the Hermit, even to the point of entering the cabin and eating from his
hand. This friendliness, however, led to trouble, as the man soon
discovered. Ringtail's curiosity was never satisfied and the cabin
furnished a rich field for exploration. Shining objects of all kinds
seemed to hold a fascination for him. One day when the Hermit missed
his watch, and found it eventually in the raccoon's house, he decided
that it was time to put a curb upon that animal's explorations.
Ringtail developed another habit which came to be very annoying to the
Hermit. On warm summer nights the man slept in a hammock swung between
two trees in front of his cabin. Ringtail, returning from his nocturnal
hunting, would run along the low branch of one of these trees until he
stood directly above the sleeper. Then he would let go and fall with a
thud, sometimes into the springy hammock, but more often upon the man.
Nothing that the Hermit could do would break Ringtail of this playful
habit. At length he was compelled to move his hammock, swinging it
between a corner of the cabin and a small spruce having no long,
horizontal branches. Here for a time he slept in peace, until Ringtail
discovered that he could take a few steps on the rope and so get into
the hammock, where he would sleep contentedly until morning. At least
this was better than having the raccoon's weight descend upon him
without warning, and the Hermit permitted him to remain. Sometimes he
even used Ringtail for a pillow, a liberty which the animal never
resented.
As has been mentioned, Ringtail was extremely fond of bright objects. A
bit of glass or tin glittering in the light would draw him irresistibly.
And one night this attraction led him into serious trouble. At dawn
Ringtail was still absent, and as the morning passed and he did not
return, the Hermit grew uneasy. Pal, too, seemed to miss his playmate.
He wandered aimlessly about and at last disappeared into the forest.
Late in the afternoon Pal returned and signified by his actions that his
master was needed in the forest. Remembering the plight in which Dave
Lansing had found himself, the Hermit carried his axe with him into the
wilderness. Pal ran on ahead but his eager barking enabled his master to
follow. Coming to a mossy spot under a big pine, he beheld a sight which
moved him to pity.
Long before, a trap had been set under the tree and forgotten. It was
covered from sight and badly rusted save for one spot, where a moonbeam
had made a dazzling point of light in the darkness. Lured by its gleam
Ringtail had stopped to investigate and his foot had been caught fast in
the trap.
For hours he had torn at the thing which held him so tightly, until,
bleeding and exhausted and almost dead with thirst, he had crouched down
among the leaves in despair. Thus Pal had found him and, unable to do
anything for his playfellow, had brought his master, confident that to
him all things were possible. When the Hermit came upon them, Pal was
licking the face of the big raccoon who seemed much comforted by the
dog's presence.
The Hermit, with his axe, soon freed Ringtail. As the latter limped
painfully, he carried him in his arms to the cabin, Pal frisking
joyfully about them. Ringtail had the best of attention and in a few
days was as lively as ever, his spirits undampened by his harrowing
experience. He worried Pal continually, but the dog bore it all with a
look of mingled resignation and pleasure which was comical to see.
About this time a new trick which the big raccoon had developed became
very annoying to poor Pal. When presented by his master with an
unusually fine bone, the dog would sneak off back of the cabin, look
suspiciously around and then quickly bury his prize, concealing all
traces of its location. Almost invariably, however, a pair of bright
eyes set in a masked face would be watching from some place of
concealment and the dog would no sooner turn his back than the
mischievous Ringtail would dig up the treasure. Pal generally discovered
him in time to save the bone and the friendship appeared not to suffer
in the least.
Once Pal, in his turn, owed his life to his friend. At dusk the two
wandered together into the borders of the wilderness. While Ringtail was
catching mice, Pal went on by himself. Early that spring a lynx had
taken up its abode in a rocky cave not far from the Hermit's clearing,
and several times had watched hungrily as Pal trotted through the
forest. Pal had always been accompanied by the Hermit and, though the
lynx could see no gun, it was suspicious of mankind and dared not
attack. Now, however, it found the dog alone and unprotected.
Without a sound the beast crouched and leaped. As it sprang, however, a
sound deflected its attention and the leap fell short, the long claws
raking cruelly across the dog's unprotected back, but causing no fatal
injury. Pal uttered a howl of terror and pain and, before the big cat
could launch itself again, a raging whirlwind of claws and teeth
descended upon its back.
