Nan said nothing just then about her queer little visitor. Aunt Kate
asked her when she came out of the east room and crossed the chill
desert of the parlor to the general sitting room:
“Did you have a nice sleep, Nannie?”
“Goodness, Auntie!” laughed Nan. “I got over taking a nap in the daytime
a good while ago, I guess. But you come and see what I have done. I
haven't been idle.”
Aunt Kate went and peeped into the east chamber. “Good mercy, child! It
doesn't look like the same room, with all the pretty didos,” she said.
“And that's your pretty mamma in the picture on the mantel? My! Your
papa looks peaked, doesn't he? Maybe that sea voyage they are taking
will do 'em both good.”
Nan had to admit that beside her uncle and cousins her father did look
“peaked.” Robust health and brawn seemed to be the two essentials in the
opinion of the people of Pine Camp. Nan was plump and rosy herself and
so escaped criticism.
Her uncle and aunt, and the two big boys as well, were as kind to her
as they knew how to be. Nan could not escape some of the depression
of homesickness during the first day or two of her visit to the woods
settlement; but the family did everything possible to help her occupy
her mind.
The long evenings were rather amusing, although the family knew little
about any game save checkers, “fox and geese,” and “hickory, dickory,
dock.” Nan played draughts with her uncle and fox and geese and the
other kindergarten game with her big cousins. To see Tom, with his
eyes screwed up tight and the pencil poised in his blunt, frost-cracked
fingers over the slate, while he recited in a base sing-song:
“Hick'ry, dick'ry, dock
The mouse ran up the clock,
The clock struck one,
An' down he come
Hick'ry, dick'ry, dock,”
was side-splitting. Nan laughed till she cried. Poor, simple Tom did
know just what amused his little cousin so.
Rafe was by no means so slow, or so simple. Nan caught him cheating
more than once at fox and geese. Rafe was a little sly, and he was
continually making fun of his slow brother, and baiting him. Uncle Henry
warned him:
“Now, Rafe, you're too big for your Marm or me to shingle your pants;
but Tom's likely to lick you some day for your cutting up and I sha'n't
blame him. Just because he's slow to wrath, don't you get it in your
head that he's afraid, or that he can't settle your hash in five
minutes.”
Nan was greatly disturbed to hear so many references to fistic
encounters and fighting of all sorts. These men of the woods seemed to
be possessed of wild and unruly passions. What she heard the boys say
caused her to believe that most of the spare time of the men in the
lumber camps was spent in personal encounters.
“No, no, deary. They aren't so bad as they sound,” Aunt Kate told her,
comfortably. “Lots of nice men work in the camps all their lives and
never fight. Look at your Uncle Henry.”
But Nan remembered the “mess of words” (as he called it) that Uncle
Henry had had with Gedney Raffer on the railroad station platform at the
Forks, and she was afraid that even her aunt did not look with the same
horror on a quarrel that Nan herself did.
The girl from Tillbury had a chance to see just what a lumber camp was
like, and what the crew were like, on the fourth day after her arrival
at her Uncle Henry's house. The weather was then pronounced settled, and
word came for the two young men, Tom and Rafe, to report at Blackton's
camp the next morning, prepared to go to work. Tom drove a team which
was then at the lumber camp, being cared for by the cook and foreman;
Rafe was a chopper, for he had that sleight with an ax which, more than
mere muscle, makes the mighty woodsman.
“Their dad'll drive 'em over to Blackton's early, and you can go, too,”
said Aunt Kate. “That is, if you don't mind getting up right promptly in
the morning?”
“Oh, I don't mind that,” Nan declared. “I'm used to getting up early.”
But she thought differently when Uncle Henry's heavy hand rapped on the
door of the east chamber so early the next morning that it seemed to Nan
Sherwood that she had only been in bed long enough to close her eyes.
“Goodness, Uncle!” she muttered, when she found out what it meant. “What
time is it?”
“Three o'clock. Time enough for you to dress and eat a snack before we
start,” replied her uncle.
“Well!” said Nan to herself. “I thought the house was afire.”
Uncle Henry heard her through the door and whispered, shrilly: “Sh!
Don't let your aunt hear you say anything like that, child.”
“Like what?” queried Nan, in wonder.
“About fire. Remember!” added Uncle Henry, rather sternly, Nan thought,
as he went back to the kitchen.
Then Nan remembered what the strange little girl, Margaret Llewellen,
had said about the fire at Pale Lick that had burned her uncle's former
home. Nan had not felt like asking her uncle or aunt, or the boys,
either, about it. The latter had probably been too young to remember
much about the tragedy.
Although Nan had seen Margaret on several fleeting occasions since her
first interview with the woods girl, there had been no opportunity of
talking privately with her. And Margaret would only come to the window.
