away altogether!’” + +“Joe Flint was right, then!” exclaimed Neal, in high excitement. +“That’s the very noise I heard in the woods near Squaw Pond, on the +night when we were jacking for deer, and our canoe capsized.” + +“P’raps it was,” answered Herb, “though the woods near Squaw Pond ain’t +much good for moose now. They’re too full of hunters. Still, you might +have heard the cow-moose herself calling, or some man who had come +across the tracks of a bull imitating her.” + +“But if the bull has such sharp ears, can’t he tell the real call from +the sham one?” asked Dol. + +“Lots of times he can. But if the hunter is an old woodsman and a +clever caller, he’ll generally fool the animal, unless he makes some +awkward noise that isn’t in the game, or else the moose gets his scent +on the breeze. One whiff of a man will send the creature off like a +wind-gust, and earthquakes wouldn’t stop him. And though he sneaks away +so silently when he _hears_ anything suspicious, yet when he _smells_ +danger he’ll go through the forest at a thundering rush, making as much +noise as a demented fire-brigade.” + +“Good gracious!” ejaculated Neal and Dol together. + +“Is the moose ever dangerous, Herb?” asked the former. + +“I guess he is pretty often. Sometimes a bull-moose will turn on a +hunter, and make at him full tilt, if he’s in danger or finds himself +tricked. And he’ll always fight like fury to protect his mate from any +enemy. The bulls have awful big duels between themselves occasionally. +When they’re real mad, they don’t stop for a few wounds. They prod each +other with their terrible brow antlers till one or the other of ’em is +stretched dead. If a moose ever charges you, boys, take my advice, and +don’t try to face him with your rifles. Half a dozen shots mightn’t +stop him. Make for the nearest tree, and climb for your lives. Fire +down on him then, if you can. But once let him get a kick at you with +his forefeet, and one thing is sure—_you’ll_ never kick again. Are you +tired of moose-talk yet?” + +“Not by a jugful!” answered Cyrus, laughing. “But tell us, Herb, how +are we to proceed to get a sight of this ‘Jabberwock’ alive?” + +“If to-morrow night happens to be dead calm, I might try to call one +up,” answered the guide. “There’s a pretty good calling-place near the +south end of the lake. As this is the height of the season, we might +get an answer there. We’ll try it, anyhow, if you’re willing.” + +“Willing! I should say we are!” answered Garst. “You’re our captain +now, Herb, and it’s a case of ‘Follow my leader!’ Take us anywhere you +like, through jungles or mud-swamps. We won’t kick at hardships if we +can only get a good look at his mooseship. Up to the present, except +for that one moonlight peep, he has always dodged me like a phantom.” + +“Are you going to be satisfied with a look?” The guide’s eyes narrowed +into two long slits, on which the firelight quivered, as he gazed +quizzically down upon Cyrus. “If the moose comes within reach of our +shots, ain’t anybody going to pump lead into him? Or is he to get off +again scot-free? I’ve got my moose for this season, and I darsn’t send +my bullets through the law by dropping another, so I can’t do the +shooting.” + +“My friends can please themselves,” said the Bostonian, glancing at the +English lads. “For my own part I’ll be better pleased if Mr. Moose +manages to keep a whole skin. Our grand game is getting scarce enough; +I don’t want to lessen it. I once saw the last persecuted deer in a +county, after it had been badgered and wounded by men and dogs, limp +off to die alone in its native haunts. The sight cured me of +bloodthirst.” + +“I guess ’twould be enough to cure any man,” responded Herb. “And we +don’t want meat, so this time we won’t shoot our moose after we’ve +tricked him. Good land! I wouldn’t like any fellow to imitate the call +of my best girl, that he might put a bullet through me. Come, boys, +it’s pretty late; let’s fix our fire, and turn in.” + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter XVI. Moose-Calling + + +Nothing was talked about among the campers on the following day but the +forthcoming sport of the evening—moose-calling. + +Herb Heal had decided that his call should be given from the water, his +“good calling-place” being an alder-fringed logon at the loneliest +extremity of the lake. + +During the afternoon he took Neal and Dol with him into a grove of +poplars and birches which bordered one end of the clearing, leaving +Cyrus lounging by the camp-fire. Here the woodsman began the exciting +work of preparing his birch-bark horn, that primitive but potent +trumpet through which he would sigh, groan, grunt, and roar, imitating +each varying mood of the cow-moose. To her call he had often listened +as he lay for hours on a mossy bed in the far depths of the forest, +learning to interpret the language of every woodland creature. + +Unsheathing his hunting-knife, and selecting a sound white-birch tree, +Herb carefully removed from it a piece of bark about eighteen inches in +length and six in width. This he carefully trimmed, and rolled into a +horn as a child would twist paper into a cornucopia package for sweets, +tying it with the twine-like roots of the ground juniper. The tapering +end of the trumpet, which would be applied to the caller’s lips, +measured about one inch across; its mouth measured five. + +Returning to camp, Herb dipped the horn in warm water and then let it +dry, saying that this would produce a mellow ring. He stoutly refused +all appeals from the boys to give them a few illustrations of +moose-calling there and then, with a lesson in the art, declaring that +it would spoil the night’s sport, and that they must first hear the +call amid proper surroundings. From time to time he impressed upon them +that they were going to engage in an expedition which required absolute +silence and clever stratagem to make it successful. He vowed to wreak a +woodsman’s vengeance on any fellow who balked it by shaking the boat, +or by moving body or rifle so as to make a noise. + +A light, humming breeze had been blowing all day; but as the afternoon +waned, it died down. The evening proved clear, chilly, and still. + +“Is this a likely night for calling, Herb?” asked Cyrus anxiously, +taking a survey of sky and lake from the camp-door about an hour before +the start. + +“Fine,” answered Herb with satisfaction. “Guess we’ll get an answer +sure, if there’s a moose within hearing. There ain’t a puff of wind to +carry our scent, and give the trick away. But rig yourselves up in all +the clothing you’ve got, boys; the cold, while we’re waiting, may be +more than you bargain for.” + +The guide had a light boat on the lake, moored below the camp. At six +o’clock he seated himself therein, taking the oars in his brawny hands. +Cyrus and Neal took their places in the stern; while Dol disposed of +himself snugly in the bow, right under a jack-lamp which Herb had +carefully trimmed and lit. But he had closed its sliding door, which, +being padded with buckskin, could be opened and shut without a sound, +so that not a ray of light at present escaped. + +“Moose won’t stand to watch a jack as deer do,” he said. “Twill only +scare ’em off. They’re a heap too cute to be taken in by an onnatural +big star floating over the water. But ’taint the lucky side of the moon +for us. She’ll rise late, and her light’ll be so feeble that it +wouldn’t show us an elephant clearly if he was under our noses. So if I +succeed in coaxing a bull to the brink of the water, I’ll open the +jack, and flash our light on him. He’ll bolt the next minute as quick +as greased lightning on skates; but if you only get a short sight of +him, I promise that ’twill be one you’ll remember.” + +“And if he should take a notion to come for us?” said Cyrus. + +“He won’t, if we don’t fire. The boat will be lying among the black +shadows, snug in by the bank, and he’ll see nothing but the dazzling +light. But you fellows must keep still as death. Off we go now, boys, +and mum’s the word!” + +This was almost the last sentence spoken. Not a syllable moved the lips +of any one of the four, as the boat glided away from camp towards the +south end of the lake, the oars making scarcely a sound as Herb handled +them. By and by he ceased rowing for an instant, took his pipe from his +mouth, knocked out its ashes, and put it in his pocket with a wise look +at his companions, murmuring, “Don’t want no tobacco incense floating +around!” + +At the same time, from a distant ridge upon the eastern shore, covered +with evergreens which stood out like dark steeples against the evening +sky, came a faint, dull noise, as if some belated woodsman was driving +a blunt axe against a tree. The sound itself would scarcely have +awakened a hope of anything unusual in the minds of the inexperienced; +but, combined with the guide’s aspect as he pocketed his pipe, it made +Cyrus and his comrades sit suddenly erect, listening as if ears were +the only organs they possessed. + +The queer, dull noise was once repeated. Then again there was silence +almost absolute, Herb’s oars moving with the softest swish imaginable, +as the boat skimmed along the lonely, curved bay which he had chosen +for a calling-place. It came to a stop amid shadows so dense and black +that they seemed almost tangible, close to a bank fringed with +overhanging bushes, having a background of evergreens. These last, in +the fast-gathering darkness, looked like a sable array of mourners in +whose ranks a pale ghost or two mingled, the spectres being slim +white-birch trees. + +The opposite bank presented a similar scene. + +It was amid such surroundings that Neal Farrar heard for the second +time in his life the weird sound of the moose-hunter’s call. He was a +strong, well-balanced young fellow; yet here again he knew the +sensation as if needles were pricking him all over, which he had felt +once before in these wilds, while his heart seemed to be performing +athletic sports in his body. + +Cyrus and Dol confessed afterwards that they were “all shivers and +goose-flesh” as the call rose upon the night air. + +After he had shipped his oars, and laid them down, Herb Heal +noiselessly turned his body to face the bow, and took up the birch-bark +horn which lay beside him. He breathed into it anxiously once or twice, +then paused, drew in all the air which his big lungs could contain, put +the trumpet again to his lips with its mouth pointing downward, and +began his summons. + +The first part of the call lasted half a minute, or so, without a +break. During its execution the hunter moved his neck and shoulders +first to the left, then to the right, and slowly raised the horn above +his head, the rolling, plaintive sounds with which he commenced +gathering power and pitch with the ascending motion. As the birch +trumpet pointed straight upward, they seemed to sweep aloft in a +surging crescendo, and boom among the tree-tops. + +Carrying his head again to the left and right, Herb gradually lowered +the horn until it was once more pointed towards the bottom of the boat, +having in its movements described in the air a big figure of eight. The +call sank with it, and died away in a lonely, sighing, quavering grunt. + +Two seconds’ pause, two slow, great throbs of the boys’ hearts, so loud +that they threatened to burst the stillness. + +Then the call began again, low and grumbling. Again it rose, swelled, +quavered, and sank, full of lonely longing. + +A third time it surged up, and ended abruptly in a wild, ear-splitting +roar, which struck the tops of distant hills, and rolled off in +thunder-like echoes among them. + +Silence followed. Not a gasp came from Herb after his efforts. Cyrus +and the Farrars tried to still their heaving chests, while each quick +breath was an expectation. + +An answer! Surely it was an answer! The boys never doubted it; though +the responding sound they caught was only a repetition of that far-away +chopping noise, which resembled the heavy thud of an axe against wood. +This came nearer—nearer. It was followed once by a sort of short, sharp +bark. + +Then the motionless occupants of the boat heard random, guttural +grunts, a smashing of dead branches, crashing of undergrowth, and the +proud ring of mighty antlers against the trees. The lord of the forest, +a big bull-moose, was tearing recklessly through the woods towards the +lake, in answer to the call of his imaginary mate. + +To say that the hearts of our trio were performing gymnastic feats +during these awfully silent minutes of waiting, is to say little. All +the repressed motion of their bodies seemed concentrated in these +organs, which raced, leaped, stopped short, and pounded, vibrating to +such questions as:— + +“Will he come? Where shall we first see him? How near is he now? Does +he suspect the trick? Will he give us the slip after all?—_Has he +gone_?” + +For of a sudden dead stillness reigned in the forest. No more +trampling, grunting, and knocking of antlers. The spirits of the three +sank to zero. Their breathing became thick. The blood, which a moment +before had played like wildfire in their veins, now stirred sluggishly +as if it was freezing. Disappointment, blank and bitter, shivered +through them from neck to foot. + +So passed quarter of an hour. A filmy mist rose from the surface of the +water, and drifted by their faces like the brushing of cold wings. For +lack of motion hand and feet felt numb. Mid the pitch-black shadows, +snug in by the bank, no man could see the face of his fellow, though +the trio would have given a fortune to read their guide’s. Not a word +was spoken. Once, when a deep breath of impatience escaped him, Neal +heard the folds of his coat rub each other, and clenched his teeth to +stop an exclamation at the sound, which he had never noticed before. + +Nearly twenty minutes had elapsed since the last noise had been heard +in the woods, when Herb took up the horn which he had laid down, and +put it to his mouth. Again the call rolled up. It was neither loud nor +long this time, ending with a quick, short roar. + +As it ceased the guide plunged his arm into the water and slowly +withdrew it, letting drops dribble from his fingers. + +The novices could only suspect that this manoeuvre was another lure for +the bull-moose, if he chanced to be still within hearing. Its success +took their breath away. + +The wary bull which had answered, having doubtless harbored a suspicion +that all was not exactly right with the first call, had halted in his +on-coming rush, with head upreared, and nostrils spread, trying to +catch any taint in the air which might warn him of danger. But in the +dead calm the heavy evergreens stirred not; no whiff reached him. The +second call upset his prudence. Then he heard that splash and dribble +in the water, and imagined that his impatient mate was dipping her nose +into the lake for a cool drink. + +A snort! A bellowing challenge quite indescribable! On he came again +with a thundering rush! + +Bushes were thrashed and spurned by his sharp hoofs. Branches snapped. +Trees echoed as his antlers struck them. + +A musk-rat leaped from the bank ahead, and dived to reach his hole in +the bank. Under cover of the noisy splash which the little creature +made, one whisper was hissed by Herb’s tongue into the ears of his +comrades. It was:— + +“Gee whittaker! he’s a big one! Listen to them shovels against the +trees!” + +A minute later, with a deep gulp of intense excitement, and a general +racket as if an engine had broken loose from brakes and checks, and was +carrying all before it, the monarch of the woods crashed through the +alders and halted, with his hoofs in the water, scarcely thirty yards +from where the boat lay in shadow. + +This was a supreme moment for our travellers. Leaning forward, fearful +lest their heart-beats should betray them, they could barely +distinguish the outlines of the moose, as he stood with his enormous +nose high in air, giving vent to deep gulps and grunts, and looking to +right and left in bewilderment for that cow which he had heard calling. + +For fully five minutes he stood thus, badly puzzled, now and again +stamping a hoof, and scattering spray in rising wrath. Then Herb bent +forward, shot out a long arm, and silently opened the jack. + +Meteor-like its silver light flashed forth, to reveal a sight which +could never be wiped from the memories of the beholders, though it +affected each of them differently. + +Herb Heal involuntarily gripped the loaded rifle which lay beside +him,—he was too wary a woodsman to be unprepared for emergencies; but +he did not cock it, for he remembered the law, and the bargain which he +had made about to-night. + +Cyrus’s eyes gleamed like fires in a face pale from eagerness, as he +strove in a minute of time to take in every feature of the monster +before him, from hoof to horn. + +Neal sat as if paralyzed. + +Dol—well, Dol lost his head a bit. A deep, throaty gulp, which was a +weak reproduction of the sound made by the moose, as if the boy and the +animal were sharing the same throes of excitement, burst from him. +There was a rattle and struggle of his vocal organs, which in another +second would have become a shout, had not Herb’s masterful left hand +gripped him. Its touch held in check the speech which Dol could no +longer control. + +The moose was a big one, “about as big as they grow,” as the guide +afterwards declared. Under the jack-light he looked a regular behemoth. +He must have been over seven feet high at the shoulders, for he was +taller than the tallest horse the boys had ever seen. His black mane +bristled. His antlers were thrown back. His great nose, with its +dilated nostrils, looked as if it were drinking in every scent of the +night world. His eyes had a green glare in them, as for ten seconds he +gazed at the strange light which had suddenly burst into view, its +silver radiance so dazzling him that he saw not the screened boat +beneath. + +At the rash noise which Dol made his ears twitched. He splashed a step +forward as if to investigate matters, seeing which, Herb held his +Winchester in readiness to fly to his shoulder at a moment’s notice. +But the moose evidently regarded the jack-lamp as a supernatural, +terrible phenomenon. He shrank from it as man might shrink beneath a +flaming heaven. + +With one more despairing look right and left for that phantom cow which +had deluded him, he wheeled around, and crashed back into the forest, +tearing away more rapidly than he came. + +“He’s off now, and Heaven knows when he’ll stop!” said Herb, breaking +the weird spell of silence. “Not till he reaches some lair where nary a +creature could follow him. Well, boys, you’ve seen the grandest game on +this continent, the king o’ the woods. What do you think of him?” + +All tongues were loosened together. There was a general shifting of +cramped bodies, accompanied by a gust of exclamations. + +“He was a monster!” + +“He was a behemoth!” + +“Oh! but you’re a conjurer, Herb. How on earth did you give such a +fetching call?” + +“I could never have believed that those sounds came from a human throat +and a birch-bark horn, if I hadn’t been sitting in the boat with you!” + +When there was a break in the excited chorus, Herb, without answering +the compliments to his calling powers, asked quietly,— + +“Didn’t you think we’d lost him, boys, when he stopped short in the +middle of his rush, and you heard nothing?” + +“We just did,” answered Cyrus. “That was the longes half-hour I ever +put in. What made him do it?” + +“I guess he was kind o’ criticising my music,” said the guide, +laughing. “Mebbe I got in a grunt or two that wasn’t natural, and the +old boy wasn’t satisfied with his sweetheart’s voice. He was sniffing +the air, and waiting to hear more. But ’twasn’t more ’n twenty minutes +before I gave the second call, though no doubt it seemed longer to you. +A man must be in good training to get the better of a moose’s ears and +nose.” + +“I’m going to get the better of them before I leave these woods!” cried +Dol, who was still puffing and gasping with intense excitement. “I’ll +learn to call up a moose, if I crack my windpipe in doing it.” + +“Hurrah for the Boy Moose-Caller!” jeered Cyrus, with a teasing laugh, +which Neal echoed. + +But Herb Heal, who had from the beginning regarded “the kid of the +camp” with favor, suddenly became his champion. + +“Don’t let ’em down you, Dol,” he said. “I hate to hear a youngster, or +a man, ‘talk