The hunt was nearly over, for the season's end was coming. The moose-birds
had picked the last of the saskatoons, all the spruce-cones were scaled,
and the hunger-moon was near. But a hopeful chicadee sang "_see soon_"
as Yan set off one frosty day for the great Spruce Woods.
On the road he overtook a woodcutter, who told him that at such a place
he had seen two deer last night, a doe and a monstrous stag, with "a
rocking-chair on his head."
[Illustration]
Straight to the very place went Yan and found the tracks. One like those
he had seen in the mud long ago, another a large unmistakable print,
the mark of the Sandhill Stag.
[Illustration]
How the wild beast in his heart did ramp—he wanted to howl like a wolf
on a hot scent; and away they went through woods and hills, the trail
and Yan and the inner wolf.
All day he followed and, grown crafty himself, remarked each sign, and
rejoiced to find that nowhere had the deer been bounding. And when the
sun was low the sign was warm, so laying aside unneeded things, Yan
crawled along like a snake on the track of a hare. All day the animals
had zigzagged as they fed; their drink was snow, and now at length away
across a lawn in a bank of brush Yan spied a _something_ flash. A bird
perhaps; he lay still and watched. Then gray among the gray brush, he
made out a great log, and from one end of it rose two gnarled oaken
boughs. Again the flash—the move of a restless ear, then the oak-boughs
moved and Yan trembled, for he knew that the log in the brush was the
form of the Sandhill Stag. So grand, so charged with _life_. He seemed
a precious, sacred thing—a King, fur-robed and duly crowned. To think
of shooting now as he lay unconscious, resting, seemed an awful crime.
But Yan for weeks and months had pined for this. His chance had come and
shoot he must. The long, long strain grew tighter yet—grew taut—broke
down, as up the rifle went. But the wretched thing went wabbling and
pointing all about the little glade. His breath came hot and fast and
choking—so much, so very much—so clearly all, hung on a single touch.
He laid the rifle down, revulsed—and trembled in the snow. But he soon
regained the mastery, his hand was steady now, the sights in line—'twas
but a deer lying out there. But at that moment, the stag turned full
Yan's way, with those regardful eyes and ears, and nostrils too, and
gazed.
[Illustration]
"Darest thou slay me?" said an uncrowned, unarmed king once, as his eyes
fell on the assassin's knife, and in that clear, calm gaze the murderer
quailed and cowed.
So trembled Yan; but he knew it was only stag-fever, and he despised
it then as he came in time to honor it; and the beast that dwelt within
him fired the gun.
The ball splashed short. The buck sprang up and the doe appeared. Another
shot, then as they fled, another and another. But away the deer went,
lightly drifting across the low round hills.
They say a wild beast cannot look a man in the eyes; Yan found it hard
to look a wild beast in the eyes when he was trying to take its life.
V
He followed their trail for some time, but gnashed his teeth to find no
sign of blood, and he burnt with a raging animal sense that was neither
love nor hate. Within a mile there was a new sign that joined on and
filled him with another rage and shed light on many a bloody page of
frontier history, a moccasin-track, a straight-set, broad-toed, moosehide
track, the track of a Cree brave. He followed in savage humor, and as
he careered up a slope a tall form rose from a log, raising one hand in
peaceable gesture. Although Yan was behind, the Indian had seen him first.
"Who are you?" said Yan, roughly.
[Illustration]
"Chaska."
"What are you doing in my country?"
"It was my country first," he replied, gravely.
"Those are my deer," Yan said, and thought.
"No man owns deer till he kills them," said Chaska.
"You better keep off any trail I'm following."
"Not afraid," said he, and made a gesture to include the whole settlement,
then added, gently, "No good to fight, the best man will get the most
deer anyhow."
And the end of it was that Yan stayed for several days with Chaska and
got, not an antlered buck indeed, but, better far, an insight into the
ways of a man who could hunt. The Indian taught him _not_ to follow the
trail over the hills, for deer watch their back track, and cross the
hills to make this more easy. He taught him to tell by touch and smell
of sign just how far ahead they are, as well as the size and condition
of the deer, and not to trail closely when the game is near. He taught
him to study the wind by raising his moistened finger in the air, and
Yan thought, "Now I know why a deer's nose is always moist, for he must
always watch the wind." He showed Yan how much may be gained by patient
waiting at times, and that it is better to tread like an Indian with
foot set straight, for thereby one gains an inch or two at each stride
and can come back in one's own track through deep snow. And he also
unwittingly taught him that an Indian _cannot_ shoot with a rifle, and
Natty Bumpo's adage came to mind, "A white man can shoot with a gun,
but it ain't accordin' to an Injun's gifts."
Sometimes they went out together and sometimes singly. One day while
out alone Yan had followed a deer-track into a thicket by what is now
called Chaska Lake. The sign was fresh, and as he sneaked around there
was a rustle in the brush. Then he saw the kinnikinic boughs shaking.
His gun flew up and covered the spot. As soon as he was sure of the
place he meant to fire. But when he saw the creature as a dusky moving
form through the twigs, he awaited a better view, which came, and he
had almost pulled the trigger when his hand was stayed by a glimpse of
red, and a moment later out stepped—Chaska.
"Chaska," Yan gasped, "I nearly did for you."
For reply the Indian drew his finger across the red handkerchief on his
brow. Yan knew then one reason why a hunting Indian always wears it;
after that he wore one himself.
One day a flock of prairie chickens flew high overhead toward the
thick Spruce woods. Others followed and it seemed to be a general move.
Chaska looked toward them and said, "Chickens go hide in bush. Blizzard
to-night."
It surely came, and the hunters stayed all day by the fire. Next day
it was as fierce as ever. On the third day it ceased somewhat and they
hunted again. But Chaska returned with his gun broken by a fall, and
after a long silent smoke he said:
"Yan hunt in Moose Mountain?"
"No!"
"Good hunting. Go?"
Yan shook his head.
Presently the Indian, glancing to east, said, "Sioux tracks there to-day.
All bad medicine here." And Yan knew that his mind was made up. He went
away and they never met again. Like everything Indian, he is gone, his
family is gone, his hunting grounds are gone, and to-day all that is left
of him is his name, borne by the lonely lake that lies in the Carberry
Hills.