He was stunned by this succession of blows. He knew now he was lost in
the woods; had been tramping in a circle.

The spring whirled around him; it seemed now north and now south. His
first impulse was to rush madly northwesterly, as he understood it. He
looked at all the trees for guidance. Most moss should be on the north
side. It would be so, if all trees were perfectly straight and evenly
exposed, but alas! none are so. All lean one way or another, and by
the moss he could prove any given side to be north. He looked for the
hemlock top twigs. Tradition says they always point easterly; but now
they differed among themselves as to which was east.

Rolf got more and more worried. He was a brave boy, but grim fear came
into his mind as he realized that he was too far from camp to be heard;
the ground was too leafy for trailing him; without help he could not get
away from that awful spring. His head began to swim, when all at once he
remembered a bit of advice his guide had given him long ago: "Don't get
scared when you're lost. Hunger don't kill the lost man, and it ain't
cold that does it; it's being afraid. Don't be afraid, and everything
will come out all right."

So, instead of running, Rolf sat down to think it over.

"Now," said he, "I went due southeast all day from the canoe." Then he
stopped; like a shock it came to him that he had not seen the sun all
day. Had he really gone southeast? It was a devastating thought, enough
to unhinge some men; but again Rolf said to himself "Never mind, now;
don't get scared, and it'll be all right. In the morning the sky will be
clear."

As he sat pondering, a red squirrel chippered and scolded from a near
tree; closer and closer the impudent creature came to sputter at the
intruder.

Rolf drew his bow, and when the blunt arrow dropped to the ground, there
also dropped the red squirrel, turned into acceptable meat. Rolf put
this small game into his pocket, realizing that this was his supper.

It would soon be dark now, so he prepared to spend the night.

While yet he could see, he gathered a pile of dry wood into a sheltered
hollow. Then he made a wind-break and a bed of balsam boughs. Flint,
steel, tinder, and birch bark soon created a cheerful fire, and there is
no better comforter that the lone lost man can command.

The squirrel roasted in its hide proved a passable supper, and Rolf
curled up to sleep. The night would have been pleasant and uneventful,
but that it turned chilly, and when the fire burnt low, the cold
awakened him, so he had a succession of naps and fire-buildings.

Soon after dawn, he heard a tremendous roaring, and in a few minutes the
wood was filled again with pigeons.

Rolf was living on the country now, so he sallied forth with his bow.
Luck was with him; at the first shot he downed a big, fat cock. At the
second he winged another, and as it scrambled through the brush, he
rushed headlong in pursuit. It fluttered away beyond reach, half-flying,
half-running, and Rolf, in reckless pursuit, went sliding and tumbling
down a bank to land at the bottom with a horrid jar. One leg was twisted
under him; he thought it was broken, for there was a fearful pain in
the lower part. But when he pulled himself together he found no broken
bones, indeed, but an ankle badly sprained. Now his situation was truly
grave, for he was crippled and incapable of travelling.

He had secured the second bird, and crawling painfully and slowly back
to the fire, he could not but feel more and more despondent and gloomy
as the measure of his misfortune was realized.

"There is only one thing that can shame a man, that is to be afraid."
And again, "There's always a way out." These were the sayings that came
ringing through his head to his heart; one was from Quonab, the other
from old Sylvanne. Yes, there's always a way, and the stout heart can
always find it.

Rolf prepared and cooked the two birds, made a breakfast of one and put
the other in his pocket for lunch, not realizing at the time that his
lunch would be eaten on this same spot. More than once, as he sat, small
flocks of ducks flew over the trees due northward. At length the sky,
now clear, was ablaze with the rising sun, and when it came, it was in
Rolf's western sky.

Now he comprehended the duck flight. They were really heading southeast
for their feeding grounds on the Indian Lake, and Rolf, had he been able
to tramp, could have followed, but his foot was growing worse. It was
badly swollen, and not likely to be of service for many a day--perhaps
weeks--and it took all of his fortitude not to lie down and weep over
this last misfortune.

Again came the figure of that grim, kindly, strong old pioneer, with the
gray-blue eyes and his voice was saying: "Jest when things looks about
as black as they can look, if ye hold steady, keep cool and kind,
something sure happens to make it all easy. There's always a way and the
stout heart will find it."

What way was there for him? He would die of hunger and cold before
Quonab could find him, and again came the spectre of fear. If only he
could devise some way of letting his comrade know. He shouted once or
twice, in the faint hope that the still air might carry the sound, but
the silent wood was silent when he ceased.

Then one of his talks with Quonab came to mind. He remembered how the
Indian, as a little papoose, had been lost for three days. Though, then
but ten years old, he had built a smoke fire that brought him help.
Yes, that was the Indian way; two smokes means "I am lost"; "double for
trouble."

Fired by this new hope, Rolf crawled a little apart from his camp
and built a bright fire, then smothered it with rotten wood and green
leaves. The column of smoke it sent up was densely white and towered
above the trees.

Then painfully he hobbled and crawled to a place one hundred yards away,
and made another smoke. Now all he could do was wait.

A fat pigeon, strayed from its dock, sat on a bough above his camp, in
a way to tempt Providence. Rolf drew a blunt arrow to the head and
speedily had the pigeon in hand for some future meal.

As he prepared it, he noticed that its crop was crammed with the winged
seed of the slippery elm, so he put them all back again into the body
when it was cleaned, knowing well that they are a delicious food and in
this case would furnish a welcome variant to the bird itself.

An hour crawled by. Rolf had to go out to the far fire, for it was
nearly dead. Instinctively he sought a stout stick to help him; then
remembered how Hoag had managed with one leg and two crutches. "Ho!" he
exclaimed. "That is the answer--this is the 'way."'

