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Rolf in the Woods

by Ernest Thompson Seton · English · Gutenberg #1088 · 591,916 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Rolf in the Woods

Author: Ernest Thompson Seton


        
Release date: October 1, 1997 [eBook #1088]
                Most recently updated: October 29, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROLF IN THE WOODS ***

ROLF IN THE WOODS

By Ernest Thompson Seton

[Chapters 10 and 60 not designated in the original file.]




Preface

In this story I have endeavoured to realize some of the influences that
surrounded the youth of America a hundred years ago, and made of them,
first, good citizens, and, later, in the day of peril, heroes that won
the battles of Lake Erie, Plattsburg, and New Orleans, and the great sea
fights of Porter, Bainbridge, Decatur, Lawrence, Perry, and MacDonough.

I have especially dwelt in detail on the woodland and peace scouting
in the hope that I may thus help other boys to follow the hard-climbing
trail that leads to the higher uplands.

For the historical events of 1812-14, I have consulted among books
chiefly, Theodore Roosevelt's “Naval War of 1812,” Peter S. Palmer's
“History of Lake Champlain,” and Walter Hill Crockett's “A History of
Lake Champlain,” 1909. But I found another and more personal mine of
information. Through the kindness of my friend, Edmund Seymour, a native
of the Champlain region, now a resident of New York, I went over all the
historical ground with several unpublished manuscripts for guides, and
heard from the children of the sturdy frontiersmen new tales of the
war; and in getting more light and vivid personal memories, I was glad,
indeed, to realize that not only were there valour and heroism on both
sides, but also gentleness and courtesy. Histories written by either
party at the time should be laid aside. They breathe the rancourous
hate of the writers of the age--the fighters felt not so--and the
many incidents given here of chivalry and consideration were actual
happenings, related to me by the descendants of those who experienced
them; and all assure me that these were a true reflex of the feelings of
the day.

I am much indebted to Miss Katherine Palmer, of Plattsburg, for kindly
allowing me to see the unpublished manuscript memoir of her grandfather,
Peter Sailly, who was Collector of the Port of Plattsburg at the time of
the war.

Another purpose in this story was to picture the real Indian with his
message for good or for evil.

Those who know nothing of the race will scoff and say they never heard
of such a thing as a singing and religious red man. Those who know him
well will say, “Yes, but you have given to your eastern Indian songs
and ceremonies which belong to the western tribes, and which are of
different epochs.” To the latter I reply:

“You know that the western Indians sang and prayed in this way. How do
you know that the eastern ones did not? We have no records, except
those by critics, savagely hostile, and contemptuous of all religious
observances but their own. The Ghost Dance Song belonged to a much more
recent time, no doubt, but it was purely Indian, and it is generally
admitted that the races of continental North America were of one stock,
and had no fundamentally different customs or modes of thought.”

The Sunrise Song was given me by Frederick R. Burton, author of
“American Primitive Music.” It is still in use among the Ojibwa.

The songs of the Wabanaki may be read in C. G. Leland's “Kuloskap the
Master.”

The Ghost Dance Song was furnished by Alice C. Fletcher, whose “Indian
Song and Story” will prove a revelation to those who wish to follow
further.

ERNEST THOMPSON SETON.



Chapter 1. The Wigwam Under the Rock

The early springtime sunrise was near at hand as Quonab, the last of the
Myanos Sinawa, stepped from his sheltered wigwam under the cliff that
borders the Asamuk easterly, and, mounting to the lofty brow of the
great rock that is its highest pinnacle, he stood in silence, awaiting
the first ray of the sun over the sea water that stretches between
Connecticut and Seawanaky.

His silent prayer to the Great Spirit was ended as a golden beam shot
from a long, low cloud-bank over the sea, and Quonab sang a weird Indian
song for the rising sun, an invocation to the Day God:

     “O thou that risest from the low cloud
     To burn in the all above;
     I greet thee!  I adore thee!”

Again and again he sang to the tumming of a small tom-tom, till the
great refulgent one had cleared the cloud, and the red miracle of the
sunrise was complete. Back to his wigwam went the red man, down to his
home tucked dosed under the sheltering rock, and, after washing his
hands in a basswood bowl, began to prepare his simple meal.

A tin-lined copper pot hanging over the fire was partly filled with
water; then, when it was boiling, some samp or powdered corn and some
clams were stirred in. While these were cooking, he took his smooth-bore
flint-lock, crawled gently over the ridge that screened his wigwam from
the northwest wind, and peered with hawk-like eyes across the broad
sheet of water that, held by a high beaver-dam, filled the little valley
of Asamuk Brook.

The winter ice was still on the pond, but in all the warming shallows
there was open water, on which were likely to be ducks. None were to be
seen, but by the edge of the ice was a round object which, although so
far away, he knew at a glance for a muskrat.

By crawling around the pond, the Indian could easily have come within
shot, but he returned at once to his wigwam, where he exchanged his gun
for the weapons of his fathers, a bow and arrows, and a long fish-line.
A short, quick stalk, and the muskrat, still eating a flagroot, was
within thirty feet. The fish-line was coiled on the ground and then
attached to an arrow, the bow bent--zip--the arrow picked up the line,
coil after coil, and trans-fixed the muskrat. Splash! and the animal was
gone under the ice.

But the cord was in the hands of the hunter; a little gentle pulling and
the rat came to view, to be despatched with a stick and secured. Had he
shot it with a gun, it had surely been lost.

He returned to his camp, ate his frugal breakfast, and fed a small,
wolfish-looking yellow dog that was tied in the lodge.

He skinned the muskrat carefully, first cutting a slit across the rear
and then turning the skin back like a glove, till it was off to the
snout; a bent stick thrust into this held it stretched, till in a day,
it was dry and ready for market. The body, carefully cleaned, he hung in
the shade to furnish another meal.

As he worked, there were sounds of trampling in the woods, and
presently a tall, rough-looking man, with a red nose and a curling white
moustache, came striding through brush and leaves. He stopped when
he saw the Indian, stared contemptuously at the quarry of the morning
chase, made a scornful remark about “rat-eater,” and went on toward the
wigwam, probably to peer in, but the Indian's slow, clear, “keep away!”
 changed his plan. He grumbled something about “copper-coloured tramp,”
 and started away in the direction of the nearest farmhouse.



Chapter 2. Rolf Kittering and the Soldier Uncle

     A feller that chatters all the time is bound to talk a
     certain amount of drivel.--The Sayings of Si Sylvanne

This was the Crow Moon, the white man's March. The Grass Moon was at
hand, and already the arrow bands of black-necked honkers were passing
northward from the coast, sending down as they flew the glad tidings
that the Hunger Moon was gone, that spring was come, yea, even now was
in the land. And the flicker clucked from a high, dry bough, the spotted
woodwale drummed on his chosen branch, the partridge drummed in the pine
woods, and in the sky the wild ducks, winging, drummed their way. What
wonder that the soul of the Indian should seek expression in the drum
and the drum song of his race?

Presently, as though remembering something, he went quietly to the
southward under the ridge, just where it breaks to let the brook go by,
along the edge of Strickland's Plain, and on that hill of sliding stone
he found, as he always had, the blue-eyed liver-leaf smiling, the first
sweet flower of spring! He did not gather it, he only sat down and
looked at it. He did not smile, or sing, or utter words, or give it
a name, but he sat beside it and looked hard at it, and, in the first
place, he went there knowingly to find it. Who shall say that its beauty
did not reach his soul?

He took out his pipe and tobacco bag, but was reminded of something
lacking--the bag was empty. He returned to his wigwam, and from their
safe hanger or swinging shelf overhead, he took the row of stretched
skins, ten muskrats and one mink, and set out along a path which led
southward through the woods to the broad, open place called Strickland's
Plain, across that, and over the next rock ridge to the little town and
port of Myanos.

               SILAS PECK
               Trading Store

was the sign over the door he entered. Men and women were buying and
selling, but the Indian stood aside shyly until all were served, and
Master Peck cried out:

“Ho, Quonab! what have ye got for trade to-day?”

Quonab produced his furs. The dealer looked at them narrowly and said:

“They are too late in the season for primes; I cannot allow you more
than seven cents each for the rats and seventy-five cents for the mink,
all trade.”

The Indian gathered up the bundle with an air of “that settles it,” when
Silas called out:

“Come now, I'll make it ten cents for the rats.”

“Ten cents for rats, one dollar for mink, all cash, then I buy what I
like,” was the reply.

It was very necessary to Silas's peace that no customer of his should
cross the street to the sign,

              SILAS MEAD
              Trading Store

So the bargain, a fair one now, was made, and the Indian went off with a
stock of tobacco, tea, and sugar.

His way lay up the Myanos River, as he had one or two traps set along
the banks for muskrats, although in constant danger of having them
robbed or stolen by boys, who considered this an encroachment on their
trapping grounds.

After an hour he came to Dumpling Pond, then set out for his home,
straight through the woods, till he reached the Catrock line, and
following that came to the farm and ramshackle house of Micky Kittering.
He had been told that the man at this farm had a fresh deer hide for
sale, and hoping to secure it, Quonab walked up toward the house. Micky
was coming from the barn when he saw the Indian. They recognized each
other at a glance. That was enough for Quonab; he turned away. The
farmer remembered that he had been “insulted.” He vomited a few oaths,
and strode after the Indian, “To take it out of his hide”; his purpose
was very clear. The Indian turned quickly, stood, and looked calmly at
Michael.

Some men do not know the difference between shyness and cowardice, but
they are apt to find it out unexpectedly Something told the white man,
“Beware! this red man is dangerous.” He muttered something about, “Get
out of that, or I'll send for a constable.” The Indian stood gazing
coldly, till the farmer backed off out of sight, then he himself turned
away to the woods.

Kittering was not a lovely character. He claimed to have been a soldier.
He certainly looked the part, for his fierce white moustache was curled
up like horns on his purple face, at each side of his red nose, in
a most milita style. His shoulders were square and his gait was
swaggering, beside which, he had an array of swear words that was new
and tremendously impressive in Connecticut. He had married late in life
a woman who would have made him a good wife, had he allowed her. But, a
drunkard himself he set deliberately about bringing his wife to his own
ways and with most lamentable success. They had had no children, but
some months before a brother's child, fifteen-year-old lad, had become
a charge on their hands and, with any measure of good management, would
have been a blessing to all. But Micky had gone too far. His original
weak good-nature was foundered in rum. Always blustery and frothy, he
divided the world in two--superior officers, before whom he grovelled,
and inferiors to whom he was a mouthy, foul-tongued, contemptible bully,
in spite of a certain lingering kindness of heart that showed itself at
such rare times when he was neither roaring drunk nor crucified by black
reaction. His brother's child, fortunately, had inherited little of the
paternal family traits, but in both body and brain favoured his mother,
the daughter of a learned divine who had spent unusual pains on her book
education, but had left her penniless and incapable of changing that
condition.

Her purely mental powers and peculiarities were such that, a hundred
years before, she might have been burned for a witch, and fifty years
later might have been honoured as a prophetess. But she missed the crest
of the wave both ways and fell in the trough; her views on religious
matters procured neither a witch's grave nor a prophet's crown, but a
sort of village contempt.

The Bible was her standard--so far so good--but she emphasized the wrong
parts of it. Instead of magnifying the damnation of those who follow not
the truth (as the village understood it), she was content to semi-quote:

“Those that are not against me are with me,” and “A kind heart is the
mark of His chosen.” And then she made a final utterance, an echo really
of her father: “If any man do anything sincerely, believing that thereby
he is worshipping God, he is worshipping God.”

Then her fate was sealed, and all who marked the blazing eyes, the
hollow cheeks, the yet more hollow chest and cough, saw in it all the
hand of an offended God destroying a blasphemer, and shook their heads
knowingly when the end came.

So Rolf was left alone in life, with a common school education, a
thorough knowledge of the Bible and of “Robinson Crusoe,” a vague
tradition of God everywhere, and a deep distrust of those who should
have been his own people.

The day of the little funeral he left the village of Redding to tramp
over the unknown road to the unknown south where his almost unknown
Uncle Michael had a farm and, possibly, a home for him.

Fifteen miles that day, a night's rest in a barn, twenty-five miles the
next day, and Rolf had found his future home.

“Come in, lad,” was the not unfriendly reception, for his arrival
was happily fallen on a brief spell of good humour, and a strong,
fifteen-year-old boy is a distinct asset on a farm.



Chapter 3. Rolf Catches a Coon and Finds a Friend

Aunt Prue, sharp-eyed and red-nosed, was actually shy at first, but
all formality vanished as Rolf was taught the mysteries of pig-feeding,
hen-feeding, calf-feeding, cow-milking, and launched by list only in
a vast number of duties familiar to him from his babyhood. What a list
there was. An outsider might have wondered if Aunt Prue was saving
anything for herself, but Rolf was used to toil. He worked without
ceasing and did his best, only to learn in time that the best could win
no praise, only avert punishment. The spells of good nature arrived more
seldom in his uncle's heart. His aunt was a drunken shrew and soon Rolf
looked on the days of starving and physical misery with his mother as
the days of his happy youth gone by.

He was usually too tired at night and too sleepy in the morning to say
his prayers, and gradually he gave it up as a daily habit. The more he
saw of his kinsfolk, the more wickedness came to view; and yet it was
with a shock that he one day realized that some fowls his uncle brought
home by night were there without the owner's knowledge or consent. Micky
made a jest of it, and intimated that Rolf would have to “learn to do
night work very soon.” This was only one of the many things that showed
how evil a place was now the orphan's home.

At first it was not clear to the valiant uncle whether the silent boy
was a superior to be feared, or an inferior to be held in fear, but
Mick's courage grew with non-resistance, and blows became frequent;
although not harder to bear than the perpetual fault-finding and
scolding of his aunt, and all the good his mother had implanted was
being shrivelled by the fires of his daily life.

Rolf had no chance to seek for companions at the village store, but an
accident brought one to him. Before sunrise one spring morning he went,
as usual, to the wood lot pasture for the cow, and was surprised to find
a stranger, who beckoned him to come. On going near he saw a tall
man with dark skin and straight black hair that was streaked with
gray--undoubtedly an Indian. He held up a bag and said, “I got coon
in that hole. You hold bag there, I poke him in.” Rolf took the sack
readily and held it over the hole, while the Indian climbed the tree to
a higher opening, then poked in this with a long pole, till all at once
there was a scrambling noise and the bag bulged full and heavy. Rolf
closed its mouth triumphantly. The Indian laughed lightly, then swung to
the ground.

“Now, what will you do with him?” asked Rolf.

“Train coon dog,” was the answer.

“Where?”

The Indian pointed toward the Asamuk Pond.

“Are you the singing Indian that lives under Ab's Rock?

“Ugh! [*] Some call me that. My name is Quonab.”

“Wait for an hour and then I will come and help,” volunteered Rolf
impulsively, for the hunting instinct was strong in him.

The Indian nodded. “Give three yelps if you no find me;” then he
shouldered a short stick, from one end of which, at a safe distance from
his back, hung the bag with the coon. And Rolf went home with the cow.

He had acted on hasty impulse in offering to come, but now, in the
normal storm state of the household, the difficulties of the course
appeared. He cudgelled his brain for some plan to account for his
absence, and finally took refuge unwittingly in ancient wisdom: “When
you don't know a thing to do, don't do a thing.” Also, “If you can't
find the delicate way, go the blunt way.”

So having fed the horses, cleaned the stable, and milked the cow, fed
the pigs, the hens, the calf, harnessed the horses, cut and brought in
wood for the woodshed, turned out the sheep, hitched the horses to the
wagon, set the milk out in the creaming pans, put more corn to soak for
the swill barrel, ground the house knife, helped to clear the breakfast
things, replaced the fallen rails of a fence, brought up potatoes from
the root cellar, all to the maddening music of a scolding tongue, he set
out to take the cow back to the wood lot, sullenly resolved to return
when ready.


     * Ugh (yes) and wah (no) are Indianisms that continue no
     matter how well the English has been acquired.



Chapter 4. The Coon Hunt Makes Trouble for Rolf

Not one hour, but nearly three, had passed before Rolf sighted the
Pipestave Pond, as it was called. He had never been there before, but
three short whoops, as arranged, brought answer and guidance. Quonab was
standing on the high rock. When Rolf came he led down to the wigwam on
its south side. It was like stepping into a new life. Several of the
old neighbours at Redding were hunters who knew the wild Indians and had
told him tales that glorified at least the wonderful woodcraft of the
red man. Once or twice Rolf had seen Indians travelling through, and he
had been repelled by their sordid squalour. But here was something of
a different kind; not the Champlain ideal, indeed, for the Indian wore
clothes like any poor farmer, except on his head and his feet; his head
was bare, and his feet were covered with moccasins that sparkled with
beads on the arch. The wigwam was of canvas, but it had one or two
of the sacred symbols painted on it. The pot hung over the fire was
tin-lined copper, of the kind long made in England for Indian trade,
but the smaller dishes were of birch bark and basswood. The gun and the
hunting knife were of white man's make, but the bow, arrows, snowshoes,
tom-tom, and a quill-covered gun case were of Indian art, fashioned of
the things that grow in the woods about.

The Indian led into the wigwam. The dog, although not fully grown,
growled savagely as it smelled the hated white man odour. Quonab gave
the puppy a slap on the head, which is Indian for, “Be quiet; he's all
right;” loosed the rope, and led the dog out. “Bring that,” and the
Indian pointed to the bag which hung from a stick between two trees. The
dog sniffed suspiciously in the direction of the bag and growled, but
he was not allowed to come near it. Rolf tried to make friends with the
dog, but without success and Quonab said, “Better let Skookum [*] alone.
He make friends when he ready--maybe never.”

The two hunters now set out for the open plain, two or three hundred
yards to the southward. Here the raccoon was dumped out of the sack,
and the dog held at a little distance, until the coon had pulled itself
together and began to run. Now the dog was released and chivvied on.
With a tremendous barking he rushed at the coon, only to get a nip that
made him recoil, yelping. The coon ran as hard as it could, the dog
and hunters came after it; again it was overtaken, and, turning with a
fierce snarl, it taught the dog a second lesson. Thus, running, dodging,
and turning to fight, the coon got back to the woods, and there made
a final stand under a small, thick tree; and, when the dog was again
repulsed, climbed quickly up into the branches.

The hunters did all they could to excite the dog, until he was jumping
about, trying to climb the tree, and barking uproariously. This was
exactly what they wanted. Skookum's first lesson was learned--the duty
of chasing the big animal of that particular smell, then barking up the
tree it had climbed.

Quonab, armed with a forked stick and a cord noose, now went up the
tree. After much trouble he got the noose around the coon's neck, then,
with some rather rough handling, the animal was dragged down, maneuvered
into the sack, and carried back to camp, where it was chained up to
serve in future lessons; the next two or three being to tree the coon,
as before; in the next, the coon was to be freed and allowed to get out
of sight, so that the dog might find it by trailing, and the last, in
which the coon was to be trailed, treed, and shot out of the tree, so
that the dog should have the final joy of killing a crippled coon, and
the reward of a coon-meat feast. But the last was not to be, for the
night before it should have taken place the coon managed to slip its
bonds, and nothing but the empty collar and idle chain were found in the
captive's place next morning.

These things were in the future however. Rolf was intensely excited over
all he had seen that day. His hunting instincts were aroused. There had
been no very obvious or repellant cruelty; the dog alone had suffered,
but he seemed happy. The whole affair was so exactly in the line of
his tastes that the boy was in a sort of ecstatic uplift, and already
anticipating a real coon hunt, when the dog should be properly trained.
The episode so contrasted with the sordid life he had left an hour
before that he was spellbound. The very animal smell of the coon seemed
to make his fibre tingle. His eyes were glowing with a wild light. He
was so absorbed that he did not notice a third party attracted by the
unusual noise of the chase, but the dog did. A sudden, loud challenge
called all attention to a stranger on the ridge behind the camp. There
was no mistaking the bloated face and white moustache of Rolf's uncle.

“So, you young scut! that is how you waste your time. I'll larn ye a
lesson.”

The dog was tied, the Indian looked harmless, and the boy was cowed,
so the uncle's courage mounted high. He had been teaming in the nearby
woods, and the blacksnake whip was in his hands. In a minute its thong
was lapped, like a tongue of flame, around Rolf's legs. The boy gave a
shriek and ran, but the man followed and furiously plied the whip.
The Indian, supposing it was Rolf's father, marvelled at his method
of showing affection, but said nothing, for the Fifth Commandment is a
large one in the wigwam. Rolf dodged some of the cruel blows, but was
driven into a corner of the rock. One end of the lash crossed his face
like a red-hot wire.

“Now I've got you!” growled the bully.

Rolf was desperate. He seized two heavy stones and hurled the first with
deadly intent at his uncle's head. Mick dodged in time, but the second,
thrown lower, hit him on the thigh. Mick gave a roar of pain. Rolf
hastily seized more stones and shrieked out, “You come on one step and
I'll kill you!”

