The sunny, weather-beaten, comfortable little house, with its grey
sheds and low grey barn half enclosing its bright, untidy farmyard,
stood on the top of the open hill, where every sweet forest wind could
blow over it night and day.
Fields of oats, buckwheat, and potatoes came up all about it over the
slopes of the hill; and its only garden was a spacious patch of
cabbages and "garden sass" three or four hundred yards down toward the
edge of the forest, where a pocket of rich black loam had specially
invited an experiment in horticulture.
Like most backwoods farmers, Sam Coxen had been wont to look with
large scorn on such petty interests as gardening; but a county show
down at the Settlement had converted him, and now his cabbage patch
was the chief object of his solicitude. He had proud dreams of prizes
to be won at the next show--now not three weeks ahead.
It was his habit, whenever he harnessed up the team for a drive into
the Settlement, to turn his head the last thing before leaving and
cast a long, gratified look down over the cabbage patch, its cool,
clear green standing out sharply against the yellow-brown of the
surrounding fields. On this particular morning he did not turn for
that look till he had jumped into the wagon and gathered up the reins.
Then, as he gazed, a wave of indignation passed over his good-natured
face.
There, in the middle of the precious cabbages, biting with a sort of
dainty eagerness at first one and then another, and wantonly tearing
open the crisp heads with impatient strokes of his knife-edged fore
hoofs, was a tall wide-antlered buck.
Sam Coxen dropped the reins, sprang from the wagon, and rushed to the
bars which led from the yard to the back field; and the horses--for
the sake of his dignity he always drove the pair when he went into the
Settlement--fell to cropping the short, fine grass that grew behind
the well. In spite of having grown up in the backwoods, Sam was
lacking in backwoods lore. He was no hunter, and he cared as little as
he knew, about the wild kindreds of the forest. He had a vague,
general idea that all deer were "skeery critters"; and if any one had
told him that the buck, in mating season, was not unlikely to develop
a fine militant spirit, he would have laughed with scorn.
Climbing upon the bars, he yelled furiously at the marauder,
expecting to see him vanish like a red streak. But the buck merely
raised his beautiful head and stared in mild surprise at the strange,
noisy figure on the fence. Then he coolly slashed open another plump
cabbage, and nibbled at the firm white heart.
Very angry, Coxen yelled again with all the power of healthy lungs,
and waved his arms wildly over his head. But the vaunted authority of
the human voice seemed in some inexplicable way to miss a connexion
with the buck's consciousness. The waving of those angry arms,
however, made an impression upon him. He appeared to take it as a
challenge, for he shook his beautiful antlers and stamped his forefeet
defiantly--and shattered yet another precious cabbage.
Wrath struggled with astonishment in Sam Coxen's primitive soul. Then
he concluded that what he wanted was not only vengeance, but a supply
of deer's meat to compensate for the lost cabbages.
Rushing into the house, he snatched down his old muzzle-loader from
the pegs where it hung on the kitchen wall. After the backwoods
fashion, the gun was kept loaded with a general utility charge of
buckshot and slugs, such as might come handy in case a bear should try
to steal the pig. Being no sportsman, Coxen did not even take the
trouble to change the old percussion-cap, which had been on the tube
for six months. It was enough for him that the weapon was loaded.
Down the other slope of the hill, where the buck could not see him,
Coxen hurried at a run, and gained the cover of the thick woods. Then,
still running, he skirted the fields till the cabbage patch came once
more in sight, with the marauder still enjoying himself in the midst
of it.
At this point the long-dormant instinct of the hunter began to awake
in Sam Coxen. Everything that he had ever heard about stalking big
game flashed into his mind, and he wanted to apply it all at once. He
noted the direction of the wind, and was delighted to find that it
came to his nostrils straight from the cabbage patch.
He went stealthily, lifting and setting down his heavy-booted feet
with a softness of which he had never guessed himself capable. He
began to forget his indignation and think only of the prospect of
bagging the game--so easily do the primeval instincts spring to life
in a man's brain. Presently, when within about a hundred yards of the
place where he hoped to get a fair shot, Coxen redoubled his caution.
He went crouching, keeping behind the densest cover. Then, growing
still more crafty, he got down and began to advance on all fours.
Now it chanced that Sam Coxen's eyes were not the only ones which had
found interest in the red buck's proceedings. A large black bear,
wandering just within the shelter of the forest, had spied the buck
in the open, and being curious, after the fashion of his kind, had sat
down in a thicket to watch the demolition of the cabbages.
He had no serious thought of hunting the big buck, knowing that he
would be hard to catch and troublesome if caught. But he was in that
investigating, pugnacious, meddlesome mood which is apt to seize an
old male bear in the autumn.
When the bear caught sight of Sam Coxen's crawling, stealthy figure,
not two paces from his hiding-place, his first impulse was to vanish,
to melt away like a big, portentous shadow into the silent deeps of
the wood. His next, due to the season, was to rush upon the man and
smite him.