Now his attention was fixed on all the possible crutches. The trees
seemed full of them, but all at impossible heights. It was long before
he found one that he could cut with his knife. Certainly he was an hour
working at it; then he heard a sound that made his blood jump.

From far away in the north it came, faint but reaching;

"Ye-hoo-o."

Rolf dropped his knife and listened with the instinctively open mouth
that takes all pressure from the eardrums and makes them keen. It came
again: "Ye-hoo-o." No mistake now, and Rolf sent the ringing answer
back:

"Ye-hoo-o, ye-hoo-o."

In ten minutes there was a sharp "yap, yap," and Skookum bounded out of
the woods to leap and bark around Rolf, as though he knew all about it;
while a few minutes later, came Quonab striding.

"Ho, boy," he said, with a quiet smile, and took Rolf's hand. "Ugh!
That was good," and he nodded to the smoke fire. "I knew you were in
trouble."

"Yes," and Rolf pointed to the swollen ankle.

The Indian picked up the lad in his arms and carried him back to the
little camp. Then, from his light pack, he took bread and tea and made a
meal for both. And, as they ate, each heard the other's tale.

"I was troubled when you did not come back last night, for you had no
food or blanket. I did not sleep. At dawn I went to the hill, where
I pray, and looked away southeast where you went in the canoe. I saw
nothing. Then I went to a higher hill, where I could see the northeast,
and even while I watched, I saw the two smokes, so I knew my son was
alive."

"You mean to tell me I am northeast of camp?"

"About four miles. I did not come very quickly, because I had to go for
the canoe and travel here.

"How do you mean by canoe?" said Rolf, in surprise.

"You are only half a mile from Jesup River," was the reply. "I soon bring
you home."

It was incredible at first, but easy of proof. With the hatchet they
made a couple of serviceable crutches and set out together.

In twenty minutes they were afloat in the canoe; in an hour they
were safely home again.

And Rolf pondered it not a little. At the very moment of blackest
despair, the way had opened, and it had been so simple, so natural, so
effectual. Surely, as long as he lived, he would remember it. "There is
always a way, and the stout heart will find it."



Chapter 50. Marketing the Fur

If Rolf had been at home with his mother, she would have rubbed his
black and swollen ankle with goose grease. The medical man at Stamford
would have rubbed it with a carefully prepared and secret ointment. His
Indian friend sang a little crooning song and rubbed it with deer's fat.
All different, and all good, because each did something to reassure the
patient, to prove that big things were doing on his behalf, and each
helped the process of nature by frequent massage.

Three times a day, Quonab rubbed that blackened ankle. The grease saved
the skin from injury, and in a week Rolf had thrown his crutches away.

The month of May was nearly gone; June was at hand; that is, the spring
was over.

In all ages, man has had the impulse, if not the habit, of spring
migration. Yielding to it he either migrated or made some radical change
in his life. Most of the Adirondack men who trapped in the winter sought
work on the log drives in spring; some who had families and a permanent
home set about planting potatoes and plying the fish nets. Rolf and
Quonab having neither way open, yet feeling the impulse, decided to go
out to Warren's with the fur.

Quonab wanted tobacco--and a change.

Rolf wanted a rifle, and to see the Van Trumpers--and a change.

So June 1st saw them all aboard, with Quonab steering at the stern, and
Skookum bow-wowing at the bow, bound for the great centre of Warren's
settlement--one store and three houses, very wide apart.

There was a noble flush of water in the streams, and, thanks to their
axe work in September, they passed down Jesup's River without a pause,
and camped on the Hudson that night, fully twenty-five miles from home.

Long, stringing flocks of pigeons going north were the most numerous
forms of life. But a porcupine on the bank and a bear in the water
aroused Skookum to a pitch of frightful enthusiasm and vaulting ambition
that he was forced to restrain.

On the evening of the third day they landed at Warren's and found a
hearty welcome from the trader, who left a group of loafers and came
forward:

"Good day to ye, boy. My, how ye have growed."

So he had. Neither Rolf nor Quonab had remarked it, but now they
were much of the same height. "Wall, an' how'd ye make out with yer
hunt?--Ah, that's fine!" as each of them dropped a fur pack on the
counter. "Wall, this is fine; we must have a drink on the head of it,"
and the trader was somewhat nonplussed when both the trappers refused.
He was disappointed, too, for that refusal meant that they would get
much better prices for their fun But he concealed his chagrin and
rattled on: "I reckon I'll sell you the finest rifle in the country this
time," and he knew by Rolf's face that there was business to do in that
line.

Now came the listing of the fur, and naturally the bargaining was
between the shrewd Yankee boy and the trader. The Indian stood shyly
aside, but he did not fail to help with significant grunts and glances.

"There, now," said Warren, as the row of martens were laid out side
by side, "thirty martens--a leetle pale--worth three dollars and fifty
cents each, or, to be generous, we'll say four dollars." Rolf glanced
at Quonab, who, unseen by the trader shook his head, held his right hand
out, open hollow up, then raised it with a jerk for two inches.

Quickly Rolf caught the idea and said; "No, I don't reckon them pale.
I call them prime dark, every one of them." Quonab spread his hand with
all five fingers pointed up, and Rolf continued, "They are worth five
dollars each, if they're worth a copper."

"Phew!" said the trader. "you forget fur is an awful risky thing; what
with mildew, moth, mice, and markets, we have a lot of risk. But I
want to please you, so let her go; five each. There's a fine black fox;
that's worth forty dollars."

"I should think it is," said Rolf, as Quonab, by throwing to his right
an imaginary pinch of sand, made the sign "refuse."

