Two hours later the Indian returned. No word was spoken as he entered.
He was not cold. He must have walked far. Rolf prepared for bed. The
Indian stooped, picked up a needle from the dusty ground, one that had
been lost the day before, silently handed it to his companion, who gave
only a recognizant "Hm," and dropped it into the birch-bark box.



Chapter 44. The Lost Bundle of Furs

There had been a significant cessation of robbery on their trap line
after the inconclusive visit to the enemy's camp. But a new and extreme
exasperation arose in the month of March, when the alternation of thaw
and frost had covered the snow with a hard crust that rendered snowshoes
unnecessary and made it easy to run anywhere and leave no track.

They had gathered up a fisher and some martens before they reached the
beaver pond. They had no beaver traps now, but it was interesting to
call and see how many of the beavers were left, and what they were
doing.

Bubbling springs on the bank of the pond had made open water at several
places, now that the winter frost was weakening. Out of these the
beavers often came, as was plainly seen in the tracks, so the trappers
approached them carefully.

They were scrutinizing one of them from behind a log, Quonab with ready
gun, Rolf holding the unwilling Skookum, when the familiar broad, flat
head appeared. A large beaver swam around the hole, sniffed and looked,
then silently climbed the bank, evidently making for a certain aspen
tree that he had already been cutting. He was in easy range, and the
gunner was about to fire when Rolf pressed his arm and pointed. Here,
wandering through the wood, came a large lynx. It had not seen or smelt
any of the living creatures ahead, as yet, but speedily sighted the
beaver now working away to cut down his tree.

As a pelt, the beaver was worth more than the lynx, but the naturalist
is strong in most hunters, and they watched to see what would happen.

The lynx seemed to sink into the ground, and was lost to sight as soon
as he knew of a possible prey ahead. And now he began his stalk. The
hunters sighted him once as he crossed a level opening in the snow. He
seemed less than four inches high as he crawled. Logs, ridges, trees,
or twigs, afforded ample concealment, till his whiskers appeared in a
thicket within fifteen feet of the beaver.

All this was painfully exciting to Skookum, who, though he could not
see, could get some thrilling whiffs, and he strained forward to improve
his opportunities. The sound of this slight struggle caught the beaver's
ear. It stopped work, wheeled, and made for the water hole. The lynx
sprang from his ambush, seized the beaver by the back, and held on;
but the beaver was double the lynx's weight, the bank was steep and
slippery, the struggling animals kept rolling down hill, nearer and
nearer the hole. Then, on the very edge, the beaver gave a great plunge,
and splashed into the water with the lynx clinging to its back. At once
they disappeared, and the hunters rushed to the place, expecting them to
float up and be an easy prey; but they did not float. At length it was
clear that the pair had gone under the ice, for in water the beaver was
master.

After five minutes it was certain that the lynx must be dead. Quonab cut
a sapling and made a grappler. He poked this way and that way under the
ice, until at length he felt something soft. With the hatchet they cut
a hole over the place and then dragged out the body of the lynx. The
beaver, of course, escaped and was probably little the worse.

While Quonab skinned the catch, Rolf prowled around the pond and soon
came running back to tell of a remarkable happening.

At another open hole a beaver had come out, wandered twenty yards to a
mound which he had castorized, then passed several hard wood trees to
find a large poplar or aspen, the favourite food tree. This he had begun
to fell with considerable skill, but for some strange reason, perhaps
because alone, he had made a miscalculation, and when the tree came
crashing down, it had fallen across his back, killed him, and pinned him
to the ground.

It was an easy matter for the hunters to remove the log and secure his
pelt, so they left the beaver pond, richer than they had expected.

Next night, when they reached their half-way shanty, they had the best
haul they had taken on this line since the memorable day when they got
six beavers.

The morning dawned clear and bright. As they breakfasted, they noticed
an extraordinary gathering of ravens far away to the north, beyond any
country they had visited. At least twenty or thirty of the birds were
sailing in great circles high above a certain place, uttering a deep,
sonorous croak, from time to time. Occasionally one of the ravens would
dive down out of sight.

"Why do they fly above that way?"

"That is to let other ravens know there is food here. Their eyes are
very good. They can see the signal ten miles away, so all come to the
place. My father told me that you can gather all the ravens for twenty
miles by leaving a carcass so they can see it and signal each other."

"Seems as if we should look into that. Maybe another panther," was
Rolf's remark.

The Indian nodded; so leaving the bundle of furs in a safe place with
the snowshoes, that they carried on a chance, they set out over the
hard crust. It was two or three miles to the ravens' gathering, and, as
before, it proved to be over a cedar brake where was a deer yard.

Skookum knew all about it. He rushed into the woods, filled with the
joy of martial glory. But speedily came running out again as hard as
he could, yelling "yow, yow, yowl" for help, while swiftly following,
behind him were a couple of gray wolves. Quonab waited till they were
within forty yards; then, seeing the men, the wolves slowed up and
veered; Quonab fired; one of the wolves gave a little, doglike yelp.
Then they leaped into the bushes and were lost to view.

A careful study of the snow showed one or two trifling traces of blood.
In the deer yard they found at least a dozen carcasses of deer killed by
the wolves, but none very recent. They saw but few deer and nothing more
of the wolves, for the crust had made all the country easy, and both
kinds fled before the hunters.

Exploring a lower level of willow country in hopes of finding beaver
delayed them, and it was afternoon when they returned to the half-way
shanty, to find everything as they left it, except that their Pack of
furs had totally disappeared.