Ringtail, at his hunting not far away, had heard the agonized cry of his
playmate and the sound had filled him with rage. Now, perched upon the
back of the astonished lynx, he bit and tore, holding his place in spite
of the animal's frantic efforts to dislodge him. At length, cowed and
exhausted and with bleeding flanks, the lynx was glad to escape to its
den. From that time on it showed no interest in either dog or raccoon.
Late summer came, with a full moon flooding the world with its silvery
radiance. The nights were almost as bright as the days and seemed to
hold a witchery which ran like fire in the veins of the forest folk.
Ringtail slept in his log house the greater part of the day but was
seldom to be found about the clearing at night. He was round, full-fed,
and jolly.
[Illustration: Ringtail had heard the agonized cry of his playmate.]
One night the Hermit fell asleep thinking of Ringtail. As he slept, he
dreamed of walking in the forest and of hearing the distant barking of
dogs. Louder and louder grew the sound until suddenly he awoke to find
that it had not all been a dream. So close at hand as to startle him, he
heard a wild clamor in which he could distinguish Pal's excited voice.
Leaping from his hammock he quickly rounded the corner of the cabin and
beheld a weird sight. A torch borne in the hand of a tall man cast a
flickering light over a melee of dogs, leaping and barking about the
foot of the pole which held Ringtail's snug home. Another but smaller
figure stood near, pointing to the spot where, upon the platform before
the birdhouse, two shining eyes looked down at the group. Pal was here,
there and everywhere, loudly voicing his opinion of the intruders.
The Hermit strode up to the group. "What does this mean?" he asked in a
stern voice, of the man who held the torch.
Instead of replying to his question, the man asked, "Is that your coon?"
"No, it isn't my coon, but it is kind enough to be boarding with me at
present," the Hermit replied.
"Well, you'll have to kill him. My name is Graham. I live a mile up the
river and this coon has just about ruined my cornfield," was the
truculent answer.
"How do you know it is this one?" the Hermit asked. "There are other
raccoons in the woods."
"How do we know?" The man was growing angry at the delay. "Didn't we
just track him here? After he had ruined a choice patch last night, I
made up my mind to get him. Sure enough, he came to-night and the dogs
brought us here."
The Hermit's face grew grave and he raised troubled eyes to those of his
old friend twinkling down at him. "If this is true," he said slowly, "of
course something will have to be done. I only ask you to make sure
first. Will you do what I propose?"
He talked earnestly for a few moments while the farmer listened in
silence. Then Mr. Graham said, still unconvinced, "Well, we will try it,
but if we find that it is your coon, he will have to be killed."
The Hermit nodded and, calling their dogs, the strangers departed
without their game. The Hermit returned to his hammock and silence once
more settled over the clearing. It was long, however, before the man
slept. Ringtail, with his mischievous ways and funny masked face, had
become a favorite member of his little household. And now disgrace and
death were probably to be his portion. With a sinking of the heart the
Hermit remembered Ringtail's long absences in the moonlight and his
full-fed, happy appearance upon his return.
The following morning, in accordance with his promise to the farmer, the
Hermit lured Ringtail to the cabin by means of a cooky. Snapping a chain
about his neck he tethered him securely to a young pine before the door.
Ringtail ate the cooky, nosed the Hermit's hand for more and then
started for home. The chain, however, brought him up with a jerk and he
turned such a bewildered look upon the man that the latter's heart
almost failed him.
"I'm sorry, old chap, but I promised," he said. "If you would take just
a little corn it would not matter, but I have seen a field ruined by
your tribe and I know it cannot be permitted."
Ringtail tried in every way to gain his freedom but the chain was
strong. Pal, too, seemed much bewildered at the sudden curtailing of his
playmate's liberty. He stood at attention, looking from the Hermit to
his old chum and back again.
"It's no use, Pal. I promised to keep him chained to-night. Then if Mr.
Graham's field suffers again, he will know that it was not Ringtail who
visited it." The Hermit patted the dog's head and turned back to the
cabin. When he came out some time later, he found Pal and the raccoon
asleep side by side.
