SHASTA'S RESTLESSNESS AND WHAT CAME OF IT
After Shasta's exploit against Kennebec, he became doubly marked as a
person among the forest folk. Along the Wild news flies quickly. It
is carried not only by swift feet and keen noses: it seems to travel
as well by mysterious carriers, who spread it through the length and
breadth of the land. What these carriers are, and what is the manner
and meaning of their coming and going, only the wild creatures know.
_They_ see them with their large eyes which deepen with the dusk!
_They_ hear the soft whisper of their going on the wind-trails of the
air! We should not see them, you or I, because our eyes are too
accustomed to the artificial lights, and because around our minds are
built the brick walls of the world. But the wild creatures, whose
eyes have never been dulled by electricity, nor their ears stunned by
the roar of the motors, see and hear the spirit faces and the flowing
shapes which go by under the trees.
So not many hours had passed before the great news of Shasta's coming
had spread through the wilderness. And particularly the wolves took
hold of it, and regarded Shasta as a sort of little god. No one had
ever dared to dispute Kennebec's mastery before. Kennebec was so
high and mighty that whatever he did must be suffered, even though
you raged against it in your heart. But now the strange cub had done
the unthinkable deed. He had done it and escaped. All those who had
lost their young through Kennebec's evil claws rejoiced that now at
last the tyrant was punished, and felt their wrongs avenged. Never
more would Kennebec feel safe upon his precipice that climbed up to
the stars. Feet and hands that had scaled it before might do so
again. The fear of it would haunt him through the burning days and
the breathless nights.
Yet, in spite of Shasta's growing importance among his wild kindred,
a strange restlessness began to stir within him, and to move along
his blood. And when the mood was strongest, his thoughts turned
continually towards the place of the rocks where he had joined the
wolf chorus and sung himself into the heart of the pack. It was the
memory of the music which haunted him most, and when, from afar off,
he would hear some wild wolf-note come sobbing through the night, the
sound would set him thrilling till every hair on his body seemed to
be alive. Yet always, following hard upon the remembrance of the
chorus, would come that other memory of tall wolfish shapes, that
moved on their hind legs, and of that red glow in the circle of
things that did not move: all of it down there, at the foot of the
precipice, as if one looked down through the canyon of sleep to the
low lair of a dream.
One day when the thing was strong upon him, he met Gomposh, and asked
him what it was. Gomposh said little, but thought much. He knew
that at certain seasons all things follow a craving within them, and
that it made them follow far trails, leading to distant ranges from
which they did not always return. The geese went north, honking
their mysterious cry. The caribou made long journeys, and deepened
the ancient trails. The mountain sheep left their high pastures,
guided by an instinct, which never failed, to the salt-lick in the
lowlands to the south. And now it was plain to Gomposh that the
strange cub had a craving within him also. It was not to find a lair
in the north, nor a salt-lick in the south. It was not to change
pasture for pasture, in the way of the caribou. Gomposh knew
certainly that it was none of those things; but that it was the call
of the blood that was in him, the secret Indian call, that penetrated
even through the deep forests, far into the inmost heart of the
wilderness where he lay outcast from his kind. But though Gomposh
thought the thing clearly enough in his deep mind, he did not worry
it into actual words.
"It is a good restlessness," he said. "It is of the other part of
you that is not wolf. Follow the restlessness of your blood."
That, in the sense of it, was what Gomposh gave Shasta to understand,
though he said it in his own peculiar way.
After that Shasta's mind was very busy with the new thing that had
come to him, and before long he let it have its way, and started on
his journey by himself. The wolves watched him go, but did not
attempt to stop him. The growing unrest that had been in him had not
escaped them. For, apart from the feeling which it produced,
Shasta's outward behaviour was different from before. He came and
went continually, restless and ill at ease. The very air about the
cave seemed to breathe unrest, and the wolves themselves became
restless, though they could not tell the reason why. Yet, although
they did nothing to hinder him in his final departing, Nitka's eyes
watched him regretfully as his little body disappeared among the
trees.