Of course, the hard crust gave no sign of track. Their first thought
was of the old enemy, but, seeking far and near for evidence, they found
pieces of an ermine skin, and a quarter mile farther, the rest of it,
then, at another place, fragments of a muskrat's skin. Those made it
look like the work of the trapper's enemy, the wolverine, which, though
rare, was surely found in these hills. Yes! there was a wolverine
scratch mark, and here another piece of the rat skin. It was very clear
who was the thief.

"He tore up the cheapest ones of the lot anyway," said Rolf.

Then the trappers stared at each other significantly--only the cheap
ones destroyed; why should a wolverine show such discrimination? There
was no positive sign of wolverine; in fact, the icy snow gave no sign of
anything. There was little doubt that the tom furs and the scratch marks
were there to mislead; that this was the work of a human robber, almost
certainly Hoag.

He had doubtless seen them leave in the morning, and it was equally
sure, since he had had hours of start, he would now be far away.

"Ugh! Give him few days to think he safe, then I follow and settle all,"
and this time the Indian clearly meant to end the matter.



Chapter 45. The Subjugation of Hoag

     A feller as weeps for pity and never does a finger-tap to
     help is 'bout as much use as an overcoat on a drowning man.
     --Sayings of Si Sylvanne.

SOME remarkable changes of weather made some remarkable changes in their
plan and saved their enemy from immediate molestation. For two weeks it
was a succession of thaws and there was much rain. The lake was covered
with six inches of water; the river had a current above the ice, that
was rapidly eating, the latter away. Everywhere there were slush and wet
snow that put an end to travel and brought on the spring with a rush.

Each night there was, indeed, a trifling frost, but each day's sun
seemed stronger, and broad, bare patches of ground appeared on all sunny
slopes.

On the first crisp day the trappers set out to go the rounds, knowing
full well that this was the end of the season. Henceforth for six months
deadfall and snare would lie idle and unset.

They went their accustomed line, carrying their snowshoes, but rarely
needing them. Then they crossed a large track to which Quonab pointed,
and grunted affirmatively as Rolf said "Bear?" Yes! the bears were about
once more; their winter sleep was over. Now they were fat and the fur
was yet prime; in a month they would be thin and shedding. Now is the
time for bear hunting with either trap or dog.

Doubtless Skookum thought the party most fortunately equipped in the
latter respect, but no single dog is enough to bay a bear. There must
be three or four to bother him behind, to make him face about and fight;
one dog merely makes him run faster.

They had no traps, and knowing that a spring bear is a far traveller,
they made no attempt to follow.

The deadfalls yielded two martens, but one of them was spoiled by the
warm weather. They learned at last that the enemy had a trap-line, for
part of which he used their deadfalls. He had been the rounds lately and
had profited at least a little by their labours.

The track, though two days old, was not hard to follow, either on snow
or ground. Quonab looked to the lock of his gun; his lower lip tightened
and he strode along.

"What are you going to do, Quonab? Not shoot?"

"When I get near enough," and the dangerous look in the red man's eye
told Rolf to be quiet and follow.

In three miles they passed but three of his marten traps--very lazy
trapping--and then found a great triangle of logs by a tree with a bait
and signs enough to tell the experienced eye that, in that corner, was
hidden a huge steel trap for bear.

They were almost too late in restraining the knowledge-hunger of
Skookum. They went on a mile or two and realized in so doing that,
however poor a trapper the enemy might be, he was a good tramper and
knew the country.

At sundown they came to their half-way shelter and put up there for the
night. Once when Rolf went out to glimpse the skies before turning in,
he heard a far tree creaking and wondered, for it was dead calm. Even
Skookum noticed it. But it was not repeated. Next morning they went on.

There are many quaint sounds in the woods at all times, the rasping
of trees, at least a dozen different calls by jays, twice as many by
ravens, and occasional notes from chicadees, grouse, and owls. The
quadrupeds in general are more silent, but the red squirrel is ever
about and noisy, as well as busy.

Far-reaching sounds are these echoes of the woods--some of them very
far. Probably there were not five minutes of the day or night when some
weird, woodland chatter, scrape, crack, screech, or whistle did not
reach the keen ears of that ever-alert dog. That is, three hundred times
a day his outer ear submitted to his inner ear some report of things
a-doing, which same report was as often for many days disregarded as of
no interest or value. But this did not mean that he missed anything; the
steady tramp, tramp of their feet, while it dulled all sounds for the
hunter, seemed to have no effect on Skookum. Again the raspy squeal of
some far tree reached his inmost brain, and his hair rose as he stopped
and gave a low "woof."

The hunters held still; the wise ones always do, when a dog says "Stop!"
They waited. After a few minutes it came again--merely the long-drawn
creak of a tree bough, wind-rubbed on its neighbour.

And yet, "Woof, woof, woof," said Skookum, and ran ahead.

"Come back, you little fool!" cried Rolf.

But Skookum had a mind of his own. He trotted ahead, then stopped,
paused, and sniffed at something in the snow. The Indian picked it up.
It was the pocket jackscrew that every bear trapper carries to set the
powerful trap, and without which, indeed, one man cannot manage the
springs.

He held it up with "Ugh! Hoag in trouble now." Clearly the rival trapper
had lost this necessary tool.

But the finding was an accident. Skookum pushed on. They came along a
draw to a little hollow. The dog, far forward, began barking and angrily
baying at something. The men hurried to the scene to find on the snow,
fast held in one of those devilish engines called a bear trap--the body
of their enemy--Hoag, the trapper, held by a leg, and a hand in the gin
he himself had been setting.

A fierce light played on the Indian's face. Rolf was stricken with
horror. But even while they contemplated the body, the faint cry was
heard again coming from it.

