Chapter 56. The Sick Ox

The Thunder Moon passed quickly by; the hay was in; the barley partly
so. Day by day the whitefaced oxen toiled at the creaking yoke, as the
loads of hay and grain were jounced cumbrously over roots and stumps of
the virgin fields. Everything was promising well, when, as usual, there
came a thunderbolt out of the clear sky. Buck, the off ox, fell sick.

Those who know little about cattle have written much of the meek and
patient ox. Those who know them well tell us that the ox is the "most
cussedest of all cussed" animals; a sneak, a bully, a coward, a thief,
a shirk, a schemer; and when he is not in mischief he is thinking
about it. The wickedest pack mule that ever bucked his burden is a
pinfeathered turtle-dove compared with an average ox. There are
some gentle oxen, but they are rare; most are treacherous, some are
dangerous, and these are best got rid of, as they mislead their yoke
mates and mislay their drivers. Van's two oxen, Buck and Bright,
manifested the usual variety and contrariety of disposition. They were
all right when well handled, and this Rolf could do better than Van,
for he was "raised on oxen," and Van's over voluble, sputtering,
Dutch-English seemed ill comprehended of the massive yoke beasts. The
simpler whip-waving and fewer orders of the Yankee were so obviously
successful that Van had resigned the whip of authority and Rolf was
driver.

Ordinarily, an ox driver walks on the hew (nigh or left) side, near
the head of his team, shouting "gee" (right), "haw" (left), "get up,"
"steady," or "whoa" (stop), accompanying the order with a waving of the
whip. Foolish drivers lash the oxen on the haw side when they wish them
to gee--and vice versa; but it is notorious that all good drivers do
little lashing. Spare the lash or spoil your team. So it was not long
before Rolf could guide them from the top of the load, as they travelled
from shook to shook in the field. This voice of command saved his life,
or at least his limb, one morning, for he made a misstep that tumbled
him down between the oxen and the wagon. At once the team started, but
his ringing "Whoa!" brought them to a dead stop, and saved him; whereas,
had it been Van's "Whoa!" it would have set them off at a run, for every
shout from him meant a whip lick to follow.

Thus Rolf won the respect, if not the love, of the huge beasts; more and
more they were his charge, and when, on that sad morning, in the last of
the barley, Van came in, "Ach, vot shall I do! Vot shall I do! Dot Buck
ox be nigh dead."

Alas! there he lay on the ground, his head sometimes raised, sometimes
stretched out flat, while the huge creature uttered short moans at
times.

Only four years before, Rolf had seen that same thing at Redding.
The rolling eye, the working of the belly muscles, the straining and
moaning. "It's colic; have you any ginger?"

"No, I hat only dot soft soap."

What soft soap had to do with ginger was not clear, and Rolf wondered if
it had some rare occult medical power that had escaped his mother.

"Do you know where there's any slippery elm?"

"Yah."

"Then bring a big boiling of the bark, while I get some peppermint."

The elm bark was boiled till it made a kettleful of brown slime. The
peppermint was dried above the stove till it could be powdered,
and mixed with the slippery slush. Some sulphur and some soda were
discovered and stirred in, on general principles, and they hastened to
the huge, helpless creature in the field.

Poor Buck seemed worse than ever. He was flat on his side, with his
spine humped up, moaning and straining at intervals. But now relief was
in sight--so thought the men. With a tin dipper they tried to pour
some relief into the open mouth of the sufferer, who had so little
appreciation that he simply taxed his remaining strength to blow it out
in their faces. Several attempts ended the same way. Then the brute, in
what looked like temper, swung his muzzle and dashed the whole dipper
away. Next they tried the usual method, mixing it with a bran mash,
considered a delicacy in the bovine world, but Buck again took notice,
under pressure only, to dash it away and waste it all.

It occurred to them they might force it down his throat if they could
raise his head. So they used a hand lever and a prop to elevate the
muzzle, and were about to try another inpour, when Buck leaped to his
feet, and behaving like one who has been shamming, made at full gallop
for the stable, nor stopped till safely in his stall, where at once he
dropped in all the evident agony of a new spasm.

It is a common thing for oxen to sham sick, but this was the real thing,
and it seemed they were going to lose the ox, which meant also lose a
large part of the harvest.

In the stable, now, they had a better chance; they tied him, then raised
his head with a lever till his snout was high above his shoulders. Now
it seemed easy to pour the medicine down that long, sloping passage. But
his mouth was tightly closed, any that entered his nostrils was blown
afar, and the suffering beast strained at the rope till he seemed likely
to strangle.

Both men and ox were worn out with the struggle; the brute was no
better, but rather worse.

"Wall," said Rolf, "I've seen a good many ornery steers, but that's the
orneriest I ever did handle, an' I reckon we'll lose him if he don't get
that poison into him pretty soon."

Oxen never were studied as much as horses, for they were considered a
temporary shift, and every farmer looked forward to replacing them with
the latter. Oxen were enormously strong, and they could flourish without
grain when the grass was good; they never lost their head in a swamp
hole, and ploughed steadily among all kinds of roots and stumps; but
they were exasperatingly slow and eternally tricky. Bright, being the
trickier of the two, was made the nigh ox, to be more under control.
Ordinarily Rolf could manage Buck easily, but the present situation
seemed hopeless. In his memory he harked back to Redding days, and he
recalled old Eli Gooch, the ox expert, and wondered what he would have
done. Then, as he sat, he caught sight of the sick ox reaching out its
head and deftly licking up a few drops of bran mash that had fallen from
his yoke fellow's portion. A smile spread over Rolf's face. "Just like
you; you think nothing's good except it's stolen. All right; we'll see."
He mixed a big dose of medicine, with bran, as before. Then he tied
Bright's head so that he could not reach the ground, and set the bucket
of mash half way between the two oxen. "Here ye are, Bright," he said,
as a matter of form, and walked out of the stable; but, from a crack, he
watched. Buck saw a chance to steal Bright's bran; he looked around; Oh,
joy! his driver was away. He reached out cautiously; sniffed; his long
tongue shot forth for a first taste, when Rolf gave a shout and ran in.
"Hi, you old robber! Let that alone; that's for Bright."