fire,’ as the Injuns say, which means _brag_, if he’s a +coward or a chump; but I guess you ain’t either. Here we are at camp, +boys! I +tell you the home-camp is a pleasant sort of place, after you’ve been +out moose-calling!” + +Thereupon ensued loud cheers for the home-camp, the boys feeling that +they were letting off steam, and atoning for that long spell of +silence, which had been a positive hardship. In the midst of an echoing +hubbub the boat was hauled up and moored, and the party reached their +log shelter. + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter XVII. Herb’s Yarns + + +The following day was spent by our trio in exploring the woods near +Millinokett Lake, in listening to more moose-talk, and in attempting +the trick of calling. Herb gave them many persistent lessons, making +the sounds which he had made on the preceding night, with and without +the horn, and patiently explaining the varied language of grunts, +groans, sighs, and roars in which the cow-moose indulges. + +Perhaps the woodsman expended extra pains on the teaching of his +youngest pupil, whom he had championed. And certainly Dol’s own talent +for mimicry came to his aid. No matter to what cause the success was +due, each one allowed that Dol made a brilliant attempt to get hold of +“the moose-hunter’s secret,” and give a natural call. + +The boy had been a genius at imitating the voices of English birds and +animals; many a trick had he played on his schoolfellows with his +carols and howls. And his proficiency in this line was a good +foundation on which to work. + +“You’ll get there, boy,” said Herb, surveying him with approval, as he +stood outside the camp-door with the moose-horn to his lips. “Make +believe that there’s a moose on the opposite shore of the lake now, and +give the whole call, from start to finish.” + +Whereupon Dol slowly carried his head to left and right, as he had seen +the guide do on the previous night, raising and lowering the horn until +it had described an enormous figure of eight in the air, while he +groaned, sighed, rasped, and bellowed with a plaintive intensity of +expression, which caused his brother and his friend to shriek with +laughter. + +“You’ll get there, Kid,” repeated the woodsman, with a great triumphant +guffaw. “You’ll be able to give a fetching call sooner than either of +the others. But be careful how you use the trick, or you’ll be having +the breath kicked out of you some day by a moose’s forefeet.” + +For days afterwards, the birch-bark horn was rarely out of Dol Farrar’s +hands. The boy was so entranced with the new musical art he was +mastering, which would be a means of communication between him and the +behemoth of the woods, that he haunted the edges of the forest about +the clearing, keeping aloof from his brother and friend, practising +unceasingly, sometimes under Herb’s supervision, sometimes alone. He +learned to imitate every sound which the guide made, working in +touching quavers and inflections that must tug at the heart-strings of +any listening moose. He learned to give the call, squatting Indian +fashion, in a very uncomfortable position, behind a screen of bushes. +He learned to copy, not the cow’s summons alone, but the bull’s short +challenge too; and to rasp his horn against a tree, in imitation of a +moose polishing its antlers for battle. + +And now, for the first time, Dol Farrar of Manchester regarded his +education as complete. He was prouder of this forest accomplishment, +picked up in the wilds, than of all triumphs over problems and ’ologies +at his English school. He had not been a laggard in study, either. + +But the finishing of Dol’s education had one bad result. If there +happened to be another moose travelling through the adjacent forests, +he evidently thought that all this random calling was too much of a +good thing, had his suspicions aroused, and took himself oft to wilder +solitudes. Though the guide tried his powers in persuasive summons +every night at various calling-places, he could not again succeed in +getting an answer. + +At last, on a certain evening, after supper, a solemn camp-council was +held around an inspiring fire, and Herb Heal suggested that if his +party were really bent on seeing a moose again, before they turned +their faces homeward, they had better rise early the following morning, +shoulder their knapsacks, and set out to do a few days’ hunting amid +the dense woods near the base of Katahdin. + +“I killed the biggest bull-moose I ever saw, on Togue Ponds, in that +region,” said the guide meditatively; “and I got him in a queer way. I +b’lieve I promised to tell you that yarn.” + +“Of course you did!” + +“Let’s have it!” + +“Go ahead, Herb! Don’t shorten it!” + +Thus encouraged by the eager three, the woodsman began:— + +“It is five years now, boys, since I spent a fall and winter trapping +in them woods we were speaking of—I and another fellow. We had two +home-camps, which were our headquarters, snug log shelters, one on +Togue Ponds, the other on the side of Katahdin. As sure as ever the sun +went down on a Saturday night, we two trappers met at one or other of +these home-camps; though during the week we were mostly apart. For we +had several lines of traps, which covered big distances in various +directions; and on Monday morning I used to start one way, and my chum +another, to visit these. Generally it took us five or six days to make +the rounds of them. While we were on our travels we’d sleep with a +blanket round us, under any shelter we could rig up,—a few +spruce-boughs or a bark hut. When the snow came, we were forced to +shorten our trips, so as to reach one of the home-camps each night. + +“Well, it was early in the season, one fine fall evening, that I was +crossing Togue Ponds in a canoe. I had been away on the tramp for +a’most a week; and though I had a rifle and axe with me, I had nary an +ounce of ammunition left. All of a sudden I caught sight of a moose, +feeding on some lily-roots in deep water. Jest at first I was a bit +doubtful whether it was a moose or not; for the creature’s head was +under, and I could only see his shoulders. I stopped paddling. I tried +to stop breathing. Next, I felt like jumping out of my skin; for, with +a big splash, up come a pair of antlers a good five feet across, +dripping with water, and a’most covered with green roots and stems, +which dangled from ’em. + +“Good land! ’twas a queer sight. ‘Herb Heal,’ thinks I, ‘now’s your +chance! If you can only manage to nab that moose-head, you’ll get two +hundred dollars for it at Greenville, sure!’ And mighty few cents I had +jest then. + +“I could a’most have cried over my tough luck in not having one dose of +lead left. But the bull’s back was towards me. The water filled his +ears and nose, so that he couldn’t hear or smell. And he was having a +splendid tuck-in. It was big sport to hear him crunch those +lily-roots.” + +“I should think it was!” burst out Cyrus enviously. “But did you have +the heart to kill him in cold blood, in the middle of his meal?” + +“I did. I guess I wouldn’t do it now; anyhow, not unless I was very +badly off for food. But I had an old mother living at Greenville that +time,”—here there was the least possible tremble in the woodsman’s +voice,—“and while I paddled alongside the moose, without making a +sound, I was thinking that the price I’d be sure to get from some city +swell for the head would come in handy to make her comfortable. The +creature never suspicioned danger till I was close to him, and had my +axe lifted, ready to strike. Then up came his head. Out went his +forefeet. Over spun the canoe. There was as big a commotion as if a +whale was there. + +“I managed to keep behind the brute so as to dodge his kicks; and +gripping the axe in one hand, I dug the other into his long hair. He +was mad scared. He started to swim for the opposite shore, which was +about half a mile distant, with me in tow, snorting like a locomotive. +As his feet touched ground near the bank, I jumped upon his back. With +one blow of the axe I split his spine. Perhaps you’ll think that was +awful cruel, but it wasn’t done for the glory of killing.” + +“And what became of the head? Did you sell it?” asked Dol, who was, as +usual, the first to break a breathless silence. + +There was no reply. Herb feigned not to hear. + +“Did you get two hundred dollars for the head?” questioned the +impetuous youngster again, in a higher key, his curiosity swelling. + +“I didn’t. It was stole.” + +The answer was a growl, like the growl of a hurt animal whose sore has +been touched. The tone of it was so different from the woodsman’s +generally strong, happy-go-lucky manner of speech, that Dol blenched as +if he had been struck. + +“Who stole it?” he gasped, after a minute, scarcely knowing that he +spoke aloud. + +Unnoticed in the firelight, Cyrus clapped a strong hand over the boy’s +mouth, to stifle further questions. + +“Keep still!” he whispered. + +But Herb, who was, as usual, perched upon the “deacon’s seat,” leaned +forward, with a laugh which was more than half a snarl. + +“Who stole it?” he echoed. “Why, the other fellow—my chum; the man whom +I carried for a mile on my back, through a snow-heaped forest, the +first time I saw him, +when I had lugged him out of a heavy drift. _He_ stole it, Kid, and +a’most everything I owned with it.” + + +Illustration: The Camp On Millinokett Lake. + + +With a savage kick of his moccasined foot, the woodsman suddenly +assaulted a blazing log. It sent a shower of sparks aloft, and caused a +bright flame to shoot, rocket-like, from the heart of the fire, which +showed the guide’s face. His fine eyes reminded Cyrus of Millinokett +Lake when a thunder-storm broke over it. Their gray was dark and +troubled; the black pupils seemed to shrink, as if a tempest beat on +them; fierce flashes of light played through them. + +Muttering a half-smothered oath, Herb flung himself off his bench, +stamped across the cabin to the open camp-door, and passed into the +darkness outside. + +The boys, who had been stretched out in comfortable positions, drew +themselves bolt upright, and sat aghast. They stared towards the +camp-door, murmuring disjointedly. Into the mind of each flashed a +remembrance of some story which Doctor Phil had told about a thieving +partner who once robbed Herb Heal. + +“You’ve stirred up more than you bargained for, Dol,” said Cyrus. “I +wish to goodness you hadn’t been so smart with your questions.” + +But the words were scarcely spoken when the guide was again in their +midst, with a smile on his lips. + +“It’s best to let sleeping dogs lie, young one,” he said, looking down +reassuringly on Dol, who was feeling dumfounded. “I guess you all think +I’m an awful bearish fellow. But if you had lived the lonely life of a +trapper, tramping each day through the dark woods till you were +leg-weary, visiting your steel traps and deadfalls, all to get a few +furs and make a few dollars; and turned up at camp one evening to find +that your partner had skipped with every skin you had procured, I +reckon ’twould take you a plaguy long time to get over it.” + +“I’m pretty sure it would, old man,” said Cyrus. + +“And I minded the loss of the furs a sight less than I minded losing +that moose-head,” continued Herb, taking his perch again upon the +“deacon’s seat.” “The hound took ’em all. Every woodsman in Maine was +riled about it at the time, and turned out to ketch him; but he gave +’em the slip. Now, boys, I’ve got to feeling pretty chummy with you. +Cyrus is an old friend; and, to speak plain, I like you Britishers. I +don’t want you to think that I bust up your fun to-night for nothing. +I’ll tell you the whole yarn if you want to hear it.” + +The looks of the trio were sufficient assent. + +“All right, boys. Here goes! Since I was a kid in Maine woods I’ve +worked at a’most everything that a woodsman can do. Six year ago I was +a ‘barker’ in a lumber-camp on the Kennebec River. A ‘barker’ is a man +who jumps onto a big tree after a chopper has felled it, and strips the +bark off with his axe, so that the trunk can be easily hauled over the +snow. Well, it’s pretty hard labor, is lumbering. But our camp always +got Sunday for rest. + +“Well, I was prowling about in the woods by myself one Sunday +afternoon, when an awful snow-storm come on, a big blizzard which +staggered the stripped trees like as if ’twould tumble ’em all down, +and end our work for us. I was bolting for camp as fast as I was able, +when I tripped over something which was a’most covered over in a heavy +drift. ‘Great Scott!’ says I, ‘it’s a man!’ And ’twas too. He was near +dead. I hauled him out, and set him on his legs; but he couldn’t walk. +So I threw him across my shoulders, same way as I carry a deer. He +didn’t weigh near as much as a good buck, for he was little more’n a +kid and awful lean. But ’twas dreadful travelling, with the snow half +blinding and burying you. I was plumb blowed when I struck the camp, +and pitched in head foremost. + +“For an hour we worked over that stranger to bring him round, and we +succeeded. We saw at once that he was a half-breed. When he could use +his tongue, he told us that his father was a settler, and his mother a +Penobscot Indian. He was sick for a spell and wild-like, then he talked +a lot of Indian jargon; but when he got back his senses, he spoke +English fust-rate. Chris Kemp he said was his name. And from the start +the lumbermen nicknamed him ‘Cross-eyed Chris; for his eyes, which were +black as blackberries, had a queer squint in ’em. + +“Well, in spite of the squint, I took to Chris, and he to me. And the +following year, when I decided to give up lumbering, and take to +trapping fur-bearing animals in the woods near Katahdin, he joined me. +We swore to be chums, to stick to each other through thick and thin, to +share all we got; +and he made one of his outlandish Indian signs to strengthen the oath. +A fine way he kept it too! + +“Now, if I’m too long-winded, boys, say so; and I’ll hurry up.” + +“No, no! Tell us everything.” + +“Spin it out as long as you can.” + +“We don’t mind listening half the night. Go ahead!” + +At this gust of protest Herb smiled, though rather soberly, and went +ahead as he was bidden. + +“We made camp together—him and me. We had two home-camps where I told +you, and met at the end of each week, bringing the skins we had taken, +which we stored in one of ’em. We got along together swimmingly for a +bit. But Chris had a weakness which I had found out long before. I +guess he took it from his mother’s people. Give him one drink of +whiskey, and it stirred up all the mud that was in him. There’s mud in +every man, I s’pose; and there’s nothing like liquor for bringing it to +the surface. A gulp of fire-water changed Chris from an honest, +right-hearted fellow to a crazy devil. This had set the lumbermen +against him. But I hoped that in the lonely woods where we trapped he +wouldn’t get a chance to see the stuff. He did, though, and when I +wasn’t there to make a fight against his swallowing it. + +“It happened that one week he got back to our camp on Togue +Ponds,—where most of our stuff was stored, and where I kept that +moose-head, waiting for a chance to take it down to Greenville,—a day +or two sooner’n me. And the worst luck that ever attended either of us +brought a stranger to the camp at the same time, to shelter for a +night. He was an explorer, a city swell; and I guess he didn’t know +much about Injuns or half-breeds, for he gave Chris a little bottle of +fiery whiskey as a parting present. The man told me about it +afterwards, and that he was kind o’ scared when the boy—for he wasn’t +much more—swallowed it with two gulps, and then followed him into the +woods, howling, capering, and offering to sell him my grand moose-head, +and all the furs we had, for another drink of the burning stuff. I +guess that stranger felt pretty sick over the mischief he had done. He +refused to buy ’em. But when I got back to camp next day, to find the +skins gone, antlers gone, Chris gone; when I ran across the traveller +and ferreted out his story,—I knew, as well as if I seen it, that my +partner had skipped with all my belongings, to sell ’em or trade ’em at +some settlement for more liquor. We had a couple of big birch +canoes,—one of ’em was missing too,—and a river being near, the thing +could be easy managed. + +“I’ll allow that I raged tremendous. The losses were bad; but to be +robbed by your own chum, the man you had saved and stuck to, the only +being you had said a word to for months, was sickening. I swore I’d +shoot the hound if I found him. I spread the news at every camp and +farm-settlement through the forest country, and we had a rousing hunt +after the fellow; but he gave us the slip, though I heard of him +afterwards at a distant town, where he sold the furs.” + +“I suppose he left the State,” said Cyrus. + +“I guess he did. But for a big while I used to think he’d come back to +our camp some day, and let me have it out with him; for he wasn’t a +coward, and we had been fast chums.” + +“And he didn’t?” + +“Not as I know of. The next year I gave up trapping, which was an awful +cruel as well as a lonely business, and took to moose-hunting +and guiding. I haven’t been anear the old camps for ages.” + +“Perhaps you will come across him again some day,” suggested Dol, with +unusual timidity. + +“P’raps so, Kid. And, faith, when I think of that, it seems as if there +were two creatures inside o’ me fighting tooth and claw. One is all for +hammering him to a jelly. The other is sort o’ pitiful, and says, +‘Mebbe ’twasn’t out-an’-out his fault.’ Which of them two’ll get the +best of it, if ever I’m face to face with Cross-eyed Chris, I dunno.” + +Cyrus Garst rose suddenly. He kicked the camp-fire to make a blaze, +then looked the woodsman fair in the eyes. + +“I know, Herb,” he said; “the spirit of mercy will conquer.” + +“Glad you think so!” answered Herb. “But I ain’t so sure. Sho! boys, +I’ve kept you up till near midnight with my yarns. We must go to roost +quick, or you’ll never be fit to light out for Katahdin to-morrow.” + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter XVIII. To Lonelier Wilds + + +Before daybreak next morning Herb Heal was astir. Apparently even a +short night’s sleep had driven from him all disturbing memories. He +whistled and hummed softly, like the strong, hopeful fellow he was, +controlling his notes so that they should not awaken his companions, +while he hauled out and overlooked the canvas for a tent, to see if it +was sound. Next he surveyed the camp-stores, and put up a supply of +flour, pork, and coffee in a canvas bag, enough for four persons to +subsist upon with economy during an excursion of six or seven days. For +he knew that his employers would follow his suggestion, and be eager to +start for the woods near Katahdin soon after they got their eyes open. + +He had been doing his work with a candle held in his brown fingers; but +as dawn-light began to enter the cabin, he quenched its dingy, yellow +flicker, opened the camp-door, and surveyed the morning sky. + +“It’ll be a good day to start out, I guess,” he muttered. “Let’s see, +what time is it?” + +The stars had not yet paled, and Herb forthwith fell to studying them; +for they were his jewelled time-piece, by which he could tell the hour +so long as they shone. Watch he had none. + +While he gazed aloft at the glinting specks, he unconsciously began to +croon, in a powerful bass voice, with deep gutturals, some words which +certainly weren’t woodsman’s English. + +“_N’loan pes-saus, mok glint ont-aven, +Glint ont-aven, nosh morgan_.” + + +“What on earth is that outlandish thing you’re singing, Herb?” roared +Neal Farrar from the bunk, awakened by the sounds. “Give us that stave +again—do!” + +The guide started. He had scarcely been aware of what he was humming, +and his laugh was a trifle disconcerted. + +“So you’re waking up, are ye?” he said. “Tain’t time to be stirring +yet; I ought to be kicked for making such a row.” + +“But what’s that you were singing?” reiterated Neal. “The words weren’t +English, and they had a fine sort of roll.” + +“They’re Injun,” was the answer. “I guess ’twas all the talking I done +last night that brung ’em into my head. I picked ’em up from that +fellow I was telling you about. He’d start crooning ’em whenever he +looked at the stars to find out the hour.” + +“Are they about the stars?” + +“I guess so. A city man, who had studied the redskins’ language a lot, +told me they meant:— + +‘We are the stars which sing, +We sing with our light.’”