When Dave Patton set out for the Settlement, he found the snow-shoeing
so good, the biting air so bracing, and his own heart so light with
hope and health, that he was able to make the journey in something
less than a day and a half. Out of this time he had allowed himself
four hours for sleep, in an old lumber camp beside the trail. At the
Settlement, which boasted several miscellaneous stores, where
anything from a baby's rattle to a bag of fertilizer or a bedroom
suite could be purchased, he had no difficulty in gathering such
gay-coloured trifles, together with more lasting gifts, as he thought
would meet Lidey's anticipations. When he went to his wife's people,
he found that all had something to add to his Santa Claus pack, for
Mary as well as for the little one; and he hugged himself with elation
at the thought of what a Christmas there was going to be in the lonely
wilderness cabin. He had bought two or three things for his wife; and
when he shouldered his pack, slinging it high and strapping it close
that it might not flop with his rapid stride, he found the burden no
light one. But the lightness of his heart made compensation.
That night he took but two hours' sleep in the old lumber camp, aiming
to reach home soon after noon. In the morning, however, things began
to go wrong. First the pack, as packs sometimes will for no visible
reason, developed a kink that galled his shoulders obstinately. Again
and again he paused and tried to readjust it. But in vain. Finally he
had to stop, undo the bundle, and rearrange every article in it,
before he could induce it to "carry" smoothly.
Half an hour later, as he turned a step off the trail to get a drink
at a bubbling spring, that kept open all through the bitterest winter,
he caught his snowshoe on a buried branch and fell forward, breaking
the frame. In his angry impatience he attempted no more than a
temporary repair of the damage, such as he thought might see him to
the end of his journey. But the poor makeshift broke down before he
had gone a mile. There was nothing for him to do but to stop long
enough to make a good job of it, which he did by chopping out a piece
of ash, whittling down a couple of thin but tough strips, and splicing
the break securely with the strong "salmon twine" that he always
carried. Even so, he realized that to avoid further delay he would
have to go cautiously and humour the mend. And soon he had to
acknowledge to himself that it would be long after supper-time, long
after Lidey's bed-time, before he could get home.
As the moon rose, he was accompanied by his shadow, a gigantic and
grotesque figure that danced fantastically along the snow before him.
As the moon climbed the icy heaven, the shadow shortened and acquired
more sobriety of demeanour. Plodding doggedly onward, too tired to
think, Dave amused himself with the antics of the shadow, which seemed
responsible for a portion of the crisp music that came from his
snowshoes.
From this careless reverie Dave was suddenly aroused by a ghost of
sound that drifted towards him through the trees. It was a long,
wailing cry, which somehow stirred the roots of his hair. He did not
recognize it. But he felt that it was nothing human. It came from
somewhere between himself and home, however; and he instinctively
quickened his steps, thinking with satisfaction of the snug and
well-warmed cabin that sheltered his dear ones.
[Illustration: "Where anything from a baby's rattle to a bag of
fertilizer could be purchased."]
Presently the long cry sounded again, nearer and clearer now, and
tremulous. Dave had heard wolves before, in Labrador and in the West.
Had he not been quite sure that wolves were unknown in this part of
the country, he would have sworn that the sound was the hunting cry of
a wolf-pack. But the idea was impossible. He had no sooner made up his
mind to this, however, than the cry was repeated once more. Thereupon
Dave reluctantly changed his mind. That the sound meant wolves was not
only possible, but certain. It filled him with resentment to think
that those ravening marauders had come into the country.
It was soon manifest to Dave's initiated ears that the wolves were
coming directly towards him. But he gathered, too, that they were in
pursuit of some quarry. Dave had the eastern woodsman's contempt for
wolves, unless in a very large pack; and he soon decided that this
pack was a small one. He did not think that it would dare to face him.
Nevertheless, he recognized the remote possibility of their being so
hungry as to forget their dread of man. That in such case his axe
would be an all-sufficient defence he did not doubt. But he was in a
fierce hurry to get home. He did not want to be stopped and forced
into any fight. For a moment he thought of turning off through the
woods and giving these night foragers a wide berth. Then he remembered
his uncertain snowshoes. The snow would be very soft off the trail,
and there would be the chance of breaking the shoe again. Who was he,
to be turned out of his path by a bunch of wild curs? It was the
snow-shoe that settled it. He set his jaws grimly, unslung his axe,
and pressed forward. The clamour of the pack was now so near and loud
that it quite drowned one single, piercing cry of "Father!" that would
otherwise have reached his ears. There was a new note in the howling,
too, which Dave's ear interpreted as meaning that the quarry was in
sight. Then the noise stopped abruptly, save for an impatient yelp or
two.
"Whatever it be they're after, it's took to cover," said Dave to
himself. "An' in the old shanty, too!" he added, as he saw the little
patch of clearing open before him.
Realizing that the wolves had something to occupy fully their
attention, he now crept noiselessly forward just within the edge of
the wood. Peering forth from behind the cover of a drooping hemlock
branch, he saw the roof of the hut, the half-open doorway nearly
choked with snow, and the wolves prowling and sniffing around it, but
keeping a couple of yards away.