So Ringtail became a prisoner of war, though, it must be confessed, a
very pampered one. During the day he seemed quite contented with his
lot, playing with the shining links of his chain or sleeping with his
tail over his eyes. But when night came and the moon again flooded the
wilderness with its radiance, the raccoon strained at his leash and
whimpered like a child, so that the Hermit was forced to harden his
heart anew. Meanwhile, he hoped against hope that the jury would not
find his pet guilty.
Both the man and the animal spent a restless night. The Hermit rose
early and was just preparing his breakfast when he heard a commotion in
the clearing. Looking out, he beheld Farmer Graham and his son, guns
over their shoulders and two weary dogs at their heels.
"Well, I guess you can keep your coon," the farmer chuckled, as the
Hermit stepped out to greet him. "The thief came again last night and we
treed him much nearer home than this." He patted a bulky bag at his
back. "The trails of the two must have crossed the other time. Anyway,
we'll give your Ringtail the benefit of the doubt. Sorry to have
troubled you."
"That's all right and I will confess that I am glad Ringtail has not
been found guilty. I am just getting breakfast. Come right in and help
eat it, won't you?" the Hermit invited, heartily.
The farmer declined, on the plea that breakfast would be waiting at
home, and the men parted friends. Ringtail was then released from
bondage and given a good breakfast, after which he climbed to his home
in the birdhouse and fell asleep, unconscious of his narrow escape from
death.
THE HAUNTER OF THE TRAIL
Toward the close of an early autumn day the Hermit might have been seen
leaning comfortably against an angle of the old rail fence, pleasantly
engaged in doing nothing. At his feet lay a bundle of freshly dug roots,
the rich forest mold still adhering to their leathery, brown surfaces.
At his back stretched an upland pasture covered with coarse brown grass
and dotted with clumps of jumper and wild berry-bushes; before him lay
the wilderness, the golden tints of birch and poplar and the scarlet of
maples in sharp contrast with the dark green of pine and spruce.
The Hermit was puzzled. On several occasions when harvesting in the
woods, he had become conscious of being watched by unfriendly eyes, yet
when he turned there was nothing to be seen, save perhaps an inquisitive
chickadee or a squirrel peeping at him from behind a tree trunk. That
very afternoon, while digging his roots, he had experienced the
unpleasant sensation and, stopping his work, had searched the forest
all about him. Yet, a little later, the feeling had returned, and Pal
had growled deep in his throat, the hair along his back bristling
defiantly. The dog, however, did not leave his master and after a moment
of silent waiting the Hermit had turned again to his work, resolutely
dismissing the matter from his mind.
Now, as he leaned against the fence looking back toward the forest, he
resolved to visit it again the following afternoon for the sole purpose
of seeking out this mysterious haunter of his trail. In the mean time
the shadows were growing long and a number of tasks were still to be
done, so he picked up his roots, whistled to Pal, who was investigating
a woodchuck hole, and turned his face homeward.
The next afternoon the Hermit entered the wilderness alone, for he
wanted no excitable small dog to balk his quest. Seating himself
comfortably with his back against a log and partly screened by a thicket
of young alders, he waited motionless. A deep hush seemed to clothe the
forest as in a garment. All about him rose great trees, their branches
shutting out the sunlight and making a mysterious green dimness.
For a long time nothing unusual appeared and the Hermit grew impatient,
half believing that his experience had been but a trick of the
imagination. He had just about made up his mind to abandon the quest
when suddenly he caught his breath, thankful that he had not stirred. He
was aware of neither sound nor motion, yet not many paces distant stood
a tawny, gray-brown animal whose round, moon-like face, pale savage eyes
and tufted ears proclaimed it to be a lynx, or, as it is more commonly
known in the backwoods settlements, a lucivee.
The animal stood a trifle over twenty inches in height, his hind legs
somewhat longer than his front ones, giving him a queer, humped-up
appearance. His feet were huge, furry pads which could tread a cracking
forest floor as silently as shadows; his eyes beneath the tassels of
stiff dark hair glowed with a pale fire, giving the beast a most
sinister appearance. Save for the nervous twitching of his stubby tail,
the lucivee stood as motionless as the trees about him.