They had talked over the value of that fox skin and Rolf said, "Why, I
know of a black fox that sold for two hundred dollars."

"Where?"

"Oh, down at Stamford."

"Why, that's near New York."

"Of course; don't you send your fur to New York?"

"Yes, but it costs a lot to get it there.

"Now," said Warren, "if you'll take it in trade, I'll meet you half-way
and call it one hundred dollars."

"Make it one hundred and twenty-five dollars and I'll take a rifle,
anyway."

"Phew!" whistled the trader. "Where do ye get such notions?"

"Nothing wrong about the notion; old Si Sylvanne offered me pretty near
that, if I'd come out his way with the stuff."

This had the desired effect of showing that there were other traders. At
last the deal was closed. Besides the fox skin, they had three hundred
dollars' worth of fur. The exchange for the fox skin was enough to buy
all the groceries and dry goods they needed. But Rolf had something else
in mind.

He had picked out some packages of candies, some calico prints and
certain bright ribbons, when the trader grasped the idea. "I see; yer
goin' visitin'. Who is it? Must be the Van Trumpers!"

Rolf nodded and now he got some very intelligent guidance. He did not
buy Annette's dress, because part of her joy was to be the expedition
in person to pick it out; but he stocked up with some gorgeous pieces
of jewellery that were ten cents each, and ribbons whose colours were
as far beyond expression as were the joys they could create in the
backwoods female heart.

Proudly clutching his new rlile, and carrying in his wallet a memorandum
of three hundred dollars for their joint credit, Rolf felt himself a
person of no little importance. As he was stepping out of the store, the
trader said, "Ye didn't run across Jack Hoag agin, did ye?"

"Did we? Hmph!" and Rolf told briefly of their experience with that
creature.

"Just like him, just like him; served him right; he was a dirty cuss.
But, say; don't you be led into taking your fur out Lyons Falls way.
They're a mean lot in there, and it stands to reason I can give you
better prices, being a hundred miles nearer New York."

And that lesson was not forgotten. The nearer New York the better the
price; seventy-five dollars at Lyons Falls; one hundred and twenty-five
dollars at Warren's; two hundred dollars at New York. Rolf pondered long
and the idea was one which grew and bore fruit.



Chapter 51. Back at Van Trumper's

"Nibowaka"--Quonab always said "Nibowaka" when he was impressed with
Rolf's astuteness--"What about the canoe and stuff?"

"I think we better leave all here. Callan will lend us a canoe." So they
shouldered the guns, Rolf clung to his, and tramped across the portage,
reaching Callan's in less than two hours.

"Why, certainly you can have the canoe, but come in and eat first," was
the kindly backwoods greeting. However, Rolf was keen to push on; they
launched the canoe at once and speedily were flashing their paddles on
the lake.

The place looked sweetly familiar as they drew near. The crops in the
fields were fair; the crop of chickens at the barn was good; and the
crop of children about the door was excellent.

"Mein Hemel! mein Hemel!" shouted fat old Hendrik, as they walked up
to the stable door. In a minute he was wringing their hands and smiling
into great red, white, and blue smiles. "Coom in, coom in, lad. Hi,
Marta, here be Rolf and Quonab. Mein Hemel! mein Hemel! what am I now so
happy."

"Where's Annette?" asked Rolf.

"Ach, poor Annette, she fever have a little; not mooch, some," and he
led over to a corner where on a low cot lay Annette, thin, pale, and
listless.

She smiled faintly, in response, when Rolf stooped and kissed her.

"Why, Annette, I came back to see you. I want to take you over to
Warren's store, so you can pick out that dress. See, I brought you my
first marten and I made this box for you; you must thank Skookum for the
quills on it."

"Poor chile; she bin sick all spring," and Marta used a bunch of sedge
to drive away the flies and mosquitoes that, bass and treble, hovered
around the child.

"What ails her?" asked Rolf anxiously.

"Dot ve do not know," was the reply.

"Maybe there's some one here can tell," and Roll glanced at the Indian.

"Ach, sure! Have I you that not always told all-vays--eet is so.
All-vays, I want sumpin bad mooch. I prays de good Lord and all-vays,
all-vays, two times now, He it send by next boat. Ach, how I am spoil,"
and the good Dutchman's eyes filled with tears of thankfulness.

Quonab knelt by the sufferer. He felt her hot, dry hand; he noticed her
short, quick breathing, her bright eyes, and the untouched bowl of mush
by her bed.

"Swamp fever," he said. "I bring good medicine." He passed quietly out
into the woods. When he returned, he carried a bundle of snake-root
which he made into tea.

Annette did not wish to touch it, but her mother persuaded her to take a
few sips from a cup held by Rolf.

"Wah! this not good," and Quonab glanced about the close, fly-infested
room. "I must make lodge." He turned up the cover of the bedding; three
or four large, fiat brown things moved slowly out of the light. "Yes, I
make lodge."

It was night now, and all retired; the newcomers to the barn. They had
scarcely entered, when a screaming of poultry gave a familiar turn
to affairs. On running to the spot, it proved not a mink or coon, but
Skookum, up to his old tricks. On the appearance of his masters, he fled
with guilty haste, crouched beneath the post that he used to be, and
soon again was, chained to.

In the morning Quonab set about his lodge, and Rolf said: "I've got to
go to Warren's for sugar." The sugar was part truth and part blind. As
soon as he heard the name swamp fever, Rolf remembered that, in Redding,
Jesuit's bark (known later as quinine) was the sovereign remedy. He had
seen his mother administer it many times, and, so far as he knew, with
uniform success. Every frontier (or backwoods, it's the same) trader
carries a stock of medicine, and in two hours Rolf left Warren's counter
with twenty-five pounds of maple sugar and a bottle of quinine extract
in his pack.