The sick ox was very much in his own stall now, and stayed there for
some time after Rolf went to resume his place at the peephole. But
encouraged by a few minutes of silence, he again reached out, and
hastily gulped down a mouthful of the mixture before Rolf shouted and
rushed in armed with a switch to punish the thief. Poor Bright, by his
efforts to reach the tempting mash, was unwittingly playing the game,
for this was proof positive of its desirableness.

After giving Buck a few cuts with the switch, Rolf retired, as before.
Again the sick ox waited for silence, and reaching out with greedy
haste, he gulped down the rest and emptied the bucket; seeing which,
Rolf ran in and gave the rogue a final trouncing for the sake of
consistency.

Any one who knows what slippery elm, peppermint, soda, sulphur, colic,
and ox do when thoroughly interincorporated will not be surprised to
learn that in the morning the stable needed special treatment, and of
all the mixture the ox was the only ingredient left on the active list.
He was all right again, very thirsty, and not quite up to his usual
standard, but, as Van said, after a careful look, "Ah, tell you vot, dot
you vas a veil ox again, an' I t'ink I know not vot if you all tricky
vas like Bright."



Chapter 57. Rolf and Skookum at Albany

The Red Moon (August) follows the Thunder Moon, and in the early part of
its second week Rolf and Van, hauling in the barley and discussing the
fitness of the oats, were startled by a most outrageous clatter among
the hens. Horrid murder evidently was stalking abroad, and, hastening
to the rescue, Rolf heard loud, angry barks; then a savage beast with
a defunct "cackle party" appeared, but dropped the victim to bark and
bound upon the "relief party" with ecstatic expressions of joy, in spite
of Rolf's--"Skookum! you little brute!"

Yes! Quonab was back; that is, he was at the lake shore, and Skookum had
made haste to plunge into the joys and gayeties of this social centre,
without awaiting the formalities of greeting or even of dry-shod
landing.

The next scene was--a big, high post, a long, strong chain and a small,
sad dog.

"Ho, Quonab, you found your people? You had a good time?"

"Ugh," was the answer, the whole of it, and all the light Rolf got for
many a day on the old man's trip to the North. The prospect of going to
Albany for Van Cortlandt was much more attractive to Quonab than that of
the harvest field, so a compromise was agreed on. Callan's barley was in
the stock; if all three helped Callan for three days, Callan would owe
them for nine, and so it was arranged.

Again "good-bye," and Rolf, Quonab, and little dog Skookum went sailing
down the Schroon toward the junction, where they left a cache of their
supplies, and down the broadening Hudson toward Albany.

Rolf had been over the road twice; Quonab never before, yet his nose for
water was so good and the sense of rapid and portage was so strong in
the red man, that many times he was the pilot. "This is the way, because
it must be"; "there it is deep because so narrow"; "that rapid is
dangerous, because there is such a well-beaten portage trail"; "that
we can run, because I see it," or, "because there is no portage trail,"
etc. The eighty miles were covered in three sleeps, and in the mid-moon
days of the Red Moon they landed at the dock in front of Peter Vandam's.
If Quonab had any especial emotions for the occasion, he cloaked
them perfectly under a calm and copper-coloured exterior of absolute
immobility.

Their Albany experiences included a meeting with the governor and an
encounter with a broad and burly river pirate, who, seeing a lone and
peaceable-looking red man, went out of his way to insult him; and when
Quonab's knife flashed out at last, it was only his recently established
relations with the governor's son that saved him from some very sad
results, for there were many loafers about. But burly Vandam appeared in
the nick of time to halt the small mob with the warning: "Don't you know
that's Mr. Van Cortlandt's guide?" With the governor and Vandam to back
him, Quonab soon had the mob on his side, and the dock loafer's own
friends pelted him with mud as he escaped. But not a little credit
is due to Skookum, for at the critical moment he had sprung on the
ruffian's bare and abundant leg with such toothsome effect that the
owner fell promptly backward and the knife thrust missed. It was quickly
over and Quonab replaced his knife, contemptuous of the whole crowd
before, during and after the incident. Not at the time, but days later,
he said of his foe: "He was a talker; he was full of fear."

With the backwoods only thirty miles away, and the unbroken wilderness
one hundred, it was hard to believe how little Henry van Cortlandt knew
of the woods and its life. He belonged to the ultra-fashionable set, and
it was rather their pose to affect ignorance of the savage world and
its ways. But he had plenty of common-sense to fan back on, and the
inspiring example of Washington, equally at home in the nation's
Parliament, the army intrenchment, the glittering ball room, or the
hunting lodge of the Indian, was a constant reminder that the perfect
man is a harmonious development of mind, morals, and physique.