"Scairt of a trap!" he thought to himself with a grin, and cursed his
luck that he had not his rifle with him.
"A couple o' them thick, grey pelts," he thought--"what a coat they'd
make for the little one!"
There were six wolves, and big ones--enough to make things look pretty
ugly for one man with only an axe. Dave was glad they had something to
keep them from turning their attention to him. He watched them for a
few moments, then decided to go around by the other side of the
clearing and avoid trouble.
He drew back as silently as a lynx. Where the woods overhead were
thick, the snow was soft, with no crispness on the surface; and
instead of the crunching that his steps made on the trail, here the
snow made no sound under his feet but a sort of thick sigh.
Dave had taken several paces in retreat, when an idea flashed up that
arrested him. _Why_ were the wolves so wary about entering the hut,
when their quarry was certainly inside? Their dread of a trap was not,
of itself, quite enough to explain their caution. The thought gave him
a qualm of uneasiness. He would return and have another look at them!
Then his impatience got the better of him. Mary and the little one
were waiting and watching for him at home. He retreated another pace
or two. What should he be doing, wasting his time over a parcel of
wolves that had got a fox cornered in the old shanty? Dave felt sure
it was a fox. But no! He could not escape the conviction--much as he
wished to--that if the fugitive were a fox, or any other animal of the
north-eastern woods, it would not take six hungry wolves much more
than six seconds to get over their suspicions and go in after him.
What if it should be some half-starved old Indian, working his way
into the Settlement after bad luck with his hunting and his trapping!
Whoever it was, he had no gun, or there would have been shooting
before this. Dave saw that he must go back and look into the matter.
But he was angry at this new delay. Cursing the wolves, and the Indian
who didn't know enough to take care of himself, Dave stole back to his
covert behind the hemlock branch, and peered forth once more, no
longer interested, but aggrieved.
The wolves were now sitting on their haunches around the hut door.
Their unusual behaviour convinced him that there was a man inside.
Well, there was no getting around the fact that he was in for a fight.
He only hoped that the chap inside was some good, and would have
"somethin' to say fer himself, darn him!" Dave gently lowered the
bundle from his back, and threw off his thick coat to allow his arms
freer play.
It was at this moment that the leader of the pack made up his mind to
crawl into the hut.
As the wolf's head entered the low opening, Dave gripped his axe,
thrust aside the hemlock branch, and silently darted forth into the
clearing. He did not shout, for he wanted to take his enemies, as far
as possible, unawares. He had but a score of yards to go. So intent
were they upon their leader's movements that Dave was almost upon them
ere they heeded the sound of his coming. Then they looked around.
Three shrank back, startled at the tall and threatening shape. But two
sprang at his throat with snapping jaws. The first met the full sweep
of his axe, in the chest and dropped in a heap. The second dodged a
short blow and warily drew back again. Then, from within the darkness
of the hut, came those screams of the madness of terror.
For one beat Dave's heart stopped. He knew the voice!
The big wolf was just backing out. He turned, jerking himself around
like a loosed spring, as he saw Dave towering over him. But he was not
in time. The axe descended, sheering his haunches across, and he
stretched out, working his great jaws convulsively. Dave saw that the
jaws had no blood upon them, and his own blood returned to his heart.
He had come in time. The screams within the hut died into piteous
sobs.
Across Dave's mind flamed a vision of the agony of horror that Lidey
had been suffering since first those howlings fell upon his ears. His
heart-break transformed itself into a mad rage of vengeance. As he
turned, with a hoarse shout, upon the rest of the pack, he felt a hot
breath on his neck, and bare fangs snapped savagely within an inch of
his throat. His assailant sprang back in time to escape the deadly
sweep of the axe, but at the same instant the other three were leaping
in. One of these caught a glancing blow, which drove him off,
snarling. But the other two were so close that there was no time for
Dave to recover. Instinctively he jabbed a short back-stroke with the
end of the axe-handle, and caught one of his assailants in the belly.
Sickened, and daunted by this unexpected form of reprisal, the brute
hunched itself with a startled yelp and ran off with its tail between
its legs. At the same moment, dropping the axe, Dave caught the other
wolf fairly by the throat. The gripping hand was a kind of weapon that
the beast had never learned to guard against, and it was taken at a
disadvantage. With a grunt of fury and of effort Dave closed his grip
inexorably, braced himself, and swung the heavy brute off its feet.
Whirling it clear around his head, he let go. The animal flew
sprawling and twisting through the air, and came down on its back ten
feet away. When it landed, there was no more fight left in it. Before
Dave could reach it with his axe it was up and away in a panic after
its two remaining fellows.
Breathing heavily from his effort and from the storm of emotion still
surging in his breast, Dave turned to the hut door and called--
"Lidey! Lidey! Are you there?"
"Popsie! Oh, popsie, _dear!_ I thought you weren't goin' to come!"
cried a quivering little voice. And the child crept out into the
moonlight.
"Oh, popsie!" she sobbed, hiding her eyes in his neck as he crushed
her to his heart, "they were goin' to eat me up, an' I thought you
wouldn't ever come!"