[2] + + + [2] Mr. Leland’s translation. + + +Then Herb chanted the two lines again in the original tongue. + +“There was quite a lot more,” he said; “but I can’t remember it. I +learned some queer jargon from Chris, and how to make most of the signs +belonging to the Indian sign-talk. The fellow had more of his mother +than his father in him. I guess I’d better give over jabbering, and +cook our breakfast.” + +It was evident that Herb did not want to dwell upon his reminiscences. +And Neal had tact enough to swallow his burning curiosity about all +things Indian. He asked no more questions, but rolled off the +fir-boughs, and dressed himself. + +Cyrus and Dol sprang up too. All three were soon busy helping forward +preparations for the start. They packed their knapsacks with a few +necessaries; and after a hearty breakfast had been eaten,—their last +meal off moose-steaks for a while, as Herb informed them he “could not +carry any fresh meat along,”—the guide’s voice was heard shouting:— + +“Ready, are ye, boys? Got all yer traps? Here, Cyrus, jest strap this +pack-basket on my shoulders. Now we’re off!” + +The pack contained the tent, the camp-kettle, and frying-pan, together +with the aforementioned provisions, a good axe, etc. It was an +uncomfortable load, even for a woodsman’s shoulders. But Herb strode +ahead with it jauntily. And many times during that first day’s tramp of +a dozen miles, his comrades—as they trudged through rugged places after +him, spots where it was hard to keep one’s perpendicular, and feet +sometimes showed a sudden inclination to start for the sky—threw +envious glances at his tall figure, “straight as an Indian arrow,” his +powerful limbs, and unerring step. Even the horny, capable hands came +in for a share of the admiration. + +“I guess anything that got into your grip, Herb, would find it hard to +get out again without your will,” said Cyrus, studying the knotted +fists which held the straps of the pack-basket. + +“Mebbe so,” answered the guide frankly. “I’ve a sort of a trick of +holding on to things once I’ve got ’em. P’raps that was why I didn’t +let go of Chris in that big blizzard till I landed him at camp. But I +hope”—here Herb’s shoulders shook with heaving laughter, and the +cooking utensils in his pack jingled an accompaniment—“I hope I ain’t +like a miserly fellow we had in our lumber-camp. He was awful pious +about some things, and awful mean about others. So the boys said, ‘he +kept the Sabbath and everything else he could lay his hands upon.’ He +used to get riled at it. + +“Not that I’ve a word to say against keeping Sunday,” went on Herb, in +a different key. “Tell you what, out here a fellow thinks a heap of his +day o’ rest, when his legs can stop tramping, and his mind get a chance +to do some tall thinking. Now, boys, we’ve covered twelve good miles +since we left Millinokett Lake, and you needn’t go any farther to-day +unless you’ve a mind to. We can make camp right here, near that stream. +It will be nice, cold drinking-water, for it has meandered down from +Katahdin.” + +He pointed to a brook a little way ahead, shimmering in the rays of the +afternoon sun, of which they caught stray peeps through the gaps in an +intervening wall of pines and hemlocks. A few minutes brought them to +its brink. Tired and parched from their journey, each one stooped, and +quenched his thirst with a delicious, ice-cold draught. + +“Was there ever a soda-fountain made that could give a drink to equal +that?” said Cyrus, smacking his lips with content. “But listen to the +noise this stream makes, boys. I guess if I were to lie beside it for +an hour, I’d think, as the Greenlanders do, that I could hear the +spirits of the world talking through it.” + +“That’s a mighty queer notion,” answered Herb; “and I never knew as +other folks had got hold of it. But, sure’s you live! I’ve +thought the same thing myself lots o’ times, when I’ve slept by a +forest stream. Who’ll lend a helping hand in cutting down boughs for +our fire and bed? I want to be pretty quick about making camp. Then +we’ll be able to try some moose-calling after supper.” + +At this moment a peculiar gulping noise in Neal’s throat drew the eyes +of his companions upon him. His were bright and strained, peering at +the opposite bank. + +“Look! What is it?” he gasped, his low voice rattling with excitement. + +“A cow-moose, by thunder!” said Herb. “A cow-moose and a calf with her! +Here’s luck for ye, boys!” + +One moment sooner, simultaneously with Neal’s gulp of astonishment, +there had emerged from the thick woods on the other bank a brown, +wild-looking, hornless creature, in size and shape resembling a big +mule, followed by a half-grown reproduction of herself. + +Her shaggy mane flew erect, her nostrils quivered like those of a +race-horse, her eyes were starting with mingled panic and defiance. + +A snort, sudden and loud as the report of a shot-gun, made the four +jump. Neal, who was standing on a slippery stone by the brink, lost his +balance and staggered forward into the water, kicking up jets of +shining spray. The snort was followed by a grunt, plaintive, +distracted, which sounded oddly familiar, seeing that it had been so +well imitated on Herb’s horn. + +And with that grunt, the moose wheeled about and fled, making the air +swish as she cut through it, followed by her young, her mane waving +like a pennon. + +“Well, if that ain’t bang-up luck, I’d like to know what is,” said the +guide, as he watched the departure. “I never s’posed you’d get a chance +to see a cow-moose; she’s shyer’n shy. Say! don’t you boys think that +I’ve done her grunt pretty well sometimes?” + +“That you have,” was the general response. “_We_ couldn’t tell any +difference between your noise and the real thing.” + +“But she wasn’t a patch on the bull-moose in appearance,” lamented Dol. + +“No more she was, boy. Most female forest creatures ain’t so +good-looking as the males! And that’s queer when you think of it, for +the girls have the pull over us where beauty is concerned. We ain’t in +it with ’em, so to speak.” + +There was a big gale of laughter over Herb Real’s gallant admiration +for the other sex, and the sigh which accompanied his expression of it. +He joined in the mirth himself, though he walked off to make camp, +muttering:— + +“Sho! You city fellows think that because I’m a woodsman I never heard +of love-making in my life.” + +“Perhaps there is a little girl at some settlement waiting for a home +to be fixed up out of guide’s fees,” retorted Cyrus. + +And the three shouted again for no earthly reason, save that the +stimulus of forest air and good circulation was driving the blood with +fine pressure through their veins, and life seemed such a glorious, +unfolding possession—full of a wonderful possible—that they must hold a +sort of jubilee. + +Herb, who perhaps in his lonely hours in the woods did cherish some +vision such as Cyrus suggested, was so infected with their spirit, +that, as he swung his axe with a giant’s stroke against a hemlock +branch, he joined in with an explosive:— + +“Hurrup! Hur-r-r-rup!” + +This startled the trio like the bursting of a bomb, and trebled their +excitement; for their guide, when abroad, had usually the cautious, +well-controlled manner of the still-hunter, who never knows what +chances may be lurking round him which he would ruin by an outcry. + +“Quit laughing, boys,” he said, recovering prudence directly he had let +out his yell. “Quit laughing, I say, or we may call moose here till +crack o’ doom without getting an answer. I guess they’re all off to the +four winds a’ready, scared by our fooling.” + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter XIX. Treed By a Moose + + +“I told you so, boys,” breathed the guide two hours later, with an +overwhelming sigh of regret, after he had given his most fetching calls +in vain. “I told you so. There ain’t anything bigger’n a buck-rabbit +travelling. That tormented row we made scared every moose within +hearing.” + +Herb was standing on the ground, horn in hand, screened by the great +shadows of a clump of hemlocks; the three were perched upon branches +high above him, a safe post of observation if any moose had answered. + +“You may as well light down now,” he continued, turning his face up, +though the boys were invisible; “I ain’t a-going to try any more music +to-night. I guess we’ll stretch ourselves for sleep early, to get ready +for a good day’s work to-morrow. An eight-mile tramp will bring us to +the first heavy growth about the foot of Katahdin, and I’ll promise you +a sight of a moose there.” + +His companions dropped to earth; and the four sought the shelter of +their tent, which had been pitched a few hundred yards from the +calling-place. Some dull embers smouldered before it; for Herb, even +while preparing supper, had kept the camp-fire very low, lest any +wandering clouds of smoke should interfere with the success of his +calling. + +Now he heaped it high, throwing on without stint withered hemlock +boughs and massive logs, which were soon wrapped in a sheet of flame, +making an isle of light amid a surrounding sea of impenetrable +darkness. + +Many times during the night the watchful fellow arose to replenish this +fire, so that there might be no decrease in the flood of heat which +entered the tent, and kept his charges comfortable. Once, while he was +so engaged, the placid sleepers whom he had noiselessly quitted were +aroused to terror—sudden, bewildering night-terror—by a gasping cry +from his lips, followed by the leaping and rushing of some brute in +flight, and by a screech which was one defiant note of unutterable +savagery. + +“Good heavens! What’s that?” said Cyrus. + +“Is it—can it—could it be a panther?” stammered Dol. + +“Get out!” answered Neal contemptuously. “The panthers have got out +long ago, so every one says.” + +“A lynx! A Canada lynx, boys, as sure as death and taxes!” panted Herb +Heal, springing into the tent on the instant, with a burning brand in +his hand. “’Tain’t any use your tumbling out, for you won’t see him. +He’s away in the thick of the woods now.” + +Cyrus gurgled inarticulate disappointment. At the first two words he +had sprung to his legs, having never encountered a lynx. + +“The brute must have been prowling round our tent,” went on Herb, his +voice thick from excitement. “He leaped past me just as I was stooping +to fix the fire, and startled me so that I guess I hollered. He got +about half a dozen yards off, then turned and crouched as if he was +going to spring back. Luckily, the axe was lying by me, just where I +had tossed it down after chopping the last heap of logs. I caught it +up, and flung it at him. It struck him on the side, and curled him up. +I thought he was badly hurt; but he jumped the next moment, screeched, +and made off. A pleasant scream he has; sounds kind o’ cheerful at +night, don’t it?” + +No one answered this sarcasm; and Herb flung himself again upon his +boughs, pulling his worn blanket round him, determined not to +relinquish his night’s sleep because a lynx had visited his camp. The +city fellows sensibly tried to follow his example; but again and again +one of them would shake himself, and rise stealthily, convinced that he +heard the blood-curdling screech ringing through the silent night. + +It was nearly morning before fatigue at last overmastered every +sensation, and the three fell into an unbroken sleep, which lasted +until the sun was high in the sky. When they awoke, their sense of +smell was the first sense to be tickled. Fragrant odors of boiling +coffee were floating into the tent. One after another they scrambled +up, threw on their coats, and hurried out to find their guide kneeling +by the camp-fire on the very spot from which he had hurled his axe at +the lynx a few hours before. But now his right hand held a green stick, +on which he was toasting some slices of pork into crisp, appetizing +curls. + +“’Morning, boys!” he said, as the trio appeared. “Hope your early +rising won’t opset ye! If you want to dip your faces in the stream, do +it quick, for these dodgers are cooked.” + +The “dodgers” were the familiar flapjacks. Herb set down his stick as +he spoke to turn a batch of them, which were steaming on the +frying-pan, tossing them high in air as he did so, with a dexterous +turn of his wrist. + +The boys having performed hasty ablutions in the stream, devoted +themselves to their breakfast with a hearty will. There was little +leisure for discussing the midnight visit of the lynx, or for anything +but the joys of satisfying hunger, and taking in nutrition for the +day’s tramp, as Herb was in a hurry to break camp, and start on for +Katahdin. The morning was very calm; there seemed no chance of a wind +springing up, so the evening would probably be a choice one for +moose-calling. + +In half an hour the band was again on the march, the business of +breaking camp being a swift one. The tent was on Herb’s shoulders; and +naught was left to mark the visit of man to the humming stream but a +bed of withering boughs on which the lynx might sleep to-night, and a +few dying embers which the guide had thrashed out with his feet. + +No halt was made until four o’clock in the afternoon. Then Herb Heal +came to a standstill on the edge of a wide bog. It lay between him and +what he called the “first heavy growth;” that is, the primeval forest, +unthinned by axe of man, which at certain points clothes the foot of +Katahdin. + +The great mountain, dwelling-place of Pamolah, cradle of the flying +Thunder and flashing Lightning, which according to one Indian legend +are the swooping sons of the Mountain Spirit, now towered before the +travellers, its base only a mile distant. + +“I’ve a good mind to make camp right here,” said Herb, surveying the +bog and then the firm earth on which he stood. “We may travel a longish +ways farther, and not strike such a fair camping-ground, unless we go +on up the side of the mountain to that old home-camp I was telling you +about, which we built when we were trapping. I guess it’s standing yet, +and ’twould be a snug shelter; but we’d have a hard pull to reach it +this evening. What d’ye say, boys?” + +“I vote for pitching the tent right here,” answered Cyrus. + +The English boys were of the same mind, and the guide forthwith +unstrapped his heavy pack-basket. As he hauled forth its contents, and +strewed them on the ground, the first article which made its appearance +was the moose-horn; it had been carefully stowed in on top. Dol +snatched it up as a dog might snatch a bone, and touched it with +longing in every finger-tip. + +“There’s one bad thing about this place,” grumbled Herb presently, +surveying the landscape wherever his eye could travel, “there isn’t a +pint of drinking-water to be seen. There may be pools here and there in +that bog; but, unless we want to keel over before morning, we’d better +let ’em alone. Say! could a couple of you fellows take the camp-kettle, +and cruise about a bit in search of a spring?” + +“I volunteer for the job!” cried Dol instantly, with the light of some +sudden idea shining like a sunburst in his face. + +“You don’t budge a step, old man, unless I go with you,” said Cyrus. +“Not much! I don’t want to patrol the forests like a lunatic for five +mortal hours in search of you, and then find you roasting your shins by +some other fellow’s camp-fire. One little hide-and-seek game of that +kind was enough.” + +“Well! the fact that I did bring up by Doc’s camp-fire shows that I am +able to take care of myself. If I get into scrapes, I can wriggle out +of them again,” maintained the kid of the camp, with a brazen look, +while his eyes showed flinty sparks, caused by the inspiring purpose +hidden behind them, which had little to do with water-carrying. + +“Why can’t you both go without any more palaver?” suggested Herb, as he +started away towards a belt of young firs to cut stakes for the tent. +“Cruise straight across the bog, mark your track by the bushes as you +go ’long, don’t get into the woods at all, and ’twill be plain sailing. +I guess you’ll strike a spring before very long.” + +Cyrus caught up the camp-kettle, and stepped out briskly over the +springy, spongy ground. Dol Farrar followed him. The two were half-way +across the bog before the elder noticed that the younger was carrying +something. It was the moose-horn. + +“If we run across any moose-signs, I’m going to try a call,” said Dol, +his strike-a-light eyes fairly blazing while he disclosed +his purpose. “You may laugh, Cy, and call me a greenhorn; but I bet you +I’ll get an answer, at least if there’s a bull-moose within two miles.” + +“That’s pretty cheerful,” retorted the Boston man; “especially as +neither of us has brought a rifle. Mr. Moose may be at home, and give +you an answer; but there’s no telling what sort of temper he’ll be in.” + +“I left my Winchester leaning against a tree on the camping-ground,” +said the would-be caller regretfully. “But you know you wouldn’t fire +on him, Cy, unless he came near making mince-meat of us. If he should +charge, we could make a dash for the nearest trees. Let’s risk it if we +run across any tracks!” + +“And in the meantime, Herb will be wondering where we are, vowing +vengeance on us, and waiting for the kettle while we’re waiting for the +moose,” argued Garst. “It won’t do, Chick. Give it up until later on. +We undertook the job of finding water, and we’re bound to finish that +business first.” + +“If I wait until later on, I may wait forever,” was the boy’s gloomy +protest. “Tonight, when Herb is there, Neal and you will just sit on +me, and be afraid of my making a wrong sound, and spoiling the sport. + +“And I _know_ we’ll see moose-tracks before we get back to camp!” wound +up the young pleader passionately. “I’ve been working up to it all day. +I mean I’ve felt as if something—something fine—was going to happen, +which would make a ripping story for the Manchester fellows when we go +home. Do let me have one chance, Cy,—one fair and honest chance!” + +There was such a tremendous force of desire working through the English +boy that it set his blood boiling, and every bit of him in motion. His +eyes were afire, his eyelids shut and opened with their quick snap, his +lips moved after he had finished speaking, his fingers twitched upon +the moose-horn. + +He was a picture of heart-eagerness which Cyrus could not resist, +though he shook with laughter. + +“I’ll take mighty good care that the next time I go to find water for +the camp-supper, I don’t take a crank with me, who has gone mad on +moose-calling,” he said. “See here! If we do come across moose-signs, +I’ll get under cover, and give you quarter of an hour to call and +listen for an answer—not a second longer. Now stop thinking about this +fad, and keep your eyes open for a spring.” + +But, unfortunately, this seemed to be a thirsty and tantalizing land +for travellers. The soft sod under their feet oozed moisture; slimy, +stagnant bog-pools appeared, but not a drop of pure, gushing water, to +which a parched man dare touch his lips. + +They crossed the wide extent of bog, Cyrus breaking off stunted bushes +here and there to mark his pilgrimage; they reached the dense +timber-growth at the base of the mountain, longing for the sight of a +spring as eagerly as ever pilgrims yearned to behold a healing well; +but their search was unsuccessful. + +Decidedly nonplussed, Dol all the time keeping one eye on the lookout +for water and the other for moose-signs, they took counsel together, +and determined to “cruise” to the right, skirting the foot of Katahdin, +hoping to find a gurgling, rumbling mountain-torrent splashing down. +Having travelled about half a mile in this new direction, with the +giant woods which they dared not enter rising like an emerald wall on +the one hand, and the dreary bog-land on the other, they at last, when +patience was failing, came to a change in the landscape. + +The desired water was not in view yet; but the bog gave way to fairer, +firmer ground, covered with waving grasses, studded with rising knolls, +and having no timber growth, save stray clumps of birches and hemlocks, +several hundred yards apart. + +“Now, this is jolly!” exclaimed Dol. “This looks a little bit like an +English lawn, only I’m afraid it’s not a likely place for moose-tracks. +But I’m glad to be out of that