A quarter of a mile away Miki had heard the clamour of the crows. But
he was in no humour to turn back, even had he guessed that Neewa was in
need of his help. He was hungry from long fasting and, for the present,
his disposition had taken a decided turn. He was in a mood to tackle
anything in the eating line, no matter how big, but he was a good mile
from the dip in the side of the ridge before he found even a crawfish.
He crunched this down, shell and all. It helped to take the bad taste
out of his mouth.
The day was destined to hold for him still another unforgettable event
in his life. Now that he was alone the memory of his master was not so
vague as it had been yesterday, and the days before. Brain-pictures
came back to him more vividly as the morning lengthened into afternoon,
bridging slowly but surely the gulf that Neewa's comradeship had
wrought. For a time the exciting thrill of his adventure was gone. Half
a dozen times he hesitated on the point of turning back to Neewa. It
was hunger that always drove him on a little farther. He found two more
crawfish. Then the creek deepened and its water ran slowly, and was
darker. Twice he chased old rabbits, that got away from him easily.
Once he came within an ace of catching a young one. Frequently a
partridge rose with a thunder of wings. He saw moose-birds, and jays,
and many squirrels. All about him was meat which it was impossible for
him to catch. Then fortune turned his way. Poking his head into the end
of a hollow log he cornered a rabbit so completely that there was no
escape. During the next few minutes he indulged in the first square
meal he had eaten for three days.
So absorbed was he in his feast that he was unconscious of a new
arrival on the scene. He did not hear the coming of Oochak, the
fisher-cat; nor, for a few moments, did he smell him. It was not in
Oochak's nature to make a disturbance. He was by birth and instinct a
valiant hunter and a gentleman, and when he saw Miki (whom he took to
be a young wolf) feeding on a fresh kill, he made no move to demand a
share for himself. Nor did he run away. He would undoubtedly have
continued on his way very soon if Miki had not finally sensed his
presence, and faced him.
Oochak had come from the other side of the log, and stood not more than
six feet distant. To one who knew as little of his history as Miki
there was nothing at all ferocious about him. He was shaped like his
cousins, the weazel, the mink, and the skunk. He was about half as high
as Miki, and fully as long, so that his two pairs of short legs seemed
somewhat out of place, as on a dachshund. He probably weighed between
eight and ten pounds, had a bullet head, almost no ears, and atrocious
whiskers. Also he had a bushy tail and snapping little eyes that seemed
to bore clean through whatever he looked at. To Miki his accidental
presence was a threat and a challenge. Besides, Oochak looked like an
easy victim if it came to a fight. So he pulled back his lips and
snarled.
Oochak accepted this as an invitation for him to move on, and being a
gentleman who respected other people's preserves he made his apologies
by beginning a velvet-footed exit. This was too much for Miki, who had
yet to learn the etiquette of the forest trails. Oochak was afraid of
him. He was running away! With a triumphant yelp Miki took after him.
After all, it was simply a mistake in judgment. (Many two-footed
animals with bigger brains than Miki's had made similar mistakes.) For
Oochak, attending always to his own business, was, for his size and
weight, the greatest little fighter in North America.
Just what happened in the one minute that followed his assault Miki
would never be able quite to understand. It was not in reality a fight;
it was a one-sided immolation, a massacre. His first impression was
that he had tackled a dozen Oochaks instead of one. Beyond that first
impression his mind did not work, nor did his eyes visualize. He was
whipped as he would never be whipped again in his life. He was cut and
bruised and bitten; he was strangled and stabbed; he was so utterly
mauled that for a space after Oochak had gone he continued to rake the
air with his paws, unconscious of the fact that the affair was over.
When he opened his eyes, and found himself alone, he slunk into the
hollow log where he had cornered the rabbit.
In there he lay a good half hour, trying hard to comprehend just what
had happened. The sun was setting when he dragged himself out. He
limped. His one good ear was bitten clean through. There were bare
spots on his hide where Oochak had scraped the hair off. His bones
ached, his throat was sore, and there was a lump over one eye. He
looked longingly back over the "home" trail. Up there was Neewa. With
the lengthening shadows of the day's end a great loneliness crept upon
him and a desire to turn back to his comrade. But Oochak had gone that
way--and he did not want to meet Oochak again.
He wandered a little farther south and east, perhaps a quarter of a
mile, before the sun disappeared entirely. In the thickening gloom of
twilight he struck the Big Rock portage between the Beaver and the Loon.