His training had been somewhat warped by the ultraclassic fashion of
the times, so he persisted in seeing in Quonab a sort of discoloured,
barbaric clansman of Alaric or a camp follower of Xenophon's host,
rather than an actual living, interesting, native American, exemplifying
in the highest degree the sinewy, alert woodman, and the saturated
mystic and pantheist of an age bygone and out of date, combined with
a middle-measure intelligence. And Rolf, tall, blue-eyed with brown,
curling hair, was made to pose as the youthful Achilles, rather than
as a type of America's best young manhood, cleaner, saner, and of far
higher ideals and traditions than ever were ascribed to Achilles by his
most blinded worshippers. It recalled the case of Wordsworth and Southey
living side by side in England; Southey, the famous, must needs seek in
ancient India for material to write his twelve-volume romance that no
one ever looks at; Wordsworth, the unknown, wrote of the things of his
own time, about his own door? and produced immortal verse.

What should we think of Homer, had he sung his impressions of the
ancient Egyptians? or of Thackeray, had he novelized the life of the
Babylonians? It is an ancient blindness, with an ancient wall to bruise
one's head. It is only those who seek ointment of the consecrated clay
that gives back sight, who see the shining way at their feet, who beat
their face against no wall, who safely climb the heights. Henry van
Cortlandt was a man of rare parts, of every advantage, but still he had
been taught steadfastly to live in the past. His eyes were yet to be
opened. The living present was not his--but yet to be.

The young lawyer had been assembling his outfit at Vandam's warehouse,
for, in spite of scoffing friends, he knew that Rolf was coming back to
him.

When Rolf saw the pile of stuff that was gathered for that outfit, he
stared at it aghast, then looked at Vandam, and together they roared.
There was everything for light housekeeping and heavy doctoring, even
chairs, a wash stand, a mirror, a mortar, and a pestle. Six canoes could
scarcely have carried the lot.

"'Tain't so much the young man as his mother," explained Big Pete; "at
first I tried to make 'em understand, but it was no use; so I says, 'All
right, go ahead, as long as there's room in the warehouse.' I reckon
I'll set on the fence and have some fun seein' Rolf ontangle the
affair."

"Phew, pheeeww--ph-e-e-e-e-w," was all Rolf could say in answer. But
at last, "Wall, there's always a way. I sized him up as pretty level
headed. We'll see."

There was a way and it was easy, for, in a secret session, Rolf, Pete,
and Van Cortlandt together sorted out the things needed. A small tent,
blankets, extra clothes, guns, ammunition, delicate food for three
months, a few medicines and toilet articles--a pretty good load for one
canoe, but a trifle compared with the mountain of stuff piled up on the
floor.

"Now, Mr. van Cortlandt," said Rolf, "will you explain to your mother
that we are going on with this so as to travel quickly, and will send
back for the rest as we need it?"

A quiet chuckle was now heard from Big Pete. "Good! I wondered how he'd
settle it."

The governor and his lady saw them off; therefore, there was a crowd.
The mother never before had noted what a frail and dangerous thing a
canoe is. She cautioned her son never to venture out alone, and to be
sure that he rubbed his chest with the pectoral balm she had made from
such and such a famous receipt, the one that saved the life but not
the limb of old Governor Stuyvesant, and come right home if you catch a
cold; and wait at the first camp till the other things come, and (in a
whisper) keep away from that horrid red Indian with the knife, and never
fail to let every one know who you are, and write regularly, and don't
forget to take your calomel Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, alternating
with Peruvian bark Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, and squills on
Sunday, except every other week, when he should devote Tuesdays,
Fridays, and Sundays to rhubarb and catnip tea, except in the full
moon, when the catnip was to be replaced with graveyard bergamot and the
squills with opodeldoc in which an iron nail had been left for a week.

So Henry was embraced, Rolf was hand-shaken, Quonab was nodded at,
Skookum was wisely let alone, and the trim canoe swung from the dock.
Amid hearty cheers, farewells, and "God speed ye's" it breasted the
flood for the North.

And on the dock, with kerchief to her eyes, stood the mother, weeping to
think that her boy was going far, far away from his home and friends in
dear, cultured, refined Albany, away, away, to that remote and barbarous
inaccessible region almost to the shore land of Lake Champlain.



Chapter 58. Back to Indian Lake

Young Van Cortlandt, six feet two in his socks and thirty-four inches
around the chest, was, as Rolf long afterward said, "awful good raw
material, but awful raw." Two years out of college, half of which had
been spent at the law, had done little but launch him as a physical
weakling and a social star. But his mental make-up was more than good;
it was of large promise. He lacked neither courage nor sense, and the
course he now followed was surely the best for man-making.

Rolf never realized how much a farmer-woodman-canoeman-hunter-camper had
to know, until now he met a man who did not know anything, nor dreamed
how many wrong ways there were of doing a job, till he saw his new
companion try it.

There is no single simple thing that is a more complete measure of one's
woodcraft than the lighting of a fire. There are a dozen good ways and
a thousand wrong ones. A man who can light thirty fires on thirty
successive days with thirty matches or thirty sparks from flint and
steel is a graduated woodman, for the feat presupposes experience of
many years and the skill that belongs to a winner.

When Quonab and Rolf came back from taking each a load over the first
little portage, they found Van Cortlandt getting ready for a fire with a
great, solid pile of small logs, most of them wet and green. He knew how
to use flint and steel, because that was the established household way
of the times. Since childhood had he lighted the candle at home by this
primitive means. When his pile of soggy logs was ready, he struck his
flint, caught a spark on the tinder that is always kept on hand, blew
it to a flame, thrust in between two of the wet logs, waited for all to
blaze up, and wondered why the tiny blaze went out at once, no matter
how often he tried.

