Some forty years ago the northern part of the State of New York was
very sparsely settled. In one of the remote counties, which for a
name's sake we will call Macy County, a stout-hearted settler, named
Devins, posted himself beyond the borders of civilization, and hewed
for his little family a home in the heart of a forest that extended
all the way from Lake Champlain to Lake Ontario. His nearest neighbor
was six miles away, and the nearest town nearly twenty; but the
Devinses were so happy and contented that the absence of company gave
them no concern.
It was a splendid place to live in. In summer the eye ranged from the
slope where the sturdy pioneer had built his house over miles and
miles of waving beech and maple woods, away to the dark line of pines
on the high ground that formed the horizon. In the valley below,
Otter Creek, a tributary of the St. Lawrence, wound its sparkling way
northward. When Autumn painted the scene in brilliant hues, and it
lay glowing under the crimson light of October sunsets, the dullest
observer could not restrain bursts of admiration.
Mr. Devins's first attack on the stubborn forest had been over the
brow of the hill, some four miles nearer Owenton, but his house was
burned down before he had taken his family there from Albany. He had
regretted that he had not "pitched his tent" on the slope of Otter
Creek; so now he began with renewed energy his second home, in which
the closing in of the winter of 1839 found him. He had sixty acres of
rich soil under cultivation at the time of which we are to speak, his
right-hand man being his son Allan,--a rugged, handsome, intelligent
boy of sixteen.
The winter of '39 was a terrible one; snow set in before the end of
November, and, even in the open country, lay upon the ground until the
beginning of April, while in the recesses of the forest it was found
as late as the middle of June. There was great distress among the
settlers outside of the bounds of civilization, to whom the deep snow
was an impassable barrier. The Devinses neither saw nor heard from
their nearest neighbors from the first of December till near the
beginning of February, when a crust was formed upon the snow
sufficiently firm to bear the weight of a man, and a friendly Cayuga
Indian brought them news of how badly their neighbors fared.
Mr. Devins was especially touched by the bad case of his friend Will
Inman, who lived on the nearest farm. The poor man lay ill of a fever;
Mrs. Inman was dead and temporarily buried, until her body could be
removed to the cemetery in Owenton, and all the care of the family
devolved upon Esther, his daughter, fourteen years old. After a short
consultation, the next morning breaking bright and clear though very
cold, it was determined to allow Allan to go over the hill to Inman's,
bearing medicine, tea, and other little necessaries for the family. He
was impressively warned to begin his return at so early an hour that
he might reach home before the short day's end, especially because of
the danger from wild animals. The severity of the winter had made the
wolves more venturesome and dangerous than they had been for many
years. Mr. Devins had lost several sheep and hogs, and deemed it
unsafe for any of his family to be caught far from the house at night.
Allan armed himself with his light rifle, put some biscuits and cold
meat in a pouch strapped to his waist, mounted one of the strong
farm-horses, and set out on his journey. The road through the forest
was better than he expected to find it, as the snow had been drifted
off, but at the turns, and in the thickest part of the wood, his horse
floundered through drifts more than breast high; and more than once
Allan had to dismount and beat a path ahead. Therefore, he did not
reach Inman's till two o'clock, and, by the time he had helped Esther
about her work, assisted her young brother to get in a good supply of
wood, and made things more comfortable for the invalid, it was almost
sundown. He stoutly refused to wait for supper, declaring that the
luncheon still in his pouch would serve, and started just as the short
twilight came on. He was a brave lad, and, with no thought of peril,
went off, kissing his hand gayly to Esther.
It took him an hour to traverse the first three miles, and then he
came to a stretch of comparatively bare ground leading through his
father's old clearing, and almost to the top of the hill back of Mr.
Devins's house. He was just urging old Bob into a trot, when a long,
clear howl broke upon his ear; then another and another answered
from east and south. He knew what that meant. It was the cry of the
advance-guard of a pack of wolves.
The howling sounded near, and came swiftly nearer, as though the
wolves had found his tracks and scented their prey. Old Bob trembled
in every limb, and seemed powerless to move. Allan realized that he
could not, before dark, reach home through the drifts ahead, and the
increasing cold of the advancing night would render a refuge in a
tree-top probably as deadly as an encounter with the pack.
Presently there came a cry, shriller and sharper than before, and
Allan, looking back, saw a great, lean, hungry gray wolf burst from
the underbrush into the road, followed by dozens more; and in a moment
the road behind him was full of wolves, open-mouthed and in keen
chase. Their yells now seemed notes of exultation, for the leader
of the pack--the strongest, fleetest, hungriest one among them--was
within a dozen yards of Allan, who was now riding faster than ever old
Bob had gone before or ever would go again. Excitement made the lad's
blood boil in his veins, and he determined to show fight. The moon had
risen, and the scene was almost as light as day. Now he could count
the crowding host of his enemies, and just as he broke from the forest
road into the old clearing, he turned in his saddle and fired. The
foremost of the pack rolled over and over; the rest gathered around
and tore their leader in pieces.
By the time they resumed the chase, Allan was a hundred yards ahead
with his rifle loaded. He determined to make a running fight of it to
the hill, where he was sure of meeting his father, or could take to a
tree and shoot until help came. This had hardly flashed through his
brain when, right ahead of him, a detachment of the pack sprang into
the road and answered with double yells the cries of the rest coming
up behind. The horse wheeled suddenly, almost unseating Allan, and
dashed across the clearing toward the wood; but he had not taken a
dozen bounds when a wolf sprang upon him. Old Bob reared and fell,
pitching Allan nearly twenty feet ahead, and was covered with wolves
before he could regain his footing. That was the last of poor old Bob.