beastly bog.” + +“Confusion to your moose-tracks,” ejaculated Cyrus, half exasperated. +“I wish we could find a well. That would be more to the purpose. +Listen, Dol, do you hear anything?” + +“I hear—I hear—’pon my word! I _do_ hear the bubbling and tinkling of +water somewhere! Where on earth is it? Oh! I know. It comes from that +knoll over there—the one with the bushes.” + +Dol Farrar, as he finished his jerky sentences, pointed to an eminence +which was two or three hundred yards from where they stood, and a like +distance from the wall of forest. + +“Well! It’s about time we struck something at last,” grumbled Garst. +“Catch me ever coming on a water pilgrimage again! +I’ll let Herb fill his own kettle in future. Now, I believe that fellow +could smell a spring.” + +“Just as I smelt this one!” exclaimed Dol triumphantly. “I told you +’twas on the side of the knoll. And here it is!” + +“Bravo, Chick! You’ve got good ears, if you are crazy upon one +subject.” + +And so speaking, Cyrus, with a chuckle of joy, unslung the tin +drinking-cup which hung at his belt, filled and refilled it, drinking +long, inspiriting draughts before he prepared to fill the camp-kettle. + +“The best water I ever tasted, Dol!” he exclaimed, smacking his lips. +“It’s ice-cold. There’s not much of it, but it has quality, if not +quantity.” + +The long-sought well was, in truth, a tiny one. It came bubbling up, +clear and pellucid, from the bowels of the earth, and showed its +laughing face amid a cluster of bushes—which all bent close to look at +it lovingly—half-way up the knoll. A wee stream trickled down from +it,—dribble—dribble—a rivulet that had once been twice its present +size, judging from the wide margin of spattered clay at each side. + +Dol had been following his companion’s example, and drinking joyfully +before thinking of aught else. When the moment came for him to +straighten his back, and rise upon his legs, instead of this natural +proceeding, he suddenly crouched close to the ground, his breath coming +in quick puffs, his eyes dilating, a froth of excitement on his lips. + +“What on earth are you staring at?” asked Cyrus. “You look positively +crazy.” + +For answer, the English boy shot up from his lowly posture, seized his +companion by the arm, making him drop the camp-kettle, which he was +just filling, and forced him to scan the soft clay by the rivulet. + +“Look there—and there!” gurgled Dol, his voice sounding as if he was +being choked by suppressed hilarity. “I told you we’d find them, and +you didn’t believe me! Aren’t those moose-tracks? They’re not +deer-tracks, anyhow; they’re too big. I may be a greenhorn, but I know +that much.” + +“They _are_ moose-tracks,” Cyrus answered slowly, almost unbelievingly, +though the evidence was before him. “They certainly are moose-tracks,” +he repeated, “and very recent ones too. A moose has been drinking here, +perhaps not half an hour ago. He can’t be far away.” + +Garst was now warming into excitement himself. His bass tones became +guttural and almost inarticulate, while he lowered them to prevent +their travelling. On the reddish clay at his feet were foot-marks very +like the prints of a large mastiff. He studied them one by one, even +tracing the outline with his forefinger. + +“Then I’m going to call,” whispered Dol, his words tremulous and +stifled. “Lie low, Cy! You promised you’d give me a fair chance; you’ll +have to keep your word.” + +“I’ll do it too,” was the answering whisper. “But let’s get higher up +on the knoll, behind those big bushes at the top. And listen, Dol, if a +moose makes a noise anywhere near, we must scoot for the trees before +he comes out from cover. I’ve got to answer to your father for you.” + +It was an intense moment in Dol Farrar’s life; sensation reached its +highest pitch, as he crouched low behind a prickly screen, put the +birch-bark horn to his mouth, and slowly breathed through it with the +full power of his young lungs, marvellously strengthened by the forest +life of past weeks. + +There was a minute’s interval while he removed it again, and drew in +all the air he could contain. Then a call rose upon the evening air, so +touching, so plaintive, with such a rising, quavering impatience as it +surged out towards the woods,—whither the boy-caller’s face was +turned,—that Cyrus could scarcely suppress a “Bravo!” + +The summons died away in a piteous grunt. A second time the call rose +and fell. On the third repetition it broke off, as usual, in an abrupt +roar, which seemed to strike the tops of the giant trees, and boom +among them. + +A froth was on Dol Farrar’s lips, his eyes were reddened, he puffed +hard through spread nostrils, like a young horse which has been trying +its mettle for the first time, as he lowered that moose-horn, lifted +his head, and cocked his ears to listen. + +Two soundless minutes passed. Dol, who, if he had mastered the hunter’s +call, had certainly not mastered his patience, put the bark-trumpet +again to his lips, determined to try the effect of a surpassingly +expressive grunt. + +But he never executed this false movement, which would have given away +the trick at once. + +A bellow—a short, snorting, challenging bellow—burst the silence, +coming from the very edge of the woods. It brought Cyrus to his feet +with a jump. It so startled the ambitious moose-caller, that, in rising +hurriedly from his squatting position, he lost his balance, and rolled +over and over to the bottom of the knoll, smashing the horn into a +hundred pieces. + +He picked himself up unhurt, but with a sensation as if all the bells +in Christendom were doing a jumbled ringing in his head. And loud above +this inward din he heard the sound, so well remembered, as of an axe +striking repeatedly against a tree, the terrible chopping noises of a +bull-moose, not two hundred yards away. + +No sooner had he scrambled to his legs, than Garst was at his side, +gripping his arm, and forcing him forward at a headlong run. + +“You’ve done it this time with a vengeance!” bawled the Bostonian. +“He’s coming for us straight! And we without our rifles! The trees! The +trees! It’s our only chance!” + +With the belling still in his head, and so bewildered by his terrible +success that he felt as if his senses were shooting off hither and +thither like rockets, leaving him mad, Dol nevertheless ran as he had +never run before, shoulder to shoulder with his comrade, dashing +wildly for a clump of hemlocks over a hundred yards distant. Yet, for +the life of him, he could not help glancing back once over his +shoulder, to see the creature which he had humbugged, luring it from +its forest shelter, and which now pursued him. + +The moose was charging after them full tilt, gaining rapidly too, his +long thin legs, enormous antlers, broad, upreared nose, and the green +glare in his starting eyes, making him look like some strange animal of +a former earth. Dol at last trembled with actual fear. He gave a +shuddering leap, and forced his legs, which seemed threatened with +paralysis, to wilder speed. + +“Climb up that hemlock! Get as high as you can!” shrieked Cyrus, +stopping to give him an upward shove as they reached the first friendly +trunk. + +Dol obeyed. Gasping and wild-eyed, he dug his nails into the bark, +clambering up somehow until he reached a forked branch about eight feet +from the ground. Here strength failed. He could only cling dizzily, +feeling that he hung between life and death. + +The moose was now snorting like a war-horse beneath. The brute stood +off for a minute, then charged the hemlock furiously, and butted it +with his antlers till it shook to its roots, the sharp prongs of those +terrible horns coming within half an inch of Dol’s feet. + +With a gurgle of horror the boy tried to reach a higher limb, and +succeeded; for at the same moment a timely shout encouraged him. Cyrus +was bawling at the top of his voice from a tree ten feet distant:— + +“Are you all right, Dol? Don’t be scared. Hold on like grim death, and +we can laugh at the old termagant now.” + +“I’m—I’m all right,” sang out Dol, though his voice shook, as did every +twig of his hemlock, which the moose was assaulting again. “But he’s +frantic to get at me.” + +“Never mind. He can’t do it, you know. Only don’t you go turning dizzy +or losing your balance. Ha! you old spindle-legged monster, stand off +from that tree. Take a turn at mine now, for a change. You can’t shake +me down, if you butt till midnight.” + +Garst’s last sentences were hurled at the moose. The Bostonian, having +reached a safe height, thrust his face out from his screen of branches, +waving first an arm, and then a leg, at the besieging foe, hoping that +the force of those battering antlers would be directed against his +hemlock, so that his friend’s nerves might get a chance to recover. + +The ruse succeeded. The moose, reminded that there was a second enemy, +charged the other tree; stood off for a minute to get breath, then +charged it again, snorting, bellowing, and knocking his jaws together +with a crunching, chopping noise. + +“Ha! that’s how he makes the row like a man with an axe—by hammering +his jaws on each other. Well, well! but this is a regular picnic, Dol,” +sang out Cyrus jubilantly, caring nothing for the shocks, and +forgetting camp, water, peril, everything, in his joy at getting a +chance to leisurely study the creature he had come so far to visit. + +“I owe you something for this, little man!” he carolled on in triumph, +as he watched every wild movement of the moose. “This is a show we’ll +only see once in our lives. It’s worth a hundred dollars a performance. +Butt and snort till you’re tired, you ‘Awful Jabberwock!’”—this to the +bull-moose. “We’ve come hundreds of miles to see you, and the more you +carry on the better we’ll be pleased.” + +Indeed, the wrathful king of forests seemed in no hurry to cut short +his pantomime. He ramped and raged, tearing from one tree to another, +expending paroxysms of force in vain attempts to overturn one or the +other of them. The ground seemed to shake under his thundering hoofs. +His eyes were full of green fire; his nostrils twitched; the black +tassel or “bell” hanging from his shaggy throat shook with every angry +movement; his muffle, the big overhanging upper lip, was spotted with +foam. + +As he gulped, grunted, snorted, and roared, his uncouth, guttural +noises made him seem more than ever like a curious creature of earth’s +earliest ages. + +“We came pretty near to being goners, Dol, I tell you!” carolled Cyrus +again from his high perch in the hemlock, carrying on a by-play with +the enemy between each sentence. “How in the name of wonder did you +manage such a call? It would have moved the heart-strings of any moose. +I was lying flat, you know, peeping through a little gap in the bushes, +and you had scarcely taken the horn from your mouth when I saw the old +fellow come stamping out of the woods. My! wasn’t he a sight? He stood +for a minute looking about for the fancied cow; then he bellowed, and +started towards the knoll. I knew we had better run for our lives. As +soon as he saw us he gave chase.” + +“And ‘the fancied cow’ should go tumbling down the knoll like a rolling +jackass, and smash that grand horn to bits!” lamented Dol, who now sat +serenely on his bough, with a firm clasp of the hemlock trunk, and a +reckless enjoyment of the situation which far surpassed his +companion’s. + +Cyrus began to have an occasional twinge of uneasiness about the +possible length of the siege, after his first exuberance subsided; but +the younger boy, his short terror overcome, had no misgivings. He +coquetted with the moose through a thick screen of foliage, shook the +branches at him, gibed and taunted him, enjoying the extra fury he +aroused. + +But suddenly the old bull, having kept up his wild movements for nearly +an hour, resolved on a change of tactics. He stood stock-still and +lowered his head. + +“Goodness! He has made up his mind to ‘stick us out!’” gasped Cyrus. + +“What’s that?” said Dol. + +“Don’t you see? He’s going to lay siege in good earnest—wait till we’re +forced to come down. Here’s a state of things! We can’t roost in these +trees all night.” + +The hemlocks were throwing ever-lengthening shadows on the grass. A +slow eclipse was stealing over everything. The motionless moose became +an uncouth black shape. Garst muttered uneasily. His fingers tingled +for his rifle—a very unusual thing with him. His eyes peered through +the creeping darkness in puzzled search for some suggestion, some +possibility of escape. + +“If it were only myself!” he whispered, as if talking to his hemlock. +“If it were only myself, I wouldn’t care a pin. ’Twould do me no great +harm to perch here for hours. But an English youngster, on his first +camping-trip! Why, the chill of a forest night might ruin him. He +wouldn’t howl or make a fuss, for both those Farrar boys have lots of +grit, but he’d never get over it. Dol!” he wound up, raising his voice +to a sharp pitch. “Say, Dol, I’m going to try a shout for help. Herb +must be getting anxious about us by this time. If we could once make +him hear, he could try some trick to lure this old curmudgeon away, or +creep up and shoot him. Something must be done.” + +Fetching a deep breath, Cyrus sent a distance-piercing “Coo-hoo!” +ringing through the night-air. He followed it with another. + +But, so far as he could hear, the hails fetched no answer, save from +the moose-jailer. The brute was stirred into a fresh tantrum by the +noise. He charged the hemlocks once more, butted and shook them like a +veritable demon. + +When his paroxysm had subsided, and he stood off to get breath, Garst +hailed again. + +Glad sound! An answer this time! First, a shrill, long “Coo-hoo!” Next, +Herb’s voice was heard pealing from far away in the bog: “What’s up, +boys? Where in the world are you?” + +“Here in the trees—treed by a bull-moose!” yelled Cyrus. “He’s the +maddest old monster you ever saw. Could you coax him off, or sneak up +and shoot him? He means to keep us prisoners all night.” + +There was no wordy answer. But presently the treed heroes heard an odd, +bird-like whistle. Dol thought it came from a feathered creature; his +more experienced companion guessed that the guide’s lips gave it as a +signal that he was coming, but that he didn’t want to draw the moose’s +attention in his direction just yet. + +Such a quarter of an hour followed! With the fresh spurt of anger the +bull-moose became more savage than ever. He grunted, tramped, and +hooked the trees with his horns, so that the pair who were perched like +night-birds on the branches had to hold on for dear life, lest a +surprising shock should dislodge them. Whenever the creature stood off, +to gather more fury, they could have counted their heart-beats while +they listened, breathlessly anxious to, know what action the +approaching woodsman would take. + +Once Cyrus spoke. + +“Dol Farrar,” he said, “I guess this caps all the adventures that you +or I have had up to date. No wonder you felt all day as if you were +working up to something. I’ll believe in presentiments in future.” + +The words had scarcely passed his lips, when there was the sharp bang! +bang! of a rifle not twenty yards distant. A bright sputter of fire cut +the darkness beneath the hemlocks. + +The moose’s blind rage threatened to be his own undoing. While he was +fighting an imaginary danger, ears and nostrils half-choked by fury, +through the calm night Herb Heal, Winchester in hand, had crept +noiselessly on, till he reached the very trees which sheltered his +friends. + +Once, twice, three times the rifle snapped. The first shot missed +altogether. At the second, the moose rose upon his hind-legs, with a +sharp sound of fright and pain, quite unlike his former noises. Then he +gave a quick jump. + +“Great Governor’s Ghost! he’s gone;” yelled Cyrus, who had swung +himself down a few feet, and was hanging by one arm, in his anxiety to +see the result of the firing. “You needn’t shoot again, Herb! He’s off! +Let him go!” + +“I guess that second shot cut some hair from him, and drew blood too,” +answered Herb, his deep voice giving the pair a queer sensation as they +heard it right beneath. “It was too dark to see plain, but I think he +reared; and that’s a sign that he was hurt, little or much. Don’t drop +down for a minute, boys, till we see whether he has bolted for good.” + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter XX. Triumph + + +He had bolted for good, vanished into the mysterious deeps of the +primeval forest, whether hurt unto death, or merely “nipped” in a +fore-leg, as Herb inclined to think, nobody knew. + +“It’s too dark to see blood-marks, if there are any, so we can’t trail +him to-night. If he’s hit bad—but I guess he ain’t—we can track him in +the morning,” said the guide; as, after an interval of listening, the +rescued pair dropped down from their perches. “Did he chase you, boys? +Where on earth did you come on him?” + +Talking together, their words tumbling out like a torrent let loose, +Cyrus Garst and Dol Farrar gave an account of the past two +hours—strangest hours of their lives—filling up the picture of them bit +by bit. + +“Whew! whew! You did have a narrow squeak, boys, and a scarey time; but +I guess you had a lot of fun out of the old snorter,” said Herb, his +rare laugh jingling out, starting the forest echoes like a clang of +bells. “You’ve won those antlers, Dol—won ’em like a man. Blest, but +you have! I promised ’em to the first fellow who called up a moose; and +nary a woodsman in Maine could have done it better. I’m powerful glad +’twasn’t your own death-call you gave. I’ll keep my eye on you now till +you leave these woods. Where’s the horn?” + +“Smashed to bits,” answered Dol regretfully. + +“And the camp-kettle?” + +“Lying by the spring, over there on the knoll, unless the moose kicked +it to pieces,” said Cyrus. + +“My senses! you’re a healthy pair to send for water, ain’t ye? Let’s +cruise off and find it. I guess you’ll be wanting a drink of hot +coffee, after roosting in them trees for so long.” + +Garst led the way to the spring. Its pretty hum sounded like an angel’s +whisper through the night, after the tumult of the past scene. Herb +fumbled in his leather wallet, brought out a match and a small piece of +birch-bark, and kindled a light. With some groping, the kettle was +found; it was filled, and the party started for camp. + +“I heard the distant challenge of a bull-moose a couple of hours ago,” +said the guide, as they went along. “I never suspicioned he was +attacking you; but after the camp was a’ ready, and you hadn’t turned +up, I got kind o’ scared. I left Neal to tend the fire and toast the +pork, and started out to search. I s’pose I took the wrong direction; +for I hollered, and got no answer. Afterwards, when I was travelling +about the bog, I heard a ‘Coo-hoo!’ and the noises of an angry moose. +Then I guessed there was trouble.” + +“Won’t Neal look blue when he hears that he was toasting pork while we +were perched in those trees, with the moose waltzing below!” exclaimed +Dol. “Well, Cy, I’ve won the antlers, and I’ve got my ripping story for +the Manchester fellows. I don’t care how soon we turn home now.” + +“You don’t, don’t ye?” said the guide. “Well, I should s’pose you’d +want to trail up that moose to-morrow, and see what has become of him.” + +“Of course I do! I forgot that.” + +And Dol Farrar, who had thought his record of adventure and triumph so +full that it could hold no more, realized that there is always for +ambition a farther point. + +Neal did feel a little blue over the thought of what he had missed. +But, being a generous-hearted fellow, he tasted his young brother’s +joy, when the latter cuddled close to him upon the evergreen boughs +that night, muttering, as if the whole earth lay conquered at his +feet:— + +“My legs are as stiff as ramrods, but who’d think of his legs after +such a night as we’ve had? + +“I say, Neal, this is life; the little humbugging scrapes we used to +call adventures at home are only play for girls. It’s something to talk +about for a lifetime, when a fellow comes to close quarters with a +creature like that moose. I said I’d get the better of his ears, and I +did it. Pinch me, old boy, if I begin a moose-call in my sleep.” + +Several times during the night Neal found it necessary to obey this +injunction, else had there been no peace in the camp. But, in spite of +Dol’s ravings