When the others came back, Van Cortlandt remarked: "It doesn't seem to
burn." The Indian turned away in silent contempt. Rolf had hard work to
keep the forms of respect, until the thought came: "I suppose I looked
just as big a fool in his world at Albany."

"See," said he, "green wood and wet wood won't do, but yonder is some
birch bark and there's a pine root." He took his axe and cut a few
sticks from the root, then used his knife to make a sliver-fuzz of each;
one piece, so resinous that it would not whittle, he smashed with
the back of the axe into a lot of matchwood. With a handful of finely
shredded birch bark he was now quite ready. A crack of the flint a
blowing of the spark caught on the tinder from the box, a little flame
that at once was magnified by the birch bark, and in a minute the pine
splinters made a sputtering fire. Quonab did not even pay Van Cortlandt
the compliment of using one of his logs. He cut a growing poplar, built
a fireplace of the green logs around the blaze that Rolf had made, and
the meal was ready in a few minutes.

Van Cortlandt was not a fool; merely it was all new to him. But his
attention was directed to fire-making now, and long before they reached
their cabin he had learned this, the first of the woodman's arts--he
could lay and light a fire. And when, weeks later, he not only made the
flint fire, but learned in emergency to make the rubbing stick spark,
his cup of joy was full. He felt he was learning.

Determined to be in everything, now he paddled all day; at first with
vigour, then mechanically, at last feebly and painfully. Late in the
afternoon they made the first long portage; it was a quarter mile. Rolf
took a hundred pounds, Quonab half as much more, Van Cortlandt tottered
slowly behind with his pill-kit and his paddle. That night, on his ample
mattress, he slept the sleep of utter exhaustion. Next day he did little
and said nothing. It came on to rain; he raised a huge umbrella and
crouched under it till the storm was over. But the third day he began to
show signs of new life, and before they reached the Schroon's mouth, on
the fifth day, his young frame was already responding to the elixir of
the hills.

It was very clear that they could not take half of the stuff that they
had cached at the Schroon's mouth, so that a new adjustment was needed
and still a cache to await another trip.

That night as they sat by their sixth camp fire, Van Cortlandt pondered
over the recent days, and they seemed many since he had left home.
He felt much older and stronger. He felt not only less strange, but
positively intimate with the life, the river, the canoe, and his
comrades; and, pleased with his winnings, he laid his hand on Skookum,
slumbering near, only to arouse in response a savage growl, as that
important animal arose and moved to the other side of the fire. Never
did small dog give tall man a more deliberate snub. "You can't do that
with Skookum; you must wait till he's ready," said Rolf.

The journey up the Hudson with its "mean" waters and its "carries" was
much as before. Then they came to the eagle's nest and the easy waters
of Jesup's River, and without important incident they landed at the
cabin. The feeling of "home again" spread over the camp and every one
was gay.



Chapter 59. Van Cortlandt's Drugs

"AIN'T ye feelin' all right?" said Rolf, one bright, calomel morning, as
he saw Van Cortlandt preparing his daily physic.

"Why, yes; I'm feeling fine; I'm better every day," was the jovial
reply.

"Course I don't know, but my mother used to say: 'Med'cine's the stuff
makes a sick man well, an' a well man sick."'

"My mother and your mother would have fought at sight, as you may judge.
B-u-t," he added with reflective slowness, and a merry twinkle in his
eye, "if things were to be judged by their product, I am afraid your
mother would win easily," and he laid his long, thin, scrawny hand
beside the broad, strong hand of the growing youth.

"Old Sylvanne wasn't far astray when he said: 'There aren't any sick,
'cept them as thinks they are,"' said Rolf. "I suppose I ought to begin
to taper off," was the reply. But the tapering was very sudden. Before a
week went by, it seemed desirable to go back for the stuff left in cache
on the Schroon, where, of course, it was subject to several risks. There
seemed no object in taking Van Cortlandt back, but they could not
well leave him alone. He went. He had kept time with fair
regularity--calomel, rhubarb; calomel, rhubarb; calomel, rhubarb,
squills--but Rolf's remarks had sunk into his intelligence, as a
red-hot shot will sink through shingles, letting in light and creating
revolution.

This was a rhubarb morning. He drank his potion, then, carefully
stoppering the bottle, he placed it with its companions in a box and
stowed that near the middle of the canoe. "I'll be glad when it's
finished," he said reflectively; "I don't believe I need it now. I wish
sometimes I could run short of it all."

That was what Rolf had been hoping for. Without such a remark, he would
not have dared do as he did. He threw the tent cover over the canoe
amidships, causing the unstable craft to cant: "That won't do," he
remarked, and took out several articles, including the medicine chest,
put them ashore under the bushes, and, when he replaced them, contrived
that the medicine should be forgotten.

Next morning Van Cortlandt, rising to prepare his calomel, got a shock
to find it not.

"It strikes me," says Rolf, "the last time I saw that, it was on the
bank when we trimmed the canoe." Yes, there could be no doubt of it.
Van must live his life in utter druglessness for a time. It gave him
somewhat of a scare, much like that a young swimmer gets when he finds
he has drifted away from his floats; and, like that same beginner, it
braced him to help himself. So Van found that he could swim without
corks.

They made a rapid journey down, and in a week they were back with the
load.

There was the potion chest where they had left it. Van Cortlandt
picked it up with a sheepish smile, and they sat down for evening meal.
Presently Rolf said: "I mind once I seen three little hawks in a nest
together. The mother was teaching them to fly. Two of them started off
all right, and pretty soon were scooting among the treetops. The other
was scared. He says: 'No, mother, I never did fly, and I'm scared I'd
get killed if I tried.' At last the mother got mad and shoved him over.
As soon as he felt he was gone, he spread out his wings to save himself.
The wings were all right enough, and long before he struck the ground,
he was flying."