[Illustration: "OLD BOB FELL, PITCHING ALLAN AHEAD."]
But Allan! What of him? When he recovered from the effects of the
shock, he found himself over head and ears in snow. He had no idea
where he was, but struggled and plunged in vain endeavors to extricate
himself, until at last he broke into a space that was clear of snow,
but dark as Erebus, damp and close. Feeling about him he discovered
over his head logs resting slantingly against the upper edge of a pit,
and then he knew that he was in the cellar of the old house his father
had built, and which had been burned down nine years before! The
cellar was full of snow, except at the corner roofed over by the
fallen logs, and Allan, bursting through the snow into the empty
corner, was as secure from the wolves as though seated by his father's
fireside. It was not nearly as cold in there as outside, and he found
a dry spot upon which he lay down to think.
He was in no danger of freezing to death, his food would keep him from
starvation a week at least, and Allan concluded that, with the first
glimpse of dawn, his father would be in search of him, and, following
the tracks, find old Bob's bones, and quickly rescue him from his
predicament. He reasoned wisely enough, but the elements were against
him. Before sunrise a furious storm of wind and snow had completely
obliterated every trace of horse, rider and wolves.
At home, as the night wore on, the anxiety of the family had
increased. While they were watching the gathering storm, they heard
the long, dismal howl of the wolves coming over the hill. The chill of
fear that they should never see the boy again settled down upon all
their hearts, until the house was as dreary within as the winter waste
and gloomy forest were without.
Meanwhile the brave youth was sound asleep, dreaming as peacefully as
though snugly resting with his brother in his warm bed at home. He
slumbered on unconscious of the raging storm without, and did not
awake until late the next forenoon. It took him several seconds
to realize where he was and how he came there, but gradually he
remembered his ride for life, the falling of his horse, his struggle
in the snow, and his breaking into the protected space where he lay.
The storm lasted all day and far into the succeeding night. Allan ate
slightly, quenched his thirst with a few drops of water obtained by
melting snow in the palm of his hand, and began casting about for
means to get out. He soon found that to dig his way up through the
mass of snow that filled the cellar was beyond his powers. If he could
have made a succession of footholds, the task would have been easy;
but all his efforts only tended to fill his retreat, without bringing
him nearer the air. As soon as he saw this, he gave himself up to
calmly waiting for help from without.
The second morning of his imprisonment broke clear and cheerful, and
Mr. Devins set out to search for traces of his boy. He visited the
Inmans' and learned the particulars of Allan's stay and departure,
then mournfully turned his face homeward, his heart filled with
despair. When he emerged from the forest into the clearing, he met the
Indian who had visited him a few days before, and he told the red man
of Allan's loss. The Indian stood a moment in deep thought, and then
asked:
"No horse, no boy back there?" pointing to the road just traversed by
Mr. Devins.
"No. I have looked carefully, and if there had been a trace left by
the recent storm I should have detected it."
"Ugh! well, me come over the hill; nothing that way either; then they
here."
"Why do you think so?"
"Ah! me know wolves. When Allan come to this place they ahead;
horse turn; wolves caught 'em this side woods; we look there," and
Tayenathonto pointed to the very course taken by the horse and rider.
It so happened when Allan was thrown from the horse's back that his
rifle flew from his hand and struck, muzzle down, in a hollow stump,
where, imbedded in the snow, it stood like a sign to mark the scene
of the last struggle of the lost boy. The snow had whitened all its
hither side. When the Indian came abreast of it, he cried:
"Told you so! See! Allan's gun! And here rest of 'em," pointing to the
little heap over the ruins of the old cabin.
Kicking the snow hastily aside, the Indian examined the ground
carefully a moment and then said: "No, only horse; Allan further on."
The Indian, with head bent down, walked quickly forward, threw up
his arms, and disappeared. He had stepped over the clean edge of the
cellar and sunk exactly as Allan had. A few desperate plunges sufficed
to take the strong Indian through the intervening snow and into the
protected corner where Allan, just rousing from his second sleep, sat
bolt upright. The Indian's coming disturbed the snow so that a glimmer
of light penetrated into the dark space. Allan supposed a wolf had
found its way down there, and hastily drew his large knife, bracing
himself for an encounter.
The Indian sputtered, thrashed about to clear himself from the snow,
and in so doing rapped his head smartly against the low ceiling of
logs.
"Waugh! waugh!" exclaimed he. "Too much low; Indian break 'em head;
look out."
Allan instantly recognized the voice of the Indian, his comrade on
many a fishing and hunting tour.
"Tayenathonto!" he cried, "dear old fellow, who would have thought of
you finding me!"
The Indian quietly replied:
"Tayenathonto no find; come like water-fall; couldn't help his self."
A very few minutes sufficed to put both on the surface again, where
Allan was received "like one come from the dead," and closely folded
in his father's arms. Oh, the joy of that embrace! The past grief and
suffering were forgotten in the bliss of that moment.
The Indian had to return with the happy father and son to their home,
where he was hailed as Allan's rescuer, and enjoyed to the full a
share of the festivities.
In after years Allan married Esther Inman, and now, by the fireside in
winter, he tells his grandchildren of his escape from the wolves, and
the little ones never tire of petting their faithful old Tayenathonto.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
There was an old person of Crewd,
Who said, "We use saw-dust for food;
It's cheap by the ton,
And it nourishes one,
And that's the main object of food."