Sam smoked gravely for awhile, then continued:

"That's true about the note an' the oats an' the Horse-trade--just
what Da would do; that's all in the game: but you're all wrong about
Dick Pogue--that's too dirty for Da."

"_You_ may think so, but _I don't_."

Sam made no answer, but after a minute laid his hand on Turk, who
responded with a low growl. This made Caleb continue: "Down on me,
down on my Dog. Pogue says he kills Sheep 'an' every one is ready to
believe it. I never knowed a Hound turn Sheep-killer, an' I never
knowed a Sheep-killer kill at home, an' I never knowed a Sheep-killer
content with one each night, an' I never knowed a Sheep-killer leave
no tracks, an' Sheep was killed again and again when Turk was locked
up in the shanty with me."

"Well, whose Dog is it does it?"

"I don't know as it's any Dog, for part of the Sheep was eat each
time, they say, though I never seen one o' them that was killed or I
could tell. It's more likely a Fox or a Lynx than a Dog."

There was a long silence, then outside again the hair-lifting screech
to which the Dog paid no heed, although the Trapper and the boy were
evidently startled and scared.

They made up a blazing fire and turned in silently for the night.

The rain came down steadily, and the wind swept by in gusts. It was
the Banshee's hour, and two or three times, as they were dropping off,
that fearful, quavering human wail, "like a woman in distress," came
from the woods to set their hearts a-jumping, not Caleb and Sam only,
but all four.

In the diary which Yan kept of those times each day was named after
its event; there was Deer day, Skunk-and-Cat day, Blue Crane day, and
this was noted down as the night of the Banshee's wailing.

Caleb was up and had breakfast ready before the others were fully
awake. They had carefully kept and cleaned the Coon meat, and Caleb
made of it a "prairie pie," in which bacon, potatoes, bread, one small
onion and various scraps of food were made important. This, warmed
up for breakfast and washed down with coffee, made a royal meal, and
feasting they forgot the fears of the night.

The rain was over, but the wind kept on. Great blockish clouds were
tumbling across the upper sky Yan went out to look for tracks. He
found none but those of raindrops.

The day was spent chiefly about camp, making arrows and painting the
teepee.

Again Caleb was satisfied to sleep in the camp. The Banshee called
once that night, and again Turk seemed not to hear, but half an hour
later there was a different and much lower sound outside, a light,
nasal "_wow_." The boys scarcely heard it, but Turk sprang up
with bristling hair, growling, and forcing his way out under the door,
he ran, loudly barking, into the woods.

"He's after something now, all right," said his master; "and now he's
treed it," as the Dog began his high-pitched yelps.

"Good old Dog; he's treed the Banshee," and Yan rushed out into
the darkness. The others followed, and they found Turk barking and
scratching at a big leaning Beech, but could get no hint of what the
creature up it might be like.

"How does he usually bark for a Banshee?" asked the Woodpecker, but
got no satisfaction, and wondering why Turk should bother himself so
mightily over a little squeal and never hear that awful scream, they
retired to camp.

Next morning in the mud not far from the teepee Yan found the track of
a common Cat, and shrewdly guessed that this was the prowler that had
been heard and treed by the Dog; probably it was his old friend of the
Skunk fight. The wind was still high, and as Yan pored over the tracks
he heard for the first time in broad daylight the appalling screech.
It certainly was _loud_, though less dreadful than at night, and
peering up Yan saw _two large limbs that crossed and rubbed each
other, when the right puff of wind came_. This was the Banshee that
did the wailing that had scared them all--_all but the Dog_. His
keener senses, unspoiled by superstition, had rightly judged the awful
sound as the harmless scraping of two limbs in the high wind, but the
lower, softer noise made by the prowling Cat he had just as truly
placed and keenly followed up.

Guy was the only one not convinced. He clung to his theory of Bears.

Late in the night the two Chiefs were awakened by Guy. "Say, Sam--Sam.
Yan--Yan--Yan--Yan, get up; that big Bear is 'round again. I told you
there was a Bear, an' you wouldn't believe me."

There was a loud champing sound outside, and occasionally growls or
grumbling.

"There's surely something there, Sam. I wish Turk and Caleb were here
now."

The boys opened the door a little and peered out. There, looming up in
the dim starlight, was a huge black animal, picking up scraps of meat
and digging up the tins that were buried in the garbage hole. All
doubts were dispelled. Guy had another triumph, and he would have
expressed his feelings to the full but for fear of the monster
outside.

"What had we better do?"

"Better not shoot him with arrows. That'll only rile him. Guy, you
blow up the coals and get a blaze."

All was intense excitement now, "Oh, why haven't we got a gun!"

"Say, Sam, while Sap--I mean Hawkeye--makes a blaze, let's you and me
shoot with blunt arrows, if the Bear comes toward the teepee." So they
arranged themselves, Guy puttering in terror at the fire and begging
them not to shoot.

"What's the good o' riling him? It--it--it's croo-oo-el."

Sam and Yan stood with bows ready and arrows nocked.

Guy was making a failure of the fire, and the Bear began nosing
nearer, champing his teeth and grunting. Now the boys could see the
great ears as the monster threw up its head.

"Let's shoot before he gets any nearer." At this Guy promptly
abandoned further attempts to make a fire and scrambled up on a cross
stick that was high in the teepee for hanging the pot. He broke out
into tears when he saw Sam and Yan actually drawing their bows.

"He'll come in and eat us, he will."

But the Bear was coming anyway, and having the two tomahawks ready,
the boys let fly. At once the Bear wheeled and ran off, uttering the
loud, unmistakable squeal of an old Pig--Burns's own Pig--for young
Burns had again forgotten to put up the bars that crossed his trail
from the homestead to the camp.