Chapter 61. Rolf Learns Something from Van

     A man can't handle his own case, any more than a delirious
     doctor kin give himself the right physic.--Saying of Si
     Sylvanne.

However superior Rolf might feel in the canoe or the woods, there was
one place where Van Cortlandt took the lead, and that was in the long
talks they had by the campfire or in Van's own shanty which Quonab
rarely entered.

The most interesting subjects treated in these were ancient Greece and
modern Albany. Van Cortlandt was a good Greek scholar, and, finding an
intelligent listener, he told the stirring tales of royal Ilion, Athens,
and Pergamos, with the loving enthusiasm of one whom the teachers found
it easy to instruct in classic lore. And when he recited or intoned
the rolling Greek heroics of the siege of Troy, Rolf listened with an
interest that was strange, considering that he knew not a word of it.
But he said, "It sounded like real talk, and the tramp of men that were
all astir with something big a-doing."

Albany and politics, too, were vital strains, and life at the Government
House, with the struggling rings and cabals, social and political. These
were extraordinarily funny and whimsical to Rolf. No doubt because Van
Cortlandt presented them that way. And he more than once wondered how
rational humans could waste their time in such tomfoolery and childish
things as all conventionalities seemed to be. Van Cortlandt smiled at
his remarks, but made no answer for long.

One day, the first after the completion of Van Cortlandt's cabin, as the
two approached, the owner opened the door and stood aside for Rolf to
enter.

"Go ahead," said Rolf.

"After you," was the polite reply.

"Oh, go on," rejoined the lad, in mixed amusement and impatience.

Van Cortlandt touched his hat and went in.

Inside, Rolf turned squarely and said: "The other day you said there was
a reason for all kinds o' social tricks; now will you tell me what the
dickens is the why of all these funny-do's? It 'pears to me a free-born
American didn't ought to take off his hat to any one but God."

Van Cortlandt chuckled softly and said: "You may be very sure that
everything that is done in the way of social usage is the result
of common-sense, with the exception of one or two things that have
continued after the reason for them has passed, like the buttons you
have behind on your coat; they were put there originally to button the
tails out of the way of your sword. Sword wearing and using have passed
away, but still you see the buttons.

"As to taking off your hat to no man: it depends entirely on what you
mean by it; and, being a social custom, you must accept its social
meaning.

"In the days of knight errantry, every one meeting a stranger had to
suppose him an enemy; ten to one he was. And the sign and proof of
friendly intention was raising the right hand without a weapon in it.
The hand was raised high, to be seen as far as they could shoot with
a bow, and a further proof was added when they raised the vizor and
exposed the face. The danger of the highway continued long after knights
ceased to wear armour; so, with the same meaning, the same gesture was
used, but with a lifting of the hat. If a man did not do it, he was
either showing contempt, or hostility for the other, or proving himself
an ignorant brute. So, in all civilized countries, lifting the hat is a
sign of mutual confidence and respect."

"Well! that makes it all look different. But why should you touch your
hat when you went ahead of me just now?"

"Because this is my house; you are my guest. I am supposed to serve you
in reasonable ways and give you precedence. Had I let you open my door
for me, it would have been putting you in the place of my servant; to
balance that, I give you the sign of equality and respect."

"H'm," said Rolf, "'it just shows,' as old Sylvanne sez, 'this yer
steel-trap, hair-trigger, cocksure jedgment don't do. An' the more a
man learns, the less sure he gits. An' things as hez lasted a long time
ain't liable to be on a rotten foundation.'"



Chapter 62. The Charm of Song

With a regular tum ta tum ta, came a weird sound from the sunrise rock
one morning, as Van slipped out of his cabin.

     "Ag-aj-way-o-say
     Pem-o-say
     Gezhik-om era-bid ah-keen
     Ena-bid ah-keen"

"What's he doing, Rolf?"

"That's his sunrise prayer," was the answer.

"Do you know what it means?"

"Yes, it ain't much; jest 'Oh, thou that walkest in the sky in the
morning, I greet thee."'

"Why, I didn't know Indians had such performances; that's exactly like
the priests of Osiris. Did any one teach him? I mean any white folk."

"No, it's always been the Indian way. They have a song or a prayer
for most every big event, sunrise, sunset, moonrise, good hunting, and
another for when they're sick, or when they're going on a journey, or
when their heart is bad."

"You astonish me. I had no idea they were so human. It carries me back
to the temple of Delphi. It is worthy of Cassandra of Ilion. I supposed
all Indians were just savage Indians that hunted till their bellies were
full, and slept till they were empty again."

"H'm," rejoined Rolf, with a gentle laugh. "I see you also have been
doing some 'hair-trigger, steel-trap, cocksure jedgin'.'"

"I wonder if he'd like to hear some of my songs?"

"It's worth trying; anyway, I would," said Rolf.

That night, by the fire, Van sang the "Gay Cavalier," "The Hunting of
John Peel," and "Bonnie Dundee." He had a fine baritone voice. He was
most acceptable in the musical circles of Albany. Rolf was delighted,
Skookum moaned sympathetically, and Quonab sat nor moved till the music
was over. He said nothing, but Rolf felt that it was a point gained,
and, trying to follow it up, said:

"Here's your drum, Quonab; won't you sing 'The Song of the Wabanaki?'"
But it was not well timed, and the Indian shook his head.