"You say she's bothered with the flies; why don't you take some of
this new stuff for a curtain?" and the trader held up a web of mosquito
gauze, the first Rolf had seen. That surely was a good idea, and ten
yards snipped off was a most interesting addition to his pack. The
amount was charged against him, and in two hours more he was back at Van
Trumper's.

On the cool side of the house, Quonab had built a little lodge, using
a sheet for cover. On a low bed of pine boughs lay the child. Near the
door was a smouldering fire of cedar, whose aromatic fumes on the lazy
wind reached every cranny of the lodge.

Sitting by the bed head, with a chicken wing to keep off the few
mosquitoes, was the Indian. The child's eyes were closed; she was
sleeping peacefully. Rolf crept gently forward, laid his hand on hers,
it was cool and moist. He went into the house with his purchases; the
mother greeted him with a happy look: Yes, Annette was a little better;
she had slept quietly ever since she was taken outdoors. The mother
could not understand. Why should the Indian want to have her surrounded
by pine boughs? why cedar-smoke? and why that queer song? Yes, there it
was again. Rolf went out to see and hear. Softly summing on a tin
pan, with a mudded stick, the Indian sang a song. The words which Rolf
learned in the after-time were:

"Come, Kaluskap, drive the witches; Those who came to harm the dear
one."

Annette moved not, but softly breathed, as she slept a sweet, restful
slumber, the first for many days.

"Vouldn't she be better in de house?" whispered the anxious mother.

"No, let Quonab do his own way," and Rolf wondered if any white man had
sat by little Wee-wees to brush away the flies from his last bed.



Chapter 52. Annette's New Dress

     Deep feelin's ain't any count by themselves; work 'em off,
     an' ye're somebody; weep 'em off an' you'd be more use with
     a heart o' stone--Sayings of Si Sylvanne.

"Quonab, I am going out to get her a partridge." "Ugh, good."

So Rolf went off. For a moment he was inclined to grant Skookom's prayer
for leave to, follow, but another and better plan came in mind. Skookum
would most likely find a mother partridge, which none should kill in
June, and there was a simple way to find a cock; that was, listen. It
was now the evening calm, and before Rolf had gone half a mile he
heard the distant "Thump, thump, thump, thump--rrrrrrr" of a partridge,
drumming. He went quickly and cautiously toward the place, then waited
for the next drumming. It was slow in coming, so he knelt down by a
mossy, rotten log, and struck it with his hands to imitate the thump and
roll of the partridge. At once this challenge procured response.

"Thump--thump--thump,, thump rrrrrrrrrrrr" it came, with martial swing
and fervour, and crawling nearer, Rolf spied the drummer, pompously
strutting up and down a log some forty yards away. He took steady aim,
not for the head--a strange gun, at forty yards--for the body. At the
crack, the bird fell dead, and in Rolf's heart there swelled up a little
gush of joy, which he believed was all for the sake of the invalid, but
which a finer analysis might have proved to be due quite as much to
pride in himself and his newly bought gun.

Night was coming on when he got back, and he found the Dutch parents
in some excitement. "Dot Indian he gay no bring Annette indoors for de
night. How she sleep outdoors--like dog--like Bigger--like tramp? Yah
it is bad, ain't it?" and poor old Hendrik looked sadly upset and
mystified.

"Hendrik, do you suppose God turns out worse air in the night than in
the day?"

"Ach, dunno."

"Well, you see Quonab knows what he's doing."

"Yah."

"Well, let him do it. He or I'll sleep alongside the child she'll be
all right," and Rolf thought of those horrible brown crawlers under the
bedding indoors.

Rolf had much confidence in the Indian as a doctor, but he had more in
his own mother. He was determined to give Annette the quinine, yet he
hesitated to interfere. At length, he said: "It is cool enough now; I
will put these thin curtains round her bed."

"Ugh, good!" but the red man sat there while it was being done.

"You need not stay now; I'll watch her, Quonab."

"Soon, give more medicine," was the reply that Rolf did not want. So he
changed his ruse. "I wish you'd take that partridge and make soup of it.
I've had my hands in poison ivy, so I dare not touch it."

"Ach, dot shall I do. Dot kin myself do," and the fat mother, laying the
recent baby in its cradle, made cumbrous haste to cook the bird.

"Foiled again," was Rolf's thought, but his Yankee wit was with him. He
laid one hand on the bowl of snake-root tea. It was lukewarm. "Do you
give it hot or cold, Quonab?"

"Hot."

"I'll take it in and heat it." He carried it off, thinking, "If Quonab
won't let me give the bark extract, I'll make him give it." In the gloom
of the kitchen he had no difficulty in adding to the tea, quite unseen,
a quarter of the extract; when heated, he brought it again, and the
Indian himself gave the dose.

As bedtime drew near, and she heard the red man say he would sleep
there, the little one said feebly, "Mother, mother," then whispered in
her mother's ear, "I want Rolf."

Rolf spread his blanket by the cot and slept lightly. Once or twice he
rose to look at Annette. She was moving in her sleep, but did not awake.
He saw to it that the mosquito bar was in place, and slept till morning.

There was no question that the child was better. The renewed interest in
food was the first good symptom, and the partridge served the end of its
creation. The snakeroot and the quinine did noble work, and thenceforth
her recovery was rapid. It was natural for her mother to wish the child
back indoors. It was a matter of course that she should go. It was
accepted as an unavoidable evil that they should always have those brown
crawlers about the bed.