Then that purple visage turned a sort of ashen hue. Its owner mouthed in
speechless rage. He “knew it was the Indian had put Rolf up to it. He'd
see to it later,” and muttering, blasting, frothing, the hoary-headed
sinner went limping off to his loaded wagon.


     * “Skookum” or “Skookum Chuck,” in Chinook means “Troubled
     waters.”



Chapter 5. Good-bye to Uncle Mike

     For counsel comes with the night, and action comes with the
     day; But the gray half light, neither dark nor bright, is a
     time to hide away.


Rolf had learned one thing at least--his uncle was a coward. But he also
knew that he himself was in the wrong, for he was neglecting his work
and he decided to go back at once and face the worst. He made little
reply to the storm of scolding that met him. He would have been
disappointed if it had not come. He was used to it; it made him feel at
home once more. He worked hard and silently.

Mick did not return till late. He had been drawing wood for Horton that
day, which was the reason he happened in Quonab's neighbourhood; but his
road lay by the tavern, and when he arrived home he was too helpless to
do more than mutter.

The next day there was an air of suspended thunder. Rolf overheard his
uncle cursing “that ungrateful young scut--not worth his salt.” But
nothing further was said or done. His aunt did not strike at him once
for two days. The third night Micky disappeared. On the next he returned
with another man; they had a crate of fowls, and Rolf was told to keep
away from “that there little barn.”

So he did all morning, but he peeped in from the hayloft when a chance
came, and saw a beautiful horse. Next day the “little barn” was open and
empty as before.

That night this worthy couple had a jollification with some callers, who
were strangers to Rolf. As he lay awake, listening to the carouse, he
overheard many disjointed allusions that he did not understand, and some
that he could guess at: “Night work pays better than day work any time,”
 etc. Then he heard his own name and a voice, “Let's go up and settle it
with him now.” Whatever their plan, it was clear that the drunken crowd,
inspired by the old ruffian, were intent on doing him bodily harm. He
heard them stumbling and reeling up the steep stairs. He heard, “Here,
gimme that whip,” and knew he was in peril, maybe of his life, for they
were whiskey-mad. He rose quickly, locked the door, rolled up an old rag
carpet, and put it in his bed. Then he gathered his clothes on his arm,
opened the window, and lowered himself till his head only was above the
sill, and his foot found a resting place. Thus he awaited. The raucous
breathing of the revellers was loud on the stairs; then the door was
tried; there was some muttering; then the door was burst open and in
rushed two, or perhaps three, figures. Rolf could barely see in the
gloom, but he knew that his uncle was one of them. The attack they made
with whip and stick on that roll of rags in the bed would have broken
his bones and left him shapeless, had he been in its place. The men were
laughing and took it all as a joke, but Rolf had seen enough; he slipped
to the ground and hurried away, realizing perfectly well now that this
was “good-bye.”

Which way? How naturally his steps turned northward toward Redding, the
only other place he knew. But he had not gone a mile before he stopped.
The yapping of a coon dog came to him from the near woods that lay to
the westward along Asamuk. He tramped toward it. To find the dog is one
thing, to find the owner another; but they drew near at last. Rolf gave
the three yelps and Quonab responded.

“I am done with that crowd,” said the boy. “They tried to kill me
tonight. Have you got room for me in your wigwam for a couple of days?”

“Ugh, come,” said the Indian.

That night, for the first time, Rolf slept in the outdoor air of a
wigwam. He slept late, and knew nothing of the world about him till
Quonab called him to breakfast.



Chapter 6. Skookum Accepts Rolf at Last

Rolf expected that Micky would soon hear of his hiding place and come
within a few days, backed by a constable, to claim his runaway ward. But
a week went by and Quonab, passing through Myanos, learned, first, that
Rolf had been seen tramping northward on the road to Dumpling Pond, and
was now supposed to be back in Redding; second, that Micky Kittering was
lodged in jail under charge of horse-stealing and would certainly get
a long sentence; third, that his wife had gone back to her own folks at
Norwalk, and the house was held by strangers.

All other doors were closed now, and each day that drifted by made it
the more clear that Rolf and Quonab were to continue together. What boy
would not exult at the thought of it? Here was freedom from a brutal
tyranny that was crushing out his young life; here was a dream of the
wild world coming true, with gratification of all the hunter instincts
that he had held in his heart for years, and nurtured in that single,
ragged volume of “Robinson Crusoe.” The plunge was not a plunge, except
it be one when an eagle, pinion-bound, is freed and springs from a cliff
of the mountain to ride the mountain wind.

The memory of that fateful cooning day was deep and lasting. Never
afterward did smell of coon fail to bring it back; in spite of the many
evil incidents it was a smell of joy.

“Where are you going, Quonab?” he asked one morning, as he saw the
Indian rise at dawn and go forth with his song drum, after warming it at
the fire. He pointed up to the rock, and for the first time Rolf heard
the chant for the sunrise. Later he heard the Indian's song for “Good
Hunting,” and another for “When His Heart Was Bad.” They were prayers or
praise, all addressed to the Great Spirit, or the Great Father, and it
gave Rolf an entirely new idea of the red man, and a startling light
on himself. Here was the Indian, whom no one considered anything but a
hopeless pagan, praying to God for guidance at each step in life, while
he himself, supposed to be a Christian, had not prayed regularly for
months--was in danger of forgetting how.

Yet there was one religious observance that Rolf never forgot--that was
to keep the Sabbath, and on that day each week he did occasionally say
a little prayer his mother had taught him. He avoided being seen at such
times and did not speak of kindred doings. Whereas Quonab neither hid
nor advertised his religious practices, and it was only after many
Sundays had gone that Quonab remarked:

“Does your God come only one day of the week? Does He sneak in after
dark? Why is He ashamed that you only whisper to Him? Mine is here all
the time. I can always reach Him with my song; all days are my Sunday.”

The evil memories of his late life were dimming quickly, and the joys of
the new one growing. Rolf learned early that, although one may talk of
the hardy savage, no Indian seeks for hardship. Everything is done that
he knows to make life pleasant, and of nothing is he more careful than
the comfort of his couch. On the second day, under guidance of his host,
Rolf set about making his own bed. Two logs, each four inches thick and
three feet long, were cut. Then two strong poles, each six feet long,
were laid into notches at the ends of the short logs. About seventy-five
straight sticks of willow were cut and woven with willow bark into a
lattice, three feet wide and six feet long. This, laid on the poles,
furnished a spring mattress, on which a couple of blankets made a most
comfortable couch, dry, warm, and off the ground. In addition to the
lodge cover, each bed had a dew cloth which gave perfect protection, no
matter how the storm might rage outdoors. There was no hardship in it,
only a new-found pleasure, to sleep and breathe the pure night air of
the woods.

The Grass Moon--April--had passed, and the Song Moon was waxing, with
its hosts of small birds, and one of Rolf's early discoveries was that
many of these love to sing by night. Again and again the familiar voice
of the song sparrow came from the dark shore of Asamuk, or the field
sparrow trilled from the top of some cedar, occasionally the painted
one, Aunakeu, the partridge, drummed in the upper woods, and nightly
there was the persistent chant of Muckawis, the whippoorwill, the myriad
voices of the little frogs called spring-peepers, and the peculiar,
“peent, peent,” from the sky, followed by a twittering, that Quonab told
him was the love song of the swamp bird--the big snipe, with the fantail
and long, soft bill, and eyes like a deer.

“Do you mean the woodcock?” “Ugh, that's the name; Pah-dash-ka-anja we
call it.”

The waning of the moon brought new songsters, with many a nightingale
among them. A low bush near the plain was vocal during the full moon
with the sweet but disconnected music of the yellow-breasted chat. The
forest rang again and again with a wild, torrential strain of music
that seemed to come from the stars. It sent peculiar thrill into Rolf's
heart, and gave him a lump his throat as he listened.

“What is that, Quonab?”

The Indian shook his head. Then, later, when it ended, he said: “That
is the mystery song of some one I never saw him.”

There was a long silence, then the lad began, “There's no good hunting
here now, Quonab. Why don't you go to the north woods, where deer are
plentiful?”

The Indian gave a short shake of his head, and then to prevent further
talk, “Put up your dew cloth; the sea wind blows to-night.”

He finished; both stood for a moment gazing into the fire. Then Rolf
felt something wet and cold thrust into his hand. It was Skookum's nose.
At last the little dog had made up his mind to accept the white boy as a
friend.



Chapter 7. Rolf Works Out with Many Results

     He is the dumbest kind of a dumb fool that ain't king in
     some little corner.--Sayings of Si Sylvanne

The man who has wronged you will never forgive you, and he who has
helped you will be forever grateful. Yes, there is nothing that draws
you to a man so much as the knowledge that you have helped him.

Quonab helped Rolf, and so was more drawn to him than to many of the
neighbours that he had known for years; he was ready to like him.
Their coming together was accidental, but it was soon very clear that a
friendship was springing up between them. Rolf was too much of a child
to think about the remote future; and so was Quonab. Most Indians are
merely tall children.

But there was one thing that Rolf did think of--he had no right to
live in Quonab's lodge without contributing a fair share of the things
needful. Quonab got his living partly by hunting, partly by fishing,
partly by selling baskets, and partly by doing odd jobs for the
neighbours. Rolf's training as a loafer had been wholly neglected,
and when he realized that he might be all summer with Quonab he said
bluntly:

“You let me stay here a couple of months. I'll work out odd days, and
buy enough stuff to keep myself any way.” Quonab said nothing, but their
eyes met, and the boy knew it was agreed to.

Rolf went that very day to the farm of Obadiah Timpany, and offered to
work by the day, hoeing corn and root crops. What farmer is not glad of
help in planting time or in harvest? It was only a question of what did
he know and how much did he want? The first was soon made clear; two
dollars a week was the usual thing for boys in those times, and when he
offered to take it half in trade, he was really getting three dollars a
week and his board. Food was as low as wages, and at the end of a week,
Rolf brought back to camp a sack of oatmeal, a sack of cornmeal, a
bushel of potatoes, a lot of apples, and one dollar cash. The dollar
went for tea and sugar, and the total product was enough to last them
both a month; so Rolf could share the wigwam with a good conscience.

Of course, it was impossible to keep the gossipy little town of Myanos
from knowing, first, that the Indian had a white boy for partner; and,
later, that that boy was Rolf. This gave rise to great diversity of
opinion in the neighbourhood. Some thought it should not be allowed, but
Horton, who owned the land on which Quonab was camped, could not see any
reason for interfering.

Ketchura Peck, spinster, however, did see many most excellent reasons.
She was a maid with a mission, and maintained it to be an outrage that a
Christian boy should be brought up by a godless pagan. She worried over
it almost as much as she did over the heathen in Central Africa, where
there are no Sunday schools, and clothes are as scarce as churches.
Failing to move Parson Peck and Elder Knapp in the matter, and
despairing of an early answer to her personal prayers, she resolved on
a bold move, “An' it was only after many a sleepless, prayerful night,”
 namely, to carry the Bible into the heathen's stronghold.

Thus it was that one bright morning in June she might have been seen,
prim and proper--almost glorified, she felt, as she set her lips just
right in the mirror--making for the Pipestave Pond, Bible in hand and
spectacles clean wiped, ready to read appropriate selections to the
unregenerate.

She was full of the missionary spirit when she left Myanos, and partly
full when she reached the Orchard Street Trail; but the spirit was
leaking badly, and the woods did appear so wild and lonely that she
wondered if women had any right to be missionaries. When she came in
sight of the pond, the place seemed unpleasantly different from Myanos
and where was the Indian camp? She did not dare to shout; indeed, she
began to wish she were home again, but the sense of duty carried her
fully fifty yards along the pond, and then she came to an impassable
rock, a sheer bank that plainly said, “Stop!” Now she must go back or up
the bank. Her Yankee pertinacity said, “Try first up the bank,” and she
began a long, toilsome ascent, that did not end until she came out on a
high, open rock which, on its farther side, had a sheer drop and gave a
view of the village and of the sea.

Whatever joy she had on again seeing her home was speedily queued in the
fearsome discovery that she was right over the Indian camp, and the two
inmates looked so utterly, dreadfully savage that she was thankful
they had not seen her. At once she shrank back; but on recovering
sufficiently to again peer down, she saw something roasting before the
fire--“a tiny arm with a hand that bore five fingers,” as she afterward
said, and “a sickening horror came over her.” Yes, she had heard of
such things. If she could only get home in safety! Why had she tempted
Providence thus? She backed softly and prayed only to escape. What, and
never even deliver the Bible? “It would be wicked to return with it!” In
a cleft of the rock she placed it, and then, to prevent the wind blowing
off loose leaves, she placed a stone on top, and fled from the dreadful
place.

That night, when Quonab and Rolf had finished their meal of corn and
roasted coon, the old man climbed the rock to look at the sky. The book
caught his eye at once, evidently hidden there carefully, and therefore
in cache. A cache is a sacred thing to an Indian. He disturbed it not,
but later asked Rolf, “That yours?”

“No.”

It was doubtless the property of some one who meant to return for it, so
they left it untouched. It rested there for many months, till the winter
storms came down, dismantling the covers, dissolving the pages, but
leaving such traces as, in the long afterward, served to identify the
book and give the rock the other name, the one it bears to-day--“Bible
Rock, where Quonab, the son of Cos Cob, used to live.”



Chapter 8. The Law of Property Among Our Four-Footed Kin

Night came down on the Asamuk woods, and the two in the wigwam were
eating their supper of pork, beans, and tea, for the Indian did not, by
any means object to the white man's luxuries, when a strange “yap-yurr”
 was heard out toward the plain. The dog was up at once with a growl.
Rolf looked inquiringly, and Quonab said, “Fox,” then bade the dog be
still.

“Yap-yurr, yap-yurr,” and then, “yurr, yeow,” it came again and again.
“Can we get him?” said the eager young hunter. The Indian shook his
head.

“Fur no good now. An' that's a she-one, with young ones on the
hillside.”

“How do you know?” was the amazed inquiry. “I know it's a she-one,
'cause she says:

“Yap-yurr” (high pitched)

If it was a he-one he'd say:

“Yap-yurr” (low pitched)

“And she has cubs, 'cause all have at this season. And they are on that
hillside, because that's the nearest place where any fox den is, and
they keep pretty much to their own hunting grounds. If another fox
should come hunting on the beat of this pair, he'd have to fight for it.
That is the way of the wild animals; each has his own run, and for that
he will fight an outsider that he would be afraid of at any other
place. One knows he is right--that braces him up; the other knows he is
wrong--and that weakens him.” Those were the Indian's views, expressed
much less connectedly than here given, and they led Rolf on to a train
of thought. He remembered a case that was much to the point.

Their little dog Skookum several times had been worsted by the dog on
the Horton farm, when, following his master, he had come into the
house yard. There was no question that the Horton dog was stronger. But
Skookum had buried a bone under some brushes by the plain and next day
the hated Horton dog appeared. Skookum watched him with suspicion and
fear, until it was no longer doubtful that the enemy had smelled the
hidden food and was going for it. Then Skookum, braced up by some
instinctive feeling, rushed forward with bristling mane and gleaming
teeth, stood over his cache, and said in plainest dog, “You can't touch
that while I live!”

And the Horton dog--accustomed to domineer over the small yellow
cur--growled contemptuously, scratched with his hind feet, smelled
around an adjoining bush, and pretending not to see or notice, went off
in another direction.

What was it that robbed him of his courage, but the knowledge that he
was in the wrong?

Continuing with his host Rolf said, “Do you think they have any idea
that it is wrong to steal?”

“Yes, so long as it is one of their own tribe. A fox will take all he
can get from a bird or a rabbit or a woodchuck, but he won't go far on
the hunting grounds of another fox. He won't go into another fox's den
or touch one of its young ones, and if he finds a cache of food with
another fox's mark on it, he won't touch it unless he is near dead of
hunger.”

“How do you mean they cache food and how do they mark it?”

“Generally they bury it under the leaves and soft earth, and the only
mark is to leave their body scent. But that is strong enough, and every
fox knows it.”

“Do wolves make food caches?”

“Yes, wolves, cougars, weasels, squirrels, bluejays, crows, owls, mice,
all do, and all have their own way of marking a place.”

“Suppose a fox finds a wolf cache, will he steal from it?”

“Yes, always. There is no law between fox and wolf. They are always at
war with each other. There is law only between fox and fox, or wolf and
wolf.”

“That is like ourselves, ain't it? We say, 'Thou shalt not steal,' and
then when we steal the Indian's land or the Frenchman's ships, we say,
'Oh, that don't mean not steal from our enemies; they are fair game.'”

Quonab rose to throw some sticks on the fire, then went out to turn the
smoke flap of the wigwam, for the wind was changed and another set
was needed to draw the smoke. They heard several times again the
high-pitched “yap yurr,” and once the deeper notes, which told that the
dog fox, too, was near the camp, and was doubtless seeking food to carry
home.



Chapter 9. Where the Bow Is Better Than the Gun

Of all popular errors about the Indians, the hardest to down is the idea
that their women do all the work. They do the housework, it is true, but
all the heavy labour beyond their strength is done by the men. Examples
of this are seen in the frightful toil of hunting, canoeing, and
portaging, besides a multitude of kindred small tasks, such as making
snowshoes, bows, arrows, and canoes.

Each warrior usually makes his own bow and arrows, and if, as often
happens, one of them proves more skilful and turns out better weapons,
it is a common thing for others to offer their own specialty in
exchange.

The advantages of the bow over the gun are chiefly its noiselessness,
its cheapness, and the fact that one can make its ammunition anywhere.
As the gun chiefly used in Quonab's time was the old-fashioned,
smooth-bore flint-lock, there was not much difference in the accuracy
of the two weapons. Quonab had always made a highclass bow, as well as
high-class arrows, and was a high-class shot. He could set up ten clam
shells at ten paces and break all in ten shots. For at least half of
his hunting he preferred the bow; the gun was useful to him chiefly
when flocks of wild pigeons or ducks were about, and a single charge of
scattering shot might bring down a dozen birds.

But there is a law in all shooting--to be expert, you must practise
continually--and when Rolf saw his host shoot nearly every day at some
mark, he tried to join in the sport.

It took not many trys to show that the bow was far too strong for him
to use, and Quonab was persuaded at length to make an outfit for his
visitor.

From the dry store hole under the rock, he produced a piece of common
red cedar. Some use hickory; it is less liable to break and will stand
more abuse, but it has not the sharp, clean action of cedar. The latter
will send the arrow much farther, and so swiftly does it leave the
string that it baffles the eye. But the cedar bow must be cared for like
a delicate machine; overstring it, and it breaks; twang it without an
arrow, and it sunders the cords; scratch it, and it may splinter; wet
it, and it is dead; let it lie on the ground, even, and it is weakened.
But guard it and it will serve you as a matchless servant, and as can no
other timber in these woods.

Just where the red heart and the white sap woods join is the bowman's
choice. A piece that reached from Rolf's chin to the ground was shaved
down till it was flat on the white side and round on the red side,
tapering from the middle, where it was one inch wide and one inch thick
to the ends, where it was three fourths of an inch wide and five eighths
of an inch thick, the red and white wood equal in all parts.

The string was made of sinew from the back of a cow, split from the
long, broad sheath that lies on each side the spine, and the bow strung
for trial. Now, on drawing it (flat or white side in front), it was
found that one arm bent more than the other, so a little more scraping
was done on the strong side, till both bent alike.

Quonab's arrows would answer, but Rolf needed a supply of his own. Again
there was great choice of material. The long, straight shoots ol' the
arrowwood (Viburnuin dentatum) supplied the ancient Indians, but
Quonab had adopted a better way, since the possession of an axe made it
possible. A 25-inch block of straight-grained ash was split and split
until it yielded enough pieces. These were shaved down to one fourth of
an inch thick, round, smooth, and perfectly straight. Each was notched
deeply at one end; three pieces of split goose feather were lashed on
the notched end, and three different kinds of arrows were made. All were
alike in shaft and in feathering, but differed in the head. First, the
target arrows: these were merely sharpened, and the points hardened by
roasting to a brown colour. They would have been better with conical
points of steel, but none of these were to be had. Second, the ordinary
hunting arrows with barbed steel heads, usually bought ready-made, or
filed out of a hoop: these were for use in securing such creatures as
muskrats, ducks close at hand, or deer. Third, the bird bolts: these
were left with a large, round, wooden head. They were intended for
quail, partridges, rabbits, and squirrels, but also served very often,
and most admirably, in punishing dogs, either the Indian's own when he
was not living up to the rules and was too far off for a cuff or kick,
or a farmer's dog that was threatening an attack.

Now the outfit was complete, Rolf thought, but one other touch was
necessary. Quonab painted the feather part of the shaft bright red, and
Rolf learned why. Not for ornament, not as an owner's mark, but as a
finding mark. Many a time that brilliant red, with the white feather
next it, was the means of saving the arrow from loss. An uncoloured
arrow among the sticks and leaves of the woods was usually hidden, but
the bright-coloured shaft could catch the eye 100 yards away.