Guy came down quickly to join in the laugh. "I tole you fellers not to
shoot. I just believed it was our old Hog, an' I couldn't help crying
when I thought how mad Paw'd be when he found out."

"I s'pose you got up on that cross pole to see if Paw was coming,
didn't you?"

"No; he got up there to show how brave he was."

This was the huge night prowler that Guy had seen, and in the morning
one more mystery was explained, for careful examination of Yan's diary
of the big Buck's track showed that it was nothing more than the track
of Burns's old Hog. Why had Caleb and Raften both been mistaken?
First, because it was a long time since they had seen a Buck track,
and second, because this Pig happened to have a very unpiggy foot--one
as much like that of a Buck as of a Hog.




XXIV

Hawkeye Claims Another Grand Coup


"_Wa wa wa wa wa! Wa wa wa wa wa! Wa wa wa wa wa!_" Three times it
echoed through the woods--a loud, triumphant cry.

"That's Hawkeye with a big story of bravery; let's hide."

So Sam and Yan scrambled quickly into the teepee, hid behind the
lining and watched through an "arrow hole." Guy came proudly stepping,
chin in air, uttering his war-whoop at intervals as he drew near, and
carrying his coat bundled up under one arm.

"_Coup! Grand coup! Wa wa wa wa!_" he yelled again and again, but
looked simple and foolish when he found the camp apparently deserted.

So he ceased his yells and, walking deliberately into the teepee,
pulled out the sugar box and was stuffing a handful into his mouth
when the other two Chiefs let off their wildest howls and, leaping
from their concealment, chased him into the woods--not far, for Yan
laughed too much, and Sam had on but one boot.

This was their re-gathering after a new search for adventures. Early
in the morning, as he wiped off the breakfast knives by sticking them
into the sod, the Second War Chief had suggested: "Say, boys, in old
days Warriors would sometimes set out in different directions in
search of adventure, then agree to meet at a given time. Let's do that
to-day and see what we run across."

"Get your straws," was Woodpecker's reply, as he returned from putting
the scraps on the Wakan Rock.

"No you don't," put in Hawkeye hastily; "at least, not unless you let
me hold the straws. I know you'll fix it so I'll have to go home."

"All right. You can hold the three straws; long one is
Woodpecker--that's his head with a bit of red flannel to prevent
mistakes; the middle-sized thin one is me; and the short fat one is
you. Now let them drop. Sudden death and no try over."

The straws fell, and the two boys gave a yell as Hawkeye's fate
pointed straight to the Burns homestead.

"Oh, get out; that's no good. We'll take the other end," he said
angrily, and persisted in going the opposite way.

"Now we all got to go straight till we find something, and meet here
again when that streak of sunlight gets around in the teepee to that
pole."

As the sunstreak, which was their Indian clock, travelled just about
one pole for two hours, this gave about four hours for adventures.

Sam and Yan had been back some minutes, and now Guy, having recovered
his composure, bothered not to wipe the stolen sugar from his lips,
but broke out eagerly:

"Say, fellers, I bet I'm the bully boy. I bet you I--"

"Silence!" roared Woodpecker. "You come last."

"All right; I don't care. I bet I win over all of you. I bet a million
dollars I do."

"Go ahead, Chief Woodpecker-settin'-on-the-edge."

So Sam began:

"I pulls on my boots" [he went barefooted half the time]. "Oh, I tell
you I know when to wear my boots--an' I set out following my straw
line straight out. I don't take no back track. _I'm_ not scared
of the front trail," and he turned his little slit eyes sadly on Guy,
"and I kep' right on, and when I came to the dry bed of the creek it
didn't turn _me_; no, not a dozen rods; and I kept right till I
came to a Wasp's nest, and I turned and went round that coz it's
cruel to go blundering into a nest of a lot of poor innocent little
Wasps--and I kep' on, till I heard a low growl, and I looked up and
didn't see a thing. Then the growling got louder, and I seen it was a
hungry Chipmunk roaring at me and jest getting ready to spring. Then
when I got out my bonearrer he says to me, he says, as bold as brass
'Is your name Woodpecker?' Now that scared me, and so I told a lie--my
very first. I says, says I. 'No,' says I. 'I'm Hawkeye.' Well, you
should 'a seen him. He just turned pale; every stripe on his back
faded _when I said that name_, and he made for a hollow log and
got in. Now I was mad, and tried to get him out, but when I'd run to
one end he'd run to the other, so we ran up and down till I had a
deep-worn trail alongside the log, an' he had a deep-worn trail inside
the log, an' I was figgerin' to have him wear it right through at the
bottom so the log'd open, but all of a sudden I says, 'I know what to
do for you.' I took off my boot and stuffs the leg into one end of the
log. Then I rattles a stick at the other end and I heard him run into
the boot. Then I squeezes in the leg and ties a string around it an'
brings him home, me wearing one boot and the Chipmunk the other, and
there he is in it now," and Sam curled up his free bunch of toes in
graphic comment and added: "Humph! I s'pose you fellers thought I
didn't know what I was about when I drawed on my long boots this
morning."

"Well, I just want to see that Chipmunk an' maybe I'll believe you."

"In there hunting for a loose patch," and Sam held up the boot.

"Let's turn him out," suggested the Second Chief.

So the string was cut and the Chipmunk scrambled out and away to a
safer refuge.

"Now, sonny," said Sam, as it disappeared, "don't tell your folks what
happened you or they'll swat you for a liar."

"Oh, shucks! That's no adventure. Why, I--"

"Hold on, Hawkeye; Little Beaver next."

"Well, I don't care. I bet I--"

Sam grabbed his knife and interrupted: "Do you know what Callahan's
spring lamb did when it saw the old man gathering mint? Go ahead,
Little Beaver."