She was afraid to tell “Marm Sherwood” how she had lost the new dress
that had been given to her.
It was now as black outside Nan's window as it could be. She lit her oil
lamp and dressed swiftly, running at last through the cold parlor and
sitting room into the kitchen, where the fire in the range was burning
briskly and the coffee pot was on. Tom and Rafe were there comfortably
getting into thick woolen socks and big lumbermen's boots.
There was a heaping pan of Aunt Kate's doughnuts on the table, flanked
with the thick china coffee cups and deep saucers. Her uncle and the
boys always poured their coffee into the saucers and blew on it to take
the first heat off, then gulped it in great draughts.
Nan followed suit this morning, as far as cooling the coffee in the
saucer went. There was haste. Uncle Henry had been up some time, and now
he came stamping into the house, saying that the ponies were hitched
in and were standing in readiness upon the barn floor, attached to the
pung.
“We've twenty-five miles to ride, you see, Nannie,” he said. “The boys
have to be at Blackton's so's to get to work at seven.”
They filled the thermos bottle that had so puzzled Tom, and then sallied
forth. The ponies were just as eager as they had been the day Nan had
come over from the Forks. She was really half afraid of them.
It was so dark that she could scarcely see the half-cleared road before
them as the ponies dashed away from Pine Camp. The sky was completely
overcast, but Uncle Henry declared it would break at sunrise.
Where the track had been well packed by former sleighs, the ponies'
hoofs rang as though on iron. The bits of snow that were flung off by
their hoofs were like pieces of ice. The bells on the harness jingled a
very pretty tune, Nan thought. She did not mind the biting cold, indeed,
only her face was exposed. Uncle Henry had suggested a veil; but she
wanted to see what she could.
For the first few miles it remained very dark, however. Had it not been
for the snow they could not have seen objects beside the road at all.
There was a lantern in the back of the pung and that flung a stream of
yellow light behind them; but Uncle Henry would not have the radiance of
it shot forward.
“A light just blinds you,” he said. “I'd rather trust to the roans'
sense.”
The ponies galloped for a long way, it seemed to Nan; then they came
to a hill so steep that they were glad to drop to a walk. Their bodies
steamed in a great cloud as they tugged the sleigh up the slope. Dark
woods shut the road in on either hand. Nan's eyes had got used to the
faint light so that she could see this at least.
Suddenly she heard a mournful, long-drawn howl, seemingly at a great
distance.
“Must be a farm somewhere near,” she said to Rafe, who sat beside her on
the back seat.
“Nope. No farms around here, Nan,” he returned.
“But I hear a dog howl,” she told him.
Rafe listened, too. Then he turned to her with a grin on his sharp face
that she did not see. “Oh, no, you don't,” he chuckled. “That's no dog.”
Again the howl was repeated, and it sounded much nearer. Nan realized,
too, that it was a more savage sound than she had ever heard emitted by
a dog.
“What is it?” she asked, speaking in a low voice to Rafe.
“Wolves!” responded her cousin maliciously. “But you mustn't mind a
little thing like that. You don't have wolves down round where you live,
I s'pose?”
Nan knew that he was attempting to plague her, so she said: “Not for
pets, at least, Rafe. These sound awfully savage.”
“They are,” returned her cousin calmly.
The wolf cry came nearer and nearer. The ponies had started on a trot
again at the top of the hill, and her uncle and Tom did not seem to
notice the ugly cry. Nan looked back, and was sure that some great
animal scrambled out of the woods and gave chase to them.
“Isn't there some danger?” she asked Rafe again.
“Not for us,” he said. “Of course, if the whole pack gathers and catches
us, then we have to do something.”
“What do you do?” demanded Nan quickly.
“Why, the last time we were chased by wolves, we happened to have a ham
and a side of bacon along. So we chucked out first the one, and then the
other, and so pacified the brutes till we got near town.”
“Oh!” cried Nan, half believing, half in doubt.
She looked back again. There, into the flickering light of the lantern,
a gaunt, huge creature leaped. Nan could see his head and shoulders
now and then as he plunged on after the sleigh, and a wickeder looking
beast, she hoped never to see.
“Oh!” she gasped again, and grabbed at Rafe's arm.
“Don't you be afraid,” drawled that young rascal. “I reckon he hasn't
many of his jolly companions with him. If he had, of course, we'd have
to throw you out to pacify him. That's the rule--youngest and prettiest
goes first-----”
“Like the ham, I s'pose?” sniffed Nan, in some anger, and just then Tom
reached over the back of the front seat and seized his brother by the
shoulder with a grip that made Rafe shriek with pain.
Nan was almost as startled as was Rafe. In the half-darkness Tom's dull
face blazed with anger, and he held his writhing brother as though he
were a child.
“You ornery scamp!” he said, almost under his breath. “You try to scare
that little girl, and I'll break you in two!”
