But when the morning came the impress of the night was dim. A long
howl came over the hill, and the thought that a wolf was on the trail
that he was quitting smote sadly on Yan's heart. They all set out for
the settlement, but within an hour Yan only wanted an excuse to stay.
And when at length they ran onto the fresh track of the Sandhill Stag
himself, the lad was all ablaze once more.
"I cannot go back—something tells me that I must stay—I must see him
face to face again."
[Illustration]
The rest had had enough of the bitter frost, so Yan took from the sleigh
a small pot, a blanket, and some food, and left them, to follow alone
the great sharp imprint in the snow.
"Good-by—good luck."
He watched the sleigh out of sight, in the low hills, and then felt as he
never had before. Though he had been so many months alone in the wilds
he had never known loneliness, but as soon as his friends were gone he
was overwhelmed by a sense of the utter heart-sickening dreariness of
the endless, snowy waste. Where were the charms that he had never failed
to find until now? He wanted to recall the sleigh, but pride kept him
silent.
In a little while it was too late, and soon he was once more in the
power of that fascinating endless chain of tracks. A chain begun years
ago, when in a June the track of a mother blacktail was suddenly joined
by two little ones' tracks; since then the three had gone on winding
over the land, the trail-chains they were forging. Knotted and kinked,
and twisted with every move and thought of the makers, imprinted with
every hap of their lives, but interrupted never wholly. At times the
tracks were joined by that of some fierce foe, and the kind of mark was
changed, but the chains went on for months or years, now fast, now slow,
but endless, until some foe more strong joined on and there one trail
was ended. But this great Stag was forging still that mystic chain. A
million roods of hills had he overlaid with its links and scribbled over
in this oldest script with the story of his life. If only our eyes were
bright enough to follow up that twenty thousand miles of trail, what
light unguessed we might obtain on the wild things' lives and thoughts.
[Illustration]
But skin deep, man is brute. Just a little while ago we were mere
hunting-brutes—our bellies were our only thought, that telltale line
of dots was the road to food. No man can follow it far without feeling
a wild beast prickling in his hair and down his spine. Away Yan went,
a hunter-brute once more, all other feelings swamped.
Late that day the trail, after many a kink and seeming break, led into a
great dense thicket of brittle, quaking asp. Yan knew that the Stag was
there to lie and rest. The deer went in up-wind, of course. His eyes and
ears would watch his trail, and his nose would guard in front, so Yan
went in at one side, trusting to get a shot. With a very agony of care
he made his way, step by step, and, after many minutes, surely found the
track, still leading on. Another lengthy crawl, with nerves at tense,
and then the lad thought he heard a twig snapped behind him, though the
track was still ahead. And after long he found it true. Before lying
down the Stag had doubled back, and while Yan had thought him still
ahead, he was lying far behind, so had gotten wind of the man and now
was miles away.
Once more into the unknown north away, till cold, black night came down;
then Yan sought out a sheltered spot and made a tiny, red man's fire.
As Chaska had taught him long ago—"Big fire for fool."
When the lad curled up to sleep he felt a vague wish to turn three times
like a dog, and a well-defined wish that he had fur on his face and
a bushy tail to lay around his freezing hands and feet, for it was a
night of northern frost. Old Peboan was stalking on the snow. The stars
seemed to crackle, so one could almost hear. The trees and earth were
bursting with the awful frost. The ice on a near lake was rent all night
by cracks that went whooping from shore to shore; and down between the
hills there poured the cold that burns.
A prairie-wolf came by in the night, but he did not howl or treat Yan
like an outsider now. He gave a gentle, doglike "_Woof, woof_," a sort of
"Oho! so you have come to it at last," and passed away. Toward morning
the weather grew milder, but with the change there came a driving snow.
The track was blotted out. Yan had heeded nothing else and did not
know where he was. After travelling an aimless mile or two he decided
to make for Pine Creek, which ought to lie southeastward. But which
way was southeast? The powdery snow was driven along through the air,
blinding, stinging, burning. On all things near it was like smoke, and
on farther things, a driving fog. But he made for a quaking asp grove,
and there, sticking through the snow, he found a crozier golden-rod,
dead and dry, but still faithfully delivering its message, "Yon is the
north." With course corrected, on he went, and, whenever in doubt, dug
out this compass-flower, till the country dipped and Pine Creek lay below.
There was good camping here, the very spot indeed where, fifteen years
before, Butler had camped on his Loneland Journey; but now the blizzard
had ceased, so Yan spent the day hunting without seeing a track, and he
spent the night as before, wishing that nature had been kinder to him
in the matter of fur. During that first lone night his face and toes
had been frozen and now bore burning sores. But still he kept on the
chase, for a something within had told him that the Grail was surely
near. Next day a strange, unreasoning guess sent him east across the
creek in a deerless-looking barren land. Within half a mile he came on
dim tracks made lately in the storm. He followed, and soon found where
six deer had lain at rest, and among them a great, broad bed and a giant
track that only one could have made. The track was almost fresh, the
sign unfrozen still. "Within a mile," he thought. But within a hundred
yards there loomed up on a fog-wrapped hillside five heads with ears
regardant, and at that moment, too, there rose up from the snowy top a
great form like a blasted trunk with two dead boughs still on. But they
had seen him first, and before the deadly gun could play, six beacons
waved and a friendly hill had screened them from its power.
[Illustration]
The Sandhill Stag had gathered his brood again, yet now that the murderer
was on the track once more, he scattered them as before. But there was
only one track for Yan.
At last the chase led away to the great dip of Pine Creek. A mile-wide
flat, with a long dense thicket down the middle.
"There is where he is hiding and watching now, but there he will not
rest," said something within, and Yan kept out of sight and watched;
after half an hour a dark spot left the willow belt and wandered up
the farther hill. When he was well out of sight over the hill Yan ran
across the valley and stalked around to get the trail on the down-wind
side. He found it, and there learned that the Stag was as wise as he—he
had climbed a good lookout and watched his back trail, then seeing Yan
crossing the flat, his track went swiftly bounding, bounding——
The Stag knew just how things stood; a single match to a finish now,
and he led away for a new region. But Yan was learning something he had
often heard, that the swiftest deer can be run down by a hardy man; for
he was as fresh as ever, but the great Stag's bounds were shortening,
he was surely tiring out, he must throw off the hunter now, or he is lost.
[Illustration]
He often mounted a high hill to scan the white world for his foe, and
the after-trail was a record of what he learned or feared. At last his
trail came to a sudden end. This was a mystery until long study showed
how he had returned backward on his own track for a hundred yards then
bounded aside to fly in another direction. Three times he did this and
then passed through an aspen thicket and, returning, lay down in this
thicket near his own track so that in following, Yan must pass where the
Stag could smell and hear him long before the trail brought the hunter
over close.
All these doublings and many more like them were patiently unravelled, and
the shortening bounds were straightened out once more till, as daylight
waned, the tracks seemed to grow stale and the bounds again grow long.
After a little, Yan became wholly puzzled, so he stopped right there
and spent another wretched night. Next day at dawn he worked it out.
He found he had been running the trail he had already run. With a long
hark back, the doubt was cleared. The desperate Stag had joined onto
his old track and bounded aside at length to let the hunter follow the
cold scent. But the join-on was found and the real trail read, and the
tale that it told was of a great Stag wearing out, too tired to eat,
too scared to sleep, and a tireless hunter after.
[Illustration]