"I hadn't much of an adventure, but I went straight through the woods
where my straw pointed and ran into a big dead stub. It was too old
and rotten for Birds to use now, as well as too late in the season, so
I got a pole and pushed it over, and I found the whole history of a
tenement in that stub. First of all, a Flicker had come years ago
and dug put a fine big nesting-place, and used it maybe two or three
times. When he was through, or maybe between seasons, the Chickadees
made a winter den of it, for there were some Chickadee tail-feathers
in the bottom. Next a Purple Blackbird came and used the hole, piling
up a lot of roots with mud on them. Next year it seems it came again
and made another nest on top of the last; then that winter the
Chickadees again used it for a cubby-hole, for there were some more
Chickadee feathers. Next year a Blue Jay found it out and nested
there. I found some of her egg-shells among the soft stuff of the
nest. Then I suppose a year after a pair of Sparrow-hawks happened on
the place, found it suited them, and made their nest in it and hatched
a brood of little Sparrow-hawks. Well, one day this bold robber
brought home to his little ones a Shrew."

"What's that?"

"Oh, a little thing like a Mouse, only it isn't a Mouse at all; it is
second cousin to a Mole."

"I allus thought a Mole _was_ a Mouse specie," remarked Hawkeye,
not satisfied with Yan's distinction.

"Oh, you!" interrupted Sam. "You'll try to make out the Burnses is
some kin to the Raftens next."

"I bet I won't!" and for once Guy got even.

"Well," Yan continued, "it so happened--about the first time in about
a million years--the little Hawks were not hungry just then. The Shrew
wasn't gobbled up at once, and though wounded, it set to work to
escape as soon as it was free of the old one's claws. First it hid
under the little ones, then it began to burrow down through the
feather-bed of the Sparrow-hawk's nest, then through the Blue Jay's
nest, then through the soft stuff of the Blackbird's nest and among
the old truck left by the Chickadees till it struck the hard mud
floor of the Blackbird's nest, and through that it could not dig. Its
strength gave out now, and it died there and lay hidden in the lowest
nest of the house, till years after I came by and broke open the old
stub and made it tell me a sad and mournful story--that--maybe--never
happened at all. But there's the drawing I made of it at the place,
showing all the nests just as I found them, and there's the dried up
body of the little Shrew."

Sam listened with intense interest, but Guy was at no pains to conceal
his contempt. "Oh, pshaw! That's no adventure--just a whole lot of
's'posens' without a blame thing doing. Now I'll tell you what I done.
I--"

"Now, Hawkeye," Sam put in, "please don't be rough about it. Leave out
the awful things: I ain't well to-day. You keep back the scary parts
till to-morrow."

"I tell you I left here and went straight as a die, an' I seen a
Woodchuck, but he wasn't in line, so I says: 'No, some other day. I
kin get you _easy_ any time.' Then I seen a Hawk going off with
a Chicken, but that was off my beat, an' I found lots o' old stumps
an' hundreds o' Chipmunks an' wouldn't be bothered with them. Then I
come to a farmhouse an'--an' I went around that so's not to scare the
Dog, an' I went pretty near as far as Downey's Dump--yes, a little
a-past it--only to one side--when up jumps a Partridge as big as a
Turkey, an' a hull gang of young ones--about thirty or forty. I bet I
seen them forty rod away, an' they all flew, but one that lighted on
a tree as far as--oh, 'cross that field, anyway. I bet you fellers
wouldn't 'a' seen it at all. Well, I jest hauled off as ca'm as ca'm
an' let him have it. I aimed straight for his eye--an' that's where I
hit him. _Now who gets a grand coup, for there he is_!" Hawkeye
unrolled his coat and turned out a bobtailed young Robin in the
speckled plumage, shot through the body.

"So that's your Partridge. I call that a young Robin," said the First
Chief with slow emphasis. "Rules is broke. Killed a Song-bird. Little
Beaver, arrest the criminal."

But Hawkeye struggled with all the ferocity born of his recent
exploit, and had to be bound hand and foot while a full Council was
called to try the case. The angry protests weakened when he found how
serious the Councillors were. Finally he pleaded "guilty" and was
condemned to wear a black feather of disgrace and a white feather for
cowardice for three days, as well as wash the dishes for a week. They
would also have made him cook for that term, but that they had had
some unhappy experiences with some dishes of Guy's make.

"Well, I won't do it, that's all," was the prisoner's defiant retort.
"I'll go home first."

"And hoe the garden? Oh, yes; I think I see you."

"Well, I won't do it. You better let me 'lone."

"Little Beaver, what do they do when an Injun won't obey the Council?"

"Strip him of his honours. Do you remember that stick we burned with
'Sapwood' on it?"

"Good idee. We'll burn Hawkeye for a name and dig up the old one"

"No, you won't, you dirty mean Skunks! Ye promised me you'd never call
me that again. I _am_ Hawkeye. I kin see farder'n--n--" and he
began to weep.

"Well, will you obey the Council?"

"Yes; but I won't wear no white feather--I'm _brave_, boohoo!"

"All right. We'll leave that off; but you must do the other
punishments.

"Will I still be Hawkeye?"

"Yes."

"All right. I'll do it."




XXV

The Three-Fingered Tramp.


Broad-shouldered, beetle-browed, brutal and lazy was Bill Hennard, son
of a prosperous settler. He had inherited a fine farm, but he was
as lazy as he was strong, and had soon run through his property and
followed the usual course from laziness to crime. Bill had seen the
inside of more than one jail. He was widely known in the adjoining
township of Emolan; many petty thefts were traced to him, and it was
openly stated that but for the help of a rich and clever confederate
he would certainly be in the penitentiary. It was darkly hinted,
further, that this confederate was a well-to-do Sangerite who had many
farms and a wife and son and a little daughter, and his first name was
William, and his second name Ra---- "But never mind; and don't for the
world say I told you." Oh, it's easy to get rich--if you know how. Of
course, these rumours never reached the parties chiefly concerned.

