As each morning brought a crisper edge to the air and a crisper outline
to the margin of the forest against sunrise and sunset, the Lost Farm
folk grew restless, and this restlessness was manifested in different
ways. Avery, returning from Timberland in the afternoons, busied himself
in cleaning and oiling his already well-cared-for traps and rifle. He
also prepared malodorous bait from fish, which he cut in strips,
bottled, and hung in the sun. Swickey took long walks with Smoke, never
asking her father nor David to accompany her. The railroad camps had
moved north, following the progress of the road toward the Canadian
boundary. David, naturally prone to a healthy serenity, and although
satisfied with the progress of the work, grew unnaturally gruff and
short-spoken. Night after night he walked and smoked alone, till even
Avery's equanimity was disturbed by his partner's irritable silence.
"A good huntin' trip'll fix him up, and September's crawlin' along to
where they ought to be good moose-huntin'," he remarked one evening.
"He's been workin' like the old scortch, and he needs a leetle spell of
play. A man what don't play and holler onct in a while ain't actin'
nacheral."
"Why don't he go?" said Swickey.
"I dunno. I tole him the moose 'ud be gettin' frisky purty quick, and he
wants to git a head fur Wallie. But he didn't say nothin'. What's wrong
atween you and Dave, anyhow?"
"Me and Dave?" exclaimed Swickey, reverting to a favorite expression of
her earlier days; "why, nothing."
"Wal, Swickey, mebby they's nothin' jest _wrong_, but they's suthin' as
ain't jest _right_, or else I be gettin' pow'ful fussy in my head."
"Don't worry about Dave, or me," she replied, going to her father and
sitting Indian fashion at his feet. "You need a rest, Pop; you're older
than Dave--and a hunting trip would be fine. I'd like to get a moose,
too."
"Wal, a huntin' trip ain't sech a snoozer of a _rest_, howcome it's
mighty nigh time I got shet of that eye-waterin' railrud. I reckoned
when we fust come to Lost Farm, we come to stay. It was purty then. Now
it looks like the back yard of Beelzebub's rightful home, with them
piles of ties and rails and thet bridge up thar in the gorge, grinnin'
like a set of store teeth. Huntin'! Ya-s-s! I feel like huntin' fur a
new place to live, 'stead of killin' moose what's doin' the same 'count
of this here railrud."
The old man arose and walked back and forth uneasily.
"Wal," he said finally, "I'll see what Dave says. You kin git your
things ready 'nless you'd ruther go with jest me."
"I don't care," replied Swickey.
"All right." Avery stepped out and closed the door. "She says she don't
care, and thet's a woman's way of sayin' she do care, sometimes. Funny
how young folks gits to thinkin' their fathers warn't young folks onct."
"Dave," he said, as he approached the open door of the other's cabin,
"how do you feel 'bout packin' up and goin' fur a moose up Squawpan
way?"
"Bully! Wouldn't like anything better."
"Swickey's goin' likewise. We kin camp on the pond and take Smoke and
the whole outfit. Got to take him anyway, seein' as we're like to be out
three-four days."
"I'll get ready. When do you start?"
"In the mornin'--early. We kin paddle up as fur as the head of the lake,
and then tote over to Squawpan, and I reckon we kin make the pond by
night. They's a shack I built over on the pond and we kin take thet
leetle tent of your'n."
"Will the canoe carry three of us--and Smoke?"
"We'll take the twenty-footer, jest in case we git a head. Reckon she'll
float thet much, howcome we kin go back a'ter the meat--if you want it."
"Why shouldn't we want it?" asked David.
"Wal, bull-moose in ruttin' time ain't jest the best eatin' they is,
howcome I've et it--when I had to. I reckon you'll be wantin' to turn
in. We'll start 'bout five in the mornin'."
"Dave going?" said Swickey, as her father returned.
"Sure certain," he replied, but she made no comment.
Next morning, before the sun had smoothed the gray frost from the
weathered timbers of the dam, Avery slid the big canoe into the water,
and David and Swickey loaded in the various bags and bundles.
"She's goin' to be a fine day," said Avery, as Swickey stepped in and
sat amidships, with Smoke curled up and shivering in the bow. David and
the old man swung briskly to the paddles, as the canoe rode the lazy
swell of the lake. The jutting points in the distance seemed like long,
beckoning fingers that withdrew as they neared them. The pines marched
round in a widening circle as the canoe slid past in the murmur of waves
over the rounded boulders. The smoke from Avery's pipe twirled behind in
little wisps that vanished in the sunshine. With the rhythmic,
_hush-click! hush-click!_ of the paddles and the sibilant thin rush of
tiny ripples from the bow, mile after mile of shore line wove in and
out, now drawing back until the trees were but inch-high at the far apex
of some wide, blind cove, now towering above them as the lake narrowed
to its western boundary.
In the mild warmth of the noon sun they ran the canoe up a narrow
opening where a clump of white birches marked the Squawpan Carry. Here
they disembarked.