"He's alive; hurry!" cried Rolf. The Indian did not hurry, but he came.
He had vowed vengeance at sight; why should he haste to help?

The implacable iron jaws had clutched the trapper by one knee and the
right hand. The first thing was to free him. How? No man has power
enough to force that spring. But the jackscrew!

"Quonab, help him! For God's sake, come!" cried Rolf in agony,
forgetting their feud and seeing only tortured, dying man.

The Indian gazed a moment, then rose quickly, and put on the jackscrew.
Under his deft fingers the first spring went down, but what about the
other? They had no other screw. The long buckskin line they always
carried was quickly lashed round and round the down spring to hold it.
Then the screw was removed and put on the other spring; it bent, and the
jaws hung loose. The Indian forced them wide open, drew out the mangled
limbs, a the trapper was free, but so near death, it seemed they were
too late.

Rolf spread his coat. The Indian made a fire. In fifteen minutes they
were pouring hot tea between victim's lips. Even as they did, his feeble
throat gave out again the long, low moan.

The weather was mild now. The prisoner was not actually frozen, but
numbed and racked. Heat, hot tea, kindly rubbing, and he revived a
little.

At first they thought him dying, but in an hour recovered enough to
talk. In feeble accents and broken phrases they learned the tale:

"Yest--m-m-m. Yesterday--no; two or three days back--m-m-m-m-m--I dunno;
I was a goin'--roun' me traps--me bear traps. Didn't have no luck m-m-m
(yes, I'd like another sip; ye ain't got no whiskey no?) m-m-m. Nothing
in any trap, and when I come to this un--oh-h--m-m; I seen--the bait
was stole by birds, an' the pan--m-m-m; an' the pan, m-m-m--(yes, that's
better)--an' the pan laid bare. So I starts to cover it with--ce-ce-dar;
the ony thing I c'd get--m-m-m-w---wuz leanin' over--to fix tother
side--me foot slipped on--the--ice--ev'rything was icy--an'--m-m-m-m--I
lost--me balance--me knee the pan--O Lord--how I suffer!--m-m-m it
grabbed me--knee an'--h-h-hand--" His voice died to a whisper and
ceased; he seemed sinking.

Quonab got up to hold him. Then, looking at Rolf, Indian shook his
head as though to say all was over; the poor wretch had a woodman's
constitution, and in spite of a mangled, dying body, he revived again.
They gave him more hot tea, and again he began in a whisper:

"I hed one arm free an'--an'--an'--I might--a--got out--m-m--but I hed
no wrench--I lost it some place--m-m-m-m.

"Then--I yelled--I dun--no--maybe some un might hear--it kin-kin-kinder
eased me--to yell m-m-m.

"Say--make that yer dog keep--away--will yer I dunno--it seems like a
week--must a fainted some M-m-m--I yelled--when I could."

There was a long pause. Rolf said, "Seems to me I heard you last night,
when we were up there. And dog heard you, too. Do you want me to move
that leg around?"

"M-m-m--yeh--that's better--say, you air white--ain't ye? Ye won't leave
me--cos--I done some mean things--m-m-m. Ye won't, will ye?"

"No, you needn't worry--we'll stay by ye."

Then he muttered, they could not tell what. He closed his eyes. After
long silence he looked around wildly and began again:

"Say--I done you dirt--but don't leave me--don't leave me." Tears ran
down his face and he moaned piteously. "I'll--make it--right--you're
white, ain't ye?"

Quonab rose and went for more firewood. The trapper whispered, "I'm
scared o' him--now--he'll do me--say, I'm jest a poor ole man. If I do
live--through--this--m-m-m-m--I'll never walk again. I'm crippled sure."

It was long before he resumed. Then he began: "Say, what day is
it--Friday!--I must--been two days in there--m-m-m--I reckoned it was a
week. When--the--dog came I thought it was wolves. Oh--ah, didn't care
much--m-m-m. Say, ye won't leave me--coz--coz--I treated--ye mean.
I--ain't had no l-l-luck." He went off into a stupor, but presently let
out a long, startling cry, the same as that they had heard in the night.
The dog growled; the men stared. The wretch's eyes were rolling again.
He seemed delirious.

Quonab pointed to the east, made the sun-up sign, and shook his head at
the victim. And Rolf understood it to mean that he would never see the
sunrise. But they were wrong.

The long night passed in a struggle between heath and the tough make-up
of a mountaineer. The waiting light of dawn saw death defeated,
retiring from the scene. As the sun rose high, the victim seemed to gain
considerably in strength. There was no immediate danger of an end.

Rolf said to Quonab: "Where shall we take him? Guess you better go home
for the toboggan, and we'll fetch him to the shanty."

But the invalid was able to take part in the conversation. "Say, don't
take me there. Ah--want to go home. 'Pears like--I'd be better at home.
My folks is out Moose River way. I'd never get out if I went in
there," and by "there" he seemed to mean the Indian's lake, and glanced
furtively at the unchanging countenance of the red man.

"Have you a toboggan at your shanty?" asked Rolf.

"Yes--good enough--it's on the roof--say," and he beckoned feebly to
Rolf, "let him go after it--don't leave me--he'll kill me," and he wept
feebly in his self pity.

So Quonab started down the mountain--a sinewy man--a striding form, a
speck in the melting distance.



Chapter 46. Nursing Hoag

In two hours the red man reached the trapper's shanty, and at once,
without hesitation or delicacy, set about a thorough examination of its
contents. Of course there was the toboggan on the roof, and in fairly
good condition for such a shiftless owner.