Hennard had left Downey's Dump the evening before, and avoiding the
roads, had struck through the woods, to visit his partner, with
important matters to arrange--very important for Hennard. He was much
fuddled when he left Downey's, the night was cloudy, and consequently
he had wandered round and round till he was completely lost. He slept
under a tree (a cold, miserable sleep it was), and in the sunless
morning he set out with little certainty to find his "pal." After
some time he stumbled on the trail that led him to the boys' camp. He
was now savage with hunger and annoyance, and reckless with bottle
assistance, for he carried a flask. No longer avoiding being seen, he
walked up to the teepee just as Little Beaver was frying meat for the
noonday meal he expected to eat alone. At the sound of footsteps Yan
turned, supposing that one of his companions had come back, but there
instead was a big, rough-looking tramp.

[Illustration: "Well, sonny, cookin' dinner?"]

"Well, sonny, cookin' dinner? I'll be glad to j'ine ye," he said with
an unpleasant and fawning smile.

His manner was as repulsive as it could be, though he kept the form of
politeness.

"Where's your folks, sonny?"

"Haven't any--here," replied Yan, in some fear, remembering now the
tramps of Glenyan.

"H-m--all alone--camped all alone, are ye?"

"The other fellers are away till the afternoon."

"Wall, how nice. Glad to know it. I'll trouble you to hand me that
stick," and now the tramp's manner changed from fawning to command, as
he pointed to Yan's bow hanging unstrung.

"That's my bow!" replied Yan, in fear and indignation.

"I won't tell ye a second time--hand me that stick, or I'll
spifflicate ye."

Yan stood still. The desperado strode forward, seized the bow, and
gave him two or three blows on the back and legs.

"Now, you young Pup, get me my dinner, and be quick about it, or I'll
break yer useless neck."

Yan now realized that he had fallen into the power of the worst enemy
of the harmless camper, and saw too late the folly of neglecting
Raften's advice to have a big Dog in camp. He glanced around and would
have run, but the tramp was too quick for him and grabbed him by the
collar. "Oh, no you don't; hold on, sonny. I'll fix you so you'll do
as you're told." He cut the bowstring from its place, and violently
throwing Yan down, he tied his feet so that they had about eighteen
inches' play.

"Now rush around and get my dinner; I'm hungry. An' don't you spile it
in the cooking or I'll use the gad on you; an' if you holler or cut
that cord I'll kill ye. See that?" and he got out an ugly-looking
knife.

Tears of fear and pain ran down Yan's face as he limped about to obey
the brute's orders.

"Here, you move a little faster!" and the tramp turned from poking the
fire with the bow to give another sounding blow. If he had looked down
the trail he would have seen a small tow-topped figure that turned and
scurried away at the sound.

Yan was trained to bear punishment, but the tyrant seemed careless of
even his life.

"Are you going to kill me?" he burst out, after another attack for
stumbling in his shackles.

"Don't know but I will when I've got through with ye," replied the
desperado with brutal coolness. "I'll take some more o' that meat--an'
don't you let it burn, neither. Where's the sugar for the coffee? I'll
get a bigger club if ye don't look spry," and so the tramp was served
with his meal. "Now bring me some tobaccer."

Yan hobbled into the teepee and reached down Sam's tobacco bag.

"Here, what's that box? Bring that out here," and the tramp pointed to
the box in which they kept some spare clothes. Yan obeyed in fear and
trembling. "Open it."

"I can't. It's locked, and Sam has the key."

"He has, has he? Well, I have a key that will open it," and so he
smashed the lid with the axe; then he went through the pockets, got
Yan's old silver watch and chain, and in Sam's trousers pocket he got
two dollars.

"Ha! That's just what I want, sonny," and the tramp put them in his
own pockets. "'Pears to me the fire needs a little wood," he remarked,
as his eye fell on Yan's quiverful of arrows, and he gave that a kick
that sent many of them into the blaze.

"Now, sonny, don't look at me quite so hard, like you was taking
notes, or I may have to cut your throat and put you in the swamp hole
to keep ye from telling tales."

Yan was truly in terror of his life now.

"Bring me the whetstone," the tyrant growled, "an' some more coffee."
Yan did so. The tramp began whetting his long knife, and Yan saw
two things that stuck in his memory: first, the knife, which was of
hunting pattern, had a brass Deer on the handle; second, the hand that
grasped it had only three fingers.

"What's that other box in there?"

"That's--that's--only our food box."

"You lie to me, will ye?" and again the stick descended. "Haul it
out."

"I can't."

"Haul it out or I'll choke ye."

Yan tried, but it was too heavy.

"Get out, you useless Pup!" and the tramp walked into the teepee and
gave Yan a push that sent him headlong out on the ground.

The boy was badly bruised, but saw his only chance. The big knife was
there. He seized it, cut the cord on his legs, flung the knife afar
in the swamp and ran like a Deer. The tramp rushed out of the teepee
yelling and cursing. Yan might have gotten away had he been in good
shape, but the tramp's cruelty really had crippled him, and the brute
was rapidly overtaking him. As he sped down the handiest, the south
trail, he sighted in the trees ahead a familiar figure, and yelling
with all his remaining strength, "Caleb! Caleb!! Caleb Clark!!!" he
fell swooning in the grass.

There is no mistaking the voice of dire distress. Caleb hurried up,
and with one impulse he and the tramp grappled in deadly struggle.
Turk was not with his master, and the tramp had lost his knife, so it
was a hand-to-hand conflict. A few clinches, a few heavy blows, and
it was easy to see who must win. Caleb was old and slight. The tramp,
strong, heavy-built, and just drunk enough to be dangerous, was too
much for him, and after a couple of rounds the Trapper fell writhing
with a foul blow. The tramp felt again for his knife, swore savagely,
looked around for a club, found only a big stone, and would have done
no one knows what, when there was a yell from behind, another big man
crashed down the trail, and the tramp faced William Raften, puffing
and panting, with Guy close behind. The stone meant for Caleb he
hurled at William, who dodged it, and now there was an even fight. Had
the tramp had his knife it might have gone hard with Raften, but fist
to fist the farmer had the odds. His old-time science turned the
day, and the desperado went down with a crusher "straight from the
shoulder."