and riotings in his excited dreams, the party enjoyed a +needed ten hours’ slumber, all save Herb, who, as usual, was astir the +next morning while his comrades were yet snoring. + +He got his fire going well, and baked a great flat loaf of bread in his +frying-pan, setting the pan amid hot ashes and covering it over. +Previous to this, he had made a pilgrimage to the distant spring, to +fill his kettle for coffee and bread-making, and had carefully examined +the ground about the clump of hemlocks. + +The result of his investigation was given to the boys as they ate their +breakfast under the shade of a cedar, with a sky above them whose +morning glories were here and there overshot by leaden tints. + +“I guess we’ve got a pretty fair chance of trailing that moose,” he +said. “I found both hair and blood on the spot where he was wounded. +I’m for following up his tracks, though I guess they’ll take us a bit +up the mountain. If he’s hurt bad, ’twould be kind o’ merciful to end +his sufferings. If he ain’t, we can let him get off.” + +“Right, as you always are, Herb,” answered Cyrus. “But what on earth +made the creature bolt so suddenly? If you had seen him five minutes +before he was shot, you’d have said he had as much fight in him as a +lion.” + +“That’s the way with moose a’most always. Their courage ain’t that o’ +flesh-eating animals. It’s only a spurt; though it’s a pretty big spurt +sometimes, as you boys know now. It’ll fail ’em in a minute, when you +least expect it. And, you see, that one last night didn’t know where +his wound came from. I guess he thought he was struck by lightning or a +thunder-ball, so he skipped. Talking of thunder-balls, boys,” wound up +Herb, “I shouldn’t be surprised if the old Mountain Spirit, who lives +up a-top there, gave us a rattling welcome with his thunders to-day. +The air is awful heavy for this time of year. Perhaps we’d better give +up the trailing after all.” + +“Nonsense!” exclaimed Dol indignantly. “Do you think a shower will melt +us? Or that we’ll squeal like girls at a few flashes of lightning? +’Twould be jolly good fun to see old Pamolah sending off his +artillery.” + +“Well, there’d be no special danger, I guess, if we were past the heavy +timber growth before the storm began. There’s lots of rocky dens on the +mountain side where we could shelter under a granite ledge, and be +safer than we’d be here in tent. Or we might come a-near our old log +camp. I guess, if that’s standing yet, you’d like to see it. Say! we’ll +leave it to Cyrus. He’s boss, ain’t he?” + +Cyrus, desperately anxious to know whether it would be life or death +for the wounded moose, and regarding the signs of bad weather as by no +means certain, decided in favor of the expedition. The campers +hurriedly swallowed the remainder of their breakfast, and made ready +for an immediate start. + +“In trailing a moose the first rule is: go as light as you can; that +is, don’t carry an ounce more stuff than is necessary. Even a man’s +rifle is apt to get in his way when he has to scramble over windfalls, +or slump between big bowlders of rock, which a’most tear the clothes +off his back. And we may have to do some pretty tall climbing. So leave +all your traps in the tent, boys; I’ll fasten it down tight. There +won’t be any human robbers prowling around, you bet! Bears and coons +are the only burglars of these woods, and they don’t do much mischief +in daytime.” + +The guide rapidly gave these directions, his breezy voice setting a +current of energy astir, like a wind-gust cutting through a quiet +grove, while he rolled his indispensable axe, some bread that was left +from the meal, and a lump of pork into a little bundle, which he +strapped on his back. + +“Now,” he said, “if that trail should give us a long tramp, or if you +boys should take a notion to go a good ways up Katahdin, or anything +turns up to hinder our getting back to camp till nightfall, I’ve our +snack right here. I can light a fire in two minutes, to toast our pork; +and we’ll wash it down with mountain water, the best drink for +climbers. I could rig you up a snug shelter, too, in case of accidents. +A woodsman ain’t in it without his axe.” + +To what strange work that axe would be put ere night again closed its +shutters over granite peaks and evergreen forest, Herb Heal little +knew; nor could he have guessed that the coming hours would make the +most heart-stirring day of his stirring life. If he could, would he +have started out this morning with a happy-go-lucky whistle, softly +modulated on his lips, and no more sober burden on his mind than the +trail of that moose? + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter XXI. On Katahdin + + +“See there, boys, I told you so,” said Herb, as the party reached the +ever-to-be-remembered clump of hemlocks, the beginning of the trail +which they were ready to follow up like sleuth-hounds. “There’s plenty +of hair; I guess I singed him in two places.” + +He pointed to some shaggy clotted locks on the grass at his feet, and +then to a small maroon-colored stain beside them. + +“Is that blood?” asked Neal. + +“Blood, sure enough, though there ain’t much of it. But I’ll tell you +what! I’d as soon there wasn’t any. I wish it had been light enough +last night for me to act barber, and +only cut some hair from that moose, instead of wounding him. It might +have answered the purpose as well, and sent him walking.” + +“I don’t believe it would have done anything of the kind,” exclaimed +Dol. “He was far too red-hot an old customer to bolt because a bullet +shaved him.” + +“Well, I don’t set up to be soft-hearted like Cyrus here; and I’m ready +enough to bag my meat when I want it,” said the woodsman. “But sure’s +you live, boys, I never wounded a free game creature yet, and seed it +get away to pull a hurt limb and a cruel pain with it through the +woods, that I could feel chipper afterwards. It’s only your delicate +city fellows who come out here for a shot once a year, who can chuckle +over the pools of blood a wounded moose leaves behind him. Sho! it’s +not manly.” + +A start was now made on the trail, Herb leading, and showing such +wonderful skill as a trailer that the English boys began to believe his +long residence in the woods had developed in him supernatural senses. + +“That moose was shot through the right fore-leg,” he whispered, as the +trackers reached the edge of the forest. + +“How do you know?” gasped the Farrars. + +The woodsman answered by kneeling, bending his face close to the +ground, and drawing his brown finger successively round three prints on +a soft patch of earth, which the unpractised eyes could scarcely +discern. + +“There’s no mark of the right fore-hoof,” he whispered again presently; +“nothing but _that_,” pointing to another dark red blotch, which the +boys would have mistaken for maroon-tinted moss. + +A breathless, wordless, toiling hour followed. Through the dense woods, +which sloped steadily upward, clothing Katahdin’s highlands, Herb Heal +travelled on, now and again halting when the trail, because of freshly +fallen pine-needles or leaves, became quite invisible. Again he would +crouch close to the ground, make a circle with his finger round the +last visible print, and work out from that, trying various directions, +until he knew that he was again on the track which the limping moose +had travelled before him. + +His comrades followed in single file, carrying their rifles in front of +their bodies instead of on their shoulders, so that there might be no +danger of a sudden clang or rattle from the barrels striking the trees. +Following the example of their guide, each one carefully avoided +stepping on crackling twigs or dry branches, or rustling against bushes +or boughs. The latter they would take gingerly in their hands as they +approached them, bend them out of the way, and gently release them as +they passed. Heroically they forebore to growl when their legs were +scraped by jagged bowlders or prickly shrubs, giving thanks inwardly to +the manufacturers of their stout tweeds that their clothes held +together, instead of hanging on them like streamers on a rag-bush. + +It was a good, practical lesson in moose-trailing; but, save for the +knowledge gained by the three who had never stalked a moose before, it +was a failure. + +The air beneath the dense foliage grew depressing—suffocating. Each one +longed breathlessly for the minute when he should emerge from this +heavy timber-growth, even to do more rugged climbing. Distant rumbles +were heard. Herb’s prophecy was being fulfilled. Pamolah was grumbling +at the trailers, and sending out his Thunder Sons to bid them back. + +But it was too late for retreat. If they gave up their purpose, turned +and fled to camp, the storm, which was surely coming, would catch them +under the interlacing trees, a danger which the guide was especially +anxious to avoid. He pressed on with quickened steps, stooping no more +to make circles round the moose’s prints. Old Pamolah’s threatenings +grew increasingly sullen. At last the desired break in the woods was +reached; the trackers found themselves on the open side of Katahdin, +surrounded by a tangled growth of alders and white birches struggling +up between granite rocks; then the mountain artillery broke forth with +terrifying clatter. + +A loud, long thunder-roll was echoed from crag, slide, forest, spur, +and basin. The “home of storms” was a fort of noise. + +“Ha! there’ll be a big cannonading this time, I guess. Pamolah is going +to let fly at us with big shot, little shot, fire and water—all the +forces the old scoundrel has,” said Herb Heal, at last breaking the +silence which had been kept on the trail, and looking aloft towards the +five peaks guarding that mysterious basin, from which heavy, lurid +clouds drifted down. + +At the same time a blustering, mighty wind-gust half swept the four +climbers from their feet. A great flash of globe lightning cut the air +like a dazzling fire-ball. + +“We’ll have to quit our trailing, and scoot for shelter, I’m thinking!” +exclaimed Cyrus. + +“Good land, I should say so!” agreed the guide. “The bull-moose likes +thunder. He’s away in some thick hole in the forest now, recovering +himself. We couldn’t have come up with him anyhow, boys, for them +blood-spots had stopped. I guess his leg wasn’t smashed; and he’ll soon +be as big a bully as ever. Follow me now, quick! Mind yer steps, +though! Them bushes are awful catchy!” + +Undazzled by the lightning’s frequent flare, unstaggered by the +down-rushing wind, as if the mountain thunders were only the roll of an +organ about his ears, Herb Heal sprang onward and upward, tugging his +comrades one by one up many a precipitous ledge, and pulling them to +their feet again when the tripping bushes brought their noses to the +ground and their heels into the air. + +“Hitch on to me, Dol!” he cried, suddenly turning on that youngster, +who was trying to get his second breath. “Tie on to me tight. I’ll tow +you up! I wish we could ha’ reached that old log camp, boys. ’Twould be +a stunning shelter, for it has a wall of rock to the back. But it’s +higher up, and off to the right. There! I see the den I’m aiming for.” + +A few energetic bounds brought Herb, with Dol in tow, to a platform of +rock, which rose above a bed of blueberry bushes. It narrowed into a +sort of cave, roofed by an overhanging bowlder. + +“We’ll be snug enough under this rock!” he exclaimed, pointing to the +canopy. “Creep in, boys. We’ll have tubs of rain, and a pelting of +hail. The rumpus is only beginning.” + +So it was. The storm had been creeping from its cradle. Now it swept +down with an awful whirl and commingling of elements. + +The boys, peering out from their rocky nest, saw a magnificent panorama +beneath them. The regiments of the air were at war. Lightning chains +encircled the heavens, lighting up the forests below. Winds charged +down the mountain-side, sweeping stones and bushes before them. +Hail-bullets rattled in volleys. Thunder-artillery boomed until the +very rocks seemed to shake. + +“It’s fine!” exclaimed Cyrus. “It’s super-fine!” + +Then a curtain of thick rain partly hid the warfare, the lightning +still rioting through it like a beacon of battle. + +“The stones up above will have to be pretty firmly fixed to keep their +places,” said Herb. “Boys, I hope there ain’t a-going to be slides on +the mountain after this.” + +“Slides?” echoed Dol questioningly. + +“Landslides, kid. Say! if you want to be scared until your bones feel +limp, you’ve got to hear a great big block of granite come ploughing +down from the top ’o the mountain, bringing earth and bushes along with +it, and smashing even the rocks to splinters as it pounds along.” + +“I guess that’s a sensation we’d rather be spared,” said Cyrus gravely. + +And under the quieting spell of the airy warfare there was silence for +a while. + +“Do you think it’s lightening up, Herb?” asked Neal, after the storm +had raged for three-quarters of an hour. + +“I guess it is. The rain is stopping too. But we’ll have an awful +slushy time of it getting back to camp. To plough through them soaked +forests below would be enough to give you city fellows a shaking ague.” + +“Couldn’t we climb on to your old log camp?” suggested Garst. “If we +have the luck to find the old shanty holding together, we can light a +fire there after things dry out a bit, and eat our snack. Then we +needn’t be in a hurry to get down. We’ll risk it, anyhow.” + +“I reckon that’s about the only thing to be done,” assented the guide. + +And in twenty minutes’ time the four were again straining up Katahdin, +clutching slippery rocks, sinking in sodden earth, shivering as they +were besprinkled by every bush and dwarfed tree, and dreadfully +hampered with their rifles. + +“Never mind, boys; we’ll get there! Clinch yer teeth, and don’t squirm! +Once we’re past this tangle, the bit of climbing that’s left will be as +easy as rolling off a log!” + +So shouted Herb cheerfully, as he tore a way with hand and foot through +the stunted growth of alders and birch, which, beaten down by the +winds, was now an almost impassable, sopping tangle. + +“Keep in my tracks!” he bellowed again. “Gracious! but this sort o’ +work is as slow as molasses crawling up-hill in winter.” + +But ten minutes later, when the dripping jungle was behind, he dropped +his jesting tone. + +He came to a full stop, catching his breath with a big gulp. + +“Boys,” he cried, “it’s standing yet! I see it—the old home-camp! There +it is above us on that bit of a platform, with the big rock behind it. +And I’ve kep’ saying to myself for the last quarter of an hour that we +wouldn’t find it—that we’d find nary a thing but mildewed logs!” + +A wealth of memories was in the woodsman’s eyes as he gazed up at the +timber nest, the log camp which his own hands had put up, standing on a +narrow plateau, and built against a protecting wall of rock that rose +in jagged might to a height of thirty or forty feet. + +An earth bank or ridge, covered with hardy mosses and mountain +creepers, sloped gently up to the sheltered platform. To climb this +was, indeed, “as easy as rolling off a log.” + +“We used to have a good beaten path here, but I guess it’s all growed +over,” said Herb in a thick voice, as if certain cords in his throat +were swelling. “Many’s the time I’ve blessed the sight of that old +home-camp, boys, after a hard week’s trapping. Hundert’s o’ night’s +I’ve slept snug inside them log walls when blasts was a-sweeping and +bellowing around, like as if they’d rip the mountain open, and tear its +very rocks out.” + +While the guide spoke he was leaping up the ridge. A few minutes, and +he stood, a towering figure, on the platform above, waving his battered +hat in salute to the old camp. + +“I guess some traveller has been sheltering here lately!” he cried to +Neal Farrar, as the latter overtook him. “There’s a litter around,” +pointing to dry sticks and withered bushes strewn upon the +camping-ground. “And the door’s standing open. I wonder who found the +old shanty?” + +Neal remembered, hours afterwards, that at the moment he felt an odd +awakening stir in him, a stir which, shooting from head to foot, seemed +to warn him that he was nearing a sensation, the biggest sensation of +this wilderness trip. + +He heard the voices of Cyrus and Dol hallooing behind; but they sounded +away back and indistinct, for his ears were bent towards the deserted +camp, listening with breathless expectation for something, he didn’t +know what. + +One minute the vague suspense lasted, while he followed Herb towards +the hut. Then heaven and earth and his own heart seemed to stand still. + +Through the wide-open door of the shanty came random, crooning snatches +of sound. Was the guttural voice which made them human? The English boy +scarcely knew. But as the noise swelled, like the moaning of a dry wind +among trees, he began, as it were, to disentangle it. Words shaped +themselves, Indian words which he had heard before on the guide’s +tongue. + +“_N’loan pes-saus, mok glint ont-aven, +Glint ont-aven, nosh morgun_.” + + +These lines from the “Star Song,” the song which Herb had learned from +his traitor chum, floated out to him upon Katahdin’s breeze. They +struck young Farrar’s ears in staggering tones, like a knell, the +sadness of which he could not at the moment understand. But he had a +vague impression that the mysterious singer in the deserted camp +attached no meaning to what he chanted. + +“Look out, I say! I don’t want to come a cropper here.” + +It was Dol’s young voice which rang out shrilly among the mountain +echoes. Side by side with Cyrus, the boy had just gained the top of the +ridge when the guide suddenly backed upon him, Herb’s great +shoulder-blade knocking him in the face, so that he had to plant his +feet firmly to avoid spinning back. + +But Herb had heard that guttural crooning. Just now he could hear +nothing else. + +Twice he made a heaving effort to speak, and the voice cracked in his +throat. + +Then, as he sprang for the camp-door, four words stumbled from his +lips:— + +“By thunder! it’s Chris.” + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter XXII. The Old Home-Camp + + +The silence which followed that ejaculation was like the hush of earth +before a thunder-storm. + +Not a syllable passed the lips of the boys as they followed Herb into +the log hut, but feeling seemed wagging a startled tongue in each +finger-tip which convulsively pressed the rifles. + +And not another articulate sentence came from the guide; only his +throat swelled with a deep, amazed gurgle as he reached the interior of +the shanty, and dropped his eyes upon the individual who raised that +queer chanting. + +On a bed of withered spruce boughs, strewn higgledy-piggledy upon the +camp-floor—mother earth—lay the form of a man. Thin wisps of blue-black +hair, long untrimmed, trailed over his face and neck, which looked as +if they were carved out of yellow bone. His figure was skeleton-like. +His lips—the lips which at the entrance of the strangers never ceased +their wild crooning—were swollen and fever-scorched. His black eyes, +disfigured by a hideous squint, rolled with the sick fancies of +delirium. + +Cyrus and the Farrars, while they looked upon him, felt that, even if +they had never heard Herb’s exclamation, they would have had no +difficulty in identifying the creature, remembering that story which +had thrilled them by the camp-fire at Millinokett. It was Herb Heal’s +traitor chum—the half-breed, Cross-eyed Chris. + +And Herb, backing off from the withered couch as far as the limited +space of the cabin would allow, stood with his shoulders against the +mouldy logs of the wall, his eyes like peep-holes to a volcano, gulping +and gurgling, while he swallowed back a fire of amazed excitement and +defeated anger, for which his backwoods vocabulary was too cheap. + +A flame seemed scorching and hissing about his heart while he +remembered that during some hour of every day for five years, since +last he had seen the “hound” who robbed him, he had sworn that, if ever +he caught the thief, he would pounce upon him with a woodsman’s +vengeance. + +“I couldn’t touch him now—the scum! But I’ll be switched if I’ll do a +thing to help him!” he hissed, the flame leaping to his lips. + +Yet he had a strange sensation, as if that vow was broken like an +egg-shell even while he made it. He knew that “the two creatures which +had fought inside of him, tooth