There were bunches of furs hanging from the rafters, but not many, for
fur taking is hard work; and Quonab, looking suspiciously over them,
was 'not surprised to see the lynx skin he had lost, easily known by the
absence of wound and the fur still in points as it had dried from the
wetting. In another bundle, he discovered the beaver that had killed
itself, for there was the dark band across its back.

The martens he could not be sure of, but he had a strong suspicion that
most of this fur came out of his own traps.

He tied Hoag's blankets on the toboggan, and hastened back to where he
left the two on the mountain.

Skookum met him long before he was near. Skookum did not enjoy Hoag's
company.

The cripple had been talking freely to Rolf, but the arrival of the
Indian seemed to suppress him.

With the wounded man on the toboggan, they set out, The ground was bare
in many places, so that the going was hard; but, fortunately, it was all
down hill, and four hours' toil brought them to the cabin.

They put the sick man in his bunk, then Rolf set about preparing a meal,
while Quonab cut wood.

After the usual tea, bacon, and flour cakes, all were feeling refreshed.
Hoag seemed much more like himself. He talked freely, almost cheerfully,
while Quonab, with Skookum at his feet, sat silently smoking and staring
into the fire.

After a long silence, the Indian turned, looked straight at the trapper,
and, pointing with his pipestem to the furs, said, "How many is ours?"

Hoag looked scared, then sulky, and said; "I dunno what ye mean. I'm a
awful sick man. You get me out to Lyons Falls all right, and ye can have
the hull lot," and he wept.

Rolf shook his head at Quonab, then turned to the sufferer and said:
"Don't you worry; we'll get you out all right. Have you a good canoe?"

"Pretty fair; needs a little fixing."

The night passed with one or two breaks, when the invalid asked for a
drink of water. In the morning he was evidently recovering, and they
began to plan for the future.

He took the first chance of wispering to Rolf, "Can't you send him away?
I'll be all right with you." Rolf said nothing.

"Say," he continued, "say, young feller, what's yer name?"

"Rolf Kittering."

"Say, Rolf, you wait a week or ten days, and the ice 'll be out; then
I'll be fit to travel. There ain't on'y a few carries between here an'
Lyons Falls."

After a long pause, due to Quonab's entry, he continued again: "Moose
River's good canoeing; ye can get me out in five days; me folks is at
Lyons Falls." He did not say that his folks consisted of a wife and boy
that he neglected, but whom he counted on to nurse him now.

Rolf was puzzled by the situation.

"Say! I'll give ye all them furs if ye git me out." Rolf gave him a
curious look--as much as to say, "Ye mean our furs."

Again the conversation was ended by the entry of Quonab.

Rolf stepped out, taking the Indian with him. They had a long talk,
then, as Rolf reentered, the sick man began:

"You stay by me, and git me out. I'll give ye my rifle"--then, after a
short silence--"an' I'll throw in all the traps an' the canoe."

"I'll stay by you," said Rolf, "and in about two weeks we'll take you
down to Lyons Falls. I guess you can guide us."

"Ye can have all them pelts," and again the trapper presented the spoils
he had stolen, "an' you bet it's your rifle when ye get me out."

So it was arranged. But it was necessary for Quonab to go back to their
own cabin. Now what should he do? Carry the new lot of fur there, or
bring the old lot here to dispose of all at Lyons Falls?

Rolf had been thinking hard. He had seen the evil side of many men,
including Hoag. To go among Hoag's people with a lot of stuff that Hoag
might claim was running risks, so he said:

"Quonab, you come back in not more than ten days. We'll take a few furs
to Lyons Falls so we can get supplies. Leave the rest of them in good
shape, so we can go out later to Warren's. We'll get a square deal
there, and we don't know what at Lyon's."

So they picked out the lynx, the beaver, and a dozen martens to leave,
and making the rest into a pack, Quonab shouldered them, and followed by
Skookum, trudged up the mountain and was lost to view in the woods.

The ten days went by very slowly. Hoag was alternately querulous,
weeping, complaining, unpleasantly fawning, or trying to insure good
attention by presenting again and again the furs, the gun, and the
canoe.

Rolf found it pleasant to get away from the cabin when the weather was
fine. One day, taking Hoag's gun, he travelled up the nearest stream for
a mile, and came on a big beaver pond. Round this he scouted and soon
discovered a drowned beaver, held in a trap which he recognized at once,
for it had the (" ' "') mark on the frame. Then he found an empty trap
with a beaver leg in it, and another, till six traps were found. Then
he gathered up the six and the beaver, and returned to the cabin to be
greeted with a string of complaints:

"Ye didn't ought to leave me like this. I'm paying ye well enough. I
don't ax no favours," etc.

"See what I got," and Rolf showed the beaver. "An' see what I found;"
then he showed the traps. "Queer, ain't it," he went on, "we had six
traps just like them, and I marked the face just like these, and they
all disappeared, and there was a snowshoe trail pointing this way. You
haven't got any crooked neighbours about here, have you?"

The trapper looked sulky and puzzled, and grumbled, "I bet it was Bill
Hawkins done it"; then relapsed into silence.



Chapter 47. Hoag's Home-coming

     When it comes to personal feelin's better let yer friends
     do the talkin' and jedgin'.  A man can't handle his own
     case any more than a delirious doctor kin give hisself the
     right physic--Sayings of Si Sylvanne.

The coming of springtime in the woods is one of the gentlest, sweetest
advents in the world. Sometimes there are heavy rains which fill all the
little rivers with an overflood that quickly eats away the ice and snow,
but usually the woodland streams open, slowly and gradually. Very rarely
is there a spate, an upheaval, and a cataclysmal sweep that bursts the
ice and ends its reign in an hour or two. That is the way of the large
rivers, whose ice is free and floating. The snow in the forest melts
slowly, and when the ice is attacked, it goes gradually, gently, without
uproar. The spring comes in the woods with swelling of buds and a
lengthening of drooping catkins, with honking of wild geese, and cawing
of crows coming up from the lower countries to divide with their larger
cousins, the ravens, the spoils of winter's killing.