"Say, Van," said Rolf, (Van Cortlandt had suggested this abbreviation)
"you'll never stand right with Quonab till you kill a deer."

"I've done some trying."

"Well, now, we'll go out to-morrow evening and try once more. What do
you think of the weather, Quonab?"

"Storm begin noon and last three days," was the brief answer, as the red
man walked away.

"That settles it," said Rolf; "we wait."

Van was surprised, and all the more so when in an hour the sky grew
black and heavy rain set in, with squalls.

"How in the name of Belshazzar's weather bugler does he tell?"

"I guess you better not ask him, if you want to know. I'll find out and
tell you later."

Rolf learned, not easily or at single talk:

"Yesterday the chipmunks worked hard; to-day there are none to be seen.

"Yesterday the loons were wailing; now they are still, and no small
birds are about.

"Yesterday it was a yellow sunrise; to-day a rosy dawn.

"Last night the moon changed and had a thick little ring.

"It has not rained for ten days, and this is the third day of easterly
winds.

"There was no dew last night. I saw Tongue Mountain at daybreak; my
tom-tom will not sing.

"The smoke went three ways at dawn, and Skookum's nose was hot."

So they rested, not knowing, but forced to believe, and it was not till
the third day that the sky broke; the west wind began to pay back its
borrowings from the east, and the saying was proved that "three days'
rain will empty any sky."

That evening, after their meal, Rolf and Van launched the canoe and
paddled down the lake. A mile from camp they landed, for this was a
favourite deer run. Very soon Rolf pointed to the ground. He had found a
perfectly fresh track, but Van seemed not to comprehend. They went along
it, Rolf softly and silently, Van with his long feet and legs making a
dangerous amount of clatter. Rolf turned and whispered, "That won't
do. You must not stand on dry sticks." Van endeavoured to move more
cautiously and thought he was doing well, but Rolf found it very trying
to his patience and began to understand how Quonab had felt about
himself a year ago. "See," said Rolf, "lift your legs so; don't turn
your feet out that way. Look at the place before you put it down again;
feel with your toe to make sure there is no dead stick, then wriggle it
down to the solid ground. Of course, you'd do better in moccasins. Never
brush past any branches; lift them aside and don't let them scratch;
ease them back to the place; never try to bend a dry branch; go around
it," etc. Van had not thought of these things, but now he grasped them
quickly, and they made a wonderful improvement in his way of going.

They came again to the water's edge; across a little bay Rolf sighted at
once the form of a buck, perfectly still, gazing their way, wondering,
no doubt, what made those noises.

"Here's your chance," he whispered.

"Where?" was the eager query.

"There; see that gray and white thing?"

"I can't see him."

For five minutes Rolf tried in vain to make his friend see that
statuesque form; for five minutes it never moved. Then, sensing danger,
the buck gave a bound and was lost to view.

It was disheartening. Rolf sat down, nearly disgusted; then one of
Sylvanne's remarks came to him: "It don't prove any one a fool, coz he
can't play your game."

Presently Rolf said, "Van, hev ye a book with ye?"

"Yes, I have my Virgil."

"Read me the first page."

Van read it, holding the book six inches from his nose.

"Let's see ye read this page there," and Rolf held it up four feet away.

"I can't; it's nothing but a dim white spot."

"Well, can ye see that loon out there?"

"You mean that long, dark thing in the bay?"

"No, that's a pine log close to," said Rolf, with a laugh, "away out
half a mile."

"No, I can't see anything but shimmers."

"I thought so. It's no use your trying to shoot deer till ye get a pair
of specs to fit yer eyes. You have brains enough, but you haven't got
the eyesight of a hunter. You stay here till I go see if I have any
luck."

Rolf melted into the woods. In twenty minutes Van heard a shot and very
soon Rolf reappeared, carrying a two-year-old buck, and they returned
to their camp by nightfall. Quonab glanced at their faces as they passed
carrying the little buck. They tried to look inscrutable. But the Indian
was not deceived. He gave out nothing but a sizzling "Humph!"



Chapter 63. The Redemption of Van

"WHEN things is looking black as black can be, it's a sure sign of luck
coming your way." so said Si Sylvanne, and so it proved to Van Cortlandt
The Moon of the Falling Leaves was waning, October was nearly over, the
day of his return to Albany was near, as he was to go out in time for
the hunters to return in open water. He was wonderfully improved in
strength and looks. His face was brown and ruddy. He had abandoned all
drugs, and had gained fully twenty pounds in weight. He had learned to
make a fire, paddle a canoe, and go through the woods in semi-silence.
His scholarly talk had given him large place in Rolf's esteem, and
his sweet singing had furnished a tiny little shelf for a modicum of
Quonab's respect. But his attempts to get a deer were failures. "You
come back next year with proper, farsight glasses and you'll all right,"
said Rolf; and that seemed the one ray of hope.

The three days' storm had thrown so many trees that the hunters decided
it would be worth while making a fast trip down to Eagle's Nest, to cut
such timber as might have fallen across the stream, and so make an easy
way for when they should have less time.

The surmise was quite right. Much new-fallen timber was now across
the channel. They chopped over twenty-five trunks before they reached
Eagle's Nest at noon, and, leaving the river in better shape than ever
it was, they turned, for the swift, straight, silent run of ten miles
home.