Nan was horrified. She begged Tom to let his brother alone. “I was only
fooling her,” snarled Rafe, rubbing his injured shoulder, for Tom had
the grip of a pipe wrench.
Uncle Henry never turned around at all; but he said: “If I had a gun
I'd be tempted to shoot that old wolf hound of Toby Vanderwiller's. He's
always running after sleds and yelling his head off.”
Nan was glad the creature following them was not really a wolf; but she
knew she should be just as much afraid of him if she met him alone, as
though he really were a wolf. However, mostly, she was troubled by the
passionate nature of her two cousins. She had never seen Tom show any
anger before; but it was evident that he had plenty of spirit if it were
called up. And she was, secretly, proud that the slow-witted young giant
should have displayed his interest in her welfare so plainly. Rafe sat
and nursed his shoulder in silence for several miles.
The cold was intense. As the sky lightened along the eastern horizon it
seemed to Nan as though the frost increased each moment. The bricks at
their feet were getting cool; and they had already had recourse to the
thermos bottle, which was now empty of the gratefully hot drink it had
contained.
As the light gradually increased Nan saw Rafe watching her with sudden
attention. After his recent trick she was a little afraid of Rafe. Still
it did not seem possible that the reckless fellow would attempt any
second piece of fooling so soon after his brother's threat.
But suddenly Rafe yelled to his father to pull down the roans, and as
the ponies stopped, he reached from the sled into a drift and secured a
big handful of snow. Seizing Nan quickly around the shoulders he began
to rub her cheek vigorously with the snow. Nan gasped and almost lost
her breath; but she realized immediately what Rafe was about.
The frost had nipped her cheek, and her cousin had seen the white spot
appear. “The rubbing stung awfully, and the girl could not keep back the
tears; but she managed to repress the sobs.
“There!” exclaimed Rafe. “You are a plucky girl. I'm sorry I got some of
that snow down your neck, Nan. Couldn't help it. But it's the only thing
to do when the thermometer is thirty-two degrees below zero. Why! A
fellow went outside with his ears uncovered at Droomacher's camp one
day last winter and after awhile he began to rub his ears and one of 'em
dropped off just like a cake of ice.”
“Stop your lying, boy!” commanded his father. “It isn't as bad as that,
Nan. But you want to watch out for frost bite here in the woods, just
the same as we had to watch out for the automobiles in crossing those
main streets in Chicago.”
With a red sun rising over the low ridge of wooded ground to the east,
the camp in the hollow was revealed, the smoke rising in a pillar of
blue from the sheet-iron chimney of the cookhouse; smoke rising, too,
from a dozen big horses being curried before the stables.
Most of the men had arrived the night before. They were tumbling out
of the long, low bunkhouse now and making good use of the bright tin
washbasins on the long bench on the covered porch. Ice had been broken
to get the water that was poured into the basins, but the men laved
their faces and their hairy arms and chests in it as though it were
summer weather.
They quickly ran in for their outer shirts and coats, however, and then
trooped in to the end of the cook shed where the meals were served. Tom
turned away to look over his horses and see that they were all ready for
the day's work. Rafe put up the roan ponies in a couple of empty stalls
and gave them a feed of oats.
Uncle Henry took Nan by the hand, and, really she felt as though she
needed some support, she was so stiff from the cold, and led her into
the warm room where the men were gathering for the hearty meal the cook
and his helper had prepared.
The men were boisterous in their greeting of Uncle Henry, until they saw
Nan. Than, some bashfully, some because of natural refinement, lowered
their voices and were more careful how they spoke before the girl.
But she heard something that troubled her greatly. An old, grizzled man
in a corner of the fireplace where the brisk flames leaped high among
the logs, and who seemed to have already eaten his breakfast and was
busily stoning an axe blade, looked up as Nan and her uncle approached,
saying:
“Seen Ged Raffer lately, Hen?”
“I saw him at the Forks the other day, Toby,” Mr. Sherwood replied.
“Yaas. I heard about that,” said the old man drawlingly. “But since
then?”
“No.”
“Wal, he was tellin' me that he'd got you on the hip this time, Hen. If
you as much as put your hoof over on that track he's fighting you about,
he'll plop you in jail, that's what he'll do! He's got a warrant all
made out by Jedge Perkins. I seen it.”
Uncle Henry walked closer to the old man and looked down at him from
his great height. “Tobe,” he said, “you know the rights of that business
well enough. You know whether I'm right in the contention, or whether
Ged's right. You know where the old line runs. Why don't you tell?”
“Oh, mercy me!” croaked the old man, and in much haste. “I ain't goin'
to git into no land squabble, no, sir! You kin count me out right now!”
And he picked up his axe, restored the whetstone to its sheath on the
wall, and at once went out of the shack.