The small birds from the South appear with a few short notes of spring,
and the pert chicadees that have braved it all winter, now lead the
singing with their cheery "I told you so" notes, till robins and
blackbirds join in, and with their more ambitious singing make all the
lesser roundelays forgot.

Once the winter had taken a backward step--spring found it easy to turn
retreat into panic and rout; and the ten days Quonab stayed away were
days of revolutionary change. For in them semi-winter gave place to
smiling spring, with all the snow-drifts gone, except perhaps in the
shadiest hollows of the woods.

It was a bright morning, and a happy one for Rolf, when he heard the
Indian's short "Ho," outside, and a minute later had Skookum dancing and
leaping about him. On Hoag the effect was quite different. He was well
enough to be up, to hobble about painfully on a stick; to be exceedingly
fault-finding, and to eat three hearty meals a day; but the moment the
Indian appeared, he withdrew into himself, and became silent and uneasy.
Before an hour passed, he again presented the furs, the gun, the canoe,
and the traps to Rolf, on condition that he should get him out to his
folks.

All three were glad to set out that very day on the outward trip to
Lyons Falls.

Down Little Moose River to Little Moose Lake and on to South Branch of
Moose, then by the Main Moose, was their way. The streams were flush;
there was plenty of water, and this fortunately reduced the number of
carries; for Hoag could not walk and would not hobble. They sweat and
laboured to carry him over every portage; but they covered the fifty
miles in three days, and on the evening of the third, arrived at the
little backwoods village of Lyons Falls.

The change that took place in Hoag now was marked and unpleasant. He
gave a number of orders, where, the day before, he would have made
whining petitions. He told them to "land easy, and don't bump my canoe."
He hailed the loungers about the mill with an effusiveness that they did
not respond to. Their cool, "Hello, Jack, are you back?" was little but
a passing recognition. One of them was persuaded to take Rolf's place in
carrying Hoag to his cabin. Yes, his folks were there, but they did not
seem overjoyed at his arrival. He whispered to the boy, who sullenly
went out to the river and returned with the rifle, Rolf's rifle now, the
latter supposed, and would have taken the bundle of furs had not Skookum
sprung on the robber and driven him away from the canoe.

And now Hoag showed his true character. "Them's my furs and my canoe,"
he said to one of the mill hands, and turning to the two who had saved
him, he said: "An' you two dirty, cutthroat, redskin thieves, you can
get out of town as fast as ye know how, or I'll have ye jugged," and all
the pent-up hate of his hateful nature frothed out in words insulting
and unprintable.

"Talks like a white man," said Quonab coldly. Rolf was speechless.
To toil so devotedly, and to have such filthy, humiliating words for
thanks! He wondered if even his Uncle Mike would have shown so vile a
spirit.

Hoag gave free rein to his tongue, and found in his pal, Bill Hawkins,
one with ready ears to hear his tale of woe. The wretch began to feel
himself frightfully ill-used. So, fired at last by the evermore lurid
story of his wrongs, the "partner" brought the magistrate, so they could
swear out a warrant, arrest the two "outlaws," and especially secure the
bundle of "Hoag's furs" in the canoe.

Old Silas Sylvanne, the mill-owner and pioneer of the place, was also
its magistrate. He was tall, thin, blacklooking, a sort of Abe Lincoln
in type, physically, and in some sort, mentally. He heard the harrowing
tale of terrible crime, robbery, and torture, inflicted on poor harmless
Hoag by these two ghouls in human shape; he listened, at first shocked,
but little by little amused.

"You don't get no warrant till I hear from the other side," he said.
Roff and Quonab came at call. The old pioneer sized up the two, as they
stood, then, addressing Rolf, said:

"Air you an Injun?" "No, sir." "Air you half-breed?" "No, sir." "Well,
let's hear about this business," and he turned his piercing eyes full on
the lad's face.

Rolf told the simple, straight story of their acquaintance with Hoag,
from the first day at Warren's to their arrival at the Falls. There is
never any doubt about the truth of a true story, if it be long enough,
and this true story, presented in its nakedness to the shrewd and kindly
old hunter, trader, mill-owner and magistrate, could have only one
effect.

"Sonny," he said, slowly and kindly, "I know that ye have told me the
truth. I believe every word of it. We all know that Hoag is the meanest
cuss and biggest liar on the river. He's a nuisance, and always was.
He only promised to give ye the canoe and the rifle, and since he don't
want to, we can't help it. About the trouble in the woods, you got two
witnesses to his one, and ye got the furs and the traps; it's just as
well ye left the other furs behind, or ye might have had to divide 'em;
so keep them and call the hull thing square. We'll find ye a canoe to
get out of this gay metropolis, and as to Hoag, ye needn't a-worry; his
travelling days is done."

A man with a bundle of high-class furs is a man of means in any frontier
town. The magistrate was trader, too, so they set about disposing of
their furs and buying the supplies they needed.

The day was nearly done before their new canoe was gummed and ready with
the new supplies. When dealing, old Sylvanne had a mild, quiet manner,
and a peculiar way of making funny remarks that led some to imagine he
was "easy" in business; but it was usual to find at the end that he had
lost nothing by his manners, and rival traders shunned an encounter with
Long Sylvanne of the unruffled brow.