As they rounded the last point, a huge black form in the water loomed to
view. Skookum's bristles rose. Quonab whispered, "Moose! Shoot quick!"
Van was the only one with a gun. The great black beast stood for a
moment, gazing at them with wide-open eyes, ears, and nostrils, then
shook his broad horns, wheeled, and dashed for the shore. Van fired
and the bull went down with a mighty splash among the lilies. Rolf and
Skookum let off a succession of most unhunterlike yells of triumph. But
the giant sprang up again and reached the shore, only to fall to Van
Cortlandt's second barrel. Yet the stop was momentary; he rose and
dashed into the cover. Quonab turned the canoe at once and made for the
land.

A great sob came from the bushes, then others at intervals. Quonab
showed his teeth and pointed. Rolf seized his rifle, Skookum sprang from
the boat, and a little later was heard letting off his war-cry in the
bushes not far away.

The men rushed forward, guns in hand, but Quonab called, "Look out!
Maybe he waiting."

"If he is, he'll likely get one of us." said Rolf, with a light laugh,
for he had some hearsay knowledge of moose.

Covered each by a tree, they waited till Van had reloaded his
double-barrelled, then cautiously approached. The great frothing sobs
had resounded from time to time.

Skookum's voice also was heard in the thicket, and when they neared and
glimpsed the place, it was to see the monster on the ground, lying at
full length, dinging up his head at times when he uttered that horrid
sound of pain.

The Indian sent a bullet through the moose's brain; then all was still,
the tragedy was over.

But now their attention was turned to Van Cortlandt. He reeled,
staggered, his knees trembled, his face turned white, and, to save
himself from falling, he sank onto a log. Here he covered his face with
his hands, his feet beat the ground, and his shoulders heaved up and
down.

The others said nothing. They knew by the signs and the sounds that it
was only through a mighty effort that young Van Cortlandt, grown man as
he was, could keep himself from hysterical sobs and tears.

Not then, but the next day it was that Quonab said: "It comes to some
after they kill, to some before, as it came to you, Rolf; to me it came
the day I killed my first chipmunk, that time when I stole my father's
medicine."

They had ample work for several hours now, to skin the game and save the
meat. It was fortunate they were so near home. A marvellous change there
was in the atmosphere of the camp. Twice Quonab spoke to Van Cortlandt,
as the latter laboured with them to save and store the meat of his
moose. He was rubbed, doped, soiled, and anointed with its flesh, hair,
and blood, and that night, as they sat by their camp fire, Skookum
arose, stretched, yawned, walked around deliberately, put his nose
in the lawyer's hand, gave it a lick, then lay down by his feet. Van
Cortlandt glanced at Rolf, a merry twinkle was in the eyes of both.
"It's all right. You can pat Skookum now, without risk of being
crippled. He's sized you up. You are one of us at last;" and Quonab
looked on with two long ivory rows a-gleaming in his smile.



Chapter 64. Dinner at the Governor's

Was ever there a brighter blazing sunrise after such a night of gloom?
Not only a deer, but the biggest of all deer, and Van himself the only
one of the party that had ever killed a moose. The skin was removed and
afterward made into a hunting coat for the victor. The head and horns
were carefully preserved to be carried back to Albany, where they were
mounted and still hang in the hall of a later generation of the name.
The final days at the camp were days of happy feeling; they passed too
soon, and the long-legged lawyer, bronzed and healthy looking, took his
place in their canoe for the flying trip to Albany. With an empty canoe
and three paddles (two and one half, Van said), they flew down the open
stretch of Jesup's River in something over two hours and camped that
night fully thirty-five miles from their cabin. The next day they nearly
reached the Schroon and in a week they rounded the great bend, and
Albany hove in view.

How Van's heart did beat! How he did exult to come in triumph home,
reestablished in health and strengthened in every way. They were sighted
and recognized. Messengers were seen running; a heavy gun was fired,
the flag run up on the Capitol, bells set a-ringing, many people came
running, and more flags ran up on vessels.

A great crowd gathered by the dock.

"There's father, and mother too!" shouted Van, waving his hat.

"Hurrah," and the crowd took it up, while the bells went jingle, jangle,
and Skookum in the bow sent back his best in answer.

The canoe was dragged ashore. Van seized his mother in his arms, as
she cried: "My boy, my boy, my darling boy! how well you look. Oh, why
didn't you write? But, thank God, you are back again, and looking so
healthy and strong. I know you took your squills and opodeldoc. Thank
God for that! Oh, I'm so happy! my boy, my boy! There's nothing like
squills and God's blessing."

Rolf and Quonab were made to feel that they had a part in it all. The
governor shook them warmly by the hand, and then a friendly voice was
heard: "Wall, boy, here ye air agin; growed a little, settin' up and
sassin' back, same as ever." Rolf turned to see the gigantic, angular
form and kindly face of grizzly old Si Sylvanne and was still more
surprised to hear him addressed "senator."

"Yes," said the senator, "one o' them freak elections that sometimes
hits right; great luck for Albany, wa'nt it?"

"Ho," said Quonab, shaking the senator's hand, while Skookum looked
puzzled and depressed.

"Now, remember," said the governor, addressing the Indian, the lad,
and the senator, "we expect you to dine tonight at the mansion; seven
o'clock."

Then the terror of the dragon conventionality, that guards the gate
and hovers over the feast, loomed up in Rolf's imagination. He sought a
private word with Van. "I'm afraid I have no fit clothes; I shan't know
how to behave," he said.

"Then I'll show you. The first thing is to be perfectly clean and get a
shave; put on the best clothes you have, and be sure they're clean; then
you come at exactly seven o'clock, knowing that every one is going to
be kind to you and you're bound to have a good time. As to any other
'funny-do' you watch me, and you'll have no trouble."