It seemed a veritable battle-field--three on the ground and Raften,
red-faced and puffing, but sturdy and fearless, standing in utter
perplexity.

"Phwhat the divil does it all mane?"

"I'll tell you, Mr. Raften," chirped in Guy, as he stole from his safe
shelter.

"Oh, ye're here, are ye, Guy? Go and git a rope at camp--quick now,"
as the tramp began to move.

As soon as the rope came Raften tied the fellow's arms safely.

"'Pears to me Oi've sane that hand befoore," remarked Raften, as the
three fingers caught his eye.

Yan was now sitting up, gazing about in a dazed way. Raften went over
to his old partner and said: "Caleb, air ye hurrt? It's me--it's Bill
Raften. Air ye hurrt?"

Caleb rolled his eyes and looked around.

Yan came over now and knelt down. "Are you hurt, Mr. Clark?"

He shook his head and pointed to his chest.

"He's got his wind knocked out," Raften explained; "he'll be all right
in a minute or two. Guy, bring some wather."

Yan told his story and Guy supplied an important chapter. He had
returned earlier than expected, and was near to camp, when he heard
the tramp beating Yan. His first impulse to run home to his puny
father was replaced with the wiser one to go for brawny Mr. Raften.

The tramp was now sitting up and grumbling savagely.

"Now, me foine feller," said William. "We'll take ye back to camp for
a little visit before we take ye to the 'Pen.' A year in the cooler
will do ye moore good, Oi'm thinkin', than anny other tratement. Here,
Guy, you take the end av the rope and fetch the feller to camp, while
I help Caleb."

Guy was in his glory. The tramp was forced to go ahead; Guy followed,
jerking the rope and playing Horse, shouting, "Ch'--ch'--ch'--get
up, Horsey," while William helped old Caleb with a gentleness that
recalled a time long ago when Caleb had so helped him after a falling
tree had nearly killed him in the woods.

At camp they found Sam. He was greatly astonished at the procession,
for he knew nothing of the day's events, and fearfully disappointed he
was on learning what he had missed.

Caleb still looked white and sick when they got him to the fire, and
Raften said, "Sam, go home and get your mother to give you a little
brandy."

"You don't need to go so far," said Yan, "for that fellow has a bottle
in his pocket."

"I wouldn't touch a dhrap of annything he has, let alone give it to a
_sick friend_," was William's reply.

So Sam went for the brandy and was back with it in half an hour.

"Here now, Caleb," said William, "drink that now an' ye'll feel
better," and as he offered the cup he felt a little reviving glow of
sympathy for his former comrade.

When Sam went home that morning it was with a very clear purpose.
He had gone straight to his mother and told all he knew about the
revolver and the misunderstanding with Caleb, and they two had had a
long, unsatisfactory interview with the father. Raften was brutal and
outspoken as usual. Mrs. Raften was calm and clear-witted. Sam was
shrewd. The result was a complete defeat for William--a defeat that he
would not acknowledge; and Sam came back to camp disappointed for the
time being, but now to witness the very thing he had been striving
for--his father and the Trapper reconciled; deadly enemies two hours
ago, but now made friends through a fight. Though overpowered in
argument, Raften's rancour was not abated, but rather increased toward
the man he had evidently misused, until the balance was turned by the
chance of his helping that man in a time of direst straits.




XXVI

WINNING BACK THE FARM


Oh, the magic of the campfire! No unkind feeling long withstands its
glow. For men to meet at the same campfire is to come closer, to have
better understanding of each other, and to lay the foundations of
lasting friendship. "He and I camped together once!" is enough to
explain all cordiality between the men most wide apart, and Woodcraft
days are days of memories happy, bright and lifelong.

To sit at the same camp fireside has always been a sacred bond, and
the scene of twenty years before was now renewed in the Raften woods,
thanks to that campfire lit a month before--the sacred fire. How well
it had been named! William and Caleb were camped together in good
fellowship again, marred though it was with awkwardness as yet, but
still good fellowship.

Raften was a magistrate. He sent Sam with an order to the constable
to come for the prisoner. Yan went to the house for provisions and to
bring Mrs. Raften, and Guy went home with an astonishing account of
his latest glorious doings. The tramp desperado was securely fastened
to a tree; Caleb was in the teepee lying down. Raften went in for a
few minutes, and when he came out the tramp was gone. His bonds were
cut, not slipped. How could he nave gotten away without help?

"Never mind," said Raften. "That three-fingered hand is aisy to
follow. Caleb, ain't that Bill Hennard?"

"I reckon."

The men had a long talk. Caleb told of the loss of his revolver--he
was still living in the house with the Pogues then--and of its
recovery. They both remembered that Hennard was close by at the time
of the quarrel over the Horse-trade. There was much that explained
itself and much of mystery that remained.

But one thing was clear. Caleb had been tricked out of everything he
had in the world, for it was just a question of days now before Pogue
would, in spite of Saryann, throw off all pretense and order Caleb
from the place to shift for himself.

Raften sat a long time thinking, then said:

"Caleb, you do exactly as Oi tell ye and ye'll get yer farrum back.
First, Oi'll lend ye wan thousand dollars for wan week."

_A thousand dollars!!!_ Caleb's eyes opened, and what was next he
did not then learn, for the boys came back and interrupted, but later
the old Trapper was fully instructed.