"Hungry ain't a big enough word fur it," said Avery, stripping a piece
of birch bark and lighting the small heap of driftwood David had
gathered. "See thar!" he exclaimed, pointing to some great, heart-shaped
tracks in the mud bordering the stream. "He's gone up to Squawpan. Like
enough is waitin' up thar, stompin' around and feelin' mad 'cause he
ain't got no lady friend to keep him comp'ny."
"Seems too bad to put one of those big fellows down just to get his
head," said David, gazing at the tracks.
"We ain't got him down yit," replied Avery. "Wal, the tea's
a-bilin'--Guess we'll eat."
After dinner, Swickey insisted on toting her share of the equipment,
taking one of the lighter packs, as she followed David and her father,
who tramped along with the partially laden canoe on their shoulders. At
the farther end of the trail they again embarked and crossed the pond.
Again they disembarked, David and Swickey walking while Avery poled the
canoe up the shallows of the headwaters, and through the rapids below
the falls. Here they made another short carry, and evening found them in
camp on the shore of a rush-edged pond, round which were many tracks of
moose and deer.
"We'll limber up and poke round a bit in the mornin';" said Avery. "If
we don't see nothin' we'll try callin' 'em to-morrow night. Have to shet
Smoke up in the shack; howcome Swickey kin explain it to him so 'st he
won't have bad feelin's."
Despite Avery's knowledge of the surrounding country and his not
inconsiderable woodcraft, they failed to get a shot at a moose, although
they saw several on the distant borders of the pond. Two evenings he had
"called," but without success. Swickey's disappointment was more than
offset by the companionship of David. Gradually something of their old
familiar friendship, with its pleasant banter, was established again. On
the last morning of the hunt she regretted more the necessity for their
return than the fact that they were to return empty-handed.
As they carried round the falls on their way down Squawpan stream, she
asked her father if they could not run the "rips" below.
"Ya-as, you kin run 'em all right, but not with three of us in the boat.
If you and Dave'd like to drop down through, I'll take the trail. Mebby
I might run into a moose at thet. If you hear me shoot, jest pull in at
the first eddy and wait."
She questioned David with wide, bright eyes.
"I'll go, if you'll take the risk, Swickey."
"They ain't nothin' to do except keep clus to the left bank," said
Avery, turning toward the woods. "Let the rocks stay whar they be and
they won't bother ye none. They's only a short piece of white water, and
then another, and then it's jest as quiet as a Sunday a'ternoon in a
muskeg."
As Swickey stepped into the canoe, Smoke followed nimbly over the
gunwale, and curled at her feet. She threw her mackinaw over him, for
the afternoon was none too warm, and he would have to be still for an
hour or more in the cramped quarters of the bow.
They swung from the eddy below the falls and shot into the backwash of
the river as it swept converging toward the first grim rocks that
shouldered the current to a rippling wedge of white. They dashed
through, Swickey's paddle flashing as she fended off, now to the left,
now to the right, and before they realized it they were in the listless
drift of the somnolent dead waters below.
"That was great!" shouted David. "Is there any more of it?"
"Yes, in a minute or two," replied Swickey.
Each turn in the river seemed to open on a vista more varied and
beautiful than the last. Gray rocks alongshore; banks of brush and
frost-nipped fern that straggled up the easy slope to the forest and
lost themselves in the deeper green of the shady woodside; moss-crested
boulders in midstream, some of them of Olympian dimensions, past which
they slipped on the noiseless current that floated wisps of moss and
river-grass out from the lower edges of these granite islands. The
regular nod of an upright branch suggested some living thing marking
time to the march of the shimmering brown waters. Midway in the stream
an island appeared, fringed with low cedars and crowned with an almost
symmetrical ring of spruce-tops, etched on the far background of blue
sky like fairy spires in some enchanted land. Swiftly they drew nearer
it. The long grass in the river bottom twisted and turned in the
shallowing current.
From below them came the murmur of heavy waters, lunging between the
rocks, and above its diapason rang a note of eerie laughter as the river
spread again to pebbly shallows and hurried to charge at the rocks still
farther downstream.
They rounded the lower end of the island and plunged at the next stretch
of quick water. In they went and struck a submerged boulder quartering.
"To the left!" called Swickey, as David, catching her gesture, threw his
shoulders into the stroke and swung the canoe toward the shore.
Swickey's paddle shot forward as the bow sagged in a cross-current that
split and spread from the knife-edge of a sunken rock. They whipped past
it, ground over the shingle in a shallow, and darted through a stretch
of chattering waves that slipped along the gunwale and fell behind. The
canoe lurched over the rounded pitch of a submerged ledge and settled to
a steady keel in the lower Squawpan deadwater.
"That's better than the trail," said David.
Swickey glanced back at the snoring rips and brushed a spatter of water
from her face.
"We'll drift and wait for Pop," she replied, shaking the water from her
paddle and laying it in the bow. "Dave, look! Get your rifle--it's a
young bull!"
Smoke raised his head and twitched his homely nose. "Down, Smoke!"
whispered Swickey.
Two or three hundred yards ahead of them was something that looked to
David like a tangle of branches on a drifting log. Had it been following
the current, Swickey would probably have paid no attention to it, but it
was forging steadily across the stream.