It was very necessary to keep the bow and arrows from the wet. For this,
every hunter provides a case, usually of buckskin, but failing that they
made a good quiver of birch bark laced with spruce roots for the arrows,
and for the bow itself a long cover of tarpaulin.

Now came the slow drilling in archery; the arrow held and the bow
drawn with three fingers on the cord--the thumb and little finger doing
nothing. The target was a bag of hay set at twenty feet, until the
beginner could hit it every time: then by degrees it was moved away
until at the standard distance of forty yards he could do fair shooting,
although of course he never shot as well as the Indian, who had
practised since he was a baby.

There are three different kinds of archery tests: the first for aim: Can
you shoot so truly as to hit a three-inch mark, ten times in succession,
at ten paces?

Next for speed: Can you shoot so quickly and so far up, as to have five
arrows in the air at once? If so, you are good: Can you keep up six?
Then you are very good. Seven is wonderful. The record is said to be
eight. Last for power: Can you pull so strong a bow and let the arrow go
so clean that it will fly for 250 yards or will pass through a deer at
ten paces? There is a record of a Sioux who sent an arrow through three
antelopes at one shot, and it was not unusual to pierce the huge buffalo
through and through; on one occasion a warrior with one shot pierced the
buffalo and killed her calf running at the other side.

If you excel in these three things, you can down your partridge and
squirrel every time; you can get five or six out of each flock of birds;
you can kill your deer at twenty-five yards, and so need never starve in
the woods where there is game.

Of course, Rolf was keen to go forth and try in the real chase, but it
was many a shot he missed and many an arrow lost or broken, before
he brought in even a red squirrel, and he got, at least, a higher
appreciation of the skill of those who could count on the bow for their
food.

For those, then, who think themselves hunters and woodmen, let this be
a test and standard: Can you go forth alone into the wilderness where
there is game, take only a bow and arrows for weapons, and travel afoot
250 miles, living on the country as you go?



Chapter 10. Rolf Works Out with Many Results

    He is the dumbest kind of a dumb fool that ain't king in some
    little corner.--_Sayings of Si Sylvanne_


The man who has wronged you will never forgive you, and he who has
helped you will be forever grateful. Yes, there is nothing that draws
you to a man so much as the knowledge that you have helped him.

Quonab helped Rolf, and so was more drawn to him than to many of the
neighbours that he had known cor years; he was ready to like him. Their
coming together ffas accidental, but it was soon very clear that a
friendship was springing up between them. Rolf was too much of a child
to think about the remote future; and so was Quonab. Most Indians are
merely tall children.

But there was one thing that Rolf did think of--he had no right to live
in Quonab's lodge without contributing a fair share of the things
needful. Quonab got his living partly by hunting, partly by fishing,
partly by selling baskets, and partly by doing odd jobs for the
neighbours. Rolf's training as a loafer had been wholly neglected, and
when he realized that he might be all summer with Quonab he said
bluntly:

“You let me stay here a couple of months. I'll work out odd days, and
buy enough stuff to keep myself any way.” Quonab said nothing, but
their eyes met, and the boy knew it was agreed to.

Rolf went that very day to the farm of Obadiah Timpany, and offered to
work by the day, hoeing corn and root crops. What farmer is not glad of
help in planting time 01 in harvest? It was only a question of what did
he know and how much did he want? The first was soon made clear; two
dollars a week was the usual thing for boys in those times, and when he
offered to take it half in trade, he was really getting three dollars a
week and his board. Food was as low as wages, and at the end of a week,
Rolf brought back to camp a sack of oatmeal, a sack of cornmeal, a
bushel of potatoes, a lot of apples, and one dollar cash. The dollar
went for tea and sugar, and the total product was enough to last them
both a month; so Rolf could share the wigwam with a good conscience.

Of course, it was impossible to keep the gossipy little town of Myanos
from knowing, first, that the Indian had a white boy for partner; and,
later, that that boy was Rolf. This gave rise to great diversity of
opinion in the neighbourhood. Some thought it should not be allowed,
but Horton, who owned the land on which Quonab was camped, could not
see any reason for interfering.

Ketchura Peck, spinster, however, did see many most excellent reasons.
She was a maid with a mission, and maintained it to be an outrage that
a Christian boy should be brought up by a godless pagan. She worried
over it almost as much as she did over the heathen in Central Africa,
where there are no Sunday schools, and clothes are as scarce as
churches. Failing to move Parson Peck and Elder Knapp in the matter,
and despairing of an early answer to her personal prayers, she resolved
on a bold move, “An' it was only after many a sleepless, prayerful
night,” namely, to carry the Bible into the heathen's stronghold.

Thus it was that one bright morning in June she might have been seen,
prim and proper--almost glorified, she felt, as she set her lips just
right in the mirror--making for the Pipestave Pond, Bible in hand and
spectacles clear wiped, ready to read appropriate selections to the
unregenerate.

She was full of the missionary spirit when she left Myanos, and partly
full when she reached the Orchard Street Trail; but the spirit was
leaking badly, and the woods did appear so wild and lonely that she
wondered if women had any right to be missionaries. When she came in
sight of the pond, the place seemed unpleasantly different from Myanos
and where was the Indian camp? She did not dare to shout; indeed, she
began to wish she were home again, but the sense of duty carried her
fully fifty yards along the pond, and then she came to an impassable
rock, a sheer bank that plainly said, “Stop!” Now she must go back or
up the bank. Her Yankee pertinacity said, “Try first up the bank,” and
she began a long, toilsome ascent, that did not end until she came out
on a high, open rock which, on its farther side, had a sheer drop and
gave a view of the village and of the sea.

Whatever joy she had on again seeing her home was speedily quelled in
the fearsome discovery that she was right over the Indian camp, and the
two inmates looked so utterly, dreadfully savage that she was thankful
they had not seen her. At once she shrank back; but on recovering
sufficiently to again peer down, she saw something roasting before the
fire--“a tiny arm with a hand that bore five fingers,” as she afterward
said, and “a sickening horror came over her.” Yes, she had heard of
such things. If she could only get home in safety! Why had she tempted
Providence thus? She backed softly and prayed only to escape. What, and
never even deliver the Bible? “It would be wicked to return with it!”
 In a cleft of the rock she placed it, and then, to prevent the wind
blowing off loose leaves, she placed a stone on top, and fled from the
dreadful place.

That night, when Quonab and Rolf had finished theic meal of corn and
roasted coon, the old man climbed the rock to look at the sky. The book
caught his eye at once, evidently hidden there carefully, and therefore
in cache. A cache is a sacred thing to an Indian. He disturbed it not,
but later asked Rolf, “That yours?”

“No.”

It was doubtless the property of some one who meant to return for it,
so they left it untouched. It rested there for many months, till the
winter storms came down, dismantling the covers, dissolving the pages,
but leaving such traces as, in the long afterward, served to identify
the book and give the rock the other name, the one it bears
to-day--“Bible Rock, where Quonab, the son of Cos Cob, used to live.”



Chapter 11. The Thunder-storm and the Fire Sticks

When first Rolf noticed the wigwam's place, he wondered that Quonab had
not set it somewhere facing the lake, but he soon learned that it is
best to have the morning sun, the afternoon shade, and shelter from the
north and west winds.

The first two points were illustrated nearly every day; but it was two
weeks before the last was made clear.

That day the sun came up in a red sky, but soon was lost to view in a
heavy cloud-bank. There was no wind, and, as the morning passed, the day
grew hotter and closer. Quonab prepared for a storm; but it came with
unexpected force, and a gale of wind from the northwest that would
indeed have wrecked the lodge, but for the great sheltering rock. Under
its lea there was hardy a breeze; but not fifty yards away were two
trees that rubbed together, and in the storm they rasped so violently
that fine shreds of smoking wood were dropped and, but for the rain,
would surely have made a blaze. The thunder was loud and lasted long,
and the water poured down in torrents. They were ready for rain, but not
for the flood that rushed over the face of the cliff, soaking everything
in the lodge except the beds, which, being four inches off the ground,
were safe; and lying on them the two campers waited patiently, or
impatiently, while the weather raged for two drenching hours. And then
the pouring became a pattering; the roaring, a swishing; the storm, a
shower which died away, leaving changing patches of blue in the lumpy
sky, and all nature calm and pleased, but oh, so wet! Of course the fire
was out in the lodge and nearly all the wood was wet. Now Quonab drew
from a small cave some dry cedar and got down his tinder-box with flint
and steel to light up; but a serious difficulty appeared at once--the
tinder was wet and useless.

These were the days before matches were invented. Every one counted on
flint and steel for their fire, but the tinder was an essential, and now
a fire seemed hopeless; at least Rolf thought so.

“Nana Bojou was dancing that time,” said the Indian.

“Did you see him make fire with those two rubbing trees? So he taught
our fathers, and so make we fire when the tricks of the white man fail
us.”

Quonab now cut two pieces of dry cedar, one three fourths of an inch
thick and eighteen inches long, round, and pointed at both ends; the
other five eighths of an inch thick and flat. In the flat one he cut a
notch and at the end of the notch a little pit. Next he made a bow of
a stiff, curved stick, and a buckskin thong: a small pine knot was
selected and a little pit made in it with the point of a knife. These
were the fare-making sticks, but it was necessary to prepare the
firewood, lay the fire, and make some fibre for tinder. A lot of fine
cedar shavings, pounded up with cedar bark and rolled into a two-inch
ball, made good tinder, and all was ready. Quonab put the bow thong once
around the long stick, then held its point in the pit of the flat stick,
and the pine knot on the top to steady it. Now he drew the bow back and
forth, slowly, steadily, till the long stick or drill revolving ground
smoking black dust out of the notch. Then faster, until the smoke was
very strong and the powder filled the notch. Then he lifted the flat
stick, fanning the powder with his hands till a glowing coal appeared.
Over this he put the cedar tinder and blew gently, till it flamed, and
soon the wigwam was aglow.

The whole time taken, from lifting the sticks to the blazing fire, was
less than one minute.

This is the ancient way of the Indian; Rolf had often heard of it as a
sort of semi-myth; never before had he seen it, and so far as he could
learn from the books, it took an hour or two of hard work, not a few
deft touches and a few seconds of time.

He soon learned to do it himself, and in the years which followed,
he had the curious experience of showing it to many Indians who had
forgotten how, thanks to the greater portability of the white man's
flint and steel.

As they walked in the woods that day, they saw three trees that had been
struck by lightning during the recent storm; all three were oaks. Then
it occurred to Rolf that he had never seen any but an oak struck by
lightning.

“Is it so, Quonab?”

“No, there are many others; the lightning strikes the oaks most of all,
but it will strike the pine, the ash, the hemlock, the basswood, and
many more. Only two trees have I never seen struck, the balsam and the
birch.”

“Why do they escape?”

“My father told me when I was a little boy it was because they sheltered
and warmed the Star-girl, who was the sister of the Thunder-bird.”

“I never heard that; tell me about it.”

“Sometime maybe, not now.”



Chapter 12. Hunting the Woodchucks

Cornmeal and potatoes, with tea and apples, three times a day, are apt
to lose their charm. Even fish did not entirely satisfy the craving for
flesh meat. So Quonab and Rolf set out one morning on a regular hunt for
food. The days of big game were over on the Asamuk, but there were still
many small kinds and none more abundant than the woodchuck, hated of
farmers. Not without reason. Each woodchuck hole in the field was a
menace to the horses' legs. Tradition, at least, said that horses' legs
and riders' necks had been broken by the steed setting foot in one of
these dangerous pitfalls: besides which, each chuck den was the hub
centre of an area of desolation whenever located, as mostly it was, in
the cultivated fields. Undoubtedly the damage was greatly exaggerated,
but the farmers generally agreed that the woodchuck was a pest.

Whatever resentment the tiller of the soil might feel against the
Indian's hunting quail on his land, he always welcomed him as a killer
of woodchucks.

And the Indian looked on this animal as fair game and most excellent
eating.

Rolf watched eagerly when Quonab, taking his bow and arrows, said they
were going out for a meat hunt. Although there were several fields
with woodchucks resident, they passed cautiously from one to another,
scanning the green expanse for the dark-brown spots that meant
woodchucks out foraging. At length they found one, with a large and two
small moving brown things among the clover. The large one stood up on
its hind legs from time to time, ever alert for danger. It was a broad,
open field, without cover; but close to the cleared place in which,
doubtless, was the den, there was a ridge that Quonab judged would help
him to approach.

Rolf was instructed to stay in hiding and make some Indian signs that
the hunter could follow when he should lose sight of the prey. First,
“Come on” (beckoning); and, second, “Stop,” (hand raised, palm forward);
“All right” (hand drawn across level and waist high); forefinger moved
forward, level, then curved straight down, meant “gone in hole.” But
Rolf was not to sign anything or move, unless Quonab asked him by making
the question sign (that is waving his hand with palm forward and spread
fingers).

Quonab went back into the woods, then behind the stone walls to get
around to the side next the ridge, and crawling so flat on his breast in
the clover that, although it was but a foot high, he was quite invisible
to any one not placed much above him.

In this way he came to the little ridge back of the woodchuck den, quite
unknown to its occupants. But now he was in a difficulty. He could not
see any of them.

They were certainly beyond range of his bow, and it was difficult to
make them seek the den without their rushing into it. But he was
equal to the occasion. He raised one hand and made the query sign, and
watching Rolf he got answer, “All well; they are there.” (A level sweep
of the flat hand and a finger pointing steadily.) Then he waited a few
seconds and made exactly the same sign, getting the same answer.

He knew that the movement of the distant man would catch the eye of the
old woodchuck; she would sit up high to see what it was, and when it
came a second time she would, without being exactly alarmed, move toward
the den and call the young ones to follow.

The hunter had not long to wait. He heard her shrill, warning whistle,
then the big chuck trotted and waddled into sight, stopping occasionally
to nibble or look around. Close behind her were the two fat cubs.
Arrived near the den their confidence was restored, and again they began
to feed, the young ones close to the den. Then Quonab put a blunt bird
dart in his bow and laid two others ready. Rising as little as possible,
he drew the bow. 'Tsip! the blunt arrow hit the young chuck on the nose
and turned him over. The other jumped in surprise and stood up. So did
the mother. 'Tsip! another bolt and the second chuck was kicking. But
the old one dashed like a flash into the underground safety of her den.
Quonab knew that she had seen nothing of him and would likely come forth
very soon. He waited for some time; then the gray-brown muzzle of the
fat old clover-stealer came partly to view; but it was not enough for
a shot, and she seemed to have no idea of coming farther. The Indian
waited what seemed like a long time, then played an ancient trick. He
began to whistle a soft, low air. Whether the chuck thinks it is another
woodchuck calling, or merely a pleasant sound, is not known, but she
soon did as her kind always does, came out of the hole slowly and ever
higher, till she was half out and sitting up, peering about.

This was Quonab's chance. He now drew a barbed hunting arrow to the head
and aimed it behind her shoulders. 'Tsip! and the chuck was transfixed
by a shaft that ended her life a minute later, and immediately prevented
that instinctive scramble into the hole, by which so many chucks elude
the hunter, even when mortally wounded.

Now Quonab stood up without further concealment, and beckoned to Rolf,
who came running. Three fat woodchucks meant abundance of the finest
fresh meat for a week; and those who have not tried it have no idea
what a delicacy is a young, fat, clover-fed woodchuck, pan-roasted, with
potatoes, and served at a blazing campfire to a hunter who is young,
strong, and exceedingly hungry.



Chapter 13. The Fight with the Demon of the Deep

One morning, as they passed the trail that skirts the pond, Quonab
pointed to the near water. There was something afloat like a small,
round leaf, with two beads well apart, on it. Then Rolf noticed, two
feet away, a larger floating leaf, and now he knew that the first was
the head and eyes, the last the back, of a huge snapping turtle. A
moment more and it quickly sank from view. Turtles of three different
kinds were common, and snappers were well known to Rolf; but never
before had he seen such a huge and sinister-looking monster of the deep.

“That is Bosikado. I know him; he knows me,” said the red man. “There
has long been war between us; some day we will settle it. I saw him
here first three years ago. I had shot a duck; it floated on the water.
Before I could get to it something pulled it under, and that was the
last of it. Then a summer duck came with young ones. One by one he took
them, and at last got her. He drives all ducks away, so I set many night
lines for him. I got some little snappers, eight and ten pounds each.
They were good to eat, and three times already I took Bosikado on the
hooks, but each time when I pulled him up to the canoe, he broke my
biggest line and went down. He was as broad as the canoe; his claws
broke through the canoe skin; he made it bulge and tremble. He looked
like the devil of the lake. I was afraid!

“But my father taught me there is only one thing that can shame a
man--that is to be afraid, and I said I will never let fear be my guide.
I will seek a fair fight with Bosikado. He is my enemy. He made me
afraid once; I will make him much afraid. For three years we have been
watching each other. For three years he has kept all summer ducks away,
and robbed my fish-lines, my nets, and my muskrat traps. Not often do I
see him--mostly like today.

“Before Skookum I had a little dog, Nindai. He was a good little dog. He
could tree a coon, catch a rabbit, or bring out a duck, although he was
very small. We were very good friends. One time I shot a duck; it fell
into the lake; I called Nindai. He jumped into the water and swam to
the duck. Then that duck that I thought dead got up and flew away, so I
called Nindai. He came across the water to me. By and by, over that deep
place, he howled and splashed. Then he yelled, like he wanted me. I ran
for the canoe and paddled quick; I saw my little dog Nindai go down.
Then I knew it was that Bosikado again. I worked a long time with a
pole, but found nothing; only five days later one of Nindai's paws
floated down the stream. Some day I will tear open that Bosikado!

“Once I saw him on the bank. He rolled down like a big stone to the
water. He looked at me before he dived, and as we looked in each other's
eyes I knew he was a Manito; but he is evil, and my father said, 'When
an evil Manito comes to trouble you, you must kill him.'

“One day, when I swam after a dead duck, he took me by the toe, but I
reached shallow water and escaped him; and once I drove my fish-spear
in his back, but it was not strong enough to hold him. Once he caught
Skookum's tail, but the hair came out; the dog has not since swum across
the pond.

“Twice I have seen him like today and might have killed him with the
gun, but I want to meet him fighting. Many a time I have sat on the bank
and sung to him the 'Coward's Song,' and dared him to come and fight in
the shallow water where we are equals. He hears me. He does not come.

“I know he made me sick last winter; even now he is making trouble with
his evil magic. But my magic must prevail, and some day we shall meet.
He made me afraid once. I will make him much afraid, and will meet him
in the water.”

Not many days were to pass before the meeting. Rolf had gone for water
at the well, which was a hole dug ten feet from the shore of the lake.
He had learned the hunter's cautious trick of going silently and peering
about, before he left cover. On a mud bank in a shallow bay, some fifty
yards off, he described a peculiar gray and greenish form that he slowly
made out to be a huge turtle, sunning itself. The more he looked and
gauged it with things about, the bigger it seemed. So he slunk back
quickly and silently to Quonab. “He is out sunning himself--Bosikado--on
the bank!”

The Indian rose quickly, took his tomahawk and a strong line. Rolf
reached for the gun, but Quonab shook his head. They went to the lake.
Yes! There was the great, goggle-eyed monster, like a mud-coloured
log. The bank behind him was without cover. It would be impossible to
approach the watchful creature within striking distance before he could
dive. Quonab would not use the gun; in this case he felt he must atone
by making an equal fight. He quickly formed a plan; he fastened the
tomahawk and the coiled rope to his belt, then boldly and silently
slipped into the lake, to approach the snapper from the water
side--quite the easiest in this case, not only because the snapper would
naturally watch on the land side, but because there was a thick clump of
rushes behind which the swimmer could approach.

Then, as instructed, Rolf went back into the woods, and came silently
to a place whence he could watch the snapper from a distance of twenty
yards.

The boy's heart beat fast as he watched the bold swimmer and the savage
reptile. There could be little doubt that the creature weighed a
hundred pounds. It is the strongest for its size and the fiercest of all
reptiles. Its jaws, though toothless, have cutting edges, a sharp beak,
and power to the crushing of bones. Its armour makes it invulnerable to
birds and beasts of prey. Like a log it lay on the beach, with its long
alligator tail stretched up the bank and its serpentine head and tiny
wicked eyes vigilantly watching the shore. Its shell, broad and ancient,
was fringed with green moss, and its scaly armpits exposed, were decked
with leeches, at which a couple of peetweets pecked with eager interest,
apparently to the monster's satisfaction. Its huge limbs and claws were
in marked contrast to the small, red eyes. But the latter it was that
gave the thrill of unnervement.

Sunk down nearly out of sight, the Indian slowly reached the reeds. Here
he found bottom, and pausing, he took the rope in one hand, the tomahawk
in the other, and dived, and when he reappeared he was within ten yards
of the enemy, and in water but four feet deep.