As the wind was blowing toward him, the Hermit felt sure that the lynx
was not yet aware of his presence. He was glad of this, as it would
give him an opportunity to study the beast. The attention of the lynx
was directed elsewhere, and even the ears of the man, dull in comparison
with those of the wild creature, gradually became aware of a faint
rustling which grew momentarily louder. The animal drifted behind a tree
where he melted into the shadows and became invisible. The effect was
uncanny and the Hermit ceased to wonder that he had been unable to catch
a glimpse of this haunter of his trail.
Now the rustling sound grew louder and, turning his eyes, the Hermit
beheld a strange spectacle. Coming slowly between the trees was
something which resembled a huge burr covered with brown leaves. The
Hermit stared for a moment, scarce believing the evidence of his eyes;
then, as the queer object came nearer, his face relaxed in a broad grin.
The apparition was Kagh, the porcupine, who had apparently been enjoying
a nap in a bed of dry leaves which had adhered thickly to his spiky
covering. He was indeed an odd looking object as he blundered along. The
Hermit had much ado to keep from chuckling aloud, especially as he
watched the lynx who seemed interested but altogether puzzled. The
animal peered out from behind the tree trunk, round eyes fixed
unwaveringly upon this stranger who advanced, calmly indifferent to the
scrutiny.
As the porcupine passed, the lynx came cautiously forth from his
concealment and padded after him, his curiosity still unsatisfied. Kagh
had not gone far when some whim caused him to turn about as if to
retrace his steps. The lucivee was close behind, but with a motion like
the bounding of a rubber ball he quickly vacated the spot and again
stood peering from behind a tree.
And now the Hermit witnessed an amusing performance. Some strange freak
seemed to possess the porcupine, for he slowly circled the tree behind
which the lynx crouched, stopping every few steps to sniff at the bark
or to peer up into the branches. For a moment the big cat held his
ground, but the sight of the queer apparition bearing down upon him was
too much for his high-strung nerves. With a snarl he scrambled up the
tree, where he crouched upon a branch, glaring down at the animated
leaf-pile. Kagh shambled around the tree, his nose to the ground as if
hunting for something. Then he continued on his placid way, disappearing
down the gray vista of the forest, apparently ignorant of the fact that
there was a lucivee in the woods.
[Illustration: He crouched upon a branch, glaring down at the animated
leaf-pile.]
A sudden puff of wind now carried the scent of the man to the crouching
lynx. By a stiffening of the animal's muscles the Hermit knew that his
presence had been detected. As the branch was close enough to bring the
cat within springing distance, he deemed it time to assert himself.
Accordingly, he sprang to his feet with a shout, while the lynx,
horrified at the sudden clamor, dropped to the ground. Shrinking off
into the shadows the lucivee vanished as completely as if swallowed up
by the earth.
The setting sun was casting long shadows among the trees and the air was
fast growing chill with the coming of night when the Hermit climbed the
rail fence into his clearing, to be met by an enthusiastic Pal. The man
had learned what it was that had been haunting his trail and, his mind
at rest, he felt no further uneasiness. He did not believe that the lynx
would attack him, at least while food was abundant. Though he rarely
carried a gun, he always bore his mattock or something which could be
used as a weapon in case of need.
The big cat, too, had come to know all he desired of the man whose
footsteps he had been dogging for days. His savage nature craved the
deeper solitudes and the next evening found him journeying northward,
away from the settlements with their danger from men and guns. Wood mice
were plentiful and once the lynx caught a deer, dropping upon it from an
overhanging branch. In this feast he was joined by another lynx, smaller
but more savage, and thereafter the two traveled together, selecting
their home among the ledges of a heavily wooded country.
Autumn passed. The wild geese drifted southward in search of open
waterways, and the moon of snowshoes was ushered in. For days a fierce
storm raged, the keen wind lashing the branches of the forest trees and
piling the drifts deep. Few indeed of the forest folk ventured abroad,
most of them keeping to their dens until the storm should pass. When the
sun again appeared, it shone upon a world of pure, glistening white,
where the frost particles in the air sparkled like diamond dust.
