A BATTLE WITH WOLVES
The remainder of the journey up the Tanana was uneventful, but so
long that the new year was well begun ere the sledge party left it
and turned up the Gheesah branch, which flows in from the east. An
Indian guide, procured at the last village by the promise of a pound of
tobacco for his services, accompanied them on their four days’ journey
up this river, and to the summit of the bleak, wind-swept divide, five
hundred feet above timber-line. This gave the dogs a hard pull, though
Jalap Coombs insisted upon lightening their load by walking; nor from
this time on would he again consent to be treated as an invalid.
The summit once passed, they plunged rapidly down its farther side,
and into the welcome shelter of timber fringing a tiny stream
whose course they were now to follow. Their guide called it the
Tukh-loo-ga-ne-lukh-nough, which, after vain attempts to remember, Phil
shortened to “Tough Enough.” Jalap Coombs, however, declared that this
was not a “sarcumstance” to the names of certain down-East streams
among which he was born, and to prove his assertion began to talk
glibly of the Misquabenish, the Keejimkoopic, the Kashagawigamog, the
Kahwahcambejewagamog, and others of like brevity, until Phil begged him
to take a rest.
That night, while the camp was buried in the profound slumber that
followed a day of unusually hard work, and the fire had burned to a
bed of coals, the single, long-drawn howl of a wolf was borne to it
with startling distinctness by the night wind. As though it were a
signal, it was answered from a dozen different directions at once. The
alert dogs sprang from their snowy beds with bristling crests, and
hurled back a challenge of fierce barkings; but this, being an incident
of nightly occurrence, failed to arouse the tired sleepers.
Within a few minutes the dread howlings had so increased in volume that
they seemed to issue from scores of savage throats, and to completely
encircle the little camp. It was as if all the wolves of the forest,
rendered desperate by famine, had combined for a raid on the supply of
provisions so kindly placed within their reach. Nearer and nearer they
came, until their dark forms could be seen like shadows of evil omen
flitting among the trees and across the open moonlit spaces.
The dogs, at first eager to meet their mortal foes, now huddled
together, terrified by overwhelming numbers. Still the occupants of the
camp slept, unconscious of their danger. Suddenly there came a rush,
an unearthly clamor of savage outcry, and the sleepers were roused to
a fearful wakening by a confused struggle within the very limits of
the camp, and over their recumbent forms. They sprang up with yells
of terror, and at the sound of human voices the invaders drew back,
snapping and snarling with rage.
“Timber wolves!” shouted Serge. “Your rifle, Phil! Quick!”
Emboldened by this reinforcement, the dogs advanced to the edge of
the camp space, but with low growls in place of their former defiant
barkings.
Phil was trembling with excitement; but Serge, steady as a rock,
was throwing the No. 4’s from the double-barrel and reloading with
buckshot, at the same time calling to Chitsah to pile wood on the fire,
and to the other Indians not to fire until all were ready. Jalap Coombs
seized an axe, and, forgetful of the bitter cold, was rolling up his
sleeves as though he purposed to fight the wolves single-handed. At
the same time he denounced them as pirates and bloody land-sharks, and
dared them to come within his reach.
“Are you ready?” cried Serge; “then fire!” And with a roar that woke
the forest echoes for miles, the four guns poured their contents into
the dense black mass that seemed just ready to hurl itself for a second
time upon the camp.
With frightful howlings the pack scattered, and began to gallop swiftly
in a wide circle about the fire-lit space. One huge brute, frenzied
with rage, leaped directly towards the camp, with gleaming eyes and
frothing mouth. Ere a gun could be levelled, Jalap Coombs stepped
forward to meet him, and, with a mighty, swinging blow, his heavy axe
crushed the skull of the on-coming beast as though it had been an
eggshell. Instantly the dogs were upon him, and tearing fiercely at
their fallen enemy.
With the first shot Phil’s nervousness vanished, and as coolly as Serge
himself he followed, with levelled rifle, the movements of the yelling
pack in their swift circling. At each patch of moonlit space one or
more of the fierce brutes fell before his unerring fire, until every
shot of his magazine was exhausted.
“Now,” cried Serge, “we must scatter them. Every man take a firebrand
in each hand, and all make a dash together.”
[Illustration: “NOW,” CRIED SERGE, “ALL MAKE A DASH TOGETHER!”]
“Yelling,” added Jalap Coombs.
“Yes, yelling louder than the wolves themselves.”