Then he realized that he himself was not the object of the man's
stealthy approach. He saw that what the hunter was intent upon was
that buck out in the field. Thereupon he sank back on his great black
haunches to watch the course of events. Little did Sam Coxen guess of
those cunning red eyes that followed him as he crawled by.
At the point where the cover came nearest to the cabbage patch, Coxen
found himself still out of range. Cocking his gun, he strode some
twenty paces into the open, paused, and took a long, deliberate aim.
Catching sight of him the moment he emerged, the buck stood for some
moments eyeing him with sheer curiosity. Was this a harmless
passer-by, or a would-be trespasser on his new domain of cabbages? On
second glance, he decided that it looked like the noisy figure which
had waved defiance from the top of the fence. Realizing this, a red
gleam came into the buck's eye. He wheeled, stamped, and shook his
antlers in challenge.
At this moment, having got a good aim, Coxen pulled the trigger. The
cap refused to explode. Angrily he lowered the gun, removed the cap
and examined it. It looked all right, and there was plenty of priming
in the tube. He turned the cap round, and again took careful aim.
Now these actions seemed to the buck nothing less than a plain
invitation to mortal combat. He was in just the mood to accept such an
invitation. In two bounds he cleared the cabbages and came mincingly
down to the fray.
This unexpected turn of affairs so flustered the inexperienced hunter
that he altogether forgot to cock his gun. Twice he pulled desperately
on the trigger, but with no result. Then, smitten with a sense of
impotence, he hurled the gun at the enemy and fled.
Over the fence he went almost at a bound, and darted for the nearest
tree that looked easy to climb. As his ill luck would have it, this
tree stood just on the edge of the thicket wherein the much-interested
bear was keeping watch.
A wild animal knows when a man is running away, and rarely loses a
chance to show its appreciation of the fact. As Sam Coxen sprang for
the lowest branch and swung himself up, the bear lumbered out from his
thicket and reared himself menacingly against the trunk.
The buck, who had just cleared the fence, stopped short. It was
clearly his turn now to play the part of spectator.
When Coxen looked down and saw his new foe his heart swelled with a
sense of injury. Were the creatures of the wilderness allied against
him? He was no coward, but he began to feel distinctly worried. The
thought that flashed across his mind was: "What'll happen to the team
if I don't get back to unharness them?" But meanwhile he was climbing
higher and higher, and looking out for a way of escape.
About halfway up the tree a long branch thrust itself forth till it
fairly overhung a thick young spruce. Out along this branch Coxen
worked his way carefully. By the time the bear had climbed to one end
of the branch, Coxen had reached the other. Here he paused, dreading
to let himself drop.
The bear came on cautiously; and the great branch bent low under his
weight, till Coxen was not more than a couple of feet from the top of
the young fir. Then, nervously letting go, he dropped, caught the
thick branches in his desperate clutch, and clung secure.
The big branch, thus suddenly freed of Coxen's substantial weight,
sprang back with such violence that the bear almost lost his hold.
Growling angrily, he scrambled back to the main trunk, down which he
began to lower himself, tail foremost.
From the business-like alacrity of the bear's movements, Coxen
realized that his respite was to be only temporary. He was not more
than twelve feet from the ground, and could easily have made his
escape while the bear was descending the other tree. But there below
was the buck, keeping an eye of alert interest on both bear and man.
Coxen had no mind to face those keen antlers and trampling hoofs. He
preferred to stay where he was and hope for some unexpected
intervention of fate. Like most backwoodsmen, he had a dry sense of
the ridiculous, and the gravity of his situation could not quite blind
him to the humour of it.
While Coxen was running over in his mind every conceivable scheme for
getting out of his dilemma, the last thing he would have thought of
actually happened. The buck lost interest in the man, and turned all
his attention to the bear, which was just now about seven or eight
feet from the ground, hugging the great trunk and letting himself down
carefully, like a small boy afraid of tearing his trousers.
It is possible that that particular buck may have had some old score
against the bears. If so, this must have seemed an excellent chance to
collect a little on account. The bear's awkward position and
unprotected hind quarters evidently appealed to him. He ambled
forward, reared half playfully, half vindictively, and gave the bear a
savage prodding with the keen tips of his antlers. Then he bounded
back some eight or ten paces, and waited, while the bear slid abruptly
to the ground with a flat grunt of fury.
Sam Coxen, twisting with silent laughter, nearly fell out of his
fir-tree.
The bear had now no room left for any remembrance of the man. He was
in a perfect ecstasy of rage at the insolence of the buck, and rushed
upon him like a cyclone. Against that irresistible charge the buck had
no thought of making stand. Just in the nick of time he sprang aside
in a bound that carried him a full thirty feet. Another such, another
and another, and then he went capering off frivolously down the woody
aisles, while the bear lumbered impotently after him.
Before they were out of sight Sam Coxen slid down from his tree and
made all haste over the fence. In the open field he felt more at ease,
knowing he could outrun the bear, in case of need. But he stopped long
enough to pick up the gun.
Then, with one pathetic glance at the ruined cabbages, he strode
hastily on up the hill, glancing backward from time to time to assure
himself that neither of his late antagonists was returning to the
attack.