With a sudden rush the reptile splashed into the pond and out of sight,
avoiding the rope noose. But Quonab clutched deep in the water as
it passed, and seized the monster's rugged tail. Then it showed its
strength. In a twinkling that mighty tail was swung sidewise, crushing
the hand with terrible force against the sharp-edged points of the back
armour. It took all the Indian's grit to hold on to that knife-edged war
club. He dropped his tomahawk, then with his other hand swung the rope
to catch the turtle's head, but it lurched so quickly that the rope
missed again, slipped over the shell, and, as they struggled, encircled
one huge paw. The Indian jerked it tight, and they were bound together.
But now his only weapon was down at the bottom and the water all
muddied. He could not see, but plunged to grope for the tomahawk. The
snapper gave a great lurch to escape, releasing the injured hand, but
jerking the man off his legs. Then, finding itself held by a forepaw, it
turned with gaping, hissing jaws, and sprang on the foe that struggled
in bottom of the water.

The snapper has the bulldog habit to seize and hold till the piece tears
out. In the muddy water it had to seize in the dark, and fending first
the left arm of its foe, fastened on with fierce beak and desperate
strength. At this moment Quonab recovered his tomahawk; rising into the
air he dragged up the hanging snapper, and swung the weapon with all the
force of his free arm. The blow sank through the monster's shell, deep
into its back, without any visible effect, except to rob the Indian of
his weapon as he could not draw it out.

Then Rolf rushed into the water to help. But Quonab gasped, “No, no, go
back--I'm alone.”

The creature's jaws were locked on his arm, but its front claws, tearing
downward and outward, were demolishing the coat that had protected it,
and long lines of mingled blood were floating on the waves.

After a desperate plunge toward shallow water, Quonab gave another
wrench to the tomahawk--it moved, loosed; another, and it was free.
Then “chop, chop, chop,” and that long, serpentine neck was severed; the
body, waving its great scaly legs and lashing its alligator tail, went
swimming downward, but the huge head, blinking its bleary, red eyes and
streaming with blood, was clinched on his arm. The Indian made for the
bank hauling the rope that held the living body, and fastened it to a
tree, then drew his knife to cut the jaw muscles of the head that ground
its beak into his flesh. But the muscles were protected by armour
plates and bone; he could not deal a stab to end their power. In vain he
fumbled and slashed, until in a spasmodic quiver the jaws gaped wide and
the bloody head fell to the ground. Again it snapped, but a tree branch
bore the brunt; on this the strong jaws clinched, and so remained.

For over an hour the headless body crawled, or tried to crawl, always
toward the lake. And now they could look at the enemy. Not his size so
much as his weight surprised them. Although barely four feet long, he
was so heavy that Rolf could not lift him. Quonab's scratches were many
but slight; only the deep bill wound made his arm and the bruises of the
jaws were at all serious and of these he made light. Headed by Skookum
in full 'yap,' they carried the victim's body to camp; the head, still
dutching the stick, was decorated with three feathers, then set on a
pole near the wigwam. And the burden of the red man's song when next he
sang was:

“Bosikado, mine enemy was mighty, But I went into his country And made
him afraid!”



Chapter 14. Selectman Horton Appears at the Rock

Summer was at its height on the Asamuk. The woodthrush was nearing the
end of its song; a vast concourse of young robins in their speckled
plumage joined chattering every night in the thickest cedars; and one or
two broods of young ducks were seen on the Pipestave Pond.

Rolf had grown wonderfully well into his wigwam life. He knew now
exactly how to set the flap so as to draw out all the smoke, no matter
which way the wind blew; he had learned the sunset signs, which tell
what change of wind the night might bring. He knew without going to the
shore whether the tide was a little ebb, with poor chances, or a mighty
outflow that would expose the fattest oyster beds. His practiced fingers
told at a touch whether it was a turtle or a big fish on his night line;
and by the tone of the tom-tom he knew when a rainstorm was at hand.

Being trained in industry, he had made many improvements in their camp,
not the least of which was to clean up and burn all the rubbish and
garbage that attracted hordes of flies. He had fitted into the camp
partly by changing it to fit himself, and he no longer felt that his
stay there was a temporary shift. When it was to end, he neither knew
nor cared. He realized only that he was enjoying life as he never had
done before. His canoe had passed a lot of rapids and was now in a
steady, unbroken stream--but it was the swift shoot before the fall.
A lull in the clamour does not mean the end of war, but a new onset
preparing; and, of course, it came in the way least looked for.

Selectman Horton stood well with the community; he was a man of good
judgment, good position, and kind heart. He was owner of all the
woods along the Asamuk, and thus the Indian's landlord on the Indian's
ancestral land. Both Rolf and Quonab had worked for Horton, and so they
knew him well, and liked him for his goodness.

It was Wednesday morning, late in July, when Selectman Horton,
clean-shaven and large, appeared at the wigwam under the rock.

“Good morrow to ye both!” Then without wasting time he plunged in.
“There's been some controversy and much criticism of the selectmen for
allowing a white lad, the child of Christian parents, the grandson of a
clergyman, to leave all Christian folk and folds, and herd with a pagan,
to become, as it were, a mere barbarian. I hold not, indeed, with those
that out of hand would condemn as godless a good fellow like Quonab,
who, in my certain knowledge and according to his poor light, doth
indeed maintain in some kind a daily worship of a sort. Nevertheless,
the selectmen, the magistrates, the clergy, the people generally, and
above all the Missionary Society, are deeply moved in the matter. It
hath even been made a personal charge against myself, and with much
bitterness I am held up as unzealous for allowing such a nefarious
stronghold of Satan to continue on mine own demesne, and harbour one,
escaped, as it were, from grace. Acting, therefore, not according to my
heart, but as spokesman of the Town Council, the Synod of Elders, and
the Society for the Promulgation of Godliness among the Heathen, I am
to state that you, Rolf Kittering, being without kinsfolk and under age,
are in verity a ward of the parish, and as such, it hath been arranged
that you become a member of the household of the most worthy Elder
Ezekiel Peck, a household filled with the spirit of estimable piety and
true doctrine; a man, indeed, who, notwithstanding his exterior coldness
and severity, is very sound in all matters regarding the Communion of
Saints, and, I may even say in a measure a man of fame for some most
excellent remarks he hath passed on the shorter catechism, beside which
he hath gained much approval for having pointed out two hidden meanings
in the 27th verse of the 12th chapter of Hebrews; one whose very
presence, therefore, is a guarantee against levity, laxity, and false
preachment.

“There, now, my good lad, look not so like a colt that feels the whip
for the first time. You will have a good home, imbued with the spirit of
a most excellent piety that will be ever about you.”

“Like a colt feeling the whip,” indeed! Rolf reeled like a stricken
deer. To go back as a chore-boy drudge was possible, but not alluring;
to leave Quonab, just as the wood world was opening to him, was
devastating; but to exchange it all for bondage in the pious household
of Old Peck, whose cold cruelty had driven off all his own children, was
an accumulation of disasters that aroused him.

“I won't go!” he blurted out, and gazed defiantly at the broad and
benevolent selectman.

“Come now, Rolf, such language is unbecoming. Let not a hasty tongue
betray you into sin. This is what your mother would have wished. Be
sensible; you will soon find it was all for the best. I have ever liked
you, and will ever be a friend you can count on.

“Acting, not according to my instructions, but according to my heart,
I will say further that you need not come now, you need not even give
answer now, but think it over. Nevertheless, remember that on or before
Monday morning next, you will be expected to appear at Elder Peck's, and
I fear that, in case you fail, the messenger next arriving will be
one much less friendly than myself. Come now, Rolf, be a good lad, and
remember that in your new home you will at least be living for the glory
of God.”

Then, with a friendly nod, but an expression of sorrow, the large, black
messenger turned and tramped away.

Rolf slowly, limply, sank down on a rock and stared at the fire. After
awhile Quonab got up and began to prepare the mid-day meal. Usually Rolf
helped him. Now he did nothing but sullenly glare at the glowing coals.
In half an hour the food was ready. He ate little; then went away in the
woods by himself. Quonab saw him lying on a flat rock, looking at the
pond, and throwing pebbles into it. Later Quonab went to Myanos. On his
return he found that Rolf had cut up a great pile of wood, but not a
word passed between them. The look of sullen anger and rebellion on
Rolf's face was changing to one of stony despair. What was passing in
each mind the other could not divine.

The evening meal was eaten in silence; then Quonab smoked for an hour,
both staring into the fire. A barred owl hooted and laughed over their
heads, causing the dog to jump up and bark at the sound that ordinarily
he would have heeded not at all. Then silence was restored, and the red
man's hidden train of thought was in a flash revealed.

“Rolf, let's go to the North Woods!”

It was another astounding idea. Rolf had realized more and more how much
this valley meant to Quonab, who worshipped the memory of his people.

“And leave all this?” he replied, making a sweep with his hand toward
the rock, the Indian trail, the site of bygone Petuquapen, and the
graves of the tribe.

For reply their eyes met, and from the Indian's deep chest came the
single word, “Ugh.” One syllable, deep and descending, but what a tale
it told of the slowly engendered and strong-grown partiality, of a
struggle that had continued since the morning when the selectman came
with words of doom, and of friendship's victory won.

Rolf realized this, and it gave him a momentary choking in his throat,
and, “I'm ready if you really mean it.”

“Ugh I go, but some day come back.”

There was a long silence, then Rolf, “When shall we start?” and the
answer, “To-morrow night.”



Chapter 15. Bound for the North Woods

When Quonab left camp in the morning he went heavy laden, and the
trail he took led to Myanos. There was nothing surprising in it when
he appeared at Silas Peck's counter and offered for sale a pair of
snowshoes, a bundle of traps, some dishes of birch bark and basswood,
and a tom-tom, receiving in exchange some tea, tobacco, gunpowder, and
two dollars in cash. He turned without comment, and soon was back in
camp. He now took the kettle into the woods and brought it back filled
with bark, fresh chipped from a butternut tree. Water was added, and the
whole boiled till it made a deep brown liquid. When this was cooled he
poured it into a flat dish, then said to Rolf: “Come now, I make you a
Sinawa.”

With a soft rag the colour was laid on. Face, head, neck, and hands were
all at first intended, but Rolf said, “May as well do the whole thing.”
 So he stripped off; the yellow brown juice on his white skin turned it
a rich copper colour, and he was changed into an Indian lad that none
would have taken for Rolf Kittering. The stains soon dried, and Rolf,
re-clothed, felt that already he had burned a bridge.

Two portions of the wigwam cover were taken off; and two packs were
made of the bedding. The tomahawk, bows, arrows, and gun, with the few
precious food pounds in the copper pot, were divided between them and
arranged into packs with shoulder straps; then all was ready. But there
was one thing more for Quonab; he went up alone to the rock. Rolf knew
what he went for, and judged it best not to follow.

The Indian lighted his pipe, blew the four smokes to the four winds,
beginning with the west, then he sat in silence for a time. Presently
the prayer for good hunting came from the rock:

     “Father lead us!
     Father, help us!
     Father, guide us to the good hunting.”

And when that ceased a barred owl hooted in the woods, away to the
north.

“Ugh! good,” was all he said as he rejoined Rolf; and they set out, as
the sun went down, on their long journey due northward, Quonab, Rolf,
and Skookum. They had not gone a hundred yards before the dog turned
back, raced to a place where he had a bone in cache and rejoining there
trotted along with his bone.

The high road would have been the easier travelling, but it was very
necessary to be unobserved, so they took the trail up the brook Asamuk,
and after an hour's tramp came out by the Cat-Rock road that runs
westerly. Again they were tempted by the easy path, but again Quonab
decided on keeping to the woods. Half an hour later they were halted by
Skookum treeing a coon. After they had secured the dog, they tramped on
through the woods for two hours more, and then, some eight miles from
the Pipestave, they halted, Rolf, at least, tired out. It was now
midnight. They made a hasty double bed of the canvas cover over a pole
above them, and slept till morning, cheered, as they closed their drowsy
eyes, by the “Hoo, Hoo, Hoo, Hoo, yah, hoo,” of their friend, the barred
owl, still to the northward.

The sun was high, and Quonab had breakfast ready before Rolf awoke. He
was so stiff with the tramp and the heavy pack that it was with secret
joy he learned that they were to rest, concealed in the woods, that day,
and travel only by night, until in a different region, where none knew
or were likely to stop them. They were now in York State, but that did
not by any means imply that they were beyond pursuit.

As the sun rose high, Rolf went forth with his bow and blunt arrows, and
then, thanks largely to Skookum, he succeeded in knocking over a couple
of squirrels, which, skinned and roasted, made their dinner that day.
At night they set out as before, making about ten miles. The third night
they did better, and the next day being Sunday, they kept out of sight.
But Monday morning, bright and clear, although it was the first morning
when they were sure of being missed, they started to tramp openly along
the highway, with a sense of elation that they had not hitherto known
on the joumey. Two things impressed Rolf by their novelty: the curious
stare of the country folk whose houses and teams they passed, and the
violent antagonism of the dogs. Usually the latter could be quelled by
shaking a stick at them, or by pretending to pick up a stone, but one
huge and savage brindled mastiff kept following and barking just out of
stick range, and managed to give Skookum a mauling, until Quonab drew
his bow and let fly a blunt arrow that took the brute on the end of
the nose, and sent him howling homeward, while Skookum got a few highly
satisfactory nips at the enemy's rear. Twenty miles they made that day
and twenty-five the next, for now they were on good roads, and their
packs were lighter. More than once they found kind farmer folk who gave
them a meal. But many times Skookum made trouble for them. The farmers
did not like the way he behaved among their hens. Skookum never could be
made to grasp the fine zoological distinction between partridges which
are large birds and fair game, and hens which are large birds, but not
fair game. Such hair splitting was obviously unworthy of study, much
less of acceptance.

Soon it was clearly better for Rolf, approaching a house, to go alone,
while Quonab held Skookum. The dogs seemed less excited by Rolf's smell,
and remembering his own attitude when tramps came to one or another
of his ancient homes, he always asked if they would let him work for a
meal, and soon remarked that his success was better when he sought first
the women of the house, and then, smiling to show his very white teeth,
spoke in clear and un-Indian English, which had the more effect coming
from an evident Indian.

“Since I am to be an Indian, Quonab, you must give me an Indian name,”
 he said after one of these episodes.

“Ugh! Good! That's easy! You are 'Nibowaka,' the wise one.” For the
Indian had not missed any of the points, and so he was named.

Twenty or thirty miles a day they went now, avoiding the settlements
along the river. Thus they saw nothing of Albany, but on the tenth
day they reached Fort Edward, and for the first time viewed the great
Hudson. Here they stayed as short a time as might be, pushed on by
Glen's Falls, and on the eleventh night of the journey they passed the
old, abandoned fort, and sighted the long stretch of Lake George, with
its wooded shore, and glimpses of the mountains farther north.

Now a new thought possessed them--“If only they had the canoe that they
had abandoned on the Pipestave.” It came to them both at the sight of
the limit less water, and especially when Rolf remembered that Lake
George joined with Champlain, which again was the highway to all the
wilderness.

They camped now as they had fifty times before, and made their meal. The
bright blue water dancing near was alluring, inspiring; as they sought
the shore Quonab pointed to a track and said, “Deer.” He did not show
much excitement, but Rolf did, and they returned to the camp fire with
a new feeling of elation--they had reached the Promised Land. Now they
must prepare for the serious work of finding a hunting ground that was
not already claimed.

Quonab, remembering the ancient law of the woods, that parcels off the
valleys, each to the hunter first arriving, or succeeding the one who
had, was following his own line of thought. Rolf was puzzling over means
to get an outfit, canoe, traps, axes, and provisions. The boy broke
silence.

“Quonab, we must have money to get an outfit; this is the beginning of
harvest; we can easily get work for a month. That will feed us and give
us money enough to live on, and a chance to learn something about the
country.”

The reply was simple, “You are Nibowaka.”

The farms were few and scattered here, but there were one or two along
the lake. To the nearest one with standing grain Rolf led the way. But
their reception, from the first brush with the dog to the final tilt
with the farmer, was unpleasant--“He didn't want any darn red-skins
around there. He had had two St. Regis Indians last year, and they were
a couple of drunken good-for-nothings.”

The next was the house of a fat Dutchman, who was just wondering how he
should meet the compounded accumulated emergencies of late hay, early
oats, weedy potatoes, lost cattle, and a prospective increase of
his family, when two angels of relief appeared at his door, in
copper-coloured skins.

“Cahn yo work putty goood?

“Yes, I have always lived on a farm,” and Rolf showed his hands, broad
and heavy for his years.

“Cahn yo mebby find my lost cows, which I haf not find, already yet?”

Could they! it would be fun to try.

“I giff yo two dollars you pring dem putty kvick.”

So Quonab took the trail to the woods, and Rolf started into the
potatoes with a hoe, but he was stopped by a sudden outcry of poultry.
Alas! It was Skookum on an ill-judged partridge hunt. A minute later he
was ignominiously chained to a penitential post, nor left it during the
travellers' sojourn.

In the afternoon Quonab returned with the cattle, and as he told Rolf he
saw five deer, there was an unmistakable hunter gleam in his eye.

Three cows in milk, and which had not been milked for two days, was a
serious matter, needing immediate attention. Rolf had milked five cows
twice a day for five years, and a glance showed old Van Trumper that the
boy was an expert.

“Good, good! I go now make feed swine.”

He went into the outhouse, but a tow-topped, redcheeked girl ran after
him. “Father, father, mother says--” and the rest was lost.

“Myn Hemel! Myn Hemel! I thought it not so soon,” and the fat Dutchman
followed the child. A moment later he reappeared, his jolly face clouded
with a look of grave concern. “Hi yo big Injun, yo cahn paddle canoe?”
 Quonab nodded. “Den coom. Annette, pring Tomas und Hendrik.” So
the father carried two-year-old Hendrik, while the Indian carried
six-year-old Tomas, and twelve-year-old Annette followed in vague,
uncomprehended alarm. Arrived at the shore the children were placed in
the canoe, and then the difficulties came fully to the father's
mind--he could not leave his wife. He must send the children with the
messenger--In a sort of desperation, “Cahn you dem childen take to de
house across de lake, and pring back Mrs. Callan? Tell her Marta Van
Trumper need her right now mooch very kvick.” The Indian nodded. Then
the father hesitated, but a glance at the Indian was enough. Something
said, “He is safe,” and in spite of sundry wails from the little ones
left with a dark stranger, he pushed off the canoe: “Yo take care for my
babies,” and turned his brimming eyes away.

The farmhouse was only two miles off, and the evening calm; no time was
lost: what woman will not instantly drop all work and all interests, to
come to the help of another in the trial time of motherhood?

Within an hour the neighbour's wife was holding hands with the mother of
the banished tow-heads. He who tempers the wind and appoints the season
of the wild deer hinds had not forgotten the womanhood beyond the reach
of skilful human help, and with the hard and lonesome life had conjoined
a sweet and blessed compensation. What would not her sister of the city
give for such immunity; and long before that dark, dread hour of
night that brings the ebbing life force low, the wonderful miracle was
complete; there was another tow-top in the settler's home, and all was
well.



Chapter 16. Life with the Dutch Settler

The Indians slept in the luxuriant barn of logs, with blankets, plenty
of hay, and a roof. They were more than content, for now, on the edge of
the wilderness, they were very close to wild life. Not a day or a night
passed without bringing proof of that.

One end of the barn was portioned off for poultry. In this the working
staff of a dozen hens were doing their duty, which, on that first night
of the “brown angels' visit,” consisted of silent slumber, when all at
once the hens and the new hands were aroused by a clamorous cackling,
which speedily stopped. It sounded like a hen falling in a bad dream,
then regaining her perch to go to sleep again. But next morning the body
of one of these highly esteemed branches of the egg-plant was found in
the corner, partly devoured. Quonab examined the headless hen, the dust
around, and uttered the word, “Mink.”

Rolf said, “Why not skunk?”

“Skunk could not climb to the perch.”

“Weasel then.”

“Weasel would only suck the blood, and would kill three or four.”

“Coon would carry him away, so would fox or wildcat, and a marten would
not come into the building by night.”

There was no question, first, that it was a mink, and, second, that he
was hiding about the barn until the hunger pang should send him again
to the hen house. Quonab covered the hen's body with two or three large
stones so that there was only one approach. In the way of this approach
he buried a “number one” trap.

That night they were aroused again; this time by a frightful screeching,
and a sympathetic, inquiring cackle from the fowls.

Arising, quickly they entered with a lantem. Rolf then saw a sight that
gave him a prickling in his hair. The mink, a large male, was caught by
one front paw. He was writhing and foaming, tearing, sometimes at the
trap, sometimes at the dead hen, and sometimes at his own imprisoned
foot, pausing now and then to utter the most ear-piercing shrieks, then
falling again in crazy animal fury on the trap, splintering his sharp
white teeth, grinding the cruel metal with bruised and bloody jaws,
frothing, snarling, raving mad. As his foemen entered he turned on them
a hideous visage of inexpressible fear and hate, rage and horror.
His eyes glanced back green fire in the lantern light; he strained in
renewed efforts to escape; the air was rank with his musky smell. The
impotent fury of his struggle made a picture that continued in Rolf's
mind. Quonab took a stick and with a single blow put an end to the
scene, but never did Rolf forget it, and never afterward was he a
willing partner when the trapping was done with those relentless jaws of
steel.