But Rolf felt differently. He knew what his mother would have thought
and done. It meant another visit to Warren's, and the remedy he brought
was a strong-smelling oil, called in those days "rock oil"--a crude
petroleum. When all cracks in the bed and near wall were treated with
this, it greatly mitigated, if it did not quite end, the nuisance of the
"plague that walks in the dark."

Meanwhile, Quonab had made good his welcome by working on the farm. But
when a week had flown, he showed signs of restlessness. "We have enough
money, Nibowaka, why do we stay?"

Rolf was hauling a bucket of water from the well at the time. He stopped
with his burden on the well-sweep, gazed into the well, and said slowly:
"I don't know." If the truth were set forth, it would be that this was
the only home circle he knew. It was the clan feeling that held him, and
soon it was clearly the same reason that was driving Quonab to roam.

"I have heard," said the Indian, "that my people still dwell in Canada,
beyond Rouse's Point. I would see them. I will come again in the Red
Moon (August)."

So they hired a small canoe, and one bright morning, with Skookum in the
bow, Quonab paddled away on his voyage of 120 miles on the plead waters
of Lakes George and Champlain. His canoe became a dark spot on the
water; slowly it faded till only the flashing paddle was seen, and that
was lost around a headland.

The next day Rolf was sorry he let Quonab go alone, for it was evident
that Van Trumper needed no help for a month yet; that is, he could not
afford to hire, and while it was well enough for Rolf to stay a few days
and work to equalize his board, the arrangement would not long continue
satisfactory to both.

Yet there was one thing he must do before leaving, take Annette to pick
out her dress. She was well again now, and they set off one morning
in the canoe, she and Rolf. Neither father nor mother could leave the
house. They had their misgivings, but what could they do? She was
bright and happy, full of the childish joy that belongs to that age, and
engaged on such an important errand for the first time in her life.

There was something more than childish joy showing in her face, an older
person would have seen that, but it was largely lost on Rolf. There was
a tendency to blush when she laughed, a disposition to tease her "big
brother," to tyrannize over him in little things.

"Now, you tell me some more about 'Robinson Crusoe,'" she began, as soon
as they were in the canoe, and Rolf resumed the ancient, inspiring tale
to have it listened to eagerly, but criticized from the standpoint of
a Lake George farm. "Where was his wife?" "How could he have a farm
without hens?" "Dried grapes must be nice, but I'd rather have pork than
goat," etc.

Rolf, of course, took the part of Robinson Crusoe, and it gave him a
little shock to hear Quonab called his man Friday.

At the west side they were to invite Mrs. Callan to join their shopping
trip, but in any case they were to borrow a horse and buckboard. Neither
Mrs. Callan nor the buckboard was available, but they were welcome to
the horse. So Annette was made comfortable on a bundle of blankets,
and chattered incessantly while Rolf walked alongside with the grave
interest and superiority of a much older brother. So they crossed the
five-mile portage and came to Warren's store. Nervous and excited,
with sparkling eyes, Annette laid down her marten skin, received five
dollars, and set about the tremendous task of selecting her first dress
of really, truly calico print; and Rolf realized that the joy he had
found in his new rifle was a very small affair, compared with the
epoch-making, soul-filling, life-absorbing, unspeakable, and cataclysmal
bliss that a small girl can have in her first chance of unfettered
action in choice of a cotton print.

"Beautiful?" How can mere words do justice to masses of yellow corn,
mixed recklessly with green and scarlet poppies on a bright blue ground.
No, you should have seen Annette's dress, or you cannot expect to get
the adequate thrill. And when they found that there was enough cash left
over to add a red cotton parasol to the glorious spoils, every one there
beamed in a sort of friendly joy, and the trader, carried away by the
emotions of the hour, contributed a set of buttons of shining brass.

Warren kept a "meal house," which phrase was a ruse that saved him from
a burdensome hospitality. Determined to do it all in the best style,
Rolf took Annette to the meal-house table. She was deeply awed by the
grandeur of a tablecloth and white plates, but every one was kind.

Warren, talking to a stranger opposite, and evidently resuming a subject
they had discussed, said:

"Yes, I'd like to send the hull lot down to Albany this week, if I could
get another man for the canoe."

Rolf was interested at once and said: "What wages are you offering?"

"Twenty-five dollars and board."

"How will I do?"

"Well," said Warren, as though thinking it over: "I dunno but ye would.
Could ye go to-morrow?"

"Yes, indeed, for one month."

"All right, it's a bargain."

And so Rolf took the plunge that influenced his whole life.

But Annette whispered gleefully and excitedly, "May I have some of that,
and that?" pointing to every strange food she could see, and got them
all.

After noon they set out on their return journey, Annette clutching her
prizes, and prattling incessantly, while Rolf walked alongside, thinking
deeply, replying to her chatter, but depressed by the thought of
good-bye tomorrow. He was aroused at length by a scraping sound overhead
and a sharp reprimand, "Rolf, you'll tear my new parasol, if you don't
lead the horse better."

By two o'clock they were at Callan's. Another hour and they had crossed
the lake, and Annette, shrill with joy, was displaying her treasures to
the wonder and envy of her kin.

Making a dress was a simple matter in those and Marta promised: "Yah,
soom day ven I one have, shall I it sew." Meanwhile, Annette was
quaffing deep, soul-satisfying draughts in the mere contempt of the
yellow, red, green, and blue glories in which was soon to appear in
public. And when the bed came, she fell asleep holding the dress-goods
stuff in arms, and with the red parasol spread above her head, tired
out, but inexpressibly happy.



