The Battle in the Pond
AT breakfast, in the crisp of the morning, while yet the faint
mists clung over the brook and the warmth of the camp-fire was
attractive, the Boy proclaimed his find. Jabe had asked no questions,
inquisitiveness being contrary to the backwoodsman's code of
etiquette; but his silence had been full of interrogation. With his
mouth half-full of fried trout and cornbread, the Boy remarked:
"That was no windfall, Jabe, that noise we heard last night!"
"So?" muttered the woodsman, rather indifferently.
Without a greater show of interest than that the Boy would not divulge
his secret. He helped himself to another flaky pink section of trout,
and became seemingly engrossed in it. Presently the woodsman spoke
again. He had been thinking, and had realized that his prestige had
suffered some kind of blow.
"Of course," drawled the woodsman sarcastically, "it wa'n't no
windfall. I jest said that to git quit of bein' asked questions when I
was sleepy. I knowed all the time it was beaver!"
"Yes, Jabe," admitted the Boy, "it was beavers. I've found a big
beaver-pond just up the brook a ways--a pond with two big beaver-houses
in it. I've found it--so I claim it as mine, and there ain't to be
any trapping on that pond. Those are my beavers, Jabe, every one of
them, and they sha'n't be shot or trapped!"
"I don't know how fur yer injunction'd hold in law," said Jabe dryly,
as he speared a thick slab of bacon from the frying-pan to his tin
plate. "But fur as I'm concerned, it'll hold. An' I reckon the boys of
the camp this winter'll respect it, too, when I tell 'em as how it's
your own partic'lar beaver pond."
"Bless your old heart, Jabe!" said the Boy. "That's just what I was
hoping. And I imagine anyway there's lots more beaver round this
region to be food for the jaws of your beastly old traps!"
"Yes," acknowledged Jabe, rising to clear up, "I struck three likely
ponds yesterday, as I was cruisin over to west'ard of the camp. I
reckon we kin spare you the sixteen or twenty beaver in 'Boy's
Pond!'"
The Boy grinned appreciation of the notable honour done him in the
naming of the pond, and a little flush of pleasure deepened the red of
his cheeks. He knew that the name would stick, and eventually go upon
the maps, the lumbermen being a people tenacious of tradition and not
to be swerved from their own way.
"Thank you, Jabe!" he said simply. "But how do you know there are
sixteen or twenty beaver in my pond?"
"You said there was two houses," answered the woodsman. "Well, we
reckon always from eight to ten beaver to each house, bein' the old
couple, and then three or four yearlin's not yet kicked out to set up
housekeeping fer themselves, and three or four youngsters of the
spring's whelping. Beavers' good parents, an' the family holds
together long's the youngsters needs it. Now I'm off. See you here at
noon, fer grub!" and picking up his axe he strode off to southwestward
of the camp to investigate a valley which he had located the day
before.
Left alone, the Boy hurriedly set the camp in order, rolled up the
blankets, washed the dishes, and put out the last of the fire. Then,
picking up his little Winchester, which he always carried,--though he
never used it on anything more sensitive than a bottle or a tin
can,--he retraced his steps of the night before, up-stream to the
beaver pond.
Knowing that the beavers do most of their work, or, at least, most of
their above-water work, at night, he had little hope of catching any
of them abroad by daylight. He approached the dam, nevertheless, with
that noiseless caution which had become a habit with him in the woods,
a habit which rendered the woods populous for him and teeming with
interest, while to more noisy travellers they seemed quite empty of
life. One thing his study of the wilderness had well taught him, which
was that the wild kindreds do not by any means always do just what is
expected of them, but rather seem to delight in contradicting the
naturalists.
When he reached the edge of the open, however, and peered out across
the dam, there was absolutely nothing to break the shining morning
stillness. In the clear sunlight the dam, and the two beaver-houses
beyond, looked larger and more impressive than they had looked the
night before. There was no sign of life anywhere about the pond,
except a foraging fish-hawk winging above it, with fierce head
stretched low in the search for some basking trout or chub.
[Illustration: "A FORAGING FISH-HAWK WINGING ABOVE."]
Following the usual custom of the wild kindreds themselves, the Boy
stood motionless for some minutes behind his thin screen of bushes
before revealing himself frankly in the open. His patient watch being
unrewarded, he was on the very verge of stepping forth, when from the
tail of his eye he caught a motion in the shallow bed of the brook,
and ducked himself. He was too wary to turn his head; but a moment
later a little brown sinuous shape came into his field of view. It was
an otter, making his way up-stream.
The otter moved with unusual caution, glancing this way and that
and seeming to take minute note of all he saw. At the foot of the
dam he stopped, and investigated the structure with the air of one
who had never seen it before. So marked was this air that the Boy
concluded he was a stranger to that region,--perhaps a wanderer
from the head of the Ottanoonsis, some fifteen miles southward,
driven away by the operations of a crew of lumbermen who were
building a big lumber-camp there. However that might be, it was
evident that the brown traveller was a newcomer, an outsider. He
had none of the confident, businesslike manner which a wild animal
wears in moving about his own range.
When he had stolen softly along the whole base of the dam, and back
again, nosing each little rivulet of overflow, the otter seemed
satisfied that this was much like all other beaver dams. Then he
mounted to the crest and took a prolonged survey of the stretch of
water beyond. Nothing unusual appearing, he dived cleanly into the
pond, about the point where, as the Boy guessed, there would be the
greatest depth of water against the dam. He was apparently heading
straight up for the inlet of the pond, on a path which would take him
within about twenty-five or thirty yards of the main beaver-house on
the island. As soon as he had vanished under the water the Boy ran
forward, mounted the crest of the dam, and peered with shaded eyes to
see if he could mark the swimmer's progress.