So when the seven o'clock assemblage came, and guests were ascending the
steps of the governor's mansion, there also mounted a tall, slim
youth, an easy-pacing Indian, and a prick-eared, yellow dog. Young Van
Cortlandt was near the door, on watch to save them any embarrassment.
But what a swell he looked, cleanshaven, ruddy, tall, and handsome in
the uniform of an American captain, surrounded by friends and immensely
popular. How different it all was from that lonely cabin by the lake.

A butler who tried to remove Skookum was saved from mutilation by the
intervention first of Quonab and next of Van; and when they sat down,
this uncompromising four-legged child of the forest ensconced himself
under Quonab's chair and growled whenever the silk stockings of the
footman seemed to approach beyond the line of true respect.

Young Van Cortlandt was chief talker at the dinner, but a pompous
military man was prominent in the company. Once or twice Rolf was
addressed by the governor or Lady Van Cortlandt, and had to speak to the
whole table; his cheeks were crimson, but he knew what he wanted to say
and stopped when it was said, so suffered no real embarrassment.

After what seemed an interminable feast of countless dishes and hours'
duration, an extraordinary change set in. Led by the hostess, all stood
up, the chairs were lifted out of their way, and the ladies trooped into
another room; the doors were closed, and the men sat down again at the
end next the governor.

Van stayed by Rolf and explained: "This is another social custom that
began with a different meaning. One hundred years ago, every man got
drunk at every formal dinner, and carried on in a way that the ladies
did not care to see, so to save their own feelings and give the men
a free rein, the ladies withdrew. Nowadays, men are not supposed to
indulge in any such orgy, but the custom continues, because it gives the
men a chance to smoke, and the ladies a chance to discuss matters that
do not interest the men. So again you see it is backed by common sense."

This proved the best part of the dinner to Rolf. There was a peculiar
sense of over-politeness, of insincerity, almost, while the ladies were
present; the most of the talking had been done by young Van Cortlandt
and certain young ladies, assisted by some very gay young men and the
general. Their chatter was funny, but nothing more. Now a different air
was on the group; different subjects were discussed, and by different
men, in a totally different manner.

"We've stood just about all we can stand," said the governor, alluding
to an incident newly told, of a British frigate boarding an American
merchant vessel by force and carrying off half her crew, under presence
that they were British seamen in disguise. "That's been going on for
three years now. It's either piracy or war, and, in either case, it's
our duty to fight."

"Jersey's dead against war," said a legislator from down the river.

"Jersey always was dead against everything that was for the national
good, sir," said a red-faced, puffy, military man, with a husky voice, a
rolling eye, and a way of ending every sentence in "sir."

"So is Connecticut," said another; "they say, 'Look at all our
defenceless coasts and harbour towns.'"

"They're not risking as much as New York," answered the governor,
"with her harbours all the way up the Hudson and her back door open to
invasion from Canada."

"Fortunately, sir, Pennyslvania, Maryland, and the West have not
forgotten the glories of the past. All I ask--is a chance to show what
we can do, sir. I long for the smell of powder once more, sir."

"I understand that President Madison has sent several protests, and, in
spite of Connecticut and New Jersey, will send an ultimatum within three
months. He believes that Britain has all she can manage, with Napoleon
and his allies battering at her doors, and will not risk a war.

"It's my opinion," said Sylvanne; "that these English men is too
pig-headed an' ornery to care a whoop in hell whether we get mad or not.
They've a notion Paul Jones is dead, but I reckon we've got plenty of
the breed only waitin' a chance. Mor'n twenty-five of our merchantmen
wrecked each year through being stripped of their crews by a 'friendly
power.' 'Pears to me we couldn't be worse off going to war, an' might be
a dum sight better."

"Your home an' holdings are three hundred safe miles from the seacoast,"
objected the man from Manhattan.

"Yes, and right next Canada," was the reply.

"The continued insults to our flag, sir, and the personal indignities
offered to our people are even worse than the actual loss in ships and
goods. It makes my blood fairly boil," and the worthy general looked the
part as his purple jowl quivered over his white cravat.

"Gosh all hemlock! the one pricks, but t'other festers, it's tarnal sure
you steal a man's dinner and tell him he's one o' nature's noblemen,
he's more apt to love you than if you give him five dollars to keep out
o' your sight," said Sylvanne, with slow emphasis.

"There's something to be said on the other side," said the timid one.
"You surely allow that the British government is trying to do right,
and after all we must admit that that Jilson affair resected very little
credit on our own administration."

"A man ken make one awful big mistake an' still be all right, but he
can't go on making a little mistake every day right along an' be fit
company for a clean crowd," retorted the new senator.

At length the governor rose and led the way to the drawing-room, where
they rejoined the ladies and the conversation took on a different colour
and weight, by which it lost all value for those who knew not the art
of twittering persiflage and found less joy in a handkerchief flirtation
than in the nation's onward march. Rolf and Quonab enjoyed it now about
as much as Skookum had done all the time.



Chapter 65. The Grebes and the Singing Mouse

Quonab puzzled long over the amazing fact that young Van Cortlandt had
evident high standing "in his own tribe." "He must be a wise counsellor,
for I know he cannot fight and is a fool at hunting," was the ultimate
decision.

They had a final interview with the governor and his son before they
left. Rolf received for himself and his partner the promised one hundred
and fifty dollars, and the hearty thanks of all in the governor's home.
Next, each was presented with a handsome hunting knife, not unlike
the one young Van had carried, but smaller. Quonab received his with
"Ho--" then, after a pause, "He pull out, maybe, when I need him."--"Ho!
good!" he exclaimed, as the keen blade appeared.