The plan was no sooner proposed than adopted. Musky, Luvtuk, big
Amook, and the rest, inspired by their masters’ courage, joined in
the assault; and before that fire-bearing, yelling, on-rushing line of
humanity and dogs the gaunt forest raiders gave way and fled in all
directions.
The whole battle had not lasted more than five minutes, but it resulted
in the death of nineteen wolves, six of which were despatched by the
sailor man’s terrible axe after the fight was over and they, more or
less wounded, were slinking away towards places of hiding. But the dogs
found them out, and they met a swift fate at the hands of Jalap Coombs.
As he finally re-entered the camp, dragging the last one behind him, he
remarked, with a chuckle,
“Waal, boys, I ruther guess our boat’s ‘high line’ this time, and I’m
free to admit that this here wolf racket beats most kinds of fishing
for genuine entertainment, onless it’s fishing for sharks, which
is exciting at times. I’m pleased to have met up with this school,
though, for it’s allers comforting to run across fresh proofs of my
friend old Kite Roberson’s knowingness. He useter say consarning the
critters, Kite did, that wolves was sharks and sharks was wolves, and
that neither of ’em warn’t no fit playthings for children; which it now
seems to me he were correct, as usual.”
“He certainly was,” replied Phil, who, leaning on his rifle, was
thoughtfully regarding the shaggy beast that Kite Roberson’s friend
had just dragged into camp. “But aren’t these uncommonly big wolves? I
never knew they grew so large.”
“They don’t generally,” answered Serge; “but these are of the same
breed as the great Siberian wolves, which, you know, are noted as being
the largest and fiercest in the world.”
“I don’t wonder now that the dogs were frightened,” continued Phil,
“for this fellow looks twice as big as Amook, and he’s no puppy.
But I say, Serge, you’re an awfully plucky chap. As for myself, I must
confess I was so badly rattled that I don’t believe I should have even
thought of a gun before they were on us a second time.”
“If they had made a second rush not one of us would be alive to talk
about it now,” remarked Serge, soberly; “and it was only the promptness
of our attack that upset their plans. In dealing with wolves it is
always safest to force the fighting; for while they are awful bullies,
they are cowards at heart, like all bullies I ever heard of.”
“Captain Duff, for instance,” said Phil, with a reminiscent smile.
Then he added: “Anyhow, old man, you got us out of a bad scrape, for
it isn’t every fellow who would know just how to deal with a pack of
wolves, especially when wakened from a sound sleep to find them piling
on top of him.”
“I don’t believe it was quite as bad as that,” objected Serge. “I
expect only the dogs piled on top of us when they were driven in.
By-the-way, did you know that four of them were killed, and several
others pretty badly hurt?”
“No, I didn’t,” cried Phil, in dismay. “What ones are killed?”
“Two from my team, one from yours, and one from Chitsah’s.”
“Oh, the villains!” exclaimed the young leader. “Another victory like
that would cripple us. Do you think there is any danger of them coming
back?”
“Not just now; but I shouldn’t be surprised to hear from them again
to-morrow night.”
“All right. I’m glad you mentioned it. Now we’ll see if we can’t have
an interesting reception prepared for them.”
“Pizen?” queried Jalap Coombs, who had lighted his pipe and was now
complacently watching the skinning of the dead wolves, which had been
undertaken by the three Indians.
“Worse than that,” answered Phil, significantly.
By the time the Indians had finished their task and breakfast had been
eaten the usual starting-hour had arrived. Two of the wolf-skins were
allotted to the guide, who was to leave them at this point, and he
set forth on his return journey with them on his back. Rolled in them
were the single dried salmon which would form his sole sustenance on
the journey, and the cherished pound of tobacco, for which he had been
willing to work so hard. In his hand he bore an old flintlock musket
that was the pride of his heart, not so much on account of its shooting
qualities, which were very uncertain, as by reason of its great length.
It was the longest gun known to the dwellers of the Tanana Valley, and
consequently the most valuable; for the Hudson Bay Company’s method
of selling such guns was to exchange one for as many marten, fox, or
beaver skins as could be piled from stock to muzzle when it stood
upright.
“I hope the wolves won’t attack his camps,” remarked Phil, as they
watched the lonely figure pass out of sight on the back trail.
“Him no camp,” declared Kurilla.
“But he must. Why, it’s a four-days’ journey to his home.”
“No; one day, one night. Him no stop. Wolf no catch um. Yaas.”
And Kurilla was right, for the Indian would push on over mile after
mile of that frozen solitude without a pause, save for an occasional
bite from his dried salmon, and a handful of snow to wash it down,
until he reached his own far-away home.