[Illustration: "THE OTTER MOVED WITH UNUSUAL CAUTION."]
For a couple of minutes, perhaps, the surface of the pond gave no
indication of the otter's whereabouts. Then, just opposite the main
beaver-house, there was a commotion in the water, the surface curled
and eddied, and the otter appeared in great excitement. He dived again
immediately; and just as he did so the head of a huge beaver poked up
and snatched a breath. Where the two had gone under, the surface of
the pond now fairly boiled; and the Boy, in his excitement over this
novel and mysterious contest, nearly lost his balance on the frail
crest of the dam. A few moments more and both adversaries again came
to the surface, now at close grips and fighting furiously. They were
followed almost at once by a second beaver, smaller than the first,
who fell upon the otter with insane fury. It was plain that the
beavers were the aggressors. The Boy's sympathies were all with the
otter, who from time to time tried vainly to escape from the battle;
and once he raised his rifle. But he bethought him that the otter,
after all, whatever his intentions, was a trespasser; and that the
beavers had surely a right to police their own pond. He remembered an
old Indian's having told him that there was always a blood feud
between the beaver and the otter; and how was he to know how just the
cause of offence, or the stake at issue? Lowering his gun he stared in
breathless eagerness.
The otter, however, as it proved, was well able to take care of
himself. Suddenly rearing his sleek, snaky body half out of the water,
he flashed down upon the smaller beaver and caught it firmly behind
the ear with his long, deadly teeth--teeth designed to hold the
convulsive and slippery writhings of the largest salmon. With mad
contortions the beaver struggled to break that fatal grip. But the
otter held inexorably, shaking its victim as a terrier does a rat, and
paid no heed whatever to the slashing assaults of the other beaver.
The water was lashed to such a turmoil that the waves spread all over
the pond, washing up to the Boy's feet on the crest of the dam, and
swaying the bronze-green grasses about the house on the little island.
Though, without a doubt, all the other citizens of the pond were
watching the battle even more intently than himself, the Boy could not
catch sight of so much as nose or ear. The rest of the spectators kept
close to the covert of grass tuft and lily pad.
[Illustration: "SUDDENLY REARING HIS SLEEK, SNAKY BODY HALF OUT OF THE
WATER."]
All at once the small beaver stiffened itself out convulsively on top
of the water, turned belly up, and began to sink. At the same time the
otter let go, tore free of his second and more dangerous adversary,
and swam desperately for the nearest point of shore. The surviving
beaver, evidently hurt, made no effort to follow up his victory, but
paddled slowly to the house on the island, where he disappeared.
Presently the otter gained the shore and dragged himself up. His
glossy brown skin was gashed and streaming with blood, but the Boy
gathered that his wounds were not mortal. He turned, stared fixedly at
the beaver-house for several seconds as if unwilling to give in, then
stole off through the trees to seek some more hospitable water. As he
vanished, repulsed and maltreated, the Boy realized for the first time
how hostile even the unsophisticated wilderness is to a stranger.
Among the wild kindreds, even as among men, most things worth having
are preempted.
When the Boy's excitement over this strange fight had calmed down, he
set himself with keen interest to examining the dam. He knew that by
this time every beaver in the pond was aware of his presence, and
would take good care to keep out of sight; so there was no longer
anything to be gained by concealment. Pacing the crest, he made it to
be about one hundred feet in length. At the centre, and through a
great part of its length, it was a little over three feet high, its
ends diminishing gradually into the natural rise of the shores. The
base of the dam, as far as he could judge, seemed to be about twelve
feet in thickness, its upper face constructed with a much more gradual
slope than the lower. The whole structure, which was built of poles,
brush, stones, and earth, appeared to be very substantial, a most
sound and enduring piece of workmanship. But along the crest, which
was not more than a foot and a half in width, it was built with a
certain looseness and elasticity for which he was at a loss to
account. Presently he observed, however, that this dam had no place of
overflow for letting off the water. The water stood in the pond at a
height that brought it within three or four inches of the crest. At
this level he saw that it was escaping, without violence, by
percolating through the toughly but loosely woven tissue of sticks and
twigs. The force of the overflow was thus spread out so thin that its
destructive effect on the dam was almost nothing. It went filtering,
with little trickling noises, down over and through the whole lower
face of the structure, there to gather again into a brook and resume
its sparkling journey toward the sea.
The long upper slope of the dam was smoothly and thoroughly faced with
clay, so that none of its framework showed through, save here and
there the butt of a sapling perhaps three or four inches in diameter,
which proclaimed the solidity of the foundations. The lower face, on
the other hand, was all an inexplicable interlacing of sticks and
poles which seemed at first glance heaped together at haphazard. On
examination, however, the Boy found that every piece was woven in so
firmly among its fellows that it took some effort to remove it. The
more he studied the structure, the more his admiration grew, and his
appreciation of the reasoning intelligence of its builders; and he
smiled to himself a little controversial smile, as he thought how
inadequate what men call instinct would be to such a piece of work as
this.
But what impressed him most, as a mark of engineering skill and sound
calculation on the part of the pond-people, was the direction in which
the dam was laid. At either end, where the water was shoal, and
comparatively dead even in time of freshet, the dam ran straight,
taking the shortest way. But where it crossed the main channel of the
brook, and required the greatest strength, it had a pronounced upward
curve to help it resist the thrust of the current. He contemplated
this strong curve for some time; then, a glance at the sun reminding
him that it was near noon, he took off his cap to the low-domed house
in the water and made haste back to camp for dinner.