A week later another hen was missing, and the door of the hen house left
open. After a careful examination of the dust, inside and out of the
building, Quonab said, “Coon.” It is very unusual for coons to raid a
hen house. Usually it is some individual with abnormal tastes, and once
he begins, he is sure to come back. The Indian judged that he might be
back the next night, so prepared a trap. A rope was passed from the door
latch to a tree; on this rope a weight was hung, so that the door was
selfshutting, and to make it self-locking he leaned a long pole against
it inside. Now he propped it open with a single platform, so set that
the coon must walk on it once he was inside, and so release the door.
The trappers thought they would hear in the night when the door closed,
but they were sleepy; they knew nothing until next morning. Then they
found that the self-shutter had shut, and inside, crouched in one of the
nesting boxes, was a tough, old fighting coon. Strange to tell, he had
not touched a second hen. As soon as he found himself a prisoner he had
experienced a change of heart, and presently his skin was nailed on the
end of the barn and his meat was hanging in the larder.

“Is this a marten,” asked little Annette. And when told not,
her disappointment elicited the information that old Warren, the
storekeeper, had promised her a blue cotton dress for a marten skin.

“You shall have the first one I catch,” said Rolf.

Life in Van Trumper's was not unpleasant. The mother was going about
again in a week. Annette took charge of the baby, as well as of
the previous arrivals. Hendrik senior was gradually overcoming his
difficulties, thanks to the unexpected help, and a kindly spirit made
the hard work not so very hard. The shyness that was at first felt
toward the Indians wore off, especially in the case of Rolf, he was
found so companionable; and the Dutchman, after puzzling over the
combination of brown skin and blue eyes, decided that Rolf was a
half-breed.

August wore on not unpleasantly for the boy, but Quonab was getting
decidedly restless. He could work for a week as hard as any white man,
but his race had not risen to the dignity of patient, unremitting,
life-long toil.

“How much money have we now, Nibowaka?” was one of the mid-August
indications of restlessness. Rolf reckoned up; half a month for Quonab,
$15.00; for himself, $10.00; for finding the cows $2.00--$27.00 in all.
Not enough.

Three days later Quonab reckoned up again. Next day he said: “We need
two months' open water to find a good country and build a shanty.” Then
did Rolf do the wise thing; he went to fat Hendrik and told him all
about it. They wanted to get a canoe and an outfit, and seek for a
trapping or hunting ground that would not encroach on those already
possessed, for the trapping law is rigid; even the death penalty is not
considered too high in certain cases of trespass, provided the injured
party is ready to be judge, jury, and executioner. Van Trumper was able
to help them not a little in the matter of location--there was no use
trying on the Vermont side, nor anywhere near Lake Champlain, nor near
Lake George; neither was it worth while going to the far North, as the
Frenchmen came in there, and they were keen hunters, so that
Hamilton County was more promising than any other, but it was almost
inaccessible, remote from all the great waterways, and of course without
roads; its inaccessibility was the reason why it was little known. So
far so good; but happy Hendrik was unpleasantly surprised to learn that
the new help were for leaving at once. Finally he made this offer: If
they would stay till September first, and so leave all in “good shape
fer der vinter,” he would, besides the wages agreed, give them the
canoe, one axe, six mink traps, and a fox trap now hanging in the barn,
and carry them in his wagon as far as the Five-mile portage from Lake
George to Schroon River, down which they could go to its junction with
the upper Hudson, which, followed up through forty miles of rapids and
hard portages, would bring them to a swampy river that enters from the
southwest, and ten miles up this would bring them to Jesup's Lake, which
is two miles wide and twelve miles long. This country abounded with
game, but was so hard to enter that after Jesup's death it was deserted.

There was only one possible answer to such an offer--they stayed.

In spare moments Quonab brought the canoe up to the barn, stripped off
some weighty patches of bark and canvas and some massive timber thwarts,
repaired the ribs, and when dry and gummed, its weight was below one
hundred pounds; a saving of at least forty pounds on the soggy thing he
crossed the lake in that first day on the farm.

September came. Early in the morning Quonab went alone to the lakeside;
there on a hill top he sat, looking toward the sunrise, and sang a song
of the new dawn, beating, not with a tom-tom--he had none--but with one
stick on another. And when the sunrise possessed the earth he sang again
the hunter's song:

“Father, guide our feet, Lead us to the good hunting.”

Then he danced to the sound, his face skyward, his eyes closed, his feet
barely raised, but rythmically moved. So went he three times round to
the chant in three sun circles, dancing a sacred measure, as royal David
might have done that day when he danced around the Ark of the Covenant
on its homeward joumey. His face was illumined, and no man could have
seen him then without knowing that this was a true heart's worship of a
true God, who is in all things He has made.



Chapter 17. Canoeing on the Upper Hudson

     There is only one kind of a man I can't size up; that's the
     faller that shets up and says nothing.--Sayings of Si
     Sylvanne.

A settler named Hulett had a scow that was borrowed by the neighbours
whenever needed to take a team across the lake. On the morning of their
journey, the Dutchman's team and wagon, the canoe and the men, were
aboard the scow, Skookum took his proper place at the prow, and all
was ready for “Goodbye.” Rolf found it a hard word to say. The good old
Dutch mother had won his heart, and the children were like his brothers
and sisters.

“Coom again, lad; coom and see us kvick.” She kissed him, he kissed
Annette and the three later issues. They boarded the scow to ply the
poles till the deep water was reached, then the oars. An east wind
springing up gave them a chance to profit by a wagon-cover rigged as a
sail, and two hours later the scow was safely landed at West Side,
where was a country store, and the head of the wagon road to the Schroon
River.

As they approached the door, they saw a rough-looking man slouching
against the building, his hands in his pockets, his blear eyes taking in
the new-comers with a look of contemptuous hostility. As they passed, he
spat tobacco juice on the dog and across the feet of the men.

Old Warren who kept the store was not partial to Indians, but he was
a good friend of Hendrik and very keen to trade for fur, so the new
trappers were well received; and now came the settling of accounts.
Flour, oatmeal, pork, potatoes, tea, tobacco, sugar, salt, powder,
ball, shot, clothes, lines, an inch-auger, nails, knives, awls, needles,
files, another axe, some tin plates, and a frying pan were selected and
added to Hendrik's account.

“If I was you, I'd take a windy-sash; you'll find it mighty convenient
in cold weather.” The store keeper led them into an outhouse where was a
pile of six-lighted window-frames all complete. So the awkward thing was
added to their load.

“Can't I sell you a fine rifle?” and he took down a new, elegant small
bore of the latest pattern. “Only twenty-five dollars.” Rolf shook his
head; “part down, and I'll take the rest in fur next spring.” Rolf was
sorely tempted; however, he had an early instilled horror of debt. He
steadfastly said: “No.” But many times he regretted it afterward! The
small balance remaining was settled in cash.

As they were arranging and selecting, they heard a most hideous
yelping outdoors, and a minute later Skookum limped in, crying as if
half-killed. Quonab was out in a moment.

“Did you kick my dog?”

The brutal loafer changed countenance as he caught the red man's eye.
“Naw! never touched him; hurted himself on that rake.”

It was obviously a lie, but better to let it pass, and Quonab came in
again.

Then the rough stranger appeared at the door and growled: “Say, Warren!
ain't you going to let me have that rifle? I guess my word's as good as
the next man's.”

“No,” said Warren; “I told you, no!”

“Then you can go to blazes, and you'll never see a cent's worth of fur
from the stuff I got last year.”

“I don't expect to,” was the reply; “I've learned what your word's
worth.” And the stranger slouched away.

“Who vas he?” asked Hendrik.

“I only know that his name is Jack Hoag; he's a little bit of a trapper
and a big bit of a bum; stuck me last year. He doesn't come out this
way; they say he goes out by the west side of the mountains.”

New light on their course was secured from Warren, and above all, the
important information that the mouth of Jesup's River was marked by an
eagle's nest in a dead pine. “Up to that point keep the main stream, and
don't forget next spring I'm buying fur.”

The drive across Five-mile portage was slow. It took over two hours to
cover it, but late that day they reached the Schroon.

Here the Dutchman said “Good-bye: Coom again some noder time.” Skookum
saluted the farmer with a final growl, then Rolf and Quonab were left
alone in the wilderness.

It was after sundown, so they set about camping for the night. A wise
camper always prepares bed and shelter in daylight, if possible. While
Rolf made a fire and hung the kettle, Quonab selected a level, dry place
between two trees, and covered it with spruce boughs to make the beds,
and last a low tent was made by putting the lodge cover over a pole
between the trees. The ends of the covers were held down by loose
green logs quickly cut for the purpose, and now they were safe against
weather.

Tea, potatoes, and fried pork, with maple syrup and hard-tack, made
their meal of the time, after which there was a long smoke. Quonab took
a stick of red willow, picked up-in the daytime, and began shaving it
toward one end, leaving the curling shreds still on the stick. When
these were bunched in a fuzzy mop, he held them over the fire until they
were roasted brown; then, grinding all up in his palm with some tobacco,
and filling his pipe he soon was enveloped in that odour of woodsy smoke
called the “Indian smell,” by many who do not know whence or how it
comes. Rolf did not smoke. He had promised his mother that he would
not until he was a man, and something brought her back home now with
overwhelming force; that was the beds they had made of fragrant balsam
boughs. “Cho-ko-tung or blister tree” as Quonab called it. His mother
had a little sofa pillow, brought from the North--a “northern pine”
 pillow they called it, for it was stuffed with pine needles of a kind
not growing in Connecticut. Many a time had Rolf as a baby pushed his
little round nose into that bag to inhale the delicious odour it gave
forth, and so it became the hallowed smell of all that was dear in his
babyhood, and it never lost its potency. Smell never does. Oh, mighty
aura! that, in marching by the nostrils, can reach and move the soul;
how wise the church that makes this power its handmaid, and through its
incense overwhelms all alien thought when the worshipper, wandering,
doubting, comes again to see if it be true, that here doubt dies. Oh,
queen of memory that is master of the soul! how fearful should we be of
letting evil thought associated grow with some recurrent odour that
we love. Happy, indeed, are they that find some ten times pure and
consecrated fragrance, like the pine, which entering in is master
of their moods, and yet through linking thoughts has all its power,
uplifting, full of sweetness and blessed peace. So came to Rolf his
medicine tree.

The balsam fir was his tree of hallowed memory. Its odour never failed,
and he slept that night with its influence all about him.

Starting in the morning was no easy matter. There was so much to be
adjusted that first day. Packs divided in two, new combinations to trim
the canoe, or to raise such and such a package above a possible leak.
The heavy things, like axes and pans, had to be fastened to the canoe or
to packages that would float in case of an upset. The canoe itself had
to be gummed in one or two places; but they got away after three hours,
and began the voyage down the Schroon.

This was Rolf's first water journey. He had indeed essayed the canoe on
the Pipestave Pond, but that was a mere ferry. This was real travel. He
marvelled at the sensitiveness of the frail craft; the delicacy of its
balance; its quick response to the paddle; the way it seemed to shrink
from the rocks; and the unpleasantly suggestive bend-up of the ribs
when the bottom grounded upon a log. It was a new world for him. Quonab
taught him never to enter the canoe except when she was afloat; never to
rise in her or move along without hold of the gunwale; never to make a
sudden move; and he also learned that it was easier to paddle when there
were six feet of water underneath than when only six inches.

In an hour they had covered the five miles that brought them to the
Hudson, and here the real labour began, paddling up stream. Before long
they came to a shallow stretch with barely enough water to float the
canoe. Here they jumped out and waded in the stream, occasionally
lifting a stone to one side, till they reached the upper stretch of deep
water and again went merrily paddling. Soon they came to an impassable
rapid, and Rolf had his first taste of a real carry or portage. Quonab's
eye was watching the bank as soon as the fierce waters appeared; for
the first question was, where shall we land? and the next, how far do we
carry? There are no rapids on important rivers in temperate America
that have not been portaged more or less for ages. No canoe man portages
without considering most carefully when, where, and how to land. His
selection of the place, then, is the result of careful study. He cannot
help leaving some mark at the place, slight though it be, and the next
man looks for that mark to save himself time and trouble.

“Ugh” was the only sound that Rolf heard from his companion, and
the canoe headed for a flat rock in the pool below the rapids. After
landing, they found traces of an old camp fire. It was near noon now,
so Rolf prepared the meal while Quonab took a light pack and went on to
learn the trail. It was not well marked; had not been used for a year
or two, evidently, but there are certain rules that guide one. The trail
keeps near the water, unless there is some great natural barrier, and it
is usually the easiest way in sight. Quonab kept one eye on the river,
for navigable water was the main thing, and in about one hundred yards
he was again on the stream's edge, at a good landing above the rapid.

After the meal was finished and the Indian had smoked, they set to work.
In a few loads each, the stuff was portaged across, and the canoe was
carried over and moored to the bank.

The cargo replaced, they went on again, but in half an hour after
passing more shoal water, saw another rapid, not steep, but too shallow
to float the canoe, even with both men wading. Here Quonab made what
the Frenchmen call a demi-charge. He carried half the stuff to the bank;
then, wading, one at each end, they hauled the canoe up the portage and
reloaded her above. Another strip of good going was succeeded by a long
stretch of very swift water that was two or three feet deep and between
shores that were densely grown with alders. The Indian landed, cut two
light, strong poles, and now, one at the bow, the other at the stern,
they worked their way foot by foot up the fierce current until safely on
the upper level.

Yet one more style of canoe propulsion was forced on them. They came to
a long stretch of smooth, deep, very swift water, almost a rapid-one of
the kind that is a joy when you are coming down stream. It differed from
the last in having shores that were not alder-hidden, but open gravel
banks. Now did Quonab take a long, strong line from his war sack. One
end he fastened, not to the bow, but to the forward part of the canoe,
the other to a buckskin band which he put across his breast. Then, with
Rolf in the stern to steer and the Indian hauling on the bank, the canoe
was safely “tracked” up the “strong waters.”

Thus they fought their way up the hard river, day after day, making
sometimes only five miles after twelve hours' toilsome travel. Rapids,
shoals, portages, strong waters, abounded, and before they had covered
the fifty miles to the forks of Jesup's River, they knew right well why
the region was so little entered.

It made a hardened canoe man of Rolf, and when, on the evening of the
fifth day, they saw a huge eagle's nest in a dead pine tree that stood
on the edge of a long swamp, both felt they had reached their own
country, and were glad.



Chapter 18. Animal Life Along the River

It must not be supposed that, because it has been duly mentioned, they
saw no wild life along the river. The silent canoe man has the best of
opportunities. There were plenty of deer tracks about the first camp,
and that morning, as they turned up the Hudson, Rolf saw his first deer.
They had rounded a point in rather swift water when Quonab gave two taps
on the gunwale, the usual sign, “Look out,” and pointed to the shore.
There, fifty yards away on bank, gazing at them, was a deer. Stock still
he stood like a red statue, for he was yet in the red coat. With three
or four strong strokes, Quonab gave a long and mighty forward spurt;
then reached for his gun. But the deer's white flag went up. It turned
and bounded away, the white flag the last thing to disappear. Rolf sat
spellbound. It was so sudden; so easy; it soon melted into the woods
again. He trembled after it was gone.

Many a time in the evening they saw muskrats in the eddies, and once
they glimpsed a black, shiny something like a monstrous leech rolling up
and down as it travelled in the stream. Quonab whispered, “Otter,” and
made ready his gun, but it dived and showed itself no more. At one of
the camps they were awakened by an extraordinary tattoo in the middle of
the night--a harsh rattle close by their heads; and they got up to find
that a porcupine was rattling his teeth on the frying-pan in an effort
to increase the amount of salt that he could taste on it. Skookum, tied
to a tree, was vainly protesting against the intrusion and volunteered
to make a public example of the invader. The campers did not finally get
rid of the spiny one till all their kitchen stuff was hung beyond his
reach.

Once they heard the sharp, short bark of a fox, and twice or thrice
the soft, sweet, moaning call of the gray wolf out to hunt. Wild fowl
abounded, and their diet was varied by the ducks that one or other of
the hunters secured at nearly every camp.

On the second day they saw three deer, and on the third morning Quonab
loaded his gun with buckshot, to be ready, then sallied forth at dawn.
Rolf was following, but the Indian shook his head, then said: “Don't
make fire for half an hour.”

In twenty minutes Rolf heard the gun, then later the Indian returned
with a haunch of venison, and when they left that camp they stopped a
mile up the river to add the rest of the venison to their cargo. Seven
other deer were seen, but no more killed; yet Rolf was burning to try
his hand as a hunter. Many other opportunities he had, and improved some
of them. On one wood portage he, or rather Skookum, put up a number
of ruffed grouse. These perched in the trees above their heads and the
travellers stopped. While the dog held their attention Rolf with blunt
arrows knocked over five that proved most acceptable as food. But his
thoughts were now on deer, and his ambition was to go out alone and
return with a load of venison.

Another and more thrilling experience followed quickly. Rounding a bend
in the early dawn they sighted a black bear and two cubs rambling along
the gravelly bank and stopping now and then to eat something that turned
out to be crayfish.

Quonab had not seen a bear since childhood, when he and his father
hunted along the hardwood ridges back of Myanos, and now he was excited.
He stopped paddling, warned Rolf to do the same, and let the canoe drift
backward until out of sight; then made for the land. Quickly tying up
the canoe he took his gun and Rolf his hunting arrows, and, holding
Skookum in a leash, they dashed into the woods. Then, keeping out of
sight, they ran as fast and as silently as possible in the direction
of the bears. Of course, the wind was toward the hunters, or they never
could have got so near. Now they were opposite the family group and
needed only a chance for a fair shot. Sneaking forward with the utmost
caution, they were surely within twenty-five yards, but still the bushes
screened the crab-eaters. As the hunters sneaked, the old bear stopped
and sniffed suspiciously; the wind changed, she got an unmistakable
whiff; then gave a loud warning “Koff! Koff! Koff! Koff!” and ran as
fast as she could. The hunters knowing they were discovered rushed out,
yelling as loudly as possible, in hopes of making the bears tree. The
old bear ran like a horse with Skookum yapping bravely in her rear. The
young ones, left behind, lost sight of her, and, utterly bewildered by
the noise, made for a tree conveniently near and scrambled up into the
branches. “Now,” Rolf thought, judging by certain tales he had heard,
“that old bear will come back and there will be a fight.”

“Is she coming back?” he asked nervously.

The Indian laughed. “No, she is running yet. Black bear always a coward;
they never fight when they can run away.”

The little ones up the tree were, of course, at the mercy of the
hunters, and in this case it was not a broken straw they depended on,
but an ample salvation. “We don't need the meat and can't carry it
with us; let's leave them,” said Rolf, but added, “Will they find their
mother?”

“Yes, bime-by; they come down and squall all over woods. She will hang
round half a mile away and by night all will be together.”

Their first bear hunt was over. Not a shot fired, not a bear wounded,
not a mile travelled, and not an hour lost. And yet it seemed much more
full of interesting thrills than did any one of the many stirring bear
hunts that Rolf and Quonab shared together in the days that were to
come.



Chapter 19. The Footprint on the Shore

Jesup's River was a tranquil stream that came from a region of swamps,
and would have been easy canoeing but for the fallen trees. Some of
these had been cut years ago, showing that the old trapper had used this
route. Once they were unpleasantly surprised by seeing a fresh chopping
on the bank, but their mourning was changed into joy when they found it
was beaver-work.

Ten miles they made that day. In the evening they camped on the shore of
Jesup's Lake, proud and happy in the belief that they were the rightful
owners of it all. That night they heard again and again the howling of
wolves, but it seemed on the far side of the lake. In the morning they
went out on foot to explore, and at once had the joy of seeing five
deer, while tracks showed on every side. It was evidently a paradise for
deer, and there were in less degree the tracks of other animals--mink in
fair abundance, one or two otters, a mountain lion, and a cow moose with
her calf. It was thrilling to see such a feast of possibilities. The
hunters were led on and on, revelling in the prospect of many joys
before them, when all at once they came on something that turned their
joy to grief--the track of a man; the fresh imprint of a cowhide boot.
It was maddening. At first blush, it meant some other trapper ahead of
them with a prior claim to the valley; a claim that the unwritten law
would allow. They followed it a mile. It went striding along the shore
at a great pace, sometimes running, and keeping down the west shore.
Then they found a place where he had sat down and broken a lot of clam
shells, and again had hastened on. But there was no mark of gunstock
or other weapon where he sat; and why was he wearing boots? The hunters
rarely did.

For two miles the Indian followed with Rolf, and sometimes found
that the hated stranger had been running hard. Then they turned back,
terribly disappointed. At first it seemed a crushing blow. They had
three courses open to them--to seek a location farther north, to assume
that one side of the lake was theirs, or to find out exactly who and
what the stranger was. They decided on the last. The canoe was launched
and loaded, and they set out to look for what they hoped they would not
find, a trapper's shanty on the lake.