and claw,” about the fate of his enemy, +were pinching his heart by turns in a last hot conflict. + +His eyes shot flinty sparks; he drew his breath in hard puffs; his +knotted throat twitched and swelled, while they (the man and the brute) +strove within him; and all the time he stood staring in grisly silence +at the half-breed. + +The latter still continued his Indian croon; though from the crazy roll +of his malformed eyes it was plain that he knew not whether he chanted +about the stars, his old friends and guides, or about anything else in +heaven or earth. + +But one thing quickly became clear to Cyrus, and then to the Farrar +boys,—less accustomed to tragedy than their comrade,—that this strange +personage, in whose veins the blood of white men and red men met, +carrying in its turbid flow the weaknesses of two races, was singing +his swan-song, the last chant he would ever raise on earth. + +At their first entrance, as their bodies interfered with the broad +light streaming through the cabin-door, Chris had lifted towards them a +scared, shrinking stare. But, apparently, he took them for the shadows +which walked in the dreams of his delirium. Not a ray of recognition +lightened the blankness of that stare as Herb’s big figure passed +before him. Letting his eyes wander aimlessly again from log wall to +log wall, from withered bed to mouldy rafters, his lips continued their +crooning, which sank with his weakening breath, then rose again to sink +once more, like the last wind-gusts when the storm is over. + +Suddenly his shrunken body shivered in every limb. The humming ceased. +His yellow teeth tapped upon each other in trouble and fear. He raised +himself to a squatting posture, with his knee-bones to his chin, the +wisps of hair tumbling upon his naked chest. + +“It’s dark—heap dark!” he whimpered, between long gasps. “Can’t strike +the trail—can’t find the home-camp. Herb—Herb Heal—ole pard—’twas I +took ’em—the skins. ’Twas—a dog’s trick. Take it out—o’ my hide—if yer +wants to—yah! Heap sick!” + +Not a ray of sense was yet in the half-breed’s eyes. An imaginary, +vengeance-dealing Herb was before him; but he never turned a glance +towards the real, and now forgiving, old chum, who leaned against the +wall not ten feet away. His voice dropped to a guttural rumble, in +which Indian sounds mingled with English. + +But the flame at Herb’s heart was quenched at the first whimpered word. +His stiffened muscles and lips relaxed. With a gurgle of sorrow, he +crossed the camp-floor, and dropped into a crawling position on the +faded spruces. + +“Chris!” he cried thickly. “Chris,—poor old pard,—don’t ye know me? +Look, man! Herb is right here—Herb Heal, yer old chum. You’re ‘heap +sick’ for sure; but we’ll haul you off to a settlement or to our camp, +and I’ll bring Doc along in two days. He’ll”— + +But Cross-eyed Chris became past hearing, his flicker of strength had +failed; he keeled over, and lay, with his limp legs curled up, faint +and speechless, upon the dead evergreens. + +“You ain’t a-going to die!” gasped Herb defiantly. “I’ll be jiggered if +you be, jest as I’ve found you! Say, boys! Cyrus! Neal! rub him a bit, +will ye? We ain’t got no brandy, I’ll build a fire, and warm some +coffee.” + +It was strange work for the hands of the Bostonian, and stranger yet +for those of young Farrar,—son of an English merchant-prince,—this +straightening and rubbing of a dying half-Indian, a “scum,” as Herb +called him, drunkard, and thief. Yet there was no flash of hesitation +on Farrar’s part, as they brought their warm friction to bear upon the +chill yellow skin, piebald from dirt and the stains of travel, as if it +were the very mission which had brought them to Katahdin. + +They had grave thoughts meanwhile that the old mountain was decidedly +gloomy in its omens, first a thunder-storm and then a tragedy; for, rub +as they might with brotherly hands, they could not pass their own +warmth into the body of the half-breed, though he still lived. + +But the mountain had not ended its terrors yet. + +Its mumbling lips began to speak, with a threatening, low at first like +muttered curses, but swelling into a nameless noise—a rumbling, +pounding, creeping, crashing. + +“Great Governor’s Ghost! what’s that?” gasped Cyrus, stopping his +rubbing. “Pamolah or some other fiend seems to be bombarding us from +the top now.” + +“It’s more thunder rolling over us,” said Neal; but as he spoke his +tongue turned stiff with fear. + +“Sounds as if the whole mountain was tumbling to pieces. Perhaps it’s +the end of the world,” suggested Dol, as a succession of booming shocks +from above seemed to shake the camping-ground under his feet. + +There was one second of awful indecision. The boys looked at each +other, at the dying man, at the roof above them, in the stiffness of +uncertain terror. + +Then a figure leaped into their midst, with an armful of dry sticks, +which he dashed from him. It was Herb, with the fuel for a fire. And, +for the first and last time in his history, so far as these friends of +his knew it, there was that big fear in his face which is most terrible +when it looks out of the eyes of a naturally brave man. + +“Boys, where’s yer senses?” he yelled cuttingly. “Out, for your lives! +Run! There’s a slide above us on the mountain!” + +“Him?” questioned Cyrus’s stiff lips, as he pointed to the breathing +wreck on the spruce boughs. “He’s not dead yet.” + +“D’ye think I’d leave him? Clear out of this camp—you, or we’ll be +buried in less’n two minutes! To the right! Off this ridge! Got yer +rifles? I’m coming!” + +The woodsman flung out the words while his brawny arms hoisted the body +of his old chum. His comrades had already disappeared when he turned +and sprang for the camp-door with his limp burden, but his moccasined +foot kicked against something. + +A great hiccough which was almost a sob rose from Herb’s throat. It was +his one valuable possession, his 45-90 Winchester rifle, his second +self, which he had rested against the log wall. + +“Good-by, Old Blazes!” he grunted. “You never went back on me, but I +can’t lug him and you! My stars! but that was a narrow squeak.” + +For, as he cleared the camping-ground with a blind dash, with head bent +and tongue caught between his clenched teeth, with a boom like a +Gatling gun, a great block of granite from the summit of Katahdin +struck the rock which sheltered the old camp, breaking a big piece off +it, and shot on with mighty impetus down the mountain. + +An avalanche of loose earth, stones, and bushes, brought down by this +battering-ram of the landslide, piled themselves upon the log hut, +smashing to kindling-wood its walls, which had stood many a hard storm, +burying them out of sight, and flinging wide showers of dust and small +missiles. + +A scattered rain of clay caught Herb upon the head, and lodged, some of +it, on the little pack containing axe and lunch which was strapped upon +his shoulders. + +He shook. His grip loosened. The limp, dragging body in his arms sank +until the feet touched the earth. + +But with the supreme effort, moral and physical, of his life, the +forest guide gathered it tight again. + +“I’ll be blowed if I’ll drop him now,” he gasped. “He ain’t nothing but +a bag o’ bones, anyhow.” + +Only a strong man in the hour of his best strength could have done it. +With a defiant snort Herb charged through the choking dust-clouds, +pelted by flying pebbles, sods, and fragments of sticks. + +“This way, boys!” he roared, after five straining, staggering minutes, +as he caught a glimpse of his comrades ahead, tearing off to the right, +as he had bidden them. “You may let up now. We’re safe enough.” + +They faced back, and saw him make a few reeling, descending steps, then +lay what now seemed to be an out-and-out lifeless man on a bed of moss +beneath a dwarfed spruce. + +The nerves of the three were in a jumping condition, their brains felt +befuddled, and their hearts sinking and melting in the midst of their +bones, from the astounding shock and terror of the land-slide. But, as +they beheld the guide deposit his burden, with its helplessly trailing +head and limbs, a cheer in unsteady tones rang above the slackening +rattle of earth and stones, and the far-away boom of the granite-block +as it buried itself in the forest beneath. + +“Hurrah! for you, Herb, old boy,” yelled Cyrus triumphantly. “That was +the grittiest thing I ever saw done’ Hurrah! Hurrah! Hoo-ray!” + +The English boys, open-throated, swelled the peal. + +But their cheering broke off as they came near, and saw the mask-like +face over which Herb bent. + +“Is he gone, poor fellow?” asked Garst. “What do you suppose caused +it—the slide?” + +“Why, it was a thundering big lump of granite from the top o’ the +mountain,” answered Herb, replying to the second question. “That plaguy +heavy rain must ha’ loosened the earth around it the clay and bushes +that kep’ it in place. So it got kind o’ top-heavy, and came slumping +and pitching down, slow at first, and then a’most as quick as a +cannon-ball, bringing all that pile along with it. I’ve seen the like +before; but, sho! I never came so near being buried by it.” + +He pointed as he spoke to the late camping-ground, with its lodgment of +clay, sods, pygmy trees, and pieces of rock, big and little. + + +Illustration: “Herb Charged Through The Choking Dust-Clouds.” + + +“The old camp’s clean wiped out, boys,” he said; “and I guess one of +the men that built it is gone, or a’most gone, too. Stick your arm +under his head, Cyrus, while I hunt for some water.” + +Garst did as he was bidden, but his help was not needed long. The guide +went off like a racer, covering the ground at a stretching gallop. He +remembered well the clear Katahdin spring, which had supplied the +home-camp during that long-past trapping winter. He returned with his +tin mug full. + +When the ice-cold drops touched Chris’s forehead, and lay on his parted +lips, gem-like drops which he was past swallowing, his malformed eyes +slowly opened. There was intelligence in them, shining through the +gathering death-film, like a sinking light in a lantern. + +He was groping in the dim border-land now, and in it he recognized his +old partner with shadowy wonder; for delirium was past, with the other +storms of a storm-beaten life. + +“Herb,” he gurgled in snatches, the words being half heard, half +guessed at, “’twas I—took ’em—the skins—an’ the antlers. I wanted—to +get—to the ole camp—an’ let you—take it out o’ me—afore I—keeled over.” + +Herb had taken Cyrus’s place, and was upholding him with a tenderness +which showed that the guide’s heart was in this hour melted to a jelly. +Two tears were dammed up inside his eyelids, which were so unused to +tears that they held them in. He neither wiped nor winked them away +before he answered:— + +“Don’t you fret about that—poor kid. We’ll chuck that old business +clean out o’ mind. You’ve jest got to suck this water and try to +chipper up, and—we’ll make camp together again.” + +But Herb knew as well as he knew anything that the man who had robbed +him was long past “chippering up,” and was starting alone to the unseen +camping-grounds. + +“How long since you got back here?” he’ asked, close to the dulling +ear. + +“Couldn’t—keep—track—o’ days. Got—turned—round—in woods. +Lost—trail—heap—long—getting—to—th’ old—camp.” + +The words seemed freezing on the lips which uttered them. Herb asked no +more questions. Silence was broken only by the rolling voice of the +land-slide, which had not yet ceased. Occasional volleys of loose earth +and stones, dislodged or shaken by the down-plunging granite, still +kept falling at intervals on the buried camp. + +At one unusually loud rattle, Chris’s lips moved again. In those +strange gutturals which the boys had heard in the hut, he rumbled an +Indian sentence, repeating it in English with scared, breaking breaths. + +It was a prayer of her tribe which his mother had taught him to say at +morning and eve:— + +“God—I—am—weak—Pity—me!” + +“Heap—noise! Heap—dark!” he gasped. “Can’t—find—th’ old—camp.” + +“You’re near it now, old chum,” said Herb, trying to soothe him. “It’s +the home-camp.” + +“We’ll—camp—to-ge-ther?” + +“We will again, sure.” + +The last stone pounded down on the heap above the old camp; and Herb +gently laid flat the body of the man he had sworn to shoot, closed the +malformed eyes, and turned away, that the fellows he was guiding might +not see his face. + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter XXIII. Brother’s Work + + +They buried Chris upon Katahdin’s breast. It was a good cemetery for +woodsmen, so Herb said, granite above and forest beneath. + +But, good or bad, this was the one thing to be done. An attempt to +transfer the body to a distant settlement would be objectless labor; +for, as far as the guide knew, the half-breed had not a friend to be +interested in his fate, father and mother having died before Herb found +him in the snow-heaped forest. + +There were three reliable witnesses, besides the man who was known to +have a grudge against him, to testify as to the cause and manner of his +death when the party returned to Greenville; so no suspicious finger +could point at Herb Heal, with a hint that he had carried out his old +threat. + +How long Chris, in lonely, crazed repentance, had sheltered in the camp +on the mountain-side could only be a matter of guess. Herb inclined to +think that he had been there for weeks,—months, perhaps,—judging from +the withered spruce bed and the dry boughs and sticks upon the +camping-ground, which had evidently been gathered and broken for fuel. +His ravings made it clear that, on returning to the old haunts after +years of absence, he had missed the trail he used to know, and wandered +wearily in the dense woods about the foot of Katahdin before he escaped +from the prison of trees, and climbed to the hut he sought. + +Such wanderings, Herb declared, generally ended in “a man having wheels +in his head,” being half or wholly insane, though he might keep +sufficient wits to provide himself with food and warmth, as Chris had +done while his strength held out. This was not long; for the +half-breed’s words suggested that he felt near to the great change he +roughly called “keeling over,” when he started to find his cheated +partner. + +But Cyrus, while he watched the guide making preparations for the +mountain burial, pictured the poor weakling tramping for hundreds of +miles through rugged forest-land, doubtless with aching knee-joints and +feet, that he might make upon his own skin justice for the skins which +he had stolen, and so, in the only way he knew, square things with his +wronged chum. And the city man thought, with a tear of pity, that even +that poor drink-fuddled mind must have been lit by some ray of longing +for goodness. + +It was a strange funeral. + +The guide chose a spot where the earth had been much softened by the +recent rain; and, with the ingenuity of a man accustomed to wilderness +shifts, he broke up the drenched ground with the axe which he took from +his shoulders. + +That axe, which had so often made camp, had never before made a grave; +the Farrars doubted that it ever would. But Herb worked away upon his +knees, moisture dripping from his skin, putting sorrow for years of +anger into every blow of his arms. Then, stopping a while, he went off +down the mountain to the nearest belt of trees, and cut a limb from +one, out of which, with his hunting-knife, he fashioned a rude wooden +implement, a cross between a spade and shovel. + +With this he scooped out the broken earth until a grave appeared over +three feet deep. He lined it with fragrant spruce-boughs from the +wind-beaten tangle below. + +These Cyrus and Dol had busied themselves in cutting. Neal thought of +other work for his fingers. Getting hold of Herb’s axe when the owner +was not using it, he felled one of the dwarf white birches. Out of its +light, delicate wood, with the help of his big pocket-knife and a ball +of twine that was hidden somewhere about him, he made a very +presentable cross, to point out to future hunters on Katahdin the +otherwise unmarked grave. + +He was a bit of a genius at wood-carving, and surveyed his work with +satisfaction when he considered it finished, having neatly cut upon it +the name, “Chris Kemp,” with the date, “October 20th, 1891.” + +“Couldn’t you add a text or motto of some kind?” suggested Dol, +glancing over his shoulder. “Twould make it more like the things one +sees in cemeteries. You’re such a dab at that sort of work.” + +“Can’t think of anything,” answered the elder brother. + +Then, with a sudden lighting of his face, he seized the knife again, +and worked in, in fine lettering, the frightened prayer he had heard on +the half-breed’s lips:— + +“God, I am weak; pity me!” + +Herb and Cyrus lowered the body into its resting-place, and covered it +with the green spruces. + +The four campers knelt bare-headed by the grave. + +“Couldn’t one of you boys say a bit of a prayer?” asked Herb in a thick +voice. “I ain’t used to spouting.” + +All former help had been easily given. This was a harder matter, yet +not so difficult as it would have been amid a city congregation. + +Garst tried to recall some suitable prayer from a funeral service; so +did Neal. Both failed. + +But here upon Katahdin’s side, where, in the large forces of storm and +slide, in forest and granite, through every wind-swept bush, waving +blade, and tinted lichen, breathed a whisper from God, it seemed no +unnatural thing for a man or a boy to speak to his Father. + +“Can’t one of you fellers say a prayer?” asked Herb again. + +Then the river of feeling in Cyrus broke the dam of reserve, and flowed +over his lips in a prayer such as he had never before uttered. + +It was the prayer of a son who was for the minute absorbed in his +Father. + +It left the five, those who were camping here and one who had gone to +unseen camping-grounds, with son-like trust to the Father’s dealings. + +Herb and the Farrars responded to it with heart-eager “Amens!” the +fervor of which was new to their lips. + +“I thank you as if he were my own brother, boys,” said the woodsman, +while he filled in the grave, and planted Neal’s cross at its head. +“Sho! when it comes to a time like we’ve been through to-day, a man, if +he has anything but a gizzard in him, must feel as how we’re all +brothers,—every man-jack of us,—white men, red men, half-and-half men, +whatever we are or wherever we sprung.” + +“A fellow is always hearing that sort of thing,” said Neal Farrar to +Cyrus. “But I’m blessed if I ever felt it stick in me before! that +we’re all of the one stuff, you know—we and that poor beggar. Some of +us seem to get such precious long odds over the others.” + +“All the more reason why we should do our level best to pull the +backward ones up to us,” answered the American. + +The words struck into the ears of Dol—that youngster listening with a +soberness of attention seldom seen in his flash-light eyes. + +A few years afterwards, when Neal Farrar was a newly blown lieutenant +in his Queen’s Twelfth Lancers, as full of heroic impulses and +enthusiasms as a modern young officer may be,—while his half-fledged +ambitions were hanging on the chances of active service, and the +golden, remote possibility of his one day being a V.C.,—there was a +peaceful honor which clung to him unsought. + +During his first year of army life, he became the paragon of every poor +private and raw recruit struggling with the miseries of goose-step, +with whom he came even into momentary contact. For sometimes through a +word or act, sometimes through a flash of the eye, or a look about the +mouth, during the brief interchange of a military salute, these +“backward ones” saw that the progressive young officer looked on them, +not as men-machines, but as brothers, as important in the great schemes +of the nation and the world as he was himself; that he was proud to +serve with them, and would be prouder still to help them if he could. + +It was an understanding which inspired many a tempted or newly joined +fellow to drill himself morally as his sergeant drilled him physically, +with a determination to become as fine a soldier and forward a man as +his paragon. + +But only one American friend of Lieutenant Farrar’s, who has let out +the secret to the writer, knows that the binding truth of human +brotherhood was first born into him when, on Katahdin’s side, he helped +to bury a thieving