It was not a trail. Only at rare intervals did wandering voyageurs
coming down from the north make use of it in their passage from one
waterway to the other. Three or four times a year at the most would a
wolf have caught the scent of man in it. It was there tonight, so fresh
that Miki stopped when he came to it as if another Oochak had risen
before him. For a space he was turned into the rigidity of rock by a
single overwhelming emotion. All other things were forgotten in the
fact that he had struck the trail of a man--AND, THEREFORE, THE TRAIL
OF CHALLONER, HIS MASTER. He began to follow it--slowly at first, as if
fearing that it might get away from him. Darkness came, and he was
still following it. In the light of the stars he persisted, all else
crowded from him but the homing instinct of the dog and the desire for
a master.
At last he came almost to the shore of the Loon, and there he saw the
campfire of Makoki and the white man.
He did not rush in. He did not bark or yelp; the hard schooling of the
wilderness had already set its mark upon him. He slunk in
cautiously--then stopped, flat on his belly, just outside the rim of
firelight. Then he saw that neither of the men was Challoner. But both
were smoking, as Challoner had smoked. He could hear their voices, and
they were like Challoner's voice. And the camp was the same--a fire, a
pot hanging over it, a tent, and in the air the odours of recently
cooked things.
Another moment or two and he would have gone into the firelight. But
the white man rose to his feet, stretched himself as he had often seen
Challoner stretch, and picked up a stick of wood as big as his arm. He
came within ten feet of Miki, and Miki wormed himself just a little
toward him, and stood up on his feet. It brought him into a half light.
His eyes were aglow with the reflection of the fire. And the man saw
him.
In a flash the club he held was over his head; it swung through the air
with the power of a giant arm behind it and was launched straight at
Miki. Had it struck squarely it would have killed him. The big end of
it missed him; the smaller end landed against his neck and shoulder,
driving him back into the gloom with such force and suddenness that the
man thought he had done for him. He called out loudly to Makoki that he
had killed a young wolf or a fox, and dashed out into the darkness.
The club had knocked Miki fairly into the heart of a thick ground
spruce. There he lay, making no sound, with a terrible pain in his
shoulder. Between himself and the fire he saw the man bend over and
pick up the club. He saw Makoki hurrying toward him with ANOTHER club,
and under his shelter he made himself as small as he could. He was
filled with a great dread, for now he understood the truth. THESE men
were not Challoner. They were hunting for him--with clubs in their
hands. He knew what the clubs meant. His shoulder was almost broken.
He lay very still while the men searched about him. The Indian even
poked his stick into the thick ground spruce. The white man kept saying
that he was sure he had made a hit, and once he stood so near that
Miki's nose almost touched his boot. He went back and added fresh birch
to the fire, so that the light of it illumined a greater space about
them. Miki's heart stood still. But the men searched farther on, and at
last went back to the fire.
For an hour Miki did not move. The fire burned itself low. The old Cree
wrapped himself in a blanket, and the white man went into his tent. Not
until then did Miki dare to crawl out from under the spruce. With his
bruised shoulder making him limp at every step he hurried back over the
trail which he had followed so hopefully a little while before. The
man-scent no longer made his heart beat swiftly with joy. It was a
menace now. A warning. A thing from which he wanted to get away. He
would sooner have faced Oochak again, or the owls, than the white man
with his club. With the owls he could fight, but in the club he sensed
an overwhelming superiority.
The night was very still when he dragged himself back to the hollow log
in which he had killed the rabbit. He crawled into it, and nursed his
wounds through all the rest of the hours of darkness. In the early
morning he came out and ate the rest of the rabbit.
After that he faced the north and west--where Neewa was. There was no
hesitation now. He wanted Neewa again. He wanted to muzzle him with his
nose and lick his face even though he did smell to heaven. He wanted to
hear him grunt and squeal in his funny, companionable way; he wanted to
hunt with him again, and play with him, and lie down beside him in a
sunny spot and sleep. Neewa, at last, was a necessary part of his world.
He set out.
And Neewa, far up the creek, still followed hopefully and yearningly
over the trail of Miki.
Half way to the dip, in a small open meadow that was a glory of sun,
they met. There was no very great demonstration. They stopped and
looked at each other for a moment, as if to make sure that there was no
mistake. Neewa grunted. Miki wagged his tail. They smelled noses. Neewa
responded with a little squeal, and Miki whined. It was as if they had
said,
"Hello, Miki!"
"Hello, Neewa!"
And then Neewa lay down in the sun and Miki sprawled himself out beside
him. After all, it was a funny world. It went to pieces now and then,
but it always came together again. And to-day their world had
thoroughly adjusted itself. Once more they were chums--and they were
happy.