After skirting the shore for four or five miles and disturbing one or
two deer, as well as hosts of ducks, the voyagers landed and there still
they found that fateful bootmark steadily tramping southward. By noon
they had reached the south end of the west inlet that leads to another
lake, and again an examination of the shore showed the footmarks, here
leaving the lake and going southerly. Now the travellers retired to the
main lake and by noon had reached the south end. At no point had they
seen any sign of a cabin, though both sides of the lake were in plain
view all day. The travelling stranger was a mystery, but he did not live
here and there was no good reason why they should not settle.

Where? The country seemed equally good at all points, but it is usually
best to camp on an outlet. Then when a storm comes up, the big waves
do not threaten your canoe, or compel you to stay on land. It is a
favourite crossing for animals avoiding the lake, and other trappers
coming in are sure to see your cabin before they enter.

Which side of the outlet? Quonab settled that--the west. He wanted to
see the sun rise, and, not far back from the water, was a hill with a
jutting, rocky pinnade. He pointed to this and uttered the one word,
“Idaho.” Here, then, on the west side, where the lake enters the river,
they began to clear the ground for their home.



Chapter 20. The Trappers' Cabin

     It's a smart fellow that knows what he can't do.--Sayings of
     Si Sylvanne.

I suppose every trapper that ever lived, on first building a cabin,
said, “Oh, any little thing will do, so long as it has a roof and is
big enough to lie down in.” And every trapper has realized before spring
that he made a sad mistake in not having it big enough to live in and
store goods in. Quonab and Rolf were new at the business, and made the
usual mistake. They planned their cabin far too small; 10 X 12 ft.,
instead of 12 X 20 ft. they made it, and 6-ft. walls, instead of 8-ft.
walls. Both were expert axemen. Spruce was plentiful and the cabin rose
quickly. In one day the walls were up. An important thing was the roof.
What should it be? Overlapping basswood troughs, split shingles, also
called shakes, or clay? By far the easiest to make, the warmest
in winter and coolest in summer, is the clay roof. It has three
disadvantages: It leaks in long-continued wet weather; it drops down
dust and dirt in dry weather; and is so heavy that it usually ends by
crushing in the log rafters and beams, unless they are further supported
on posts, which are much in the way. But its advantages were so obvious
that the builders did not hesitate. A clay roof it was to be.

When the walls were five feet high, the doorway and window were cut
through the logs, but leaving in each case one half of the log at the
bottom of the needed opening. The top log was now placed, then rolled
over bottom up, while half of its thickness was cut away to fit over
the door: a similar cut out was made over the window. Two flat pieces
of spruce were prepared for door jambs and two shorter ones for window
jambs. Auger holes were put through, so as to allow an oak pin to
be driven through the jamb into each log, and the doorway and window
opening were done.

In one corner they planned a small fireplace, built of clay and stone.
Not stone from the lake, as Rolf would have had it, but from the
hillside; and why? Quonab said that the lake stone was of the water
spirits, and would not live near fire, but would burst open; while the
hillside stone was of the sun and fire spirit, and in the fire would add
its heat.

The facts are that lake stone explodes when greatly heated and hill
stone does not; and since no one has been able to improve upon Quonab's
explanation, it must stand for the present.

The plan of the fireplace was simple. Rolf had been present at the
building of several, and the main point was to have the chimney large
enough, and the narrowest point just above the fire.

The eaves logs, end logs, and ridge logs were soon in place; then came
the cutting of small poles, spruce and tamarack, long enough to reach
from ridge to eaves, and in sufficient number to completely cover the
roof. A rank sedge meadow near by afforded plenty of coarse grass with
which the poles were covered deeply; and lastly clay dug out with a
couple of hand-made, axe-hewn wooden spades was thrown evenly on the
grass to a depth of six inches; this, when trampled flat, made a roof
that served them well.

The chinks of the logs when large were filled with split pieces of wood;
when small they were plugged with moss. A door was made of hewn planks,
and hinged very simply on two pins; one made by letting the plank
project as a point, the other by nailing on a pin after the door was
placed; both pins fitting, of course, into inch auger holes.

A floor was not needed, but bed bunks were, and in making these they
began already to realize that the cabin was too small. But now after a
week's work it was done. It had a sweet fragrance of wood and moss, and
the pleasure it gave to Rolf at least was something he never again could
expect to find in equal measure about any other dwelling he might make.

Quonab laid the fire carefully, then lighted his pipe, sang a little
crooning song about the “home spirits,” which we call “household gods,”
 walked around the shanty, offering the pipestem to each of the four
winds in turn, then entering lighted the fire from his pipe, threw some
tobacco and deer hair on the blaze, and the house-warming was ended.

Nevertheless, they continued to sleep in the tent they had used all
along, for Quonab loved not the indoors, and Rolf was growing daily more
of his mind.



Chapter 21. Rolf's First Deer

Anxious to lose no fine day they had worked steadily on the shanty, not
even going after the deer that were seen occasionally over the lake, so
that now they were out of fresh meat, and Rolf saw a chance he long had
looked for. “Quonab, I want to go out alone and get a deer, and I want
your gun.

“Ugh! you shall go. To-night is good.”

“To-night” meant evening, so Rolf set out alone as soon as the sun was
low, for during the heat of the day the deer are commonly lying in some
thicket. In general, he knew enough to travel up wind, and to go as
silently as possible. The southwest wind was blowing softly, and so he
quickened his steps southwesterly which meant along the lake. Tracks and
signs abounded; it was impossible to follow any one trail. His plan was
to keep on silently, trusting to luck, nor did he have long to wait.
Across a little opening of the woods to the west he saw a movement in
the bushes, but it ceased, and he was in doubt whether the creature,
presumably a deer, was standing there or had gone on. “Never quit till
you are sure,” was one of Quonab's wise adages. Rolf was bound to know
what it was that had moved. So he stood still and waited. A minute
passed; another; many; a long time; and still he waited, but got no
further sign of life from the bush. Then he began to think he was
mistaken; yet it was good huntercraft to find out what that was. He
tried the wind several times, first by wetting his finger, which test
said “southwest”; second, by tossing up some handfuls of dried grass,
which said “yes, southwest, but veering southerly in this glade.” So he
knew he might crawl silently to the north side of that bush. He looked
to the priming of his gun and began a slow and stealthy stalk, selecting
such openings as might be passed without effort or movement of bushes or
likelihood of sound. He worked his way step by step; each time his foot
was lifted he set it down again only after trying the footing. At each
step he paused to look and listen. It was only one hundred yards to the
interesting spot, but Rolf was fifteen minutes in covering the distance,
and more than once, he got a great start as a chicadee flew out or
a woodpecker tapped. His heart beat louder and louder, so it seemed
everything near must hear; but he kept on his careful stalk, and at last
had reached the thicket that had given him such thrills and hopes. Here
he stood and watched for a full minute. Again he tried the wind, and
proceeded to circle slowly to the west of the place.

After a long, tense crawl of twenty yards he came on the track and sign
of a big buck, perfectly fresh, and again his heart worked harder;
it seemed to be pumping his neck full of blood, so he was choking. He
judged it best to follow this hot trail for a time, and holding his gun
ready cocked he stepped softly onward. A bluejay cried out, “jay, jay!”
 with startling loudness, and seemingly enjoyed his pent-up excitement. A
few steps forward at slow, careful stalk, and then behind him he heard
a loud whistling hiss. Instantly turning he found himself face to face
with a great, splendid buck in the short blue coat. There not thirty
yards away he stood, the creature he had been stalking so long, in plain
view now, broadside on. They gazed each at the other, perfectly still
for a few seconds, then Rolf without undue movement brought the gun
to bear, and still the buck stood gazing. The gun was up, but oh, how
disgustingly it wabbled and shook! and the steadier Rolf tried to bold
it, the more it trembled, until from that wretched gun the palsy spread
all over his body; his breath came tremulously, his legs and arms were
shaking, and at last, as the deer moved its head to get a better view
and raised its tail, the lad, making an effort at selfcontrol, pulled
the trigger. Bang! and the buck went lightly bounding out of sight.

Poor Rolf; how disgusted he felt; positively sick with self-contempt.
Thirty yards, standing, broadside on, full daylight, a big buck, a clean
miss. Yes, there was the bullet hole in a tree, five feet above the
deer's head. “I'm no good; I'll never be a hunter,” he groaned, then
turned and slowly tramped back to camp. Quonab looked inquiringly, for,
of course, he heard the shot. He saw a glum and sorry-looking youth, who
in response to his inquiring look gave merely a head-shake, and hung up
the gun with a vicious bang.

Quonab took down the gun, wiped it out, reloaded it, then turning to the
boy said: “Nibowaka, you feel pretty sick. Ugh! You know why? You got
a good chance, but you got buck fever. It is always so, every one the
first time. You go again to-morrow and you get your deer.”

Rolf made no reply. So Quonab ventured, “You want me to go?” That
settled it for Rolf; his pride was touched.

“No; I'll go again in the morning.”

In the dew time he was away once more on the hunting trail. There was
no wind, but the southwest was the likeliest to spring up. So he went
nearly over his last night's track. He found it much easier to go
silently now when all the world was dew wet, and travelled quickly. Past
the fateful glade he went, noted again the tree torn several feet too
high up, and on. Then the cry of a bluejay rang out; this is often a
notification of deer at hand. It always is warning of something doing,
and no wise hunter ignores it.

Rolf stood for a moment listening and peering. He thought he heard a
scraping sound; then again the bluejay, but the former ceased and the
jay-note died in the distance. He crept cautiously on again for a few
minutes; another opening appeared. He studied this from a hiding place;
then far across he saw a little flash near the ground. His heart gave
a jump; he studied the place, saw again the flash and then made out the
head of a deer, a doe that was lying in the long grass. The flash was
made by its ear shaking off a fly. Rolf looked to his priming, braced
himself, got fully ready, then gave a short, sharp whistle; instantly
the doe rose to her feet; then another appeared, a sinal one; then a
young buck; all stood gazing his way.

Up went the gun, but again its muzzle began to wabble. Rolf lowered it,
said grimly and savagely to himself, “I will not shake this time.” The
deer stretched themselves and began slowly walking toward the lake. All
had disappeared but the buck. Rolf gave another whistle that turned the
antler-bearer to a statue. Controlling himself with a strong “I
will,” he raised the gun, held it steadily, and fired. The buck gave
a gathering spasm, a bound, and disappeared. Rolf felt sick again with
disgust, but he reloaded, then hastily went forward.

There was the deep imprint showing where the buck had bounded at the
shot, but no blood. He followed, and a dozen feet away found the next
hoof marks and on them a bright-red stain; on and another splash; and
more and shortening bounds, till one hundred yards away--yes, there it
lay; the round, gray form, quite dead, shot through the heart.

Rolf gave a long, rolling war cry and got an answer from a point that
was startlingly near, and Quonab stepped from behind a tree.

“I got him,” shouted Rolf.

The Indian smiled. “I knew you would, so I followed; last night I knew
you must have your shakes, so let you go it alone.”

Very carefully that deer was skinned, and Rolf learned the reason for
many little modes of procedure.

After the hide was removed from the body (not the hand or legs), Quonab
carefully cut out the-broad sheath of tendon that cover the muscles,
beginning at the hip bones on the back and extending up to the
shoulders; this is the sewing sinew. Then he cut out the two long
fillets of meat that lie on each side of the spine outside (the loin)
and the two smaller ones inside (the tenderloin).

These, with the four quarters, the heart, and the kidneys, were put into
the hide. The entrails, head, neck, legs, feet, he left for the foxes,
but the hip bone or sacrum he hung in a tree with three little red
yarns from them, so that the Great Spirit would be pleased and send good
hunting. Then addressing the head he said: “Little brother, forgive
us. We are sorry to kill you. Behold! we give you the honour of red
streamers.” Then bearing the rest they tramped back to camp.

The meat wrapped in sacks to keep off the flies was hung in the shade,
but the hide he buried in the warm mud of a swamp hole, and three days
later, when the hair began to slip, he scraped it clean. A broad ash
wood hoop he had made ready and when the green rawhide was strained on
it again the Indian had an Indian drum.

It was not truly dry for two or three days and as it tightened on its
frame it gave forth little sounds of click and shrinkage that told of
the strain the tensioned rawhide made. Quonab tried it that night as he
sat by the fire softly singing:

“Ho da ho-he da he.”

But the next day before sunrise he climbed the hill and sitting on the
sun-up rock he hailed the Day God with the invocation, as he had not
sung it since the day they left the great rock above the Asalnuk, and
followed with the song:

“Father, we thank thee; We have found the good hunting. There is meat in
the wigwam.”



Chapter 22. The Line of Traps

Now that they had the cabin for winter, and food for the present,
they must set about the serious business of trapping and lay a line of
deadfalls for use in the coming cold weather. They were a little ahead
of time, but it was very desirable to get their lines blazed through the
woods in all proposed directions in case of any other trapper coming in.
Most fur-bearing animals are to be found along the little valleys of the
stream: beaver, otter, mink, muskrat, coon, are examples. Those that
do not actually live by the water seek these places because of their
sheltered character and because their prey lives there; of this class
are the lynx, fox, fisher, and marten that feed on rabbits and mice.
Therefore a line of traps is usually along some valley and over the
divide and down some other valley back to the point of beginning.

So, late in September, Rolf and Quonab, with their bedding, a pot, food
for four days, and two axes, alternately followed and led by Skookum,
set out along a stream that entered the lake near their cabin. A quarter
mile up they built their first deadfall for martens. It took them one
hour and was left unset. The place was under a huge tree on a neck of
land around which the stream made a loop. This tree they blazed on three
sides. Two hundred yards up another good spot was found and a deadfall
made. At one place across a neck of land was a narrow trail evidently
worn by otters. “Good place for steel trap, bime-by,” was Quonab's
remark.

From time to time they disturbed deer, and in a muddy place where a
deer path crossed the creek, they found, among the numerous small hoof
prints, the track of wolves, bears, and a mountain lion, or panther. At
these little Skookum sniffed fearsomely, and showed by his bristly mane
that he was at least much impressed.

After five hours' travel and work they came to another stream joining
on, and near the angle of the two little valleys they found a small tree
that was chewed and scratched in a remarkable manner for three to six
feet up. “Bear tree,” said Quonab, and by degrees Rolf got the facts
about it.

The bears, and indeed most animals, have a way of marking the range that
they consider their own. Usually this is done by leaving their personal
odour at various points, covering the country claimed, but in some cases
visible marks are added. Thus the beaver leaves a little dab of mud, the
wolf scratches with his hind feet, and the bear tears the signal tree
with tooth and claw. Since this is done from time to time, when the bear
happens to be near the tree, it is kept fresh as long as the region
is claimed. But it is especially done in midsummer when the bears are
pairing, and helps them to find suitable companions, nor all are then
roaming the woods seeking mates; all call and leave their mark on the
sign post, so the next bear, thanks to his exquisite nose, can tell at
once the sex of the bear that called last and by its track tell which
way it travelled afterward.

In this case it was a bear's register, but before long Quonab showed
Rolf a place where two long logs joined at an angle by a tree that was
rubbed and smelly, and showed a few marten hairs, indicating that this
was the sign post of a marten and a good place to make a deadfall.

Yet a third was found in an open, grassy glade, a large, white stone on
which were pellets left by foxes. The Indian explained:

“Every fox that travels near will come and smell the stone to see who
of his kind is around, so this is a good place for a fox-trap; a steel
trap, of course, for no fox will go into a deadfall.”

And slowly Rolf learned that these habits are seen in some measure
in all animals; yes, down to the mice and shrews. We see little of
it because our senses are blunt and our attention untrained; but the
naturalist and the hunter always know where to look for the four-footed
inhabitants and by them can tell whether or not the land is possessed by
such and such a furtive tribe.



Chapter 23. The Beaver Pond

AT THE noon halt they were about ten miles from home and had made
fifteen deadfalls for marten, for practice was greatly reducing the time
needed for each.

In the afternoon they went on, but the creek had become a mere rill and
they were now high up in a more level stretch of country that was
more or less swampy. As they followed the main course of the dwindling
stream, looking ever for signs of fur-bearers, they crossed and
recrossed the water. At length Quonab stopped, stared, and pointed at
the rill, no longer clear but clouded with mud. His eyes shone as he
jerked his head up stream and uttered the magic word, “Beaver.”

They tramped westerly for a hundred yards through a dense swamp of
alders, and came at last to an irregular pond that spread out among the
willow bushes and was lost in the swampy thickets. Following the stream
they soon came to a beaver dam, a long, curving bank of willow branches
and mud, tumbling through the top of which were a dozen tiny streams
that reunited their waters below to form the rivulet they had been
following.

Red-winged blackbirds were sailing in flocks about the pond; a number
of ducks were to be seen, and on a dead tree, killed by the backed up
water, a great blue heron stood. Many smaller creatures moved or flitted
in the lively scene, while far out near the middle rose a dome-like pile
of sticks, a beaver lodge, and farther three more were discovered. No
beaver were seen, but the fresh cut sticks, the floating branches peeled
of all the bark, and the long, strong dam in good repair were enough
to tell a practised eye that here was a large colony of beavers in
undisturbed possession.

In those days beaver was one of the most valued furs. The creature is
very easy to trap; so the discovery of the pond was like the finding of
a bag of gold. They skirted its uncertain edges and Quonab pointed out
the many landing places of the beaver; little docks they seemed, built
up with mud and stones with deep water plunge holes alongside. Here and
there on the shore was a dome-shaped ant's nest with a pathway to it
from the pond, showing, as the Indian said, that here the beaver came on
sunny days to lie on the hill and let the swarming ants come forth and
pick the vermin from their fur. At one high point projecting into the
still water they found a little mud pie with a very strong smell; this,
the Indian said, was a “castor cache,” the sign that, among beavers,
answers the same purpose as the bear tree among bears.

Although the pond seemed small they had to tramp a quarter of a mile
before reaching the upper end and here they found another dam, with its
pond. This was at a slightly higher level and contained a single lodge;
after this they found others, a dozen ponds in a dozen successive rises,
the first or largest and the second only having lodges, but all were
evidently part of the thriving colony, for fresh cut trees were seen on
every side. “Ugh, good; we get maybe fifty beaver,” said the Indian, and
they knew they had reached the Promised Land.

Rolf would gladly have spent the rest of the day exploring the pond and
trying for a beaver, when the eventide should call them to come forth,
but Quonab said, “Only twenty deadfall; we should have one hundred and
fifty.” So making for a fine sugar bush on the dry ground west of the
ponds they blazed a big tree, left a deadfall there, and sought the
easiest way over the rough hills that lay to the east, in hopes of
reaching the next stream leading down to their lake.



Chapter 24. The Porcupine

Skookum was a partly trained little dog; he would stay in camp when
told, if it suited him; and would not hesitate to follow or lead his
master, when he felt that human wisdom was inferior to the ripe product
of canine experience covering more than thirteen moons of recollection.
But he was now living a life in which his previous experience must often
fail him as a guide. A faint rustling on the leafy ground had sent
him ahead at a run, and his sharp, angry bark showed that some hostile
creature of the woods had been discovered. Again and again the angry
yelping was changed into a sort of yowl, half anger, half distress. The
hunters hurried forward to find the little fool charging again and
again a huge porcupine that was crouched with its head under a log, its
hindquarters exposed but bristling with spines; and its tail lashing
about, left a new array of quills in the dog's mouth and face each time
he charged. Skookum was a plucky fighter, but plainly he was nearly sick
of it. The pain of the quills would, of course, increase every minute
and with each movement. Quonab took a stout stick and threw the
porcupine out of its retreat, (Rolf supposed to kill it when the head
was exposed,) but the spiny one, finding a new and stronger enemy,
wasted no time in galloping at its slow lumbering pace to the nearest
small spruce tree and up that it scrambled to a safe place in the high
branches.

Now the hunters called the dog. He was a sorry-looking object, pawing at
his muzzle, first with one foot, then another, trying to unswallow the
quills in his tongue, blinking hard, uttering little painful grunts and
whines as he rubbed his head upon the ground or on his forelegs. Rolf
held him while Quonab, with a sharp jerk, brought out quill after quill.
Thirty or forty of the poisonous little daggers were plucked from his
trembling legs, head, face, and nostrils, but the dreadful ones were
those in his lips and tongue. Already they were deeply sunk in the soft,
quivering flesh. One by one those in the lips were with-drawn by the
strong fingers of the red man, and Skookum whimpered a little, but he
shrieked outright when those in the tongue were removed. Rolf had hard
work to hold him, and any one not knowing the case might have thought
that the two men were deliberately holding the dog to administer the
most cruel torture.

But none of the quills had sunk very deep. All were got out at last and
the little dog set free.

Now Rolf thought of vengeance on the quill-pig snugly sitting in the
tree near by.

Ammunition was too precious to waste, but Rolf was getting ready to climb
when Quonab said: “No, no; you must not. Once I saw white man climb
after the Kahk; it waited till he was near, then backed down, lashing
its tail. He put up his arm to save his face. It speared his arm in
fifty places and he could not save his face, so he tried to get down,
but the Kahk came faster, lashing him; then he lost his hold and
dropped. His leg was broken and his arm was swelled up for half a year.
They are very poisonous. He nearly died.”