Chapter 53. Travelling to the Great City

     He's a bad failure that ain't king in some little corner.
     --Sayings of Sylvanne Sylvanne

The children were not astir when Rolf was off in the morning. He caught
a glimpse of Annette, still asleep under the red parasol, but the dress
goods and the brass buttons had fallen to the floor. He stepped into the
canoe. The dead calm of early morning was on the water, and the little
craft went skimming and wimpling across. In half an hour it was beached
at Callan's. In a little more than an hour's jog and stride he was at
Warren's, ready for work. As he marched in, strong and brisk, his colour
up, his blue eyes kindled with the thought of seeing Albany, the trader
could not help being struck by him, especially when he remembered each
of their meetings--meetings in which he discerned a keen, young mind of
good judgment, one that could decide quickly.

Gazing at the lithe, red-checked lad, he said: "Say, Rolf, air ye an
Injun??"

"No, sir."

"Air ye a half-breed?"

"No, I'm a Yank; my name is Kittering; born and bred in Redding,
Connecticut."

"Well, I swan, ye look it. At fust I took ye fur an Injun; ye did look
dark (and Rolf laughed inside, as he thought of that butternut dye), but
I'm bound to say we're glad yer white."

"Here, Bill, this is Rolf, Rolf Kittering, he'll go with ye to
Albany." Bill, a loose-jointed, middle-aged, flat-footed, large-handed,
semi-loafer, with keen gray eyes, looked up from a bundle he was roping.

Then Warren took Rolf aside and explained: "I'm sending down all my fur
this trip. There's ten bales of sixty pounds each, pretty near my hull
fortune. I want it took straight to Vandam's, and, night or day, don't
leave it till ye git it there. He's close to the dock. I'm telling ye
this for two reasons: The river's swarming with pirates and sneaks.
They'd like nothing better than to get away with a five-hundred-dollar
bundle of fur; and, next, while Bill is A1 on the river and true as
steel, he's awful weak on the liquor; goes crazy, once it's in him. And
I notice you've always refused it here. So don't stop at Troy, an'
when ye get to Albany go straight past there to Vandam's. You'll have
a letter that'll explain, and he'll supply the goods yer to bring back.
He's a sort of a partner, and orders from him is same as from me.

"I suppose I ought to go myself, but this is the time all the fur is
coming in here, an' I must be on hand to do the dickering, and there's
too much much to risk it any longer in the storehouse."

"Suppose," said Rolf, "Bill wants to stop at Troy?"

"He won't. He's all right, given he's sober. I've give him the letter."

"Couldn't you give me the letter, in case?"

"Law, Bill'd get mad and quit."

"He'll never know."

"That's so; I will." So when they paddled away, Bill had an important
letter of instructions ostentatiously tucked in his outer pocket.
Rolf, unknown to any one else but Warren, had a duplicate, wrapped in
waterproof, hidden in an inside pocket.

Bill was A1 on the river; a kind and gentle old woodman, much stronger
than he looked. He knew the value of fur and the danger of wetting it,
so he took no chances in doubtful rapids. This meant many portages and
much hard labour.

I wonder if the world realizes the hard labour of the portage or carry?
Let any man who seeks for light, take a fifty-pound sack of flour on his
shoulders and walk a quarter of a mile on level ground in cool weather.
Unless he is in training, he will find it a heavy burden long before
he is half-way. Suppose, instead of a flour sack, the burden has sharp
angles; the bearer is soon in torture. Suppose the weight carried be
double; then the strain is far more than doubled. Suppose, finally,
the road be not a quarter mile but a mile, and not on level but through
swamps, over rocks, logs, and roots, and the weather not cool, but
suffocating summer weather in the woods, with mosquitoes boring into
every exposed part, while both hands are occupied, steadying the burden
or holding on to branches for help up steep places--and then he will
have some idea of the horror of the portage; and there were many of
these, each one calling for six loaded and five light trips for each
canoe-man. What wonder that men will often take chances in some fierce
rapid, rather than to make a long carry through the fly-infested woods.

It was weighty evidence of Bill's fidelity that again and again they
made a portage around rapids he had often run, because in the present
case he was in sacred trust of that much prized commodity--fur.

Eighty miles they called it from Warren's to Albany, but there were many
halts and carries which meant long delay, and a whole week was covered
before Bill and Rolf had passed the settlements of Glens Falls, Fort
Edward, and Schuylerville, and guided their heavily laden canoe on the
tranquil river, past the little town of Troy. Loafers hailed them from
the bank, but Bill turned a deaf ear to all temptation; and they pushed
on happy in the thought that now their troubles were over; the last
rapid was past; the broad, smooth waters extended to their port.



Chapter 54. Albany

Only a man who in his youth has come at last in sight of some great city
he had dreamed of all his life and longed to see, can enter into Rolf's
feelings as they swept around the big bend, and Albany--Albany, hove in
view. Albany, the first chartered city of the United States; Albany, the
capital of all the Empire State; Albany, the thriving metropolis with
nearly six thousand living human souls; Albany with its State House,
beautiful and dignified, looking down the mighty Hudson highway that led
to the open sea.

Rolf knew his Bible, and now he somewhat realized the feelings of St.
Paul on that historic day when his life-long dream came true, when
first he neared the Eternal City--when at last he glimpsed the towers of
imperial, splendid Rome.

The long-strung docks were massed and webbed with ship rigging; the
water was livened with boats and canoes; the wooden warehouses back of
the docks were overtopped by wooden houses in tiers, until high above
them all the Capitol itself was the fitting climax.

Rolf knew something of shipping, and amid all the massed boats his eyes
fell on a strange, square-looking craft with a huge water-wheel on each
side. Then, swinging into better view, he read her name, the Clermont,
and knew that this was the famous Fulton steamer, the first of the
steamboat age.