half-Indian. + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter XXIV. “Keeping Things Even” + + +“Now, you musn’t be moping, boys, because of this day’s work that you +took a hand in, and that wasn’t in your play-bill when you come to +these woods. We’ll have to try and even things up to-morrow with some +big sport. You look kind o’ wilted.” + +So said Herb when the tired party were half-way back to camp, doing the +descent of the mountain in a silence clouded by the scene which they +had been through. + +The woodsman seemed troubled with a rasping in his throat. He cleared +it twice and spat before he could open a passage for a decently +cheerful voice in which to suggest a rise of spirits. But Herb was too +faithful a guide to bear the thought that his employers’ trip should +end in any gloom because the one painful chapter in his own life had +closed forever. Moreover, although more than once, as he fought his way +through a jungle or jumped a windfall, something nipped his heart, +pinching him up inside, and making his eyes leak, he felt that the +thing had ended well for him—and for Chris. + +Herb, in his simple faith, scarcely doubted that the old chum, whom he +had forgiven, had reached a Home-Camp where his broken will and stunted +life might be repaired, and grow as they had poor chance to grow here. + +“Say, boys!” he burst forth, a few minutes after his protest against +“moping,” and when the band were within sight of the spring whence they +had started, an age back, as it seemed, on the trail of the moose. +“Say, boys! I’ve been all these years raging at Chris. Seems to me now +as if he was a poor sort of overgrowed baby, and not so bad a thief as +the chump who gave him that whiskey, and stole his senses. It’s a +thundering big pity that man hadn’t the burying of him to-day. + +“He was always the under dog,—was Chris,” he went on slowly, as if he +was seeking from his own heart an excuse for those unforeseen impulses +which had worked it and his body during the past five hours. “Whites +and Injuns jumped on him. They said he was criss-cross all through, +same as his eyes. But he warn’t. Never seed a half-breed that had less +gall and more grit, except when the hanker for whiskey would creep up +in him, and boss him. He could no more stand agen it, and the things it +made him do, than a jack-rabbit.” + +“Another reason why we Americans ought to feel our responsibility +towards every man in whose veins runs Indian blood, a thousand times +more hotly than we do!” burst out Cyrus. “It maddens a fellow to think +that we made them the under dogs, and as much by giving them a ‘boss,’ +as you say, in fire-water, as by anything else.” + +“I kind o’ think that way myself sometimes,” said Herb. + +And there was silence until the guide cried:— + +“Here’s our camp, boys. I’ll bet you’re glad to see it. I must get the +kettle, and cruise off for water. ’Tain’t likely I’ll trust one of you +fellers after last night. But you can hustle round and build the +camp-fire while I’m gone.” + +Herb had a shrewd motive in this. He knew that there is nothing which +will cure the blues in a camper, if he is touched by that affliction, +rare in forest life, like the building of his fire, watching the little +flames creep from the dull, dead wood, to roar and soar aloft in +gold-red pennons of good cheer. + +The result proved his wisdom. When he returned in a very short time +from that ever-to-be-famous spring, with his brimming kettle, he found +a glorious fire, and three tired but cheerful fellows watching it, its +reflection playing like a jack-o’-lantern in each pair of eyes. + +“Now I’ll have supper ready in a jiffy,” he said. “I guess you boys +feel like eating one another. Jerusha! we never touched our snack—nary +a crumb of it.” + +In the strange happenings and chaotic feelings of the day, hunger, +together with the bread and pork for satisfying it which Herb had +carried up the mountain, were forgotten until now. + +“Never mind! We’ll make up for it. Only hurry up!” pleaded Dol. “We’re +like bears, we’re so hungry.” + +“Like bears! You’re a sight more like calves with their mouths open, +waiting for something to swallow,” answered Herb, his eyes flashing +impudence, while, with an energy apparently no less brisk than when he +started out in the morning, he rushed his preparations for supper. + +“Say I’m like a Sukey, and I’ll go for you!” roared Dol, a gurgling +laugh breaking from him, the first which had been heard since the four +struggled through that tangle on Katahdin to a sight of the old camp. + +Once or twice during supper the mirth, which had been frozen in each +camper’s breast by a sight of the drifted wreck of a human life, warmed +again spasmodically. Herb did his manly best to fan its flame, though +his heart was still pinched by a feeling of double loss. + +Later in the evening, when the party were huddling close to the +camp-fire, he lifted his right hand and looked at it blankly. + +“My!” he gasped, “but it will feel awful queer and empty without Old +Blazes. That rifle was a reg’lar corker, boys. I was saving up for +three years to buy it. An’ it never went back on me. Times when I’ve +gone far off hunting, and had nary a chance to speak +to a human for weeks, I’d get to talking to it like as if ’twas a +living thing. When I wasn’t afeard of scaring game, I’d fire a round to +make it answer back and drive away lonesomeness. Folks might ha’ +thought I was loony, only there was none to see. Well, it’s smashed to +chips now, ’long with the old camp.” + +“What awfully selfish jackasses we were, to skip off with our own +rifles, and never think of yours, or that you couldn’t save it, +carrying that poor fellow! I feel like kicking myself,” said Cyrus, +sharp vexation in his voice. “But that slide business sprang on us so +quickly. The sudden rumbling, rattling, and pounding jumbled a fellow’s +wits. I scarcely understood what was up, even when we were scooting for +our lives.” + +“I felt a bit white-livered myself, I tell ye; and I’m more hardened to +slides than you are,” was the woodsman’s answer. + +The confession, taken in the light of his conduct, made him doubly a +hero to his city friends. + +They thought of him staggering along the mountain, blinded, bewildered, +pelted by clay, with that dragging burden in his arms, a heart tossed +by danger’s keenest realization in his breast. And they were silent +before the high courage which can recognize fear, yet refuse to it the +mastery. + +Neal, whose secret musings were generally crossed by a military thread, +seeing that he had chosen the career of a cavalry-soldier, and hoped +soon to enter Sandhurst College, stared into the heart of the +camp-fire, glowering at fate, because she had not ordained that Herb +should serve the queen with him, and wear upon his resolute heart—as it +might reasonably be expected he would—the Victoria Cross. + +Young Farrar’s feeling was so strong that it swept his lips at last. + +“Blow it all! Herb,” he cried. “It’s a tearing pity that you can’t come +into the English Lancers with me. I don’t suppose I’ll ever be a V.C., +but you would sooner or later as sure as gun’s iron.” + +“A ‘V.C.!’ What’s that?” asked Herb. + +“A Vigorous Christian, to be sure!” put in Cyrus, who was progressive +and peaceful, teasingly. + +But the English boy, full of the dignity of the subject to him, +summoned his best eloquence to describe to the American backwoodsman +that little cross of iron, Victoria’s guerdon, which entitles its +possessor to write those two notable letters after his name, and which +only hero-hearts may wear. + +But a vision of himself, stripped of “sweater” and moccasins, in +cavalry rig, becrossed and beribboned, serving under another flag than +the Stars and Stripes, was too much for Herb’s gravity and for the grim +regrets which wrung him to-night. + +“Oh, sugar!” he gasped; and his laughter was like a rocket shooting up +from his mighty throat, and exploding in a hundred sparkles of +merriment. + +He laughed long. He laughed insistently. His comrades were won to join +in. + +When the fun had subsided, Garst said:— + +“Herb Heal, old man, there’s something in you to-night which reminds me +of a line I’m rather stuck on.” + +“Let’s have it!” cried Herb. + +And Cyrus quoted:— + +“As for this here earth, +It takes lots of laffin’ to keep things even!” + + +“Now you’ve hit it! The man that wrote that had a pile o’ sense. Come, +boys, it’s been an awful full day. Let’s turn in!” + +As he spoke, Herb began to replenish the fire, and make things snug in +the camp for the night. + +But shortly after, when he threw himself on the spuce-boughs near them, +the boys heard him murmur, deep in his throat, as if he took strength +from the words:— + +“It takes lots of laffin’ to keep things even!” + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter XXV. A Little Caribou Quarrel + + +But things on this old planet seemed even enough the next day, when, +after a dozen hours of much needed sleep, the campers’ eyes opened upon +a scene which might have stirred any sluggish blood—and they were not +sluggards. + +A fresh breath of frost was in the air to quicken circulation and +hunger. Under a smiling sun an October breeze frolicked through leaves +with tints of fire and gold, humming, while it swiftly skimmed over +their beauties, as if it was reading a wind’s poem of autumn. + +Katahdin looked as though it had suddenly taken on the white crown of +age, with age’s stately calm. The weather had grown colder during the +night. Summer—the balmy Indian summer, with its late spells of +sultriness—had taken a weeping departure yesterday. To-day there was no +threatening of rain-storm or slide. The mountain’s principal peaks had +fleecy wraps of snow. + +“Ha! Old Katahdin has put on its nightcap,” exclaimed Cyrus, when the +trio issued from their tent in the morning. “Listen, you fellows! This +is the 21st of October. I propose that we start back to our home-camp +to-morrow. It will take us two days to reach Millinokett Lake. Then +we’ll set our faces towards civilization the first week in November, or +thereabouts.” + +“Oh, bother it! So soon!” protested Dol. + +“Now, Young Rattlebrain,”—Garst took the calm tone of +leadership,—“please consider that this is the first time you’ve camped +out in Maine woods. You might find it fun to be snowed up in camp +during a first fall, and to tramp homewards through a thawing slush. +But your father wouldn’t relish its effects on your British +constitution. And out here—once we’re well into November—there’s no +knowing when the temperature +may drop to zero with mighty short notice. I’ve often turned in at +night, feeling as if I were on ‘India’s coral strands’ and woke up next +morning thinking I had popped off in my sleep to ‘Greenland’s icy +mountains.’ Herb Heal! you know what tricks a thermometer, if we had +one, might play in our camp from this out; talk sense to these +fellows.” + +Herb, who had risen an hour before his charges, had already fetched +fresh water, coaxed up the fire, and was busily mixing flapjacks for +breakfast. His ears, however, had caught the drift of the talk. + +“Guess Cyrus is right,” he said. “Seeing as it’s the first time you +Britishers have slept off your spring mattresses, I’d say, light out +for the city and steam-heat afore the snow comes. Oh! you needn’t get +your mad up. I ain’t thinking you’d growl at being snowed in. I know +better. + +“By the great horn spoon! I b’lieve I’ll go right along to Greenville +with you,” exclaimed the guide a minute later. “I might get a chance to +pick up a bargain of a second-hand rifle there. And I guess you’d be +mighty sick o’ your luck, Dol, if you had to lug them moose-antlers +part o’ the way yerself. +I ain’t stuck on carrying ’em either, if we can get a jumper.” + +But there was a third reason, still more powerful than these two, why +he should make a trip to the distant town, which stirred Herb’s mind +while he stirred his cakes. His sturdy sense told him that it would be +well he should put in an appearance when Cyrus made a statement before +the Greenville coroner as to the cause and manner of Chris’s death. + +“Now, you boys, we don’t want no fooling this blessed day,” he said, +when breakfast was in order, and the campers were emptying for the +second time their tin mugs of coffee. “There’s sport before us—tearing +good sport. Whatever do you s’pose I come on this morning when I was +cruising over the bog for water? Caribou-tracks! Caribou-tracks, as +sure as there’s a caribou in Maine! + +“Who’s for following ’em? We hain’t got much provisions left; and I +guess a chunk of broiled caribou-steak about as big as a horse’s upper +lip would cheer each of us up, and make us feel first-rate. What say, +boys?” + +“By all that’s glorious!” ejaculated Cyrus, his eyes striking light. +“Caribou-signs! Of course we’ll follow them. A bit of fresh meat +would be pretty acceptable, and a good view of a herd of caribou would +be still more so—to me, at any rate. That would just about top off our +exploring to a T.” + +“We’ve got to be mighty spry, then,” said the woodsman, lurching to his +feet, muscles swelling, and nostrils spreading like a sleuth-hound’s. +“If you want caribou, you’ve got to take ’em while they’re around. Old +hunters have a saying: ‘They’re here to-day, to-morrow nowhere.’ And +that’s about the size of it.” + +“Let’s start off this minute!” Dol jerked out the words while he bolted +the last salt shreds of his pork. “Hurry up, you fellows! You’re as +slow as snails. I’d eat the jolliest meal that was ever cooked in three +minutes.” + +“No wonder you squirm and shout all night, then, until sane people with +good digestions feel ready to blow your head off,” laughed Cyrus, who +was one of the laggards; but he disposed of the last mouthfuls of his +own meal with little regard for his digestive canal. + +In rather less than twenty minutes the four were scanning with wide +eyes certain fresh foot-marks, plainly printed on a patch of soft +oozing clay, midway on the boggy tract. + +“Whew! Bless me! Those caribou-tracks?” Cyrus caught his breath with +amazement while he crouched to examine them. “Why, they’re bigger than +any moose-tracks we’ve seen!” + +“Isn’t that great?” gasped Dol. + +“Well, come to think of it, it is,” answered the guide, in the stealthy +tones of an expectant hunter; “for a full-grown bull-caribou don’t +stand so high as a full-sized moose by two or three feet, and he don’t +weigh more’n half as much. Still, for all that, caribou deer beat every +other animal of the deer tribe, so far’s I know, in the size of their +hoofs, as you’ll see bime-by if luck’s with us! And my stars! how they +scud along on them big hoofs. I’d back ’em in a race against the +smartest of your city chaps that ever spun through Maine on his +new-fangled ‘wheel,’ that he’s so sot on.” + +Garst, who was an enthusiastic cyclist, with a gurgle of unbelieving +mirth, prepared to dispute this. There might have ensued a wordy +sparring about caribou versus bicycle, had not the guide been impressed +with the necessity for prompt action at the expense of speech. + +“We must quit our talk and get a move on,” he whispered, and led the +forward march across the bog, his eyes every now and again narrowing +into two gleaming slits, as if he were debating within himself, while +he studied the ground or some bush which showed signs of being nibbled +or trampled. Then he would sweep the horizon with long-range vision. + +But not a tuft of hair or glancing horn hove in sight. + +The marsh was left behind. The hoof-marks were lost in a wide meadowy +sweep of open ground, bounded at a distance by an irregular line of +hills, sparsely covered with spruce-trees. + +Towards these Herb headed, leaving Katahdin away back in the rear. + +“’Shaw! I’m afeard they’re ‘nowhere’ by this time,” he whispered, when +the hunters reached the rising ground, glancing at Dol, who stepped +lightly beside him. + +The boy’s lips parted to breathe out compressed disappointment; but his +answer was lost in a sharp whirr! whirr! and a sudden flutter of wings +above his head. His eyes went aloft towards a bough about eight feet +from the ground. So did Herb’s, and lit with a new, whimsical hope. + +“A spruce partridge!” hissed the guide, his voice thrilling even in its +stealthy whisper. “That’s luck—dead sure! The Injuns say, ‘The red eye +never tells a lie;’” and the woodsman pointed out the strip of bare red +skin above the beady eyes of the bird, which cuddled itself on its +branch, and looked down at them unfrighted. + +Dol Farrar, who in this region of moose-birds and moose-calls could +believe in anything, felt both his spirits and credulity rise together. +He managed to keep abreast of the trained hunter, as the latter, with +swift, stretching, silent steps climbed the hill. And he heard the +hunter’s sudden cluck of triumph as he reached the top, and looked down +upon the valley at the other side, the inarticulate sound being +followed by one softly rung word,— + +“Caribou!” + +“Caribou? They look awfully like quiet Alderney cows, except for the +big antlers!” The amazed exclamation stirred the English boy’s tongue, +but he did not make it audible. + +Following Herb’s example, he stretched himself flat upon his stomach +under a spruce, and stared over the brow of the hill at a forest +pantomime which was being acted in the valley. + +Cautiously slipping from tree to tree, Cyrus and Neal, who had lagged a +few steps behind, joined the leaders, and lay low, eagerly gazing too. + +On its farther side the hill was yet more sparsely covered, the +scattered spruces showing gaps between them where the lumberman’s axe +had made havoc. Through these openings, which were as shafts of light +amid the evergreen’s waving play, the hunters saw the sun silver a +brown pool in the valley. A few maples and birches waved their +shrivelling splendors of scarlet and buff at irregular distances from +the water. And in and out among these trees moved in graceful woodland +frolic four or five large animals,—perhaps more,—their doings being +plainly seen by the watchers on the hill. + +Their coats, like those of the smaller deer, were of a brown which +seemed to have caught its dye from the autumnal tints surrounding them. +In shape they justified Dol’s criticism; for they certainly were not +unlike cows of the Alderney breed, save for the widely branching horns. + +Of the strength of these antlers the hidden spectators got sudden, +startling proof, as the two largest caribou drew off from the rest, and +charged each other in a real or sham fight, the battle-clang of their +meeting horns sounding far away to the hill-top. + +“Them two bulls are having a big time of it. Look at ’em now, with the +small one. That’s a stranger in the herd,” hummed Herb into the ear of +the boy next to him, his voice so light and even that it might have +been but the murmur of a falling leaf. “It’s an all-fired pity that +we’re jest too far off for a shot.” + +The “stranger,” which the woodsman’s long-range eye had singled out, +was of a smaller size and paler color than the other caribou; and +Herb—who could interpret the forest pantomime far better than he would +have explained the acting of human beings on a stage—told his +companions in whispers and signs that it was in distressed dread of its +company. + +The attentions which the rest paid to it seemed at first only friendly +and facetious. The two big bulls, after trying their mettle against +each other for a minute, separated, and moved towards it, prodded it +lightly with their horns, and playfully bit its sides, a sport in which +the other members of the herd joined. + +“They’re playing it, like a cat with a mouse; but I guess they’ll +murder it in the long run if it’s sickly or weak. Caribou are the +biggest bullies in these woods—to each other,” whispered Herb. + +“By the great horn spoon! they’re doing for it now,” he gasped, a +minute later. “Sho!... if I only had my old Winchester here, I’d soon +stop their lynching. Try it, you, Cyrus! You’re a sure shot, an’ you +can creep within a hundred yards of ’em without being scented. Try it, +man!” + +The guide’s flashing eyes and quick signs conveyed half his meaning; +his excited sentences were so low that Garst only caught fag-ends of +them. But they were emphasized unexpectedly by a faint bleating sound +rising from the valley,—the helpless bleat of a buffeted creature. + +“We want meat, and I’m going to spring a surprise on