“Well, I can at least chop him down,” and Rolf took the axe.

“Wah!” Quonab said, “no; my father said you must not kill the Kahk,
except you make sacrifice and use his quills for household work. It is
bad medicine to kill the Kahk.”

So the spiny one was left alone in the place he had so ably fought for.
But Skookum, what of him? He was set free at last. To be wiser? Alas,
no! before one hour he met with another porcupine and remembering only
his hate of the creature repeated the same sad mistake, and again had to
have the painful help, without which he must certainly have died. Before
night, however, he began to feel his real punishment and next morning
no one would have known the pudding-headed thing that sadly followed the
hunters, for the bright little dog that a day before had run so joyously
through the woods. It was many a long day before he fully recovered and
at one time his life was in the balance; and yet to the last of his
days he never fully realized the folly of his insensate attacks on the
creature that fights with its tail.

“It is ever so,” said the Indian. “The lynx, the panther, the wolf, the
fox, the eagle, all that attack the Kahk must die. Once my father saw
a bear that was killed by the quills. He had tried to bite the Kahk;
it filled his mouth with quills that he could not spit out. They sunk
deeper and his jaws swelled so he could not open or shut his mouth
to eat; then he starved. My people found him near a fish pond below a
rapid. There were many fish. The bear could kill them with his paw but
not eat, so with his mouth wide open and plenty about him he died of
starvation in that pool.

“There is but one creature that can kill the Kahk that is the Ojeeg the
big fisher weasel. He is a devil. He makes very strong medicine; the
Kahk cannot harm him. He turns it on its back and tears open its smooth
belly. It is ever so. We not know, but my father said, that it is
because when in the flood Nana Bojou was floating on the log with Kahk
and Ojeeg, Kahk was insolent and wanted the highest place, but Ojeeg was
respectful to Nana Bojou, he bit the Kahk to teach him a lesson and got
lashed with the tail of many stings. But the Manito drew out the quills
and said: 'It shall be ever thus; the Ojeeg shall conquer the Kahk and
the quills of Kahk shall never do Ojeeg any harm.'”



Chapter 25. The Otter Slide

It was late now and the hunters camped in the high cool woods. Skookum
whined in his sleep so loudly as to waken them once or twice. Near dawn
they heard the howling of wolves and the curiously similar hooting of
a horned owl. There is, indeed, almost no difference between the short
opening howl of a she-wolf and the long hoot of the owl. As he listened,
half awake, Rolf heard a whirr of wings which stopped overhead, then
a familiar chuckle. He sat up and saw Skookum sadly lift his misshapen
head to gaze at a row of black-breasted grouse partridge on a branch
above, but the poor doggie was feeling too sick to take any active
interest. They were not ruffed grouse, but a kindred kind, new to Rolf.
As he gazed at the perchers, he saw Quonab rise gently, go to nearest
willow and cut a long slender rod at least two feet long; on the top of
this he made a short noose of cord. Then he went cautiously under the
watching grouse, the spruce partridges, and reaching up slipped the
noose over the neck of the first one; a sharp jerk then tightened noose,
and brought the grouse tumbling out of the tree while its companions
merely clucked their puzzlement, made no effort to escape.

A short, sharp blow put the captive out of pain. The rod was reached
again and a second, the lowest always, was jerked down, and the trick
repeated till three grouse were secured. Then only did it dawn on the
others that they were in a most perilous neighbourhood, so they took
flight.

Rolf sat up in amazement. Quonab dropped the three birds by the fire and
set about preparing breakfast.

“These are fool hens,” he explained. “You can mostly get them this way;
sure, if you have a dog to help, but ruffed grouse is no such fool.”

Rolf dressed the birds and as usual threw the entrails Skookum. Poor
little dog! he was, indeed, a sorry sight. He looked sadly out of his
bulging eyes, feebly moved swollen jaws, but did not touch the food he
once would have pounced on. He did not eat because he could not open his
mouth.

At camp the trappers made a log trap and continued the line with blazes
and deadfalls, until, after a mile, they came to a broad tamarack swamp,
and, skirting its edge, found a small, outflowing stream that brought
them to an eastward-facing hollow. Everywhere there were signs game,
but they were not prepared for the scene that opened as they cautiously
pushed through the thickets into a high, hardwood bush. A deer rose
out of the grass and stared curiously at them; then another and another
until nearly a dozen were in sight; still farther many others appeared;
to the left were more, and movements told of yet others to the right.
Then their white flags went up and all loped gently away on the slope
that rose to the north. There may have been twenty or thirty deer in
sight, but the general effect of all their white tails, bobbing away,
was that the woods were full of deer. They seemed to be there by the
hundreds and the joy of seeing so many beautiful live things was helped
in the hunters by the feeling that this was their own hunting-ground.
They had, indeed, reached the land of plenty.

The stream increased as they marched; many springs and some important
rivulets joined on. They found some old beaver signs but none new; and
they left their deadfalls every quarter mile or less.

The stream began to descend more quickly until it was in a long, narrow
valley with steep clay sides and many pools. Here they saw again and
again the tracks and signs of otter and coming quietly round a turn that
opened a new reach they heard a deep splash, then another and another.

The hunters' first thought was to tie up Skookum, but a glance showed
that this was unnecessary. They softly dropped the packs and the sick
dog lay meekly down beside them. Then they crept forward with hunter
caution, favoured by an easterly breeze. Their first thought was of
beaver, but they had seen no recent sign, nor was there anything that
looked like a beaver pond. The measured splash, splash, splash--was not
so far ahead. It might be a bear snatching fish, or--no, that was too
unpleasant--a man baling out a canoe. Still the slow splash, splash,
went on at intervals, not quite regular.

Now it seemed but thirty yards ahead and in the creek.

With the utmost care they crawled to the edge of the clay and opposite
they saw a sight but rarely glimpsed by man. Here were six otters; two
evidently full-grown, and four seeming young of the pair, engaged in a
most hilarious and human game of tobogganing down a steep clay hill to
plump into a deep part at its foot.

Plump went the largest, presumably the father; down he went, to reappear
at the edge, scramble out and up an easy slope to the top of the
twenty-foot bank. Splash, splash, splash, came three of the young ones;
splash, splash, the mother and one of the cubs almost together.

“Scoot” went the big male again, and the wet furslopping and rubbing on
the long clay chute made it greasier and slipperier every time.

Splash, plump, splash--splash, plump, splash, went the otter family
gleefully, running up the bank again, eager each to be first, it seemed,
and to do the chute the oftenest.

The gambolling grace, the obvious good humour, the animal hilarity of
it all, was absorbingly amusing. The trappers gazed with pleasure that
showed how near akin are naturalist and hunter. Of course, they had
some covetous thought connected with those glossy hides, but this
was September still, and even otter were not yet prime. Shoot, plump,
splash, went the happy crew with apparently unabated joy and hilarity.
The slide improved with use and the otters seemed tireless; when all
at once a loud but muffled yelp was heard and Skookum, forgetting all
caution, came leaping down the bank to take a hand.

With a succession of shrill, birdy chirps the old otters warned their
young. Plump, plump, plump, all shot into the pool, but to reappear,
swimming with heads out, for they were but slightly alarmed. This was
too much for Quonob; he levelled his flintlock; snap, bang, it went,
pointed at the old male, but he dived at the snap and escaped. Down the
bank now rushed the hunters, joined by Skookum, to attack the otters
in the pool, for it was small and shallow; unless a burrow led from it,
they were trapped.

But the otters realized the peril. All six dashed out of the pool, down
the open, gravelly stream the old ones uttering loud chirps that rang
like screams. Under the fallen logs and brush they glided, dodging
beneath roots and over banks, pursued by the hunters, each armed with a
club and by Skookum not armed at all.

The otters seemed to know where they were going and distanced all but
the dog. Forgetting his own condition Skookum had almost overtaken
one of the otter cubs when the mother wheeled about and, hissing and
snarling, charged. Skookum was lucky to get off with a slight nip, for
the otter is a dangerous fighter. But the unlucky dog was sent howling
back to the two packs that he never should have left.

The hunters now found an open stretch of woods through which Quonab
could run ahead and intercept the otters as they bounded on down the
stream bed, pursued by Rolf, who vainly tried to deal a blow with his
club. In a few seconds the family party was up to Quonab, trapped it
seemed, but there is no more desperate assailant than an otter
fighting for its young. So far from being cowed the two old ones made a
simultaneous, furious rush at the Indian. Wholly taken by surprise, he
missed with his club, and sprang aside to escape their jaws. The family
dashed around then past him, and, urged by the continuous chirps of the
mother, they plunged under a succession of log jams and into a willow
swamp that spread out into an ancient beaver lake and were swallowed up
in the silent wilderness.



Chapter 26. Back to the Cabin

The far end of the long swamp the stream emerged, now much larger, and
the trappers kept on with their work. When night fell they had completed
fifty traps, all told, and again they camped without shelter overhead.

Next day Skookum was so much worse that they began to fear for his life.
He had eaten nothing since the sad encounter. He could drink a little,
so Rolf made a pot of soup, and when it was cool the poor doggie managed
to swallow some of the liquid after half an hour's patient endeavour.

They were now on the home line; from a hill top they got a distant view
of their lake, though it was at least five miles away. Down the creek
they went, still making their deadfalls at likely places and still
seeing game tracks at the muddy spots. The creek came at length to an
extensive, open, hardwood bush, and here it was joined by another stream
that came from the south, the two making a small river. From then on
they seemed in a land of game; trails of deer were seen on the ground
everywhere, and every few minutes they started one or two deer. The
shady oak wood itself was flanked and varied with dense cedar swamps
such as the deer love to winter in, and after they had tramped through
two miles of it, the Indian said, “Good! now we know where to come in
winter when we need meat.”

At a broad, muddy ford they passed an amazing number of tracks, mostly
deer, but a few of panther, lynx, fisher, wolf, otter, and mink.

In the afternoon they reached the lake. The stream, quite a broad one
here, emptied in about four miles south of the camp. Leaving a deadfall
near its mouth they followed the shore and made a log trap every quarter
mile just above the high water mark.

When they reached the place of Rolf's first deer they turned aside to
see it. The gray jays had picked a good deal of the loose meat. No large
animal had troubled it, and yet in the neighbourhood they found the
tracks of both wolves and foxes.

“Ugh,” said Quonab, “they smell it and come near, but they know that a
man has been here; they are not very hungry, so keep away. This is good
for trap.”

So they made two deadfalls with the carrion half way between them. Then
one or two more traps and they reached home, arriving at the camp just
as darkness and a heavy rainfall began.

“Good,” said Quonab, “our deadfalls are ready; we have done all the work
our fingers could not do when the weather is very cold, and the ground
too hard for stakes to be driven. Now the traps can get weathered before
we go round and set them. Yet we need some strong medicine, some trapper
charm.”

Next morning he went forth with fish-line and fish-spear; he soon
returned with a pickerel. He filled a bottle with cut-up shreds of this,
corked it up, and hung it on the warm, sunny side of the shanty. “That
will make a charm that every bear will come to,” he said, and left it
to the action of the sun.



Chapter 27. Sick Dog Skookum

Getting home is always a joy; but walking about the place in the morning
they noticed several little things that were wrong. Quonab's lodge was
down, the paddles that stood against the shanty were scattered on the
ground, and a bag of venison hung high at the ridge was opened and
empty.

Quonab studied the tracks and announced “a bad old black bear; he has
rollicked round for mischief, upsetting things. But the venison he could
not reach; that was a marten that ripped open the bag.”

“Then that tells what we should do; build a storehouse at the end of the
shanty,” said Rolf, adding, “it must be tight and it must be cool.”

“Maybe! sometime before winter,” said the Indian; “but now we should
make another line of traps while the weather is fine.”

“No,” replied the lad, “Skookum is not fit to travel now. We can't leave
him behind, and we can make a storehouse in three days.”

The unhappy little dog was worse than ever. He could scarcely breathe,
much less eat or drink, and the case was settled.

First they bathed the invalid's head in water as hot as he could stand
it. This seemed to help him so much that he swallowed eagerly some soup
that they poured into his mouth. A bed was made for him in a sunny place
and the hunters set about the new building.

In three days the storehouse was done, excepting the chinking. It was
October now, and a sharp night frost warned them of the hard white moons
to come. Quonab, as he broke the ice in a tin cup and glanced at the
low-hung sun, said: “The leaves are falling fast; snow comes soon; we
need another line of traps.”

He stopped suddenly; stared across the lake. Rolf looked, and here came
three deer, two bucks and a doe, trotting, walking, or lightly clearing
obstacles, the doe in advance; the others, rival followers. As they kept
along the shore, they came nearer the cabin. Rolf glanced at Quonab, who
nodded, then slipped in, got down the gun, and quickly glided unseen to
the river where the deer path landed. The bucks did not actually fight,
for the season was not yet on, but their horns were clean, their necks
were swelling, and they threatened each other as they trotted after the
leader. They made for the ford as for some familiar path, and splashed
through, almost without swimming. As they landed, Rolf waited a clear
view, then gave a short sharp “Hist!” It was like a word of magic, for
it turned the three moving deer to three stony-still statues. Rolf's
sights were turned on the smaller buck, and when the great cloud
following the bang had deared away, the two were gone and the lesser
buck was kicking on the ground some fifty yards away.

“We have found the good hunting; the deer walk into camp,” said Quonab;
and the product of the chase was quickly stored, the first of the
supplies to be hung in the new storehouse.

The entrails were piled up and covered with brush and stones. “That will
keep off ravens and jays; then in winter the foxes will come and we can
take their coats.”

Now they must decide for the morning. Skookum was somewhat better, but
still very sick, and Rolf suggested: “Quonab, you take the gun and axe
and lay a new line. I will stay behind and finish up the cabin for the
winter and look after the dog.” So it was agreed. The Indian left the
camp alone this time and crossed to the east shore of the lake; there to
follow up another stream as before and to return in three or four days
to the cabin.



Chapter 28. Alone in the Wilderness

Rolf began the day by giving Skookum a bath as hot as he could stand it,
and later his soup. For the first he whined feebly and for the second
faintly wagged his tail; but clearly he was on the mend.

Now the chinking and moss-plugging of the new cabin required all
attention. That took a day and looked like the biggest job on hand, but
Rolf had been thinking hard about the winter. In Connecticut the
wiser settlers used to bank their houses for the cold weather; in the
Adirondacks he knew it was far, far colder, and he soon decided to bank
the two shanties as deeply as possible with earth. A good spade made of
white oak, with its edge hardened by roasting it brown, was his first
necessity, and after two days of digging he had the cabin with its annex
buried up to “the eyes” in fresh, clean earth.

A stock of new, dry wood for wet weather helped to show how much too
small the cabin was; and now the heavier work was done, and Rolf had
plenty of time to think.

Which of us that has been left alone in the wilderness does not remember
the sensations of the first day! The feeling of self-dependency, not
unmixed with unrestraint; the ending of civilized thought; the total
reversion to the primitive; the nearness of the wood-folk; a sense of
intimacy; a recurrent feeling of awe at the silent inexorability of
all around; and a sweet pervading sense of mastery in the very freedom.
These were among the feelings that swept in waves through Rolf, and
when the first night came, he found such comfort--yes, he had to confess
it--in the company of the helpless little dog whose bed was by his own.

But these were sensations that come not often; in the four days and
nights that he was alone they lost all force.

The hunter proverb about “strange beasts when you have no gun” was amply
illustrated now that Quonab had gone with their only firearm. The second
night before turning in (he slept in the shanty now), he was taking a
last look at the stars, when a large, dark form glided among the tree
trunks between him and the shimmering lake; stopped, gazed at him, then
silently disappeared along the shore. No wonder that he kept the shanty
door closed that night, and next morning when he studied the sandy
ridges he read plainly that his night visitor had been not a lynx or a
fox, but a prowling cougar or panther.

On the third morning as he went forth in the still early dawn he heard
a snort, and looking toward the spruce woods, was amazed to see towering
up, statuesque, almost grotesque, with its mulish ears and antediluvian
horns, a large bull moose.

Rolf was no coward, but the sight of that monster so close to him set
his scalp a-prickling. He felt so helpless without any firearms. He
stepped into the cabin, took down his bow and arrows, then gave a
contemptuous “Humph; all right for partridge and squirrels, but give me
a rifle for the woods!” He went out again; there was the moose standing
as before. The lad rushed toward it a few steps, shouting; it stared
unmoved. But Rolf was moved, and he retreated to the cabin. Then
remembering the potency of fire he started a blaze on the hearth. The
thick smoke curled up on the still air, hung low, made swishes through
the grove, until a faint air current took a wreath of it to the moose.
The great nostrils drank in a draught that conveyed terror to the
creature's soul, and wheeling it started at its best pace to the distant
swamp, to be seen no more.

Five times, during these four days, did deer come by and behave as
though they knew perfectly well that this young human was harmless,
entirely without the power of the far-killing mystery.

How intensely Rolf wished for a gun. How vividly came back the scene
in the trader's store,--when last month he had been offered a beautiful
rifle for twenty-five dollars, to be paid for in fur next spring, and
savagely he blamed himself for not realizing what a chance it was. Then
and there he made resolve to be the owner of a gun as soon as another
chance came, and to make that chance come right soon.

One little victory he had in that time. The creature that had torn open
the venison bag was still around the camp; that was plain by the further
damage on the bag hung in the storehouse, the walls of which were not
chinked. Mindful of Quonab's remark, he set two marten traps, one on
the roof, near the hole that had been used as entry; the other on a log
along which the creature must climb to reach the meat. The method of
setting is simple; a hollow is made, large enough to receive the trap
as it lies open; on the pan of the trap some grass is laid smoothly;
on each side of the trap a piece of prickly brush is placed, so that
in leaping over these the creature will land on the lurking snare. The
chain was made fast to a small log.

Although so seldom seen there is no doubt that the marten comes out
chiefly by day. That night the trap remained unsprung; next morning
as Rolf went at silent dawn to bring water from the lake, he noticed
a long, dark line that proved to be ducks. As he sat gazing he heard
a sound in the tree beyond the cabin. It was like the scratching of
a squirrel climbing about. Then he saw the creature, a large, dark
squirrel, it seemed. It darted up this tree and down that, over logs and
under brush, with the lightning speed of a lightning squirrel, and from
time to time it stopped still as a bump while it gazed at some far and
suspicious object. Up one trunk it went like a brown flash, and a moment
later, out, cackling from its top, flew two partridges. Down to the
ground, sinuous, graceful, incessantly active flashed the marten. Along
a log it raced in undulating leaps; in the middle it stopped as though
frozen, to gaze intently into a bed of sedge; with three billowy bounds
its sleek form reached the sedge, flashed in and out again with a
mouse in its snarling jaws; a side leap now, and another squeaker was
squeakless, and another. The three were slain, then thrown aside, as the
brown terror scanned a flight of ducks passing over. Into a thicket of
willow it disappeared and out again like an eel going through the mud,
then up a tall stub where woodpecker holes were to be seen. Into the
largest it went so quickly Rolf could scarcely see how it entered,
and out in a few seconds bearing a flying squirrel whose skull it had
crushed. Dropping the squirrel it leaped after it, and pounced again on
the quivering form with a fearsome growl; then shook it savagely, tore
it apart, cast it aside. Over the ground it now undulated, its shining
yellow breast like a target of gold. Again it stopped. Now in pose like
a pointer, exquisitely graceful, but oh, so wicked! Then the snaky
neck swung the cobra head in the breeze and the brown one sniffed and
sniffed, advanced a few steps, tried the wind and the ground. Still
farther and the concentrated interest showed in its outstretched neck
and quivering tail. Bounding into a thicket it went, when out of the
other side there leaped a snowshoe rabbit, away and away for dear life.
Jump, jump, jump; twelve feet at every stride, and faster than the eye
could follow, with the marten close behind. What a race it was, and
how they twinkled through the brush! The rabbit is, indeed, faster, but
courage counts for much, and his was low; but luck and his good stars
urged him round to the deer trail crossing of the stream; once there he
could not turn. There was only one course. He sprang into the open river
and swam for his life. And the marten--why should it go in? It hated the
water; it was not hungry; it was out for sport, and water sport is not
to its liking. It braced its sinewy legs and halted at the very brink,
while bunny crossed to the safe woods.

Back now came Wahpestan, the brown death, over the logs like a winged
snake, skimming the ground like a sinister shadow, and heading for the
cabin as the cabin's owner watched. Passing the body of the squirrel it
paused to rend it again, then diving into the brush came out so far away
and so soon that the watcher supposed at first that this was another
marten. Up the shanty corner it flashed, hardly appearing to climb,
swung that yellow throat and dark-brown muzzle for a second, then made
toward the entry.