He travelled on without stopping until he reached the spot where the
great chorus had taken place. As he approached the neighbourhood, he
grew more and more excited. The memories of that wonderful singing
night came crowding back upon him. It was broad daylight now, for it
was at the middle of the afternoon; and when he reached the high
rocks, he could see far and wide over the foothills and the prairies
beyond. He marvelled at the bigness of the world, and at the vast
sunny spaces, shadowless in the heat. Out there in the immense
sunlight there were no forests to break the glare. The heat
glimmered and swam. It was as if the sunlight were a beating pulse.
From where he crouched first the Indian camp was hidden; but his
curiosity was too strong to allow him to remain where he was; so,
very cautiously, he crept to the extreme edge of the rocks and looked
over.
There it was, the same strange circle of things which he could not
understand. Also the upright wolves were there, walking about
singly, or standing in little groups. Shasta watched them intently
with shining eyes. And as he looked, the confused murmur of an
Indian camp rose to his ears--voices of men and women, the barking of
dogs, and the crying of children; also a slow and measured sound,
which seemed to the boy to be even more disquieting than the other
unaccustomed noises--the beating of an Indian tom-tom for a sacred
dance. He was so intent upon watching the camp below that it was
only a slight noise behind which made him aware that danger was
approaching. He turned his head quickly and then remained spellbound.
Not a dozen paces away stood a tall form, motionless as a rock. Its
hair was long, falling to its shoulders. A single eagle's feather
stood up straight behind the head. It was dressed in tanned
buckskin, and carried a bow of sarvis-berry wood. The quiver, from
which the ends of the long feathered arrows appeared, was of the
yellow skin of a buffalo calf. Shasta gazed at this strange
apparition with awe. Somehow or other, he felt that it had to do
with the camp down below. He was afraid of it. He wanted to run.
Yet an overmastering desire to look his fill at the thing left him
where he was. For a minute or two the Indian and the boy looked at
each other without making a sound. Then the Indian made a step
forward, and Shasta growled low in his throat.
If Shasta was astonished at the Indian, the Indian was equally
astonished at Shasta. The boy's appearance was extraordinarily wild.
His matted hair fell straggling over his face. In order to see
clearly, he had to shake it out of his eyes continually. It was more
like an animal's mane than human hair, and gave him a ferocious look.
His constant exposure to the sun and air, unprotected by any clothes,
had thickened the short hair upon his body till it was covered
completely with a fine downy growth.
When the Indian heard the wolfish snarl he paused. Through the thick
mane of Shasta's head he saw the gleam of intensely black eyes. Then
he advanced again.
Shasta looked sharply to left and right, measuring distances. Then
he leapt to his feet and began to run. But he ran in wolf fashion,
on all fours. Fast though he went, the Indian was faster. He heard
the quiet pad of moccasined feet behind him. Terror seized him. His
one thought was to gain the shelter of the friendly trees. Before he
could reach them, however, the Indian was upon him. Shasta felt
something seize his hair behind. His first instinct was that of a
wild animal trapped, and he turned in fury upon his assailant. But
before he could do any damage, the Indian threw him down, and
fastened his arms with a throng. It was in vain that Shasta
struggled with all his strength to free himself. The Indian was too
powerful and the deerskin throng held fast. When he was finally
secured, his captor lifted him under his arm and carried him down
towards the camp.
After struggling fiercely for some time, Shasta became still. It was
not only that he felt that further resistance would be useless.
Something seemed to tell him that, as long as he remained quiet, the
Indian would do him no harm. For the first time since he was a tiny
papoose, the smell that clings about all things Indian came to his
nose. It was an unfamiliar smell, yet, somehow, it was not new. His
eyes and his ears had brought with him no memories of his forgotten
infancy: his nose was faithful to the past. What faint, glimmering
memories of the Indian lodges it brought; of the camp fire, and the
cooking; of the buckskin clothes and untanned hides; all the clinging
odours of that old Indian life--who shall say? Now, as he was
carried captive to his own people, quite unconscious though he was
that he belonged to them, the Indian scent was a pleasant thing, so
that he was soothed by it, and even, for the moment, subdued.
It took some time to gain the camp, for the downward way was steep,
and there was no trail. Moreover Shasta, lying limp as he did, was a
dead weight, and not easy to carry. At last the descent was made,
and the camp reached. The Indian put his burden down.