When business was done--keen and complete--he said: "Now, I'm a goin' to
give each of ye a present," and handed out two double-bladed jackknives,
new things in those days, wonderful things, precious treasures in their
eyes, sources of endless joy; and even had they known that one marten
skin would buy a quart of them, their pleasant surprise and childish joy
would not have been in any way tempered or alloyed.

"Ye better eat with me, boys, an' start in the morning." So they joined
the miller's long, continuous family, and shared his evening meal.
Afterward as they sat for three hours and smoked on the broad porch that
looked out on the river, old Sylvanne, who had evidently taken a
fancy to Rolf, regaled them with a long, rambling talk on "fellers and
things," that was one of the most interesting Rolf had ever listened to.
At the time it was simply amusing; it was not till years after that the
lad realized by its effect on himself, its insight, and its hold on his
memory, that Si Sylvanne's talk was real wisdom. Parts of it would not
look well in print; but the rugged words, the uncouth Saxonism, the
obscene phrase, were the mere oaken bucket in which the pure and
precious waters were hauled to the surface.

"Looked like he had ye pinched when that shyster got ye in to Lyons
Falls. Wall, there's two bad places for Jack Hoag; one is where they
don't know him at all, an' take him on his looks; an' t'other is where
they know him through and through for twenty years, like we hev. A smart
rogue kin put up a false front fer a year or maybe two, but given twenty
year to try him, for and bye, summer an' winter, an' I reckon a man's
make is pretty well showed up, without no dark corners left unexplored.

"Not that I want to jedge him harsh, coz I don't know what kind o'
maggots is eatin' his innards to make him so ornery. I'm bound to
suppose he has 'em, or he wouldn't act so dum like it. So I says, go
slow and gentle before puttin' a black brand on any feller; as my mother
used to say, never say a bad thing till ye ask, 'Is it true, is it kind,
is it necessary?' An' I tell you, the older I git, the slower I jedge;
when I wuz your age, I wuz a steel trap on a hair trigger, an' cocksure.
I tell you, there ain't anythin' wiser nor a sixteen-year-old boy, 'cept
maybe a fifteen-year-old girl.

"Ye'll genilly find, lad, jest when things looks about as black as they
kin look, that's the sign of luck a-comin' your way, pervidin' ye hold
steady, keep cool and kind; something happens every time to make it all
easy. There's always a way, an' the stout heart will find it.

"Ye may be very sure o' this, boy, yer never licked till ye think ye air
an' if ye won't think it, ye can't be licked. It's just the same as
being sick. I seen a lot o' doctorin' in my day, and I'm forced to
believe there ain't any sick folks 'cept them that thinks they air sick.

"The older I git, the more I'm bound to consider that most things is
inside, anyhow, and what's outside don't count for much.

"So it stands to reason when ye play the game for what's inside, ye win
over all the outside players. When ye done kindness to Hoag, ye mightn't
a meant it, but ye was bracin' up the goodness in yerself, or bankin' it
up somewher' on the trail ahead, where it was needed. And he was
simply chawin' his own leg off, when he done ye dirt. I ain't much o'
a prattlin' Christian, but I reckon as a cold-blooded, business
proposition it pays to lend the neighbour a hand; not that I go much on
gratitude. It's scarcer'n snowballs in hell--which ain't the point;
but I take notice there ain't any man'll hate ye more'n the feller that
knows he's acted mean to ye. An' there ain't any feller more ready to
fight yer battles than the chap that by some dum accident has hed the
luck to help ye, even if he only done it to spite some one else--which
'minds me o' McCarthy's bull pup that saved the drowning kittens by
mistake, and ever after was a fightin' cat protector, whereby he lost
the chief joy o' his life, which had been cat-killin'. An' the way they
cured the cat o' eatin' squirrels was givin' her a litter o' squirrels
to raise.

"I tell ye there's a lot o' common-sense an' kindness in the country,
only it's so dum slow to git around; while the cussedness and meanness
always acts like they felt the hell fire sizzlin' their hind-end
whiskers, an' knowed they had jest so many minutes to live an' make a
record. There's where a man's smart that fixes things so he kin hold out
a long time, fer the good stuff in men's minds is what lasts; and the
feller what can stay with it hez proved hisself by stayin'. How'd ye
happen to tie up with the Injun, Rolf?"

"Do ye want me to tell it long or short?" was the reply. "Wall, short,
fer a start," and Silas Sylvanne chuckled.

So Rolf gave a very brief account of his early life.

"Pretty good," said the miller; "now let's hear it long."

And when he had finished, the miller said: "I've seen yer tried fer most
everything that goes to make a man, Rolf, an' I hev my own notion of the
results. You ain't goin' to live ferever in them hills. When ye've hed
yer fling an' want a change, let me know."

Early next day the two hunters paddled up the Moose River with a good
canoe, an outfit of groceries, and a small supply of ready cash.

"Good-bye, lad, good-bye! Come back again and ye'll find we improve on
acquaintance; an' don't forget I'm buying fur," was Si Sylvanne's last
word. And as they rounded the point, on the home way, Rolf turned in
the canoe, faced Quonab, and said: "Ye see there are some good white men
left;" but the Indian neither blinked, nor moved, nor made a sound.



Chapter 48. Rolf's Lesson in Trailing

The return journey was hard paddling against strong waters, but
otherwise uneventful. Once over any trail is enough to fix it in the
memory of a woodman. They made no mistakes and their loads were light,
so the portages were scarcely any loss of time, and in two days they
were back at Hoag's cabin.