"He's yours," said David. "Here, take the .45. That carbine's not so
certain on moose."
"No, Dave, I want you to get him. Please!" she whispered, as he shook
his head.
"Couldn't think of it, Swickey. Besides, you're in the bow."
"He'll land in a minute. Paddle, Dave! And please shoot him. I want you
to have him. I'll shoot if you miss."
"You'll get him then," replied David. "I have never tried for a moose
before. I'll take a crack at him to please you, but he's your moose just
the same."
Swickey sat with carbine across her knees, as steady as an old hand at
the game. David was more excited than she.
"He's turning back!" she cried. "Paddle for the other side and take him
when he comes out of the water."
The moose was making good time toward the bank and David jumped the
canoe ahead, every atom of his strength in each stroke.
As they touched the bank, Swickey stepped out. Smoke lay cowering in the
bow, hooded like a monk in her coat. As David leaped to shore he grinned
at the dog. Smoke trembled, but lay crouched in his place. He knew it
was not expected of him to do anything else just then. The young bull
found bottom and waded to the bank leisurely, facing them as he landed.
He seemed to have come a long way, for he was puffing hard. He swung his
head from side to side and the hair bristled along his neck and
shoulders. David did not understand his unnecessarily belligerent
attitude, for he could have gained cover in two leaps.
"Now, Dave! Let him have it--just in that spot above his forelegs."
She was watching the bull, and just as she expected to hear the rifle
boom Smoke growled. She turned to threaten him; there was a rattling
crash of underbrush above them, and a second bull, coming apparently
from nowhere, charged right on top of them.
She saw the first moose plunge into the bushes downstream as she
shrieked, "My God, Dave! Drop!"
Her cry pierced the numbness of his bewilderment and he stooped,
instinctively throwing up his arm. Smoke shot from the canoe, a streak
of white, and leaped for the bull. He caught the moose by the throat as
the big brown shape reared to drive those terrible hoofs down on the
crouching David.
Swickey's carbine jumped to her shoulder and she fired point-blank at
the rearing blur of brown and white. Down it came with a clatter of
antlers on the rocky shore.
David straightened up, his eyes expressing helplessness and horror. A
few yards away the bull lay with his head twisted to one side. David
stood stupidly watching a little red stream trickle down through the
pebbles. Swickey stepped forward, glanced at the moose, and then her
fingers relaxed, and the carbine clattered to the rocks as she sank
down, her head drooping forward to her knees. David was shaking as he
picked up a piece of driftwood and pried the fore-shoulders of the moose
off Smoke. He got the dog's hind legs and pulled him out. The bullet,
with terrific energy at that short range, had ripped through the dog and
into the moose, killing them both.
Smoke lay, a crushed and bloody mass, his teeth still fixed in the
throat of the moose. "Smoke, old boy," whispered David, as he knelt by
him and patted his head, "you stood to your guns when I was a tottering
idiot."
He thought of the many times he had teased the dog, telling him he was
"no good" and "a bother," which Smoke had seemed to understand and
accept with a cheerful wagging of his tail as if trying to say, "I know
you are only joking."
Finally he arose and went to Swickey. "Come, girl, get in the canoe.
I'll be back in a minute."
"What are you going to do?" she asked. "Don't touch that moose! Oh,
Dave, Dave--"
"Damn the moose. I'm going to bury Smoke--your dog."
Swickey was crying, but the sound of digging, as David scraped a shallow
hole in the shingle, brought her to her feet.
"Oh, Dave, he's dead, and I killed him."
She knelt and drew the mangled body to her knees.
"Swickey, don't!" He grasped her arm roughly.
She shook it off and bent over the dog.
"Here, stop it! I can't stand that," he said more gently.
"I'll do what you say, Dave," she said, a new light coming to her eyes.
David had never commanded her before. "I loved Smoke," she sobbed. "Now
he's gone, and there's no one--"
"Swickey!" His hand went out to her to help her up. She drew toward him,
clinging to his arm, her head thrown back, her lips quivering. His arms
went round her and his head bent slowly to hers. "I didn't know,
Swickey--I thought--there was some one else."
His lips found hers gently, and the color ran to her face again. Her
arms slipped round his neck and she reached up and caressed his cheek,
her fingers creeping up to his hair. She touched the scar near his
temple, and shuddered. Then her eyes filled again.
"Oh, Dave, _he_ didn't know, and you didn't--but I knew when I fired. I
had to shoot, Dave,--and I saw white--"
She broke down and sobbed passionately, her grief and her love so
commingled that it shook her to the very soul.
"I know," he said, drawing her hot face up to him. He kissed her eyes
and mouth, as her lips parted and the hunger of her girl-heart passed
from her in the wonderment and sweet content of womanhood that gives and
gives, and asks no other happiness.
[Illustration: "I DIDN'T KNOW, SWICKEY--I THOUGHT--THERE WAS
SOMEONE ELSE"]
Avery, hurrying down the river-trail, stopped abruptly. "Heard 'em
shoot! Huh!" he muttered, as he saw them. "Reckon they was just
celebratin'. This ain't no place fur me. Guess I'll go down the river a
piece and then holler."