But Bill was swamped by no such emotion. Albany, Hudson, Clermont, and
all, were familiar stories to him and he stolidly headed the canoe for
the dock he knew of old.

Loafers roosting on the snubbing posts hailed him, at first with
raillery; but, coming nearer, he was recognized. "Hello, Bill; back
again? Glad to see you," and there was superabundant help to land the
canoe.

"Wall, wall, wall, so it's really you," said the touter of a fur house,
in extremely friendly voice; "come in now and we'll hev a drink."

"No, sir-ree," said Bill decisively, "I don't drink till business is
done."

"Wall, now, Bill, here's Van Roost's not ten steps away an' he hez
tapped the finest bar'l in years."

"No, I tell ye, I'm not drinking--now."

"Wall, all right, ye know yer own business. I thought maybe ye'd be glad
to see us."

"Well, ain't I?"

"Hello, Bill," and Bill's fat brother-in-law came up. "Thus does me good,
an' yer sister is spilin' to see ye. We'll hev one on this."

"No, Sam, I ain't drinkin'; I've got biz to tend."

"Wall, hev just one to clear yer head. Then settle yer business and come
back to us."

So Bill went to have one to clear his head. "I'll be back in two
minutes, Rolf," but Rolf saw him no more for many days.

"You better come along, cub," called out a red-nosed member of the
group. But Rolf shook his head.

"Here, I'll help you git them ashore," volunteered an effusive stranger,
with one eye.

"I don't want help."

"How are ye gain' to handle 'em alone?"

"Well, there's one thing I'd be glad to have ye do; that is, go up there
and bring Peter Vandam."

"I'll watch yer stuff while you go."

"No, I can't leave." "Then go to blazes; d'yte take me for yer errand
boy?" And Rolf was left alone.

He was green at the business, but already he was realizing the power of
that word fur and the importance of the peltry trade. Fur was the one
valued product of the wilderness that only the hunter could bring. The
merchants of the world were as greedy for fur as for gold, and far more
so than for precious stones.

It was a commodity so light that, even in those days, a hundred weight
of fur might range in value from one hundred to five thousand dollars,
so that a man with a pack of fine furs was a capitalist. The profits
of the business were good for trapper, very large for the trader, who
doubled his first gain by paying in trade; but they were huge for the
Albany middleman, and colossal for the New Yorker who shipped to London.

With such allurements, it was small wonder that more country was
explored and opened for fur than for settlement or even for gold; and
there were more serious crimes and high-handed robberies over the right
to trade a few furs than over any other legitimate business. These
things were new to Rolf within the year, but he was learning the lesson,
and Warren's remarks about fur stuck in his memory with growing value.
Every incident since the trip began had given them new points.

The morning passed without sign of Bill; so, when in the afternoon, some
bare-legged boys came along, Rolf said to them: "Do any of ye know where
Peter Vandam's house is?"

"Yeh, that's it right there," and they pointed to a large log house less
than a hundred yards away.

"Do ye know him?"

"Yeh, he's my paw," said a sun-bleached freckle-face.

"If you bring him here right away, I'll give you a dime. Tell him I'm
from Warren's with a cargo."

The dusty stampede that followed was like that of a mustang herd, for a
dime was a dime in those days. And very soon, a tall, ruddy man appeared
at the dock. He was a Dutchman in name only. At first sight he was much
like the other loafers, but was bigger, and had a more business-like air
when observed near at hand.

"Are you from Warren's?"

"Yes, sir."

"Alone?"

"No, sir. I came with Bill Bymus. But he went off early this morning; I
haven't seen him since. I'm afraid he's in trouble."

"Where'd he go?"

"In there with some friends."

"Ha, just like him; he's in trouble all right. He'll be no good for a
week. Last time he came near losing all our stuff. Now let's see what
ye've got."

"Are you Mr. Peter Vandam?"

"Of course I am."

Still Rolf looked doubtful. There was a small group around, and Rolf
heard several voices, "Yes, this is Peter; ye needn't a-worry." But Rolf
knew none of the speakers. His look of puzzlement at first annoyed then
tickled the Dutchman, who exploded into a hearty guffaw.

"Wall, wall, you sure think ill of us. Here, now look at that," and he
drew out a bundle of letters addressed to Master Peter Vandam. Then he
displayed a gold watch inscribed on the back "Peter Vandam"; next he
showed a fob seal with a scroll and an inscription, "Petrus Vandamus";
then he turned to a youngster and said, "Run, there is the Reverend
Dr. Powellus, he may help us"; so the black-garbed, knee-breached,
shovel-hatted clergyman came and pompously said: "Yes, my young friend,
without doubt you may rest assured that this is our very estimable
parishioner, Master Peter Vandam; a man well accounted in the world of
trade."

"And now," said Peter, "with the help of my birth-register and
marriage-certificate, which will be placed at your service with all
possible haste, I hope I may win your recognition." The situation, at
first tense, had become more and more funny, and the bystanders laughed
aloud. Rolf rose to it, and smiling said slowly, "I am inclined to think
that you must be Master Peter Vandam, of Albany. If that's so, this
letter is for you, also this cargo." And so the delivery was made.

Bill Bymus has not delivered the other letter to this day. Presumably he
went to stay with his sister, but she saw little of him, for his stay at
Albany was, as usual, one long spree. It was clear that, but for
Rolf, there might have been serious loss of fur, and Vandam showed his
appreciation by taking the lad to his own home, where the story of
the difficult identification furnished ground for gusty laughter and
primitive jest on many an after day.

The return cargo for Warren consisted of stores that the Vandam
warehouse had in stock, and some stuff that took a day or more to
collect in town.