Rolf sat with staring eyes as the beautiful demon, elegantly
spurning the roof sods, went at easy, measured bounds toward the open
chink--toward its doom. One, two, three--clearing the prickly cedar
bush, its forefeet fell on the hidden trap; clutch, a savage shriek, a
flashing,--a struggle baffling the eyes to follow, and the master of the
squirrels was himself under mastery.

Rolf rushed forward now. The little demon in the trap was frothing with
rage and hate; it ground the iron with its teeth; it shrieked at the
human foeman coming.

The scene must end, the quicker the better, and even as the marten
itself had served the flying squirrel and the mice, and as Quonab served
the mink, so Rolf served the marten and the woods was still.



Chapter 29. Snowshoes

“That's for Annette,” said Rolf, remembering his promise as he hung the
stretched marten skin to dry.

“Yi! Yi! Yi!” came three yelps, just as he had heard them the day he
first met Quonab, and crossing the narrow lake he saw his partner's
canoe.

“We have found the good hunting,” he said, as Rolf steadied the canoe at
the landing and Skookum, nearly well again, wagged his entire ulterior
person to welcome the wanderer home. The first thing to catch the boy's
eye was a great, splendid beaver skin stretched on a willow hoop.

“Ho, ho!” he exclaimed.

“Ugh; found another pond.”

“Good, good,” said Rolf as he stroked the first beaver skin he had ever
seen in the woods.

“This is better,” said Quonab, and held up the two barkstones, castors,
or smell-glands that are found in every beaver and which for some hid
reason have an irresistible attraction for all wild animals. To us the
odour is slight, but they have the power of intensifying, perpetuating,
and projecting such odorous substances as may be mixed with them.
No trapper considers his bait to be perfect without a little of the
mysterious castor. So that that most stenchable thing they had already
concocted of fish-oil, putrescence, sewer-gas, and sunlight, when
commingled and multiplied with the dried-up powder of a castor, was
intensified into a rich, rancid, gas-exhaling hell-broth as rapturously
bewitching to our furry brothers as it is poisonously nauseating to
ourselves--seductive afar like the sweetest music, inexorable as fate,
insidious as laughing-gas, soothing and numbing as absinthe--this, the
lure and caution-luller, is the fellest trick in all the trappers' code.
As deadly as inexplicable, not a few of the states have classed it with
black magic and declared its use a crime.

But no such sentiment prevailed in the high hills of Quonab's time, and
their preparations for a successful trapping season were nearly perfect.
Thirty deadfalls made by Quonab, with the sixty made on the first trip
and a dozen steel traps, were surely promise of a good haul. It was
nearly November now; the fur was prime; then why not begin? Because
the weather was too fine. You must have frosty weather or the creatures
taken in the deadfalls are spoiled before the trapper can get around.

Already a good, big pile of wood was cut; both shanty and storeroom
were chinked, plugged, and banked for the winter. It was not safe yet to
shoot and store a number of deer, but there was something they could do.
Snowshoes would soon be a necessary of life; and the more of this finger
work they did while the weather was warm, the better.

Birch and ash are used for frames; the former is less liable to split,
but harder to work. White ash was plentiful on the near flat, and a
small ten-foot log was soon cut and split into a lot of long laths.
Quonab of course took charge; but Rolf followed in everything. Each took
a lath and shaved it down evenly until an inch wide and three quarters
of an inch thick. The exact middle was marked, and for ten inches at
each side of that it was shaved down to half an inch in thickness. Two
flat crossbars, ten and twelve inches long, were needed and holes to
receive these made half through the frame. The pot was ready boiling and
by using a cord from end to end of each lath they easily bent it in the
middle and brought the wood into touch with the boiling water. Before an
hour the steam had so softened the wood, and robbed it of spring, that
it was easy to make it into any desired shape. Each lath was cautiously
bent round; the crossbars slipped into their prepared sockets; a
temporary lashing of cord kept all in place; then finally the frames
were set on a level place with the fore end raised two inches and a
heavy log put on the frame to give the upturn to the toe.

Here they were left to dry and the Indian set about preparing the
necessary thongs. A buckskin rolled in wet, hard wood ashes had been
left in the mud hole. Now after a week the hair was easily scraped off
and the hide, cleaned and trimmed of all loose ends and tags, was spread
out--soft, white, and supple. Beginning outside, and following round and
round the edge, Quonab cut a thong of rawhide as nearly as possible a
quarter inch wide. This he carried on till there were many yards of it,
and the hide was all used up. The second deer skin was much smaller and
thinner. He sharpened his knife and cut it much finer, at least half the
width of the other. Now they were ready to lace the shoes, the finer for
the fore and back parts, the heavy for the middle on which the wearer
treads. An expert squaw would have laughed at the rude snowshoes that
were finished that day, but they were strong and serviceable.

Naturally the snowshoes suggested a toboggan. That was easily made by
splitting four thin boards of ash, each six inches wide and ten feet
long. An up-curl was steamed on the prow of each, and rawhide lashings
held all to the crossbars.



Chapter 30. Catching a Fox

     “As to wisdom, a man ain't a spring; he's a tank, an' gives
     out only what he gathers”--Sayings of Si Sylvanne

Quonab would not quit his nightly couch in the canvas lodge so Rolf and
Skookum stayed with him. The dog was himself again, and more than once
in the hours of gloom dashed forth in noisy chase of something which
morning study of the tracks showed to have been foxes. They were
attracted partly by the carrion of the deer, partly by the general
suitability of the sandy beach for a gambolling place, and partly by a
foxy curiosity concerning the cabin, the hunters, and their dog.

One morning after several night arousings and many raids by Skookum,
Rolf said: “Fox is good now; why shouldn't I add some fox pelts to
that?” and he pointed with some pride to the marten skin.

“Ugh, good; go ahead; you will learn,” was the reply.

So getting out the two fox traps Rolf set to work. Noting where chiefly
the foxes ran or played he chose two beaten pathways and hid the traps
carefully, exactly as he did for the marten; then selecting a couple of
small cedar branches he cut these and laid them across the path, one on
each side of the trap, assuming that the foxes following the usual route
would leap over the boughs and land in disaster. To make doubly sure he
put a piece of meat by each trap and half-way between them set a large
piece on a stone.

Then he sprinkled fresh earth over the pathways and around each trap and
bait so he should have a record of the tracks.

Foxes came that night, as he learned by the footprints along the beach,
but never one went near his traps. He studied the marks; they slowly
told him all the main facts. The foxes had come as usual, and frolicked
about. They had discovered the bait and the traps at once--how could
such sharp noses miss them--and as quickly noted that the traps were
suspicious-smelling iron things, that manscent, hand, foot, and body,
were very evident all about; that the only inducement to go forward was
some meat which was coarse and cold, not for a moment to be compared
with the hot juicy mouse meat that abounded in every meadow. The foxes
were well fed and unhungry. Why should they venture into such evident
danger? In a word, walls of stone could not have more completely
protected the ground and the meat from the foxes than did the obvious
nature of the traps; not a track was near, and many afar showed how
quickly they had veered off.

“Ugh, it is always so,” said Quonab. “Will you try again?”

“Yes, I will,” replied Rolf, remembering now that he had omitted to
deodorize his traps and his boots.

He made a fire of cedar and smoked his traps, chains, and all. Then
taking a piece of raw venison he rubbed it on his leather gloves and
on the soles of his boots, wondering how he had expected to succeed the
night before with all these man-scent killers left out. He put fine,
soft moss under the pan of each trap, then removed the cedar brush, and
gently sprinkled all with fine, dry earth. The set was perfect; no human
eye could have told that there was any trap in the place. It seemed a
foregone success.

“Fox don't go by eye,” was all the Indian said, for he reckoned it best
to let the learner work it out.

In the morning Rolf was up eager to see the results. There was nothing
at all. A fox had indeed, come within ten feet at one place, but behaved
then as though positively amused at the childishness of the whole smelly
affair. Had a man been there on guard with a club, he could not have
kept the spot more wholly clear of foxes. Rolf turned away baffled and
utterly puzzled. He had not gone far before he heard a most terrific
yelping from Skookum, and turned to see that trouble-seeking pup caught
by the leg in the first trap. It was more the horrible surprise than the
pain, but he did howl.

The hunters came quickly to the rescue and at once he was freed, none
the worse, for the traps have no teeth; they merely hold. It is the
long struggle and the starvation chiefly that are cruel, and these every
trapper should cut short by going often around his line.

Now Quonab took part. “That is a good setting for some things. It would
catch a coon, a mink, or a marten,--or a dog--but not a fox or a wolf.
They are very clever. You shall see.”

The Indian got out a pair of thick leather gloves, smoked them in cedar,
also the traps. Next he rubbed his moccasin soles with raw meat and
selecting a little bay in the shore he threw a long pole on the sand,
from the line of high, dry shingle across to the water's edge. In
his hand he carried a rough stake. Walking carefully on the pole and
standing on it, he drove the stake in at about four feet from the shore;
then split it, and stuffed some soft moss into the split. On this he
poured three or four drops of the “smell-charm.” Now he put a lump of
spruce gum on the pan of the trap, holding a torch under it till the gum
was fused, and into this he pressed a small, flat stone. The chain of
the trap he fastened to a ten-pound stone of convenient shape, and sank
the stone in the water half-way between the stake and the shore. Last
he placed the trap on this stone, so that when open everything would be
under water except the flat stone on the pan. Now he returned along the
pole and dragged it away with him.

Thus there was now no track or scent of human near the place.

The setting was a perfect one, but even then the foxes did not go near
it the following night; they must become used to it. In their code, “A
strange thing is always dangerous.” In the morning Rolf was inclined to
scoff. But Quonab said: “Wah! No trap goes first night.”

They did not need to wait for the second morning. In the middle of the
night Skookum rushed forth barking, and they followed to see a wild
struggle, the fox leaping to escape and fast to his foot was the trap
with its anchor stone a-dragging.

Then was repeated the scene that ended the struggle of mink and marten.
The creature's hind feet were tied together and his body hung from a
peg in the shanty. In the morning they gloated over his splendid fur and
added his coat to their store of trophies.



Chapter 31. Following the Trap Line

That night the moon changed. Next day came on with a strong north wind.
By noon the wild ducks had left the lake. Many long strings of geese
passed southeastward, honking as they flew. Colder and colder blew the
strong wind, and soon the frost was showing on the smaller ponds. It
snowed a little, but this ceased. With the clearing sky the wind fell
and the frost grew keener.

At daybreak, when the hunters rose, it was very cold. Everything but the
open lake was frozen over, and they knew that winter was come; the time
of trapping was at hand. Quonab went at once to the pinnacle on the
hill, made a little fire, then chanting the “Hunter's Prayer,” he cast
into the fire the whiskers of the fox and the marten, some of the
beaver castor, and some tobacco. Then descended to prepare for the
trail--blankets, beaver traps, weapons, and food for two days, besides
the smell-charm and some fish for bait.

Quickly the deadfalls were baited and set; last the Indian threw into
the trap chamber a piece of moss on which was a drop of the “smell,” and
wiped another drop on each of his moccasins. “Phew,” said Rolf.

“That make a trail the marten follow for a month,” was the explanation.
Skookum seemed to think so too, and if he did not say “phew,” it was
because he did not know how.

Very soon the little dog treed a flock of partridge and Rolf with blunt
arrows secured three. The breasts were saved for the hunters' table, but
the rest with the offal and feathers made the best of marten baits and
served for all the traps, till at noon they reached the beaver pond.
It was covered with ice too thin to bear, but the freshly used
landing places were easily selected. At each they set a strong, steel
beaver-trap, concealing it amid some dry grass, and placing in a split
stick a foot away a piece of moss in which were a few drops of the magic
lure. The ring on the trap chain was slipped over a long, thin, smooth
pole which was driven deep in the mud, the top pointing away from
the deep water. The plan was old and proven. The beaver, eager
to investigate that semifriendly smell, sets foot in the trap;
instinctively when in danger he dives for the deep water; the ring slips
along the pole till at the bottom and there it jams so that the beaver
cannot rise again and is drowned.

In an hour the six traps were set for the beavers; presently the
hunters, skirmishing for more partridges, had much trouble to save
Skookum from another porcupine disaster.

They got some more grouse, baited the traps for a couple of miles, then
camped for the night.

Before morning it came on to snow and it was three inches deep when they
arose. There is no place on earth where the first snow is more beautiful
than in the Adirondacks. In early autumn nature seems to prepare for
it. Green leaves are cleared away to expose the berry bunches in red;
rushbeds mass their groups, turn golden brown and bow their heads to
meet the silver load; the low hills and the lines of various Christmas
trees are arrayed for the finest effect: the setting is perfect and the
scene, but it lacks the lime light yet. It needs must have the lavish
blaze of white. And when it comes like the veil on a bride, the silver
mountings on a charger's trappings, or the golden fire in a sunset, the
shining crystal robe is the finishing, the crowning glory, without which
all the rest must fail, could have no bright completeness. Its beauty
stirred the hunters though it found no better expression than Rolf's
simple words, “Ain't it fine,” while the Indian gazed in silence.

There is no other place in the eastern woods where the snow has
such manifold tales to tell, and the hunters that day tramping found
themselves dowered over night with the wonderful power of the hound
to whom each trail is a plain record of every living creature that has
passed within many hours. And though the first day after a storm has
less to tell than the second, just as the second has less than the
third, there was no lack of story in the snow. Here sped some antlered
buck, trotting along while yet the white was flying. There went a
fox, sneaking across the line of march, and eying distrustfully that
deadfall. This broad trail with many large tracks not far apart was
made by one of Skookum's friends, a knight of many spears. That bounding
along was a marten. See how he quartered that thicket like a hound, here
he struck our odour trail. Mark, how he paused and whiffed it; now away
he goes; yes, straight to our trap.

“It's down; hurrah!” Rolf shouted, for there, dead under the log, was
an exquisite marten, dark, almost black, with a great, broad, shining
breast of gold.

They were going back now toward the beaver lake. The next trap was
sprung and empty; the next held the body of a red squirrel, a nuisance
always and good only to rebait the trap he springs. But the next held a
marten, and the next a white weasel. Others were unsprung, but they
had two good pelts when they reached the beaver lake. They were in high
spirits with their good luck, but not prepared for the marvellous haul
that now was theirs. Each of the six traps held a big beaver, dead,
drowned, and safe. Each skin was worth five dollars, and the hunters
felt rich. The incident had, moreover, this pleasing significance: It
showed that these beavers were unsophisticated, so had not been hunted.
Fifty pelts might easily be taken from these ponds.

The trappers reset the traps; then dividing the load, sought a remote
place to camp, for it does not do to light a fire near your beaver pond.
One hundred and fifty pounds of beaver, in addition, to their packs, was
not a load to be taken miles away; within half a mile on a lower level
they selected a warm place, made a fire, and skinned their catch. The
bodies they opened and hung in a tree with a view to future use, but the
pelts and tails they carried on.

They made a long, hard tramp that day, baiting all the traps and reached
home late in the night.



Chapter 32. The Antler-bound Bucks

IN THE man-world, November is the month of gloom, despair, and many
suicides. In the wild world, November is the Mad Moon. Many and diverse
the madnesses of the time, but none more insane than the rut of the
white-tailed deer. Like some disease it appears, first in the swollen
necks of the antler-bearers, and then in the feverish habits of all.
Long and obstinate combats between the bucks now, characterize the time;
neglecting even to eat, they spend their days and nights in rushing
about and seeking to kill.

Their horns, growing steadily since spring, are now of full size, sharp,
heavy, and cleaned of the velvet; in perfection. For what? Has Nature
made them to pierce, wound, and destroy? Strange as it may seem, these
weapons of offence are used for little but defence; less as spears than
as bucklers they serve the deer in battles with its kind. And the long,
hard combats are little more than wrestling and pushing bouts; almost
never do they end fatally. When a mortal thrust is given, it is rarely a
gaping wound, but a sudden springing and locking of the antlers, whereby
the two deer are bound together, inextricably, hopelessly, and so suffer
death by starvation. The records of deer killed by their rivals and left
on the duel-ground are few; very few and far between. The records of
those killed by interlocking are numbered by the scores.

There were hundreds of deer in this country that Rolf and Quonab
claimed. Half of them were bucks, and at least half of these engaged in
combat some times or many times a day, all through November; that is to
say, probably a thousand duels were fought that month within ten miles
of the cabin. It was not surprising that Rolf should witness some of
them, and hear many more in the distance.

They were living in the cabin now, and during the still, frosty nights,
when he took a last look at the stars, before turning in, Rolf formed
the habit of listening intently for the voices of the gloom. Sometimes
it was the “hoo-hoo” of the horned-owl, once or twice it was the long,
smooth howl of the wolf; but many times it was the rattle of antlers
that told of two bucks far up in the hardwoods, trying out the
all-important question, “Which is the better buck?”

One morning he heard still an occasional rattle at the same place as the
night before. He set out alone, after breakfast, and coming cautiously
near, peered into a little, open space to see two bucks with heads
joined, slowly, feebly pushing this way and that. Their tongues were
out; they seemed almost exhausted, and the trampled snow for an acre
about plainly showed that they had been fighting for hours; that indeed
these were the ones he had heard in the night. Still they were evenly
matched, and the green light in their eyes told of the ferocious spirit
in each of these gentle-looking deer.

Rolf had no difficulty in walking quite near. If they saw him, they gave
slight heed to the testimony of their eyes, for the unenergetic struggle
went on until, again pausing for breath, they separated, raised their
heads a little, sniffed, then trotted away from the dreaded enemy so
near. Fifty yards off, they turned, shook their horns, seemed in doubt
whether to run away, join battle again, or attack the man. Fortunately
the first was their choice, and Rolf returned to the cabin.

Quonab listened to his account, then said: “You might have been killed.
Every buck is crazy now. Often they attack man. My father's brother was
killed by a Mad Moon buck. They found only his body, torn to rags. He
had got a little way up a tree, but the buck had pinned him. There were
the marks, and in the snow they could see how he held on to the deer's
horns and was dragged about till his strength gave out. He had no gun.
The buck went off. That was all they knew. I would rather trust a bear
than a deer.”

The Indian's words were few, but they drew a picture all too realistic.
The next time Rolf heard the far sound of a deer fight, it brought back
the horror of that hopeless fight in the snow, and gave him a new and
different feeling for the antler-bearer of the changing mood.

It was two weeks after this, when he was coming in from a trip alone on
part of the line, when his ear caught some strange sounds in the
woods ahead; deep, sonorous, semi-human they were. Strange and weird
wood-notes in winter are nearly sure to be those of a raven or a jay; if
deep, they are likely to come from a raven.

“Quok, quok, ha, ha, ha-hreww, hrrr, hooop, hooop,” the diabolic noises
came, and Rolf, coming gently forward, caught a glimpse of sable pinions
swooping through the lower pines.

“Ho, ho, ho yah--hew--w--w--w” came the demon laughter of the death
birds, and Rolf soon glimpsed a dozen of them in the branches, hopping
or sometimes flying to the ground. One alighted on a brown bump. Then
the bump began to move a little. The raven was pecking away, but
again the brown bump heaved and the raven leaped to a near perch.
“Wah--wah--wah--wo--hoo--yow--wow--rrrrrr-rrrr-rrrr”--and the other
ravens joined in.

Rolf had no weapons but his bow, his pocket knife, and a hatchet. He
took the latter in his hand and walked gently forward; the hollow-voiced
ravens “haw--hawed,” then flew to safe perches where they chuckled like
ghouls over some extra-ghoulish joke.

The lad, coming closer, witnessed a scene that stirred him with mingled
horror and pity. A great, strong buck--once strong, at least--was
standing, staggering, kneeling there; sometimes on his hind legs,
spasmodically heaving and tugging at a long gray form on the ground,
the body of another buck, his rival, dead now, with a broken neck, as
it proved, but bearing big, strong antlers with which the antlers of the
living buck were interlocked as though riveted with iron, bolted with
clamps of steel. With all his strength, the living buck could barely
move his head, dragging his adversary's body with him. The snow marks
showed that at first he had been able to haul the carcass many yards;
had nibbled a little at shoots and twigs; but that was when he was
stronger, was long before. How long? For days, at least, perhaps a week,
that wretched buck was dying hopelessly a death that would not come. His
gaunt sides, his parched and lolling tongue, less than a foot from the
snow and yet beyond reach, the filmy eye, whose opaque veil of death was
illumined again with a faint fire of fighting green as the new foe came.
The ravens had picked the eyes out of the dead buck and eaten a hole in
its back. They had even begun on the living buck, but he had been able
to use one front foot to defend his eyes; still his plight could scarce
have been more dreadful. It made the most pitiful spectacle Rolf had
ever seen in wild life; yes, in all his life. He was full of compassion
for the poor brute. He forgot it as a thing to be hunted for food;
thought of it only as a harmless, beautiful creature in dire and
horrible straits; a fellow-being in distress; and he at once set about
being its helper. With hatchet in hand he came gently in front, and
selecting an exposed part at the base of the dead buck's antler he
gave a sharp blow with the hatchet. The effect on the living buck was
surprising. He was roused to vigorous action that showed him far from
death as yet. He plunged, then pulled backwar

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