Of this they took possession. First, they gathered all things of value,
and that was little since the furs and bedding were gone, but there were
a few traps and some dishes. The stuff was made in two packs; now it
was an overland journey, so the canoe was hidden in a cedar thicket,
a quarter of a mile inland. The two were about to shoulder the packs,
Quonab was lighting his pipe for a start, when Rolf said:

"Say, Quonab! that fellow we saw at the Falls claimed to be Hoag's
partner. He may come on here and make trouble if we don't head him off.
Let's burn her," and he nodded toward the shanty.

"Ugh!" was the reply.

They gathered some dry brush and a lot of birch bark, piled them up
against the wall inside, and threw plenty of firewood on this. With
flint and steel Quonab made the vital spark, the birch bark sputtered,
the dry, resinous logs were easily set ablaze, and soon great volumes
of smoke rolled from the door, the window, and the chimney; and Skookum,
standing afar, barked pleasantly aloud.

The hunters shouldered their packs and began the long, upward slope. In
an hour they had reached a high, rocky ridge. Here they stopped to rest,
and, far below them, marked with grim joy a twisted, leaning column of
thick black smoke.

That night they camped in the woods and next day rejoiced to be back
again at their own cabin, their own lake, their home.

Several times during the march they had seen fresh deer tracks, and now
that the need of meat was felt, Rolf proposed a deer hunt.

Many deer die every winter; some are winter-killed; many are devoured
by beasts of prey, or killed by hunters; their numbers are at low ebb in
April, so that now one could not count on finding a deer by roaming at
random. It was a case for trailing.

Any one can track a deer in the snow. It is not very hard to follow a
deer in soft ground, when there are no other deer about. But it is very
hard to take one deer trail and follow it over rocky ground and dead
leaves, never losing it or changing off, when there are hundreds of deer
tracks running in all directions.

Rolf's eyes were better than Quonab's, but experience counts for as much
as eyes, and Quonab was leading. They picked out a big buck track that
was fresh--no good hunter kills a doe at this season. They knew it for a
buck, because of its size and the roundness of the toes.

Before long, Rolf said: "See, Quonab, I want to learn this business; let
me do the trailing, and you set me right if I get off the line."

Within a hundred yards, Quonab gave a grunt and shook his head. Rolf
looked surprised, for he was on a good, fresh track.

Quonab said but one word, "Doe."

Yes, a closer view showed the tracks to be a little narrower, a little
closer together, and a little sharper than those he began with.

Back went Rolf to the last marks that he was sure of, and plainly read
where the buck had turned aside. For a time, things went along smoothly,
Quonab and Skookum following Rolf. The last was getting very familiar
with that stub hoof on the left foot. At length they came to the "fumet"
or "sign"; it was all in one pile. That meant the deer had stood, so was
unalarmed; and warm; that meant but a few minutes ahead. Now, they must
use every precaution for this was the crux of the hunt. Of this much
only they were sure--the deer was within range now, and to get him they
must see him before he saw them.

Skookum was leashed. Rolf was allowed to get well ahead, and crawling
cautiously, a step at a time, he went, setting down his moccasined foot
only after he had tried and selected a place. Once or twice he threw
into the air a tuft of dry grass to make sure that the wind was right,
and by slow degrees he reached the edge of a little opening.

Across this he peered long, without entering it. Then he made a sweep
with his hand and pointed, to let Quonab know the buck had gone across
and he himself must go around. But he lingered still and with his eyes
swept the near woods. Then, dim gray among the gray twigs, he saw a
slight movement, so slight it might have been made by the tail of a
tomtit. But it fixed his attention, and out of this gray haze he slowly
made out the outline of a deer's head, antlers, and neck. A hundred
yards away, but "take a chance when it comes" is hunter wisdom. Rolf
glanced at the sight, took steady aim, fired, and down went the buck
behind a log. Skookum whined and leaped high in his eagerness to see.
Rolf restrained his impatience to rush forward, at once reloaded, then
all three went quickly to the place. Before they were within fifty
yards, the deer leaped up and bounded off. At seventy-five yards, it
stood for a moment to gaze. Rolf fired again; again the buck fell down,
but jumped to its feet and bounded away.

They went to the two places, but found no blood. Utterly puzzled, they
gave it up for the day, as already the shades of night were on the
woods, and in spite of Skookum's voluble offer to solve and settle
everything, they returned to the cabin.

"What do you make of it, Quonab?'

The Indian shook his head, then: "Maybe touched his head and stunned
him, first shot; second, wah! I not know."

"I know this," said Rolf. "I touched him and I mean to get him in the
morning."

True to this resolve, he was there again at dawn, but examined the place
in vain for a sign of blood. The red rarely shows up much on leaves,
grass, or dust; but there are two kinds of places that the hunter can
rely on as telltales--stones and logs. Rolf followed the deer track, now
very dim, till at a bare place he found a speck of blood on a pebble.
Here the trail joined onto a deer path, with so many tracks that it was
hard to say which was the right one. But Rolf passed quickly along to a
log that crossed the runway, and on that log he found a drop of dried-up
blood that told him what he wished to know.

Now he had a straight run of a quarter of a mile, and from time to time
he saw a peculiar scratching mark that puzzled him. Once he found a
speck of blood at one of these scratches but no other evidence that the
buck was touched.

A wounded deer is pretty sure to work down hill, and Quonab, leaving
Skookum with Rolf, climbed a lookout that might show whither the deer
was heading.

After another half mile, the deer path forked; there were buck trails on
both, and Rolf could not pick out the one he wanted. He went a few yards
along each, studying the many marks, but was unable to tell which was
that of the wounded buck.

