CHAPTER XX_The Girl From Tim's Place

"Thar's two things it don't pay to worry 'bout,--those ye

can help 'n' and those ye can't."--Old Cy Walker.

When Old Cy and Ray once more made their way up the Beaver Brook valley,

it was with the feeling that this lone and sinister trapper might be

met at any moment. They dared not leave their canoe where it might be

easily found, but adopting Indian tactics, Old Cy cunningly hid it in a

rank growth of swamp grass, and oft doubling on their own tracks and

wading the shallow stream, left only a confusing trail.

When the deadfalls had been visited and they began gum-gathering again,

they watched constantly for an enemy.

A dense forest of tall spruces is at best a weird and ill-omened spot.

Its vastness appalls, its shadows seem spectral, and every natural object

becomes grotesque and distorted. An overturned stump with bleaching

roots appears like a hideous devilfish with arms ready to entwine and

crush. A twisted tree trunk, prone, rotting, and coated with moss, looks

like a huge green serpent, and even a knot in the side of a big spruce

will resemble a grinning gnome. Even the sunlight flitting through the

dense canopy plays fantastic tricks, and every breath of wind becomes

the moan of troubled spirits.

Something of this weird impress now assailed Old Cy and more especially

Ray, and after two days of unpleasant work in this part of the

wilderness, they gave it up.

"I don't like feelin' I'm bein' watched," Old Cy observed when

they once more started for home, "an' to-morrer I guess we'd best

go 'nother way. Thar's a good spruce growth over beyond the hog-back,

'n' I'd feel safer leavin' the canoe whar Amzi kin keep an eye on't.

We kin come up now once a week 'n' tend the deadfalls 'n' not leave

the canoe more'n an hour."

Little did Old Cy realize how groundless his fears now were, or that

fathoms deep, in a cold, mountain-hid lake, the thieving McGuire and

the implacable half-breed were now locked in the clasp of death.

A change of location, however, banished somewhat of this spectral

presence, and although Old Cy was ever alert and watchful, he showed

no sign of it.

Ray, more volatile and with implicit faith in his protector, soon

returned to normal condition of mind and once more entered into the

spirit of their work and sport with a keen zest.

The traps gave increased returns, the little bin where they stored their

gum was filling slowly but surely, and their life at this wildwood home

became enjoyable.

Neither was it all labor, for the ducks now migrating southward were

alighting in the lake by thousands, a few hours' shooting at them from

ambush made glorious sport, and what with all the partridges they had

secured and these additions, their ice-house was soon unable to hold

another bird.

But the halcyon days of autumn were fast passing and signs of nearing

winter were now visible. Ice began to form in little coves, the ducks

ceased coming, soon the last of them had departed, the leaves of all

hardwood trees were now joining in a hurry-scurry dance with every

passing breeze, the days were of a suggestive shortness, and soon the

grim and merciless snow--the White Spirit of Old Tomah--would be sweeping

over the wilderness.

And then one night the Frost King silently touched that rippled lake

with his wand and the next morning Old Cy and Ray looked out upon its

motionless expanse of black ice. The sky was also leaden, an ominous

stillness brooded over forest, lake, and mountain, and midway of that

day, the first snowfall came.

Old Cy and Ray were a mile away from the cabin, busy at gum-gathering,

when the first flakes sifted down through the canopied spruce tops. Soon

the carpet of needles began to whiten, and by mid-afternoon they had to

abandon work and return.

"I guess we come pretty clus to bein' prisoners now," Old Cy

ejaculated when he shook himself free from the white coating on the

cabin porch, "but we've got to make the best on't. We'll git warm

fust 'n' then go 'n' fetch our canoe up 'n' stow it in the

shed. We ain't like to want it ag'in 'fore spring. One thing is

sartin," he added, when the fire began to blaze in the open fireplace,

"we are sure o' keepin' warm 'n' 'nuff to eat this winter, 'n'

that's all we really need in life, anyway. The rest on't is mostly

imagination."

But in spite of his serene philosophy, Old Cy had dreaded the coming

of winter more than Ray could guess, and all on account of that lad. He

himself knew what a winter meant in this wilderness cabin, while Ray did

not. Separated as they were from civilization by a full hundred miles,

and from Tim's place by forty, they were, as he stated, practically

prisoners for the next five months.

To escape on snow-shoes was possible, of course, if the need arose, and

yet it would be a pretty serious venture, after all.

They were in no particular danger, however. With plenty of food and

fuel, they need not suffer. If the cabin burned, they could erect another

shelter or use the old one. Something of diversion could be obtained

from ice-fishing or gum-gathering on warm days; but not enough, as Old

Cy feared, to keep Ray content and free from the megrims.

None of these fears escaped Old Cy, however. He was too wise for that;

and moreover, in order to inspire Ray, he now began to affect an almost

boyish interest in the snow coming and its enjoyments.

"We can't do much more trappin'," he said that first winter evening

beside the fire while the snow beat against the windows, "but we kin

hev some fun keepin' warm an' cookin', 'n' when the snow hardens a

bit we kin go fer gum again, or set tip-ups. We've got more'n a million

shiners in the cage up the brook, 'n' 'fore it gits too cold, we'll

ketch a lot o' trout."

It was this faculty for adaptation to the situation, this making the

best of all circumstances and seizing all opportunities for pleasure

or profit, that was Old Cy's woodwise characteristic. No matter if

it stormed, he knew that the sun shone behind the clouds. No matter

if they were utterly isolated in this wilderness, he still saw ways

of enjoyment, and even when snowbound, or shut in by zero weather, he

would still find interest in cooking, keeping warm, or getting ready

to fish, or in gathering gum, when the chance came.

But winter had now come upon them with a sudden swoop. The next day snow

fell incessantly, and when the sun shone again, a two-foot level of it

hid the lake.