When Mrs. Raften heard of it she was thunderstruck. A thousand dollars
in Sanger was like one hundred thousand dollars in a big city. It was
untold wealth, and Mrs. Raften fairly gasped.

"A thousand dollars, William! Why! isn't that a heavy strain to put on
the honesty of a man who thinks still that he has some claim on you?
Is it safe to risk it?"

"Pooh!" said William. "Oi'm no money-lender, nor spring gosling
nayther. Thayer's the money Oi'll lend him," and Raften produced a
roll of counterfeit bills that he as magistrate had happened to have
in temporary custody. "Thayer's maybe five hundred or six hundred
dollars, but it's near enough."

Caleb, however, was allowed to think it real money, and fully
prepared, he called at his own--the Pogue house--the next day,
knocked, and walked in.

"Good morning, father," said Saryann, for she had some decency and
kindness.

"What do you want here?" said Dick savagely; "bad enough to have you
on the place, without forcing yerself on us day and night."

"Hush now, Dick; you forget--"

"Forget--I don't forget nothin'," retorted Dick, interrupting his
wife. "He had to help with the chores an' work, an' he don't do a
thing and expects to live on me."

"Oh, well, you won't have me long to bother you," said Caleb sadly,
as he tottered to a chair. His face was white and he looked sick and
shaky.

"What's the matter, father?"

"Oh, I'm pretty bad. I won't last much longer You'll be quit o' me
before many days."

"Big loss!" grumbled Dick.

"I--I give you my farm an' everything I had--"

"Oh, shut up. I'm sick of hearing about it."

"At least--'most--everything. I--I--I--didn't say nothing about a
little wad o'--o'--bills I had stored away. I--I--" and the old man
trembled violently--"I'm so cold."

"Dick, do make a fire," said his wife.

"I won't do no sich fool trick. It's roastin' hot now."

"'Tain't much," went on the trembling old man, "only fif--fif--teen
hundred--dollars. I got it here now," and he drew out the roll of
greenbacks.

_FIFTEEN HUNDRED DOLLARS!_ Twice as much as the whole farm and
stock were worth! Dick's eyes fairly popped out, and Caleb was careful
to show also the handle of the white revolver.

"Why, father," exclaimed Saryann, "you are ill: Let me go get you some
brandy. Dick, make a fire. Father is cold as ice."

"Yes--please--fire--I'm all of--a--tremble--with--cold."

Dick rushed around now and soon the big fire place was filled with
blaze and the room unpleasantly warm.

"Here, father, have some brandy and water," said Dick, in a very
different tone. "Would you like a little quinine?"

"No, no--I'm better now; but I was saying--I only got a few days to
live, an' having no legal kin--this here wad'd go to the gover'ment,
but I spoke to the lawyer, an' all I need do--is--add--a word to the
deed o' gift--for the farm--to include this--an' it's very right you
should have it, too." Old Caleb shook from head to foot and coughed
terribly.

"Oh, father, let me send for the doctor," pleaded Saryann, and Dick
added feebly, "Yes, father, let me go for the doctor."

"No, no; never mind. It don't matter. I'll be better off soon. Have
you the deed o' gift here?"

"Oh, yes, Dick has it in his chest." Dick ran to get the deed, for
these were the days before registration in Canada; possession of the
deed was possession of the farm, and to lose the deed was to lose the
land.

The old man tremblingly fumbled over the money, seeming to count
it--"Yes--just--fif-teen hun'erd," as Dick came clumping down the
ladder with the deed.

"Have you got a--pen--and ink--"

Dick went for the dried-up ink bottle while Saryann hunted for
_the_ pen. Caleb's hand trembled violently as he took the
parchment, glanced carefully over it--yes, this was it--the thing that
had made him a despised pauper. He glanced around quickly. Dick and
Saryann were at the other end of the room. He rose, took one step
forward and stuffed the deed into the blazing fire. Holding his
revolver in his right hand and the poker in the left, he stood erect
and firm, all sign of weakness gone; his eyes were ablaze, and with
voice of stern command he hissed "_Stand back!_" And pointed the
pistol as he saw Dick rushing to rescue the deed. In a few seconds it
was wholly consumed, and with that, as all knew, the last claim of the
Pogues on the property, for Caleb's own possessory was safe in a vault
at Downey's.

"Now," thundered Caleb, "you dirty paupers, get out of my house! Get
off my land, and don't you dare touch a thing belonging to me."

He raised his voice in a long "halloo" and rapped three times on the
table. Steps were heard outside. Then in came Raften with two men.

"Magistrate Raften, clear my house of them interlopers, if ye please."

Caleb gave them a few minutes to gather up their own clothes, then
they set out on foot for Downey's, wild with helpless rage, penniless
wanderers in the world, as they had meant to leave old Caleb.

Now he was in possession of his own again, once more comfortably
"fixed." After the men had had their rough congratulations and
uproarious laughter over the success of the trick, Raften led up to
the question of money, then left a blank, wondering what Caleb would
do. The good old soul pulled out the wad.

"There it is, Bill. I hain't even counted it, and a thousand times
obliged. If ever you need a friend, call on me."

Raften chuckled, counted the greenbacks and said "All right!" and to
this day Caleb doesn't know that the fortune he held in his hand that
day was nothing but a lot of worthless paper.

A week later, as the old Trapper sat alone getting his evening meal,
there was a light rap at the door.

"Come in."

A woman entered. Turk had sprung up growling, but now wagged his tail,
and when she lifted a veil Caleb recognized Saryann.

"What do you want?" he demanded savagely.

"'Twasn't my doing, father; you know it wasn't; and now he's left me
for good." She told him her sorrowful story briefly. Dick had not
courted Saryann, but the farm, and now that that was gone he had no
further use for her. He had been leading a bad life, "far worse than
any one knew," and now he had plainly told her he was done with her.