those bullies,” +muttered Cyrus, setting his teeth. + +Still lying flat, he shot his eyes down the hill-slope, forming a plan +of descent; then he lifted the rifle beside him, and jammed some fresh +cartridges into the magazine. + +Ere a dozen long breaths had been drawn, he was stealthily moving +towards the valley, slipping from spruce to spruce—an arrowlike, +unnoticeable figure in his dark gray tweeds. + +He was close to the foot of the hill when the three breathless fellows +above saw him raise his rifle, just as the unfortunate little caribou, +after many efforts to escape, had been beaten to its knees. + +“He’ll drop one, sure! He’s a crack shot—is Cyrus! There! he’s drawing +bead. Bravo!... he’s floored the biggest!” + +Herb’s gusty breath blew the sentences through his nostrils, while the +sudden, explosive bang of the Winchester cut through all other sounds, +and set the air a-quiver. + +Twice Cyrus fired. + +The largest bull-caribou leaped three feet upward, wheeled about, +staggered to his knees. A third shot stopped his bullying forever. + +“Hurrah! I guess you’ve got the leader—the best of the herd. That other +bull was a buster too! You might ha’ dropped him, if you’d been in the +humor!” bellowed the guide, springing to his legs, and letting out his +pent-up wind in a full-blast roar of triumph. + +He well knew that Cyrus, “being a queer specimen sportsman,” and the +right sort after all, would be satisfied with the one inevitable deed +of death. + +As their leader fell, the caribou raised their heads, stared in +stiffened wonder for a few seconds, offering a steady mark for the +smoking rifle if it had been in the grasp of a butcher. Then, as though +propelled by one shock, they cut for the wood at dazzling speed. + +A minute—and they were in the distance as tufts of hair blown before a +storm-wind. + +The half-killed weakling sought shelter more slowly in another +direction. + +“Well done, Cy!” + +“Congratulations, old man!” + +“You’ve got a trophy now. You’ll never leave this splendid head behind. +My eye, what antlers!” + +Such were the exclamations blown to Garst’s ears by the hot breath of +his English friends, as they reached his side, and stooped with him to +examine the fallen forest beauty. + +“No; I guess we can manage to haul the head back to camp, with as much +meat as we need. You’ll have your ‘chunk of caribou-steak as big as a +horse’s upper lip,’ to-night, Herb, and bigger if you want it. I’m +tickled at getting the antlers, especially as I didn’t shoot this +beauty for the sake of them. I’ll hook them on my shoulders when we +start back to Millinokett to-morrow.” + +So answered the successful hunter, tingling with some pride in the +skill which, because of his reverence for all life, he generally kept +out of sight. + +And he stuck to his purpose about the antlers. + +Cheered and invigorated by a sumptuous supper and breakfast of broiled +caribou-steaks, supplemented by Herb’s lightest cakes, and carrying +some of the meat with them as provision for the way, the campers +accomplished their backward tramp to the log camp on Millinokett Lake +in fulness of strength and spirits. + +Once or twice during the journey, when the guide was stalking ahead, +and thought himself unnoticed, the city fellows saw him lift his right +hand and look at it for a full minute. Then it swung heavily back to +his side. + +“He’s missing his rifle, the partner that never went back on him,” said +Cyrus. “Say, boys! I’ve got an idea!” + +“Out with it if it’s worth anything,” grunted Dol. “I never have ideas +these days. Too much doing. I don’t feel as if there was a steady peg +in me to hang one on.” + +“Oh! quit your nonsense, Chick, and listen. Herb will wait for us in a +few minutes,” was the Boston man’s impatient rejoinder. + +Then followed a low-toned consultation, in the course of which such +talk as this was heard:— + +“Our Pater will want to shell out when he hears about Chris.” + +“So will mine. He’ll be for sending Herb a cool five hundred or +thousand dollars, right away. And, as likely as not, Herb would feel +flaring mad, and ready to chuck it in his face. He’s not the sort of +fellow to stand being paid by an outsider for a plucky act, done in the +best hour of his life.” + +“Oh, I say! wouldn’t it be decenter to manage the thing ourselves, +without letting anybody who doesn’t know him meddle in it?” This +suggestion was in Dol’s voice. “Neal and I could draw our allowances +for three months in advance; the Pater will be willing enough. We’ll be +precious hard up without them, but we’ll rub through somehow. Then you +can chip in an even third, Cy, and we’ll order an A I rifle,—the best +ever invented, from the best company in America,—silver plate, with his +name,—and all the rest of it. I’d swamp my allowance for a year to see +Herb’s face when he gets it.” + +“That’s the plan! You do have occasional moments of wisdom, Dol; I’ll +say that much for you,” commented the leader. “Well, Herb has taken a +special sort of liking to you. You may tip him a hint to wait in +Greenville for a few days, and not to go looking for second-hand rifles +till he hears from us. Better not say anything until we’re just +parting. Ten to one, though, you’ll blurt the whole thing out in some +harebrained minute, or give it away in your sleep.” + +“Blow me if I do!” answered Dol solemnly. + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter XXVI. Doc Again + + +Herb, turning back at that minute to wait for his party, experienced a +shock of curiosity which was new to him, at seeing the three in close +counsel, shouldering each other upon a trail a couple of feet wide. + +But the sensation passed. Dol for once was not guilty of an +indiscretion, waking or sleeping. The woodsman got no hint of what +matter had been discussed until more than two weeks later, when he +stood in the main street of Greenville, beside a tanned, muscular, +newly shaven trio, waiting for their departure for Boston. + +A few pleasant days, marked by no particular excitements, had been +spent at the log camp on Millinokett after that wonderful trip into the +forests of Katahdin. Then the weather turned suddenly blustering and +cold; and Cyrus, as captain, ordered an immediate forced march to +Greenville. + +Under Herb’s guidance that march was made with singularly few +hardships. He managed to hire a “jumper” from a new settler who had a +farm a couple of miles from their camp. This contrivance was a rough +sort of sled, formed of two stout ash saplings, and hitched to a +courageous horse. The “jumper’s” one merit was that it could travel +along many a rough trail where wheels would be splintered at the +outset. But since, as Herb said, it went at “a succession of dead +jumps,” no camper was willing to trust his bones to its tender mercies. +However, it answered admirably for carrying the tent, knapsacks, and +trophies of the party, tightly strapped in place, including Neal’s +bear-skin, which was duly called for, and the moose-antlers, more +precious in Dol’s sight than if they had been made of beaten gold. + +Thus the campers journeyed homeward with their backs as light as their +spirits, caring little for the chills of a couple of nights spent under +canvas and rubber coverings. + +Two gala evenings they had,—one with Uncle Eb in his bark hut near +Squaw Pond, where they were regaled with a sumptuous supper, for “coons +war in eatin’ order now;” and the second with Doctor Phil Buck at his +little frame house near Moosehead Lake. + +Dear old Doc was as ever a power,—a power to welcome, uplift, +entertain. + +The campers sought him immediately on their arrival at Greenville; and +he stood by them while Cyrus made a full statement before the local +coroner about the death and burial of the half-breed, Chris Kemp, the +Farrars and Herb confirming what was said with due dignity. + +But dignity was blown to the four winds by the very unprofessional and +very woodsman-like cheer that Doc raised, and that was echoed +thunderously by Joe Flint and a few other guides and loungers who had +collected to hear the story, when Cyrus described the splendid rush +which Herb made, with the dying man in his arms, and the clay of the +landslide half smothering him. + +“I’m sorry I wasn’t near to try and do something for the poor fellow,” +said the doctor, later on, when his friends were gathered round a +blazing wood-fire in his own snug house. “But I doubt if I could have +helped him. I guess he was born with the hankering for whiskey, and +when that is in the mongrel blood of a half-breed it is pretty sure to +wreck him some time. We must leave him to God, boys, and to changes +larger than we know.” + +“I’ve a letter for you, Neal,” added the host presently in a lighter +tone. “It was directed to my care. It is from Philadelphia, from Royal +Sinclair, I think.” + +Neal slit the envelope which was handed to him, and read the few lines +it contained aloud, with a longing burst of laughter. + +Royal was as short with his pen as he was dash-away with his tongue. +The letter was a brief but pressing invitation to Cyrus and the Farrars +to visit their camping acquaintances of the Maine wilds at the +Sinclairs’ home in Philadelphia before the English boys recrossed the +Atlantic. + +“Come you must!” wrote Roy. “We’ve promised to give a big spread, and +invite all the crowd we train with to meet you. We’ll have a great old +time, and bring out our best yarns. Don’t let me catch you refusing!” + + +Illustration: Greenville,—“Farewell To The Woods.” + + +“We won’t if we can help it,” commented Neal; “if only we can coax the +Pater to give us another week in jolly America.” + +The campers slept upon mattresses that night for the first time in many +weeks. + +The following morning saw them grouped in the main street of +Greenville, with Doc and Herb on hand for a final farewell, waiting for +the departure of the coach which was to bear them a little part of the +way towards Boston civilization. + +Dol was turning over in his jostled thoughts the delicate wording of +the hint which he was to convey to Herb about the rifle, when he became +aware that Doctor Phil was pinching his shoulder, and saying, while he +drew Neal’s attention in the same way:— + +“Well, you fellows! I’m glad to have known you. If you ever come to +Maine again, remember that there’s one old forest fogy who’ll have a +delightful welcome for you in his house or camp, not to speak of the +thing he calls his heart. And I hope you’ll keep a pleasant corner in +your memories for our Pine Tree State, and for American States +generally, so far as you’ve seen them.” + +Dol tried to answer; but recalling the evening when, wrecked at heart, +with stinging feet, he had stumbled at last into the trail to Doc’s +camp, he could only mutter, “Dash it all!” and rub his leaking eyes. + +“Of course I’ll think in an hour from now of all the things I want to +say,” began Neal helplessly, and stopped. “But I’ll tell you how I +feel, Doc,” he added, with a sudden rush of breath: “I think I can +never see your Stars and Stripes again without taking off my hat to +them, and feeling that they’re about equal to my own flag.” + +“Neatly put, Neal! I couldn’t have done it better,” laughed Cyrus. + +“Shake!” and Doc offered his hand in a heart-grip, while the hairs on +it bristled. “Boy! long life to that feeling. You men who are now being +hatched will show us one day what Young England and Young America, as a +grand brotherhood under comrade flags, can do to give this old earth a +lift which she has never had yet towards peace and prosperity. We’re +looking to you for it!” + +“Hur-r-r-rup!” cheered Herb, subduing his shout to the requirements of +a settlement, but sending his battered hat some ten feet into the air, +and recovering it with a dexterous shoot of his long arm, by way of +giving his friends an inspiring send-off. + +“Tell you what it is!” he said suddenly, turning upon the Farrars, “I +never guided +Britishers till now; but, wherever you sprung from, you’re clean grit. +If a man is that, it don’t matter a whistle to me what country riz +him.” + +A few minutes afterwards, with a jingle, jangle, lurch, and rattle, the +stage-coach was swaying its way out of Greenville. Dol, stooping from +his seat upon it, gripped the guide’s hand in a wringing good-by. + +“Herb,” he said, “we three fellows want you to stay here for a few +days, and not to do anything about a second-hand rifle until you hear +from us. Mind!” + + + +And so it happened that, ten days or so later, while the three were +enjoying the hospitalities of the Sinclairs and “their crowd” in the +Quaker City, Herb, who was still in Greenville, waiting for a fresh +engagement as guide, was accosted by the driver of the coach from +Bangor. + +“Herb Heal, here’s a bully parcel for you,” said the Jehu, with a +knowing grin. “Came from Boston, I guess. I war booked to take +pertik’lar care of it.” + +And Herb, feeling his strong fingers tingle, undid many wrappers, and +hauled out, before the eyes of Greenville loungers, a rifle such +as it is the desire of every Maine woodsman’s heart to possess. + +A best grade, 45-90, half-magazine Winchester it was, fitted with +shot-gun stock and Lyman sights, and bearing a gleaming silver plate, +on which was prettily lettered:— + +HERB HEAL + +In Memory Of October, 1891. + +Underneath was engraved a miniature pine, its trunk bearing three sets +of initials. + +Herb stalked straight off a distance of one mile to Doctor Buck’s +house, pushed the door open as if it had been the door of a wilderness +camp, and shot himself into Doc’s little study. + +“Look what those three gamy fellows have sent me,” he said; and his +eyes were now like Millinokett Lake under a full sun-burst. “I thought +the old one was a corker, but this”— + +Here the woodsman’s dictionary gave out. + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter XXVII. Christmas on the Other Side + + +“‘Christmas, 1893.’ Those last two figures are a bit crooked; aren’t +they, Dol?” said a tall, soldierly fellow, who was no longer a boy, yet +could scarcely in his own country call himself a man. + +He read the date critically, having fixed it as the centre-piece in a +festive arch of holly and bunting, which spanned the hall of a mansion +in Victoria Park, Manchester. + +“I believe that’s better,” he added, straightening a tipsy “93,” and +bounding from a chair-back on which he was perched, to step quickly +backward, with a something in gait and bearing that suggested a cavalry +swing. + +“‘Christmas, 1893,’” he read musingly again. “Goodness! to think it’s +two years since we laid eyes on old Cyrus, and that he has landed on +English soil before this, may be here any minute—and Sinclair too. I +guess”—these two words were brought out with a smile, as if the speaker +was putting himself in touch with the happiness of a by-gone time—“I +guess that ‘Star-Spangled Banner’ will look home-like to them.” + +And Neal Farrar, just back for a short vacation from Sandhurst Military +College, twice gravely saluted the gay bunting with which his Christmas +arch was draped, where the Union Jack of old England kissed the +American Stars and Stripes. + +“I say!” he exclaimed, turning to a tall youth, who had been inspecting +his operations, “that Liverpool train must be beastly late, Dol. Those +fellows ought to be here before this. The Mater will be in a stew. She +ordered dinner at five, as the youngsters dine with us, of course, +to-day, and it’s past that now.” + +“Hush! will you? I’ll vow that cab is stopping! Yes! By all that’s +splendid, there they are!” and Dol Farrar’s joy-whoop rang through the +English oaken hall with scarcely less vehemence than it had rung in +former days through the dim aisles of the Maine forests. + +A sound of spinning cab-wheels abruptly stopping, a noise of men’s feet +on the steps outside, and the hall-door was flung wide by two pairs of +welcoming hands. + +“Cyrus! Royal! Got here at last? Oh! but this is jolly.” + +“Neal, dear old boy, how goes it? Dol, you’re a giant. I wouldn’t have +known you.” + +Such were the most coherent of the greetings which followed, as two +visitors, in travelling rig, their faces reddened by eight days at sea +in midwinter, crossed the threshold. + +There could be no difficulty in recognizing Cyrus Garst’s well-knit +figure and speculative eyes, though a sprouting beard changed somewhat +the lower part of his face. And if Royal Sinclair’s tall shoulders and +brand-new mustache were at all unfamiliar, anybody who had once heard +the click and hum of his hasty tongue would scarcely question his +identity. + +The Americans had steamed over the Atlantic amid bluster of elements, +purposing a tour through southern France and Italy. And they were to +take part, before proceeding to the Continent, in the festivities of an +English Christmas at the Farrars’ home in Manchester. + +“Oh, but this is jolly!” cried Neal again, his voice so thickened by +the joy of welcome that—embryo cavalry man though he was—he could bring +out nothing more forceful than the one boyish exclamation. + +Dol’s throat was freer. Sinclair and he raised a regular tornado in the +handsome hall. Questions and answers, only half distinguishable, blew +between them, with explosions of laughter, and a thunder of claps on +each other’s shoulders. When their gale was at its noisiest, Royal’s +part of it abruptly sank to a dead calm, stopped by “an angel +unawares.” + +A girl of sixteen, with hair like the brown and gold of a pheasant’s +breast, opened a drawing-room door, stepped to Neal’s side, and +whispered,— + +“Introduce me!” + +“My sister,” said Neal, recovering self-possession. “Myrtle, I believe +I’ll let you guess for yourself which is Garst and which is Sinclair.” + +“Well, I’ve heard so much about you for the past two years that I know +you already, +all but your looks. So I’m sure to guess right,” said Myrtle Farrar, +scrutinizing the Americans with a pretty welcoming glance, then giving +to each a glad hand-shake. + +Royal’s tongue grew for once less active than his eyes, which were so +caught by the golden shades on the pheasant-like head that for a minute +he could see nothing else. Even Cyrus, who was accustomed to look upon +himself as the cool-blooded senior among his band of intimates, tingled +a little. + +“You’re just in time for dinner—I’m so glad,” laughed Miss Myrtle. “A +Christmas dinner with a whole tribe of Farrars, big and little.” + +“But our baggage hasn’t come on yet,” answered Garst ruefully. “Will +Mrs. Farrar excuse our appearing in travelling rig?” + +“Indeed she will!” answered for herself a fair, motherly-looking +English woman, as pretty as Myrtle save for the gold-brown hair, while +she came a few steps into the hall to welcome her sons’ friends. + +Five minutes afterwards the Americans found themselves seated at a +table garlanded with red-berried holly, trailing ivy, and pearl-eyed +mistletoe, and surrounded by a round dozen of Farrars, including +several youngsters whose general place was in schoolroom or nursery, +but who, even to a tot of three, were promoted to dine in splendor on +Christmas Day. + +“Well, this is festive!” remarked Cyrus to Myrtle, who sat next to him, +when, after much preparatory feasting, an English plum-pudding, +wreathed, decorated, and steaming, came upon the scene. Fluttering amid +the almonds which studded its top were two wee pink-stemmed flags. And +here again, in compliment to the newly arrived guests, the +“Star-Spangled Banner” kissed the English Union Jack. + +“Say, Neal!” exclaimed Cyrus, his eyes keenly bright as he looked at +the toy standards, “wouldn’t this sort of thing delight our friend Doc? +By the way, that reminds me, I have a package for you from him, and a +message from Herb Heal too. Herb wants to know ‘when those gamy +Britishers are coming out to hunt moose again?’ And Doc has sent you a +little bundle of beaver-clippings. They are from an ash-tree two feet +in circumference, felled by that beaver colony which we came across +near the _brûlée_ where you shot your bear and covered yourself with +glory. Doc asked you to put the wood in sight on Christmas Night, and +to think of the Maine woods.” + +“Think of them!” Neal ejaculated. “Bless the dear old brick! does he +think we could ever forget them and the stunning times we had in camp +and on trail?” + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Camp and Trail, by Isabel Hornibrook + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13946 *** |