Then, as if to test Ray's spirits, the temperature kept well below

freezing for the next week, the wind blew continuously, sweeping the

snow into drifts, and all the three could do, as Old Cy said, was to

"cook vittles and keep warm."

And now for the first time, Ray began to show homesickness. From the day

Chip had left, not once had he mentioned her or his aunt or uncle in any

way. He had kept step, as it were, with Old Cy in all things adventurous

as well as labor and sport.

The possible, even certain gain in the money value of the furs and gum

which they had secured, coupled with their adventurous life, had occupied

his every thought; but now that he could only help Old Cy indoors, he

began to mope.

"I wonder what they are doing now down in Greenvale," he said one

evening after they had gathered about the fire. "I wish we could hear

from 'em."

It was the first sign of homesickness which Old Cy had so long dreaded

to see in him.

"Oh, they ain't havin' half the fun we are," Old Cy answered

cheerfully. "Jest now I callate Chip's studyin' 'longside o' Aunt

Comfort's fire; mebbe Angie 'n' Martin's over to Dr. Sol's,

swappin' yarns. To-morrer Chip'll go ter school, ez usual, 'n' when

Sunday comes they'll all dress up 'n' go ter meetin'. One thing

is sartin, they ain't takin' any more comfort'n we are, or gittin'

better things to eat. If the weather warms up, ez I callate it will in a

day or two, we'll pull some trout out o' the lake that 'ud make

all Greenvale stare. They allus bite sharp arter a cold spell. Ez fer

Chip," he continued, eying Ray's sober face, "she ain't goin'

to fergit ye, never fear, an' when I take ye out o' the woods in the

spring 'n' start ye fer Greenvale with five hundred dollars in yer

inside pocket, ez I callate, ye'll feel's though ye owned the hull

town when ye git thar, an' Chip'll feel ez tho' she owned ye."

"I wish I could hear how they are once in a while," Ray rejoined.

"They may be sick."

That "they" meant Chip was self-evident.

Once a mood comes upon a person, it is hard to change it, and of all

the moods that torture poor human beings, the love mood is the most

implacable. While the zest of trapping was upon Ray, he was himself and a

cheerful enough lad. There had also been the spice of danger from this

unknown, thieving trapper; but when both had vanished, and all that was

left for excitement was the monotony of indoor life, with occasional

half-days when fishing through the ice was permissible, his spirits

fell to low tide.

Old Cy had feared this from the outset, but believing that the

experience here was the best possible for the boy, to say nothing of the

financial side, he had brought it about. And now he had his hands full.

But he was equal to it. Next to sport, work, he knew, was the best

panacea for any mental disorder, and work a-plenty he now found for

Ray. First, it had been the making of tip-ups for use on the lake, then

snow-shoes for both of them, and then cutting and splitting more wood.

They had an ample supply already, piled high in a lean-to alongside the

big cabin, but Old Cy asserted that it was not enough, and so more was

added.

The paths, one to the lake to obtain water and one to the ice-house, were

allotted to Ray to keep open.

A few days were consumed in filling the ice-house once more, and when

a warm day came, Old Cy led the way to the sheltered side of the lake,

as enthusiastic as a boy, to begin cutting holes and setting lines for

fishing.

This especially interested Ray, and one good day with a fine catch of

trout would revive his spirits for some time.

Each and every evening, also, when the social side came, Old Cy, always a

prolific story-teller, would engage in his favorite pastime for a purpose.

And what a marvellous fund he had to draw from! All the years when he,

a sailor boy, had sailed afar, all the strange countries and people he

had visited, and all the mishaps he had met were now levied upon.

When these failed--and it was not soon--his wilderness wanderings before

he settled down at Greenvale furnished tales, and when facts became

scarce, his fancies came into play, and many a thrilling shipwreck and

hair-breadth escape that never happened, held Ray's attention for a

long evening.

The banjo also helped out for many an hour. The old hermit with his

jews'-harp joined in, and although Ray's fingers were prone to stray

to "solemn" tunes, Old Cy persisted in his calls for livelier songs,

even to the extent of adding his voice; and so the first few weeks of

winter wore away.

When Christmas neared, however, Ray had a "spell." It had been a

calendar day in his memory, and he had been one of the crowd of young

folks who made merry in the usual ways; but now no cheer was possible,

he believed, and once more he began to look glum.

It may seem rank foolishness and doubtless was, yet Ray, like all

humanity, must be measured by his years and judged by his surroundings.

In Greenvale he had been one of fifty schoolmates whose lives and moods

were akin, and whose enjoyments must be much the same. Here he was, in a

way, utterly alone so far as age means companionship, and worse than

that, one of his two companions was morose and misanthropic. True, he

twanged his jews'-harp in tune with Ray's plantation melodies, but

when that bond of feeling ceased, he lapsed into chill silence once more.

But Old Cy, wise philosopher that he was, saw and felt every mood and

tense that came to Ray, and, seeing thus, forestalled each and every one.

"Christmas is 'most here," he said to Ray, a few days before, "an'

I've been figgerin' we three ought to celebrate it 'cordin' to

the best o' our means. We can't do much in the way o' gifts, but we

kin bust ourselves with vittles 'n' have some fun, just the same.

I've kinder mapped out the day sorter this way, if it's pleasant.

Fust, we'll hev an arly breakfast, then pack a lot o' things on the

hand-sled, go 'cross the lake 'n' round to the cove facin' the south.

Here we'll cut a few holes, set some lines, 'n' while you're tendin'

'em, Amzi 'n' me'll clear a spot under the bank, build a bough

lean-to facin' the sun, spread blankets in it, 'n' when noon comes,

cook a meal fit fer the gods. We kin hev briled venison, fried trout

jist out o' the water, boiled