Caleb's hot anger never lasted more than five minutes. He must have
felt that her story was true, for the order of former days was
reestablished, and with Saryann for housekeeper the old man had a
comfortable home to the end of his days.

Pogue disappeared; folks say he went to the States. The three-fingered
tramp never turned up again, and about this time the serious robberies
in the region ceased. Three years afterward they learned that two
burglars had been shot while escaping from an American penitentiary.
One of them was undoubtedly Dick Pogue, and the other was described as
a big dark man with three fingers on the right hand.




XXVII

THE RIVAL TRIBE


The winning back of the farm, according to Sanger custom must be
celebrated in a "sociable" that took the particular form of a grand
house-warming, in which the Raftens, Burnses and Boyles were fully
represented, as Char-less was Caleb's fast friend. The Injun band
was very prominent, for Caleb saw that it was entirely owing to the
meetings at the camp that the glad event had come about.

Caleb acted as go-between for Char-less Boyle and William Raften,
and their feud was forgotten--for the time at least--as they related
stories of their early hunting days, to the delight of Yan and the
Tribe. There were four other boys there whom Little Beaver met for the
first time. They were Wesley Boyle, a dark-skinned, low-browed, active
boy of Sam's age; his brother Peter, about twelve, fair, fat and
freckled, and with a marvellous squint; and their cousin Char-less
Boyle, Jr., good-natured, giggly, and of spongy character; also Cyrus
Digby, a smart city boy, who was visiting "the folks," and who usually
appeared in white cuffs and very high stand-up collar. These boys were
greatly interested in the Sanger Indian camp, and one outcome of the
meeting at Caleb's was the formation of another Tribe of Indians,
composed of the three Boyle boys and their town friend.

Since most of these were Boyles and the hunting-ground was the Boyles
woods about that marshy pond, and especially because they had read of
a band of Indians named Boilers or Stoneboilers (Assineboines), they
called themselves the "Boilers." Wesley was the natural leader. He was
alert as well as strong, and eager to do things, so made a fine Chief.
His hooked nose and black hair and eyes won for him the appropriate
name of "Blackhawk." The city boy being a noisy "show-off," who did
little work, was called "Bluejay" Peter Boyle was "Peetweet," and
Char-less, from his peculiar snickering and showing two large front
teeth, was called "Red-squirrel."

They made their camp as much as possible like that of the Sangers, and
adopted their customs; but a deadly rivalry sprang up between them
from the first. The Sangers felt that they were old and experienced
Woodcrafters. The Boilers thought they knew as much and more, and they
outnumbered the Sangers. Active rivalry led to open hostilities. There
was a general battle with fists and mud; that proved a draw. Then a
duel between leaders was arranged, and Blackhawk won the fight and
the Woodpecker's scalp. The Boilers were wild with enthusiasm. They
proposed to take the whole Sanger camp, but in a hand-to-hand fight
of both tribes it was another draw. Guy, however, scored a glorious
triumph over Char-less and secured his scalp at the moment of victory.

Now Little Beaver sent a challenge to Blackhawk. It was scornfully
accepted. Again the Boiler Chief was victor and won another scalp,
while Little Beaver got a black eye and a bad licking, but the enemy
retired.

Yan had always been considered a timid boy at Bonnerton, but that was
largely the result of his repressive home training. Sanger was working
great changes. To be treated with respect by the head of the house was
a new and delightful experience. It developed his self-respect. His
wood life was making him wonderfully self-reliant, and improved health
helped his courage, so next day, when the enemy appeared in full
force, every one was surprised when Yan again challenged Blackhawk. It
really cost him a desperate and mighty effort to do so, for it is one
thing to challenge a boy that you think you can "lick" and another to
challenge one the very day after he has licked you. Indeed, if the
truth were known, Yan did it in fear and trembling, and therein lay
the courage--in going ahead when fear said "Go back."

It is quite certain that a year before he would not have ventured in
such a fight, and he only did it now because he had realized that
Blackhawk was left-handed, and a plan to turn this to account had
suggested itself. Every one was much surprised at the challenge,
but much more so when, to the joy of his tribe, Little Beaver won a
brilliant victory.

Inspired by this, they drove the Boilers from the field, scored a
grand triumph, and Sam and Yan each captured a scalp.

The Sangers held a Council and scalp-dance in celebration that night
around an outdoor fire. The Medicine Man was sent for to be in it.

After the dance, Chief Beaver, his face painted to hide his black
eye, made a speech. He claimed that the Boilers would surely look for
reinforcements and attempt a new attack, and that, therefore, the
Sangers should try to add to their number, too.

"I kin lick Char-less any time," piped in Guy proudly, and swung the
scalp he had won.

But the Medicine Man said: "If I were you boys I'd fix up a peace. Now
you've won you ought to ask them to a big pow-wow."

These were the events that led to the friendly meeting of the two
Tribes in full war-paint.

Chief Woodpecker first addressed them: "Say, fellers--Brother Chiefs,
I mean--this yere quar'lin' don't pay. We kin have more fun working
together. Let's be friends an' join in one Tribe. There's more fun
when there's a crowd."

"All right," said Blackhawk; "but we'll call the tribe the 'Boilers,'
coz we have the majority, and leave me Head Chief."

"You are wrong about that. Our Medicine Men makes us even number
and more than even weight. We've got the best camp--have the
swimming-pond, and we are the oldest Tribe, not to speak of the
success we had in a certain leetle business not long ago which the
youngest of us kin remember," and Guy grinned in appreciation of this
evident reference to his exploit.

As a matter of fact, it was the swimming-pond that turned the day. The
Boilers voted to join the Sangers. Their holiday was only ten days,
the Sangers had got a week's extension, and all knew that they could
get most out of their time by going to the pond camp. The question of
a name was decided by Little Beaver.