Hunger drove the creatures forth, and by evening the snow was interlaced
with their innumerable trails. The bigger lynx emerged from his dark den
high up under an overhanging ledge, stretched himself and yawned
mightily, then set off in search of a meal. For a long time he was
unsuccessful. The creatures were shy and frightened by their own shadows
upon this white coverlet which made the night woods almost as light as
day. The lynx was obliged to be content with a rabbit caught at the edge
of a snow drift, though his fierce appetite craved stronger food.
Weeks passed and the plight of the forest creatures grew steadily worse.
Icy gales swept down from the far north, following each other in rapid
succession and making it impossible for any forest creature to stir
abroad, sometimes for days at a time. The lynxes grew steadily leaner
and their temper more savage. Like gaunt shadows of doom they drifted
down the snowy aisles of the forest, now and then coming upon a grouse,
which had burrowed into a drift for the night, only to find itself
imprisoned by the freezing of the crust above. Even wood mice were
difficult to obtain, though their runways branched everywhere deep down
under the snow, which to them was a blessing. The nights were cold and
still, lit by the great fan of the Aurora Borealis which pulsed upward
to the zenith, glowing with its ever-changing colors--delicate green
fading into violet and blue, flaming redly or dying away in a pure white
light.
About this time the female lynx met her fate in an encounter with a fat
porcupine who dawdled across her trail. The sight of good eating so
tantalizingly near caused her to lose all caution. With her long claws
she endeavored to turn the porcupine over that she might reach his
unprotected under parts. In her eagerness, however, she forgot the
barbed tail which dealt her a smashing blow, full in the face. One of
the quills mercifully penetrated the brain and at once put an end to the
painful struggles. Thus the male lynx was left to walk the trails alone,
but in spite of the odds against him, he succeeded in holding his own.
The beginning of March saw no break in the intense cold. In fact, March
in the wilderness is the most bitter month of the winter. Food is
reduced to a minimum and the survivors of cold and hunger are
exceedingly wary.
One night when the moon, far off in a cloudless sky, sent pale fingers
of mysterious light creeping down the dark forest lanes, the surviving
lynx appeared in his endless search for food, his huge pads making no
sound as he kept himself cunningly concealed among the shifting shadows.
The hush of death brooded over the frozen forest, a hush in which the
scratching of a dry leaf across the icy snow crust could be plainly
heard for some distance. Occasionally the silence was broken by a loud
report from some great tree.
The lynx drifted on, seeking vainly for food to stay his fierce
appetite. Suddenly he crouched close to the ground, startled, as a
weird, hollow cry rang out just above him. It was the voice of doom for
many smaller creatures but not for the lynx. As the great owl drifted
by on soundless wings, the animal snarled but went on his way.
At length he paused again to listen. Far away a mournful howl rose on
the still air and died away, only to be taken up by another and another.
At the sound the hair bristled upon the back of the listener. It was the
cry of the wolf pack.
Now the lynx hesitated, uncertain whether to ignore the sound or to make
good his escape. Since game had become scarce the wolves had taken to
hunting the lynxes. For a single wolf the big cat felt little fear, but
he realized that he would be no match for them hunting in packs.
Accordingly, much against his will, he turned back toward the den,
stopping occasionally to listen, the tassels of dark hairs upon his ears
standing stiffly erect and his pale eyes gleaming fiercely.
It soon became apparent that the pack was coming rapidly closer and in
another moment had caught the scent. On they came, silent and swift,
until they sighted their quarry among the trees. Then they broke into
full cry. The lynx, knowing that he could not hope to escape them upon
the ground, hastily scrambled up a tree where, crouching upon a limb,
he glared down at his enemies.
Maddened at the escape of their quarry, the wolves circled the tree with
snapping jaws, leaping as far upward as possible, only to fall back
among their fellows. Their eyes gleamed red, but the lynx, safe on his
branch high above, felt only disdain. He knew that they could not reach
him.
The moon sank out of sight, leaving the forest in darkness, but still
the wolf pack kept watch beneath the tree, moving restlessly but always
alert. In the east the darkness paled and the sky became gradually
suffused with pink. The lynx thought that daylight would see the end of
his imprisonment, but though a few of the pack slunk away, enough
remained on guard to make a descent from the tree extremely hazardous.