Now Skookum took a share in it. He had always been forbidden to run
deer and knew it was a contraband amusement, but he put his nose to that
branch of the trail that ran down hill, followed it for a few yards,
then looked at Rolf, as much as to say: "You poor nose-blind creature;
don't you know a fresh deer track when you smell it? Here it is; this is
where he went."

Rolf stared, then said, "I believe he means it"; and followed the lower
trail. Very soon he came to another scrape, and, just beyond it, found
the new, velvet-covered antler of a buck, raw and bloody, and splintered
at the base.

From this on, the task was easier, as there were no other tracks, and
this was pointing steadily down hill.

Soon Quonab came striding along. He had not seen the buck, but a couple
of jays and a raven were gathered in a thicket far down by the stream.
The hunters quit the trail and made for that place. As they drew near,
they found the track again, and again saw those curious scrapes.

Every hunter knows that the bluejay dashing about a thicket means that
hidden there is game of some kind, probably deer. Very, very slowly and
silently they entered that copse. But nothing appeared until there was a
rush in the thickest part and up leaped the buck. This was too much for
Skookum. He shot forward like a wolf, fastened on one hind leg, and the
buck went crashing head over heels. Before it could rise, another shot
ended its troubles. And now a careful study shed the light desired.
Rolf's first shot had hit the antler near the base, breaking it, except
for the skin on one side, and had stunned the buck. The second shot had
broken a hind leg. The scratching places he had made were efforts to
regain the use of this limb, and at one of them the deer had fallen and
parted the rag of skin by which the antler hung.

It was Rolf's first important trailing on the ground; it showed how
possible it was, and how quickly he was learning the hardest of all the
feats of woodcraft.



Chapter 49. Rolf Gets Lost

Every one who lives in the big woods gets lost at some time. Yes, even
Daniel Boone did sometimes go astray. And whether it is to end as a joke
or a horrible tragedy depends entirely on the way in which the person
takes it. This is, indeed, the grand test of a hunter and scout, the
trial of his knowledge, his muscle, and, above everything, his courage;
and, like all supreme trials, it comes without warning.

The wonderful flocks of wild pigeons had arrived. For a few days in May
they were there in millions, swarming over the ground in long-reaching
hordes, walking along, pecking and feeding, the rearmost flying on
ahead, ever to the front. The food they sought so eagerly now was
chiefly the seeds of the slippery elm, tiny nuts showered down on wings
like broad-brimmed hats. And when the flock arose at some alarm, the
sound was like that of the sea beach in a storm.

There seemed to be most pigeons in the low country southeast of the
lake, of course, because, being low, it had most elms. So Rolf took
his bow and arrows, crossed in the canoe, and confidently set about
gathering in a dozen or two for broilers.

It is amazing how well the game seems to gauge the range of your weapon
and keep the exact safe distance. It is marvellous how many times you
may shoot an arrow into a flock of pigeons and never kill one. Rolf went
on and on, always in sight of the long, straggling flocks on the ground
or in the air, but rarely within range of them. Again and again he fired
a random shot into the distant mass, without success for two hours.
Finally a pigeon was touched and dropped, but it rose as he ran forward,
and flew ten yards, to drop once more. Again he rushed at it, but it
fluttered out of reach and so led him on and on for about half an hour's
breathless race, until at last he stopped, took deliberate aim, and
killed it with an arrow.

Now a peculiar wailing and squealing from the woods far ahead attracted
him. He stalked and crawled for many minutes before he found out, as he
should have known, that it was caused by a mischievous bluejay.

At length he came to a spring in a low hollow, and leaving his bow and
arrows on a dry log, he went down to get a drink.

As he arose, he found himself face to face with a doe and a fat,
little yearling buck, only twenty yards away. They stared at him, quite
unalarmed, and, determining to add the yearling to his bag, Rolf went
back quietly to his bow and arrows.

The deer were just out of range now, but inclined to take a curious
interest in the hunter. Once when he stood still for a long time,
they walked forward two or three steps; but whenever he advanced, they
trotted farther away.

To kill a deer with an arrow is quite a feat of woodcraft, and Rolf was
keen to show his prowess; so he kept on with varying devices, and was
continually within sight of the success that did not actually arrive.

Then the deer grew wilder and loped away, as he entered another valley
that was alive with pigeons.

He was feeling hungry now, so he plucked the pigeon he had secured, made
a fire with the flint and steel he always carried, then roasted the bird
carefully on a stick, and having eaten it, felt ready for more travel.

The day was cloudy, so he could not see the sun; but he knew it was
late, and he made for camp.

The country he found himself in was entirely strange to him, and the
sun's whereabouts doubtful; but he knew the general line of travel and
strode along rapidly toward the place where he had left the canoe.

After two hours' tramping, he was surprised at not seeing the lake
through the trees, and he added to his pace.

Three hours passed and still no sign of the water.

He began to think he had struck too far to the north; so corrected his
course and strode along with occasional spells of trotting. But another
hour wore away and no lake appeared.

Then Rolf knew he was off his bearings. He climbed a tree and got a
partial view of the country. To the right was a small hill. He made for
that. The course led him through a hollow. In this he recognized two
huge basswood trees, that gave him a reassuring sense. A little farther
he came on a spring, strangely like the one he had left some hours
ago. As he stooped to drink, he saw deer tracks, then a human track. He
studied it. Assuredly it was his own track, though now it seemed on the
south side instead of the north. He stared at the dead gray sky, hoping
for sign of sun, but it gave no hint. He tramped off hastily toward the
hill that promised a lookout. He went faster and faster. In half an hour
the woods opened a little, then dipped. He hastened down, and at the
bottom found himself standing by the same old spring, though again it
had changed its north bearing.