"Boiler Warriors," said he, "it is the custom of the Indians to have
the Tribes divided in clans. We are the Sanger clan. You are the
Boiler clan. But as we all live in Sanger we are all Sanger Indians."

"Who's to be Head Chief?"

Blackhawk had no notion of submitting to Woodpecker, whom he had
licked, nor would Woodpecker accept a Chief of the inferior tribe.
One suggested that Little Beaver be Chief, but out of loyalty to his
friend, the Woodpecker, Yan declined.

"Better leave that for a few days till you get acquainted," was the
Medicine Man's wise suggestion.

That day and the next were spent in camp. The Boilers had their teepee
to make and beds to prepare. The Sangers merrily helped, making a
"bee" of it.

Bow and arrow making were next to do. Little Beaver had not fully
replaced his own destroyed by the robber. A hunt of the Burlap Deer
was a pleasant variation of the second day, though there were but two
bows for all, and the Boilers began to realize that they were really
far behind the Sangers in knowledge of Woodcraft.

At swimming Blackhawk was easily first. Of course, this greatly
increased his general interest in the swimming-pond, and he chiefly
was responsible for the making of a canoe later on.

The days went on right merrily--oh, so fast! Little Beaver showed all
the things of interest in his kingdom. How happy he was in showing
them--playing experienced guide as he used to dream it! Peetweet took
a keen interest; so did the city boy. Char-less took a little interest
in it all, helped a little, was generally a little in everything, and
giggled a good deal. Hawkeye was disposed to bully Char-less, since he
found him quite lickable. His tone was high and haughty when he spoke
to him--not at all like his whining when addressing the others. He
volunteered to discipline Char-less if he should ill-treat any of the
others, and was about to administer grievous personal punishment for
some trifling offense, when Blackhawk gave him a warning that had good
effect.

Yan's note-book was fully discussed and his drawings greatly admired.
He set to work at once with friendly enthusiasm to paint the Boilers'
teepee. Not having any adventures that seemed important, except,
perhaps, Blackhawk's defeat of Woodpecker and Little Beaver, subjects
that did not interest the artist, the outside decorations were the
totem of the clan and its members.




XXVIII

White-Man's Woodcraft


Blackhawk was the introducer of a new game which he called "judging."

"How far is it from here to that tree?" he would ask, and when each
had written down his guess they would measure, and usually it was
Woodpecker or Blackhawk that came nearest to the truth. Guy still held
the leadership "for far sight," for which reason he suggested that
game whenever a change of amusement was wanted.

Yan, following up Blackhawk's suggestion, brought in the new game of
"White-man's Woodcraft."

"Can you," asked he, "tell a Dog's height by its track?"

"No; nor you nor any one else," was the somewhat scornful reply.

"Oh, yes, I can. Take the length in inches of his forefoot track,
multiply it by 8, and that gives his height at the shoulder. You try
it and you'll see. A little Dog has a 2-1/4-inch foot and stands about
18 inches, a Sheep Dog with a 3-inch track stands 24 inches, and a
Mastiff or any big Dog with a 4-inch track gives 30 to 32 inches."

"You mean every Dog is 8 feet high?" drawled Sam, doubtfully, but Yan
went on. "And you can tell his weight, too, by the track. You multiply
the width of his forefoot in inches by the length, and multiply that
by 5, and that gives pretty near his weight in pounds. I tried old
Cap. His foot is 3-1/2 by 3; that equals 10-1/2, multiplied by 5
equals 52-1/2 pounds: just about right."

"I'll bet I seen a Dog at the show that that wouldn't work on,"
drawled Sam. "He was as long as my two arms, he had feet as big as a
young Bear, an' he wasn't any higher than a brick. He was jest about
the build of a Caterpiller, only he didn't have but four legs at the
far ends. They was so far apart he couldn't keep step. He looked like
he was raised under a bureau. I think when they was cutting down so on
his legs they might have give him more of them; a row in the middle
would 'a' been 'bout right."

"Yes, I know him. That's a Dachshund. But you can't reckon on freaks;
nothing but straight Dog. It works on wild animals, too--that is, on
Wolves and Foxes and maybe other things," then changing the subject
Beaver continued:

"Can you tell the height of a tree by its shadow?"

"Never thought of that. How do you do it?"

"Wait till your own shadow is the same length as yourself--that is,
about eight in the morning or four in the afternoon--then measure the
tree's shadow. That gives its length."

"You'd have to wait all day to work that, and you can't do it at all
in the woods or on a dull day," objected Blackhawk. "I'd rather do it
by guess."

"I'll bet my scalp against yours I can tell the height of that
tree right now without climbing it, and get closer than you can by
guessing," said Little Beaver.

"No, I won't bet scalps on that--but I'll bet who's to wash the
dishes."

"All right. To the top of that tree, how much is it?"

"Better not take the top, 'cause we can't get there to measure it, but
say that knot," was the rejoinder. "Here, Woodpecker, you be judge."

"No, I want to be in this guessing. The loser takes the next turn of
dishwashing for each of the others."

So Blackhawk studied the knot carefully and wrote down his
guess--Thirty-eight feet.

Sam said, "Blackhawk! Ground's kind of uneven. I'd like to know the
exact spot under the tree that you'd measure to. Will you mark it with
a peg?"

So Blackhawk went over and put in a white peg, at the same time
unwittingly giving Woodpecker what he wanted--a gauge, for he knew
Blackhawk was something more than five feet high; judging then as he
stood there Sam wrote down Thirty-five feet.

Now it was Yan's turn to do it by "White-man's Woodcraft," as he
called it. He cut a pole exactly ten feet long, and choosing the
smoothest ground, he walked about twenty yards from the tree, propped
the pole upright, then lay down so that his eye was level with the
tree base and in line with the top of the pole and the knot on the
tree. A peg marked the spot.