As Rolf was sorting and packing next day, a tall, thin, well-dressed
young man walked in with the air of one much at home.

"Good morrow, Peter."

"Good day to ye, sir," and they talked of crops and politics.

Presently Vandam said, "Rolf, come over here."

He came and was presented to the tall man, who was indeed very thin,
and looked little better than an invalid. "This," said Peter, "is Master
Henry van Cortlandt the son of his honour, the governor, and a very
learned barrister. He wants to go on a long hunting trip for his health.
I tell him that likely you are the man he needs."

This was so unexpected that Rolf turned red and gazed on the ground. Van
Cortlandt at once began to clear things by interjecting: "You see, I'm
not strong. I want to live outdoors for three months, where I can have
some hunting and be beyond reach of business. I'll pay you a hundred
dollars for the three months, to cover board and guidance. And providing
I'm well pleased and have good hunting, I'll give you fifty dollars more
when I get back to Albany."

"I'd like much to be your guide," said Rolf, "but I have a partner. I
must find out if he's willing."

"Ye don't mean-that drunken Bill Bymus?"

"No! my hunting partner; he's an Indian." Then, after a pause, he added,
"You wouldn't go in fly-time, would you?"

"No, I want to be in peace. But any time after the first of August."

"I am bound to help Van Trumper with his harvest; that will take most of
August."

As he talked, the young lawyer sized him up and said to himself, "This
is my man."

And before they parted it was agreed that Rolf should come to Albany
with Quonab as soon as he could return in August, to form the camping
party for the governor's son.



Chapter 55. The Rescue of Bill

Bales were ready and the canoe newly gummed three days after
their arrival, but still no sign of Bill. A messengers sent to the
brother-in-law's home reported that he had not been seen for two days.
In spite of the fact that Albany numbered nearly "six thousand living
human souls," a brief search by the docksharps soon revealed the
sinner's retreat. His worst enemy would have pitied him; a red-eyed
wreck; a starved, sick and trembling weakling; conscience-stricken,
for the letter intrusted to him was lost; the cargo stolen--so his
comforters had said--and the raw country lad murdered and thrown out
into the river. What wonder that he should shun the light of day! And
when big Peter with Rolf in the living flesh, instead of the sheriff,
stood before him and told him to come out of that and get into the
canoe, he wept bitter tears of repentance and vowed that never, never,
never, as long as he lived would he ever again let liquor touch his
lips. A frame of mind which lasted in strength for nearly one day and a
half, and did not entirely varnish for three.

They passed Troy without desiring to stop, and began their fight with
the river. It was harder than when coming, for their course was against
stream when paddling, up hill when portaging, the water was lower, the
cargo was heavier, and Bill not so able. Ten days it took them to cover
those eighty miles. But they came out safely, cargo and all, and landed
at Warren's alive and well on the twenty-first day since leaving.

Bill had recovered his usual form. Gravely and with pride he marched
up to Warren and handed out a large letter which read outside, "Bill of
Lading," and when opened, read: "The bearer of this, Bill Bymus, is no
good. Don't trust him to Albany any more. (Signed) Peter Vandam."

Warren's eyes twinkled, but he said nothing. He took

Rolf aside and said, "Let's have it." Rolf gave him the real letter
that, unknown to Bill, he had carried, and Warren learned some things
that he knew before.

Rolf's contract was for a month; it had ten days to run, and those ten
days were put in weighing sugar, checking accounts, milking cows, and
watching the buying of fur. Warren didn't want him to see too much of
the fur business, but Rolf gathered quickly that these were the main
principles: Fill the seller with liquor, if possible; "fire water for
fur" was the idea; next, grade all fur as medium or second-class, when
cash was demanded, but be easy as long as payment was to be in trade.
That afforded many loopholes between weighing, grading, charging, and
shrinkage, and finally he noticed that Albany prices were 30 to 50 per
cent. higher than Warren prices. Yet Warren was reckoned a first-class
fellow, a good neighbour, and a member of the church. But it was
understood everywhere that fur, like horseflesh, was a business with
moral standards of its own.

A few days before their contract was up, Warren said: "How'd ye like to
renew for a month?"

"Can't; I promised to help Van Trumper with his harvest."

"What does he pay ye?"

"Seventy-five cents a day and board."

"I'll make it a dollar."

"I've given my word," said Rolf, in surprise.

"Hey ye signed papers?"

"They're not needed. The only use of signed papers is to show ye
have given your word," said Rolf, quoting his mother, with rising
indignation.

The trader sniffed a little contemptuously and said nothing. But he
realized the value of a lad who was a steady, intelligent worker,
wouldn't drink, and was absolutely bound by a promise; so, after awhile,
he said: "Wall, if Van don't want ye now, come back for a couple of
weeks."

Early in the morning Rolf gathered the trifles he had secured for the
little children and the book he had bought for Annette, a sweet story of
a perfect girl who died and went to heaven, the front embellished with a
thrilling wood-cut. Then he crossed the familiar five-mile portage at a
pace that in an hour brought him to the lake.

The greeting at Van's was that of a brother come home.

"Vell, Rolf, it's goood to see ye back. It's choost vat I vented. Hi,
Marta, I told it you, yah. I say, now I hope ze good Gott send Rolf.
Ach, how I am shpoil!"

Yes, indeed. The hay was ready; the barley was changing. So Rolf took
up his life on the farm, doing work that a year before was beyond his
strength, for the spirit of the hills was on him, with its impulse of
growth, its joy in effort, its glory in strength. And all who saw the
longlegged, long-armed, flat-backed youth plying fork or axe or hoe, in
some sort ventured a guess: "He'll be a good 'un some day; the kind o'
chap to keep friendly with.