LOST IN THE FOREST
It was not difficult to find the Fox River, for it was the first stream
flowing into the Pelly on the right, and as the ice in the latter river
was much smoother than it had been on the Yukon, our sledge travellers
turned into it on the second day after leaving Harper’s.
“Now,” said Phil, “we must keep a sharp lookout for Cree Jim’s cabin;
for as no one seems to know exactly where it is located, we may find it
anywhere between here and the head of the stream. At any rate, we can’t
afford to miss it.”
They did miss it though, and, after camping one night on the river,
reached its head in a lake that they knew must be the Fox. Although the
day was but half spent, Phil decided to camp at that point.
“You and I, Serge,” he said, “must go back down the river, one on each
side, making long détours away from it, in hopes of finding either
the cabin or some trail leading to it. At the same time we must keep
a sharp lookout for game. Anything from a bear to a rabbit would be
acceptable now, for if we don’t replenish our stock of meat pretty soon
we shall lose our dogs.”
“All right,” replied Serge; “only, Phil, do be careful and not get
lost.”
“Never you fear on that score,” laughed the young leader; “I’ll look
out for myself, but see that you do the same.”
So the two lads set forth, leaving Jalap Coombs to prepare camp and
boil the oatmeal porridge, which, mixed with a small quantity of fish,
now formed the dogs’ daily meal.
Phil plunged directly into the forest, deciding to start out with one
of the détours that he had planned. Once within shelter of the trees,
he found the snow so deep that but for his snow-shoes he could have
made no progress. By their aid he was able to push forward at a fair
rate of speed, which he determined to maintain on as straight a line as
possible until within half an hour of sunset. Then he would bend to the
left until he reached the river, which he was certain could not be very
far away, and which he could follow back to camp even in the dark.
So for several hours he plodded sturdily forward, keeping a sharp
lookout for any trail of man or beast, and making as little noise as
possible, in the hope of surprising something worthy of a shot. All
at once the surprise came from the other side; for, with a rush from
behind a clump of young hemlocks, a huge brown animal, with great
palmated horns, crossed his path only a few rods ahead, and dashed away
at right angles, flinging the snow to both sides like a rotary railroad
plough. Rapid as were his movements, Phil got in one flying shot just
as he disappeared.
“It was a moose!” thought the excited lad; “biggest one I ever saw. And
I hit him!” he cried aloud, a minute later, as he examined the broad
trail left by the flying beast. “Hit him hard, too!” he added, as,
noting blood-stains on the snow, and forgetful of everything else, he
set forth in hot pursuit of his stricken game. “He can’t hold that pace
long, wounded, and through snow as deep as this,” he reflected, “and I
shouldn’t be surprised if I found him at bay inside of a mile. Oh, if I
can only get him, it will settle the food question for the rest of the
trip!”
So, with high hopes, and with all his hunting instincts fully aroused,
Phil followed that blood-stained trail, not only for one mile, but for
several more, though without catching another glimpse of the flying
moose. Nor could he discover any sign of slackened speed or diminished
strength on the part of his huge quarry. The strides were just as long
as at first, and the snow was flung just as far on either side of the
trail. But for the crimson stains betokening a steady loss of blood,
Phil would long since have given up the chase. They encouraged him
to keep on, “For surely,” he said to himself, “no animal, not even a
moose, can stand a drain like that forever.”
All at once he stopped short, and gazed about him with startled
glances. The trail was growing dim; stealthy shadows were creeping
through the forest. The day was spent and night was at hand. “Now I
_am_ in for it!” he cried, bitterly. “Here I am miles from camp without
an idea of its direction or that of the river. My only guide to either
is the trail by which I have just come, and I should lose that in the
darkness before I had gone half a mile. The only thing to do is to make
a hungry camp, and make it quick, too, before the light is wholly gone.”
Thus deciding, Phil left the trail and hastened towards a bunch of
dead timber that stood a short distance to one side. He scraped the
snow from a prostrate log, and then, using one of his snow-shoes as a
shovel, dug out a small space down to the ground beside it. A little
pile of dry twigs and bark, and a few sticks of larger wood, were
hastily collected and heaped against the log. When he got his fire well
started he would gather more. Now to whittle a handful of shavings, and
then for a blaze. Oh, how good it would seem! How it would drive away
the horrid loneliness, push back the encroaching shadows, and replace
the deadly chill of the on-coming night with its own genial warmth! It
could not furnish food, of course, and he must endure long hours of
hunger, but even that could be borne with its cheery aid.
And now to light it. Phil had a match-safe in one of his inner pockets,
where he always carried it for just such emergencies as this, and at
length, after a struggle with his close-fitting parka, he drew it
forth. As he opened it, and gazed into its empty interior, a chill
penetrated his very marrow.
“What a fool I am! what a miserable, careless fool!” he cried, in tones
of despair. “I knew it was empty two days ago, and meant to refill it;
but I didn’t, and now I must suffer the consequences. What shall I do?
what shall I do? A night in this place without a fire will drive me
crazy, even if I don’t freeze to death before morning.”
As Phil gazed about him in a very agony of apprehension, his glance
rested on his rifle leaning against a tree, and a ray of hope entered
his heart. There was fire if he could only capture and control it. How
was it that wrecked sailors, and lost hunters, and all sorts of people
always managed to obtain fire from a gun, or rather from a pistol,
which was practically the same thing? He tried to recall what he had
read of such experiences. Oh yes! It was by flashing powder in the pan.
But his gun hadn’t any pan. He had never seen one that had, unless it
was Kurilla’s flintlock. Of course, now he remembered, it did have a
place into which the Indian used to pour a little powder every time he
wanted to fire his old blunderbuss. How Phil wished his Winchester were
a flintlock musket just at that moment! But it wasn’t, and it didn’t
have any pan, and loose powder was not used in connection with it. But
there was plenty of powder incased in its metallic cartridges if only
he could get at it, and could contrive some plan for adapting it to his
purpose.
All these ideas passed like a flash, and Phil had hardly thought of
powder before he was examining one of his cartridges, and trying to dig
the bullet out of its metal shell with the point of his knife. But it
was held too tightly, and he only pricked his fingers.
Then another plan came into his mind. He laid his rifle on the ground;
over its stock he spread a square of cotton cloth such as he and Serge
were accustomed to tear from the great piece provided among their
stores whenever they needed clean handkerchiefs. On the cloth Phil
laid a cartridge, that he held in position with the sharp edge of
his knife-blade, placed so that it would cut just at the base of the
bullet. Then he struck the back of the blade a smart blow with a billet
of wood, and the job was done. He had got at the powder.
He poured out two-thirds of the precious mixture, and rubbed it well
into one side of the cloth, which he doubled twice and fixed against
the log. Then, after stopping the open end of the shell with a tiny
wad of lint to keep the remainder of the powder from running out, he
inserted it in the chamber of his rifle. Aiming it at the cloth, with
the muzzle about one foot away, and trembling with cold, or excitement,
or anxiety, or with all three, he pulled the trigger.
The report that followed was hardly as loud as that of a small
fire-cracker, but the success of the scheme was instant. The little
flame poured from the muzzle of the rifle into that powder-impregnated
square of cotton cloth ignited it at once. A moment later it was
nestled amid the bundle of twigs and shavings, while Phil, on hands and
knees, was puffing at it like a pair of bellows.
In two minutes more his fire was a certainty, the black shadows were
already beginning to retreat before its cheery attack, and Phil Ryder’s
spirits had jumped from zero almost to the figure that represents
light-heartedness.
Throwing off his fur parka, that he might the better appreciate its
warmth later, and seizing a snow-shoe, he cleared the whole space
between the first log and another that lay a few yards beyond. Into
this opening he dragged all the logs and dead branches he could find,
working with such energy that at the end of an hour he had a fine large
pile, and was in a glow from the exercise. Now he built another fire
against the farther log, and piled his spare wood so that it was beyond
reach of either flame.
He next spread a few spruce and hemlock boughs on the ground between
the two fires, selected a medium-sized chunk of wood for a pillow,
donned his parka, drew its great hood over his head, and, with his
rifle by his side, lay down on a much warmer and more comfortable couch
than he had dared anticipate a couple of hours before.
Phil meant to keep awake so as to tend his fires, but instead of so
doing he fell asleep within an hour, and slept soundly right through
the night. When he at length awoke and sat up, he was chilled and stiff
with cold, for the fires were very nearly extinguished by a fall of
snow that had sifted down through the forest while he slept. As the
poor lad discovered this he became filled with terror, for he knew that
the back trail was obliterated, and that all hope of regaining camp by
its means was cut off. Now he was indeed lost. As he gazed hopeless and
bewildered about him he caught sight of something that he at first took
to be a dog sitting only a few yards away, and regarding him hungrily.
He spoke to it, and the animal started to sneak away. Then he saw that
it was a wolf, and he hastened its movements with a rifle-shot.
As it was not yet light enough to commence his search for the river,
or for some stream that would lead him to it, he began to throw wood
on the fires, that he might at least get warm before starting. While
thus engaged he was startled by a cry apparently in the voice of a
child that rang dolefully through the silent forest. Again he heard
it, plaintive and long-drawn, and this time nearer than before. It
was so weird a cry to be heard in that place and at that time that he
shuddered as he listened for its repetition. Its very humanness added
to its terror. At its third utterance Phil seized his rifle, cocked it,
and faced the direction of the sound, expecting in another moment to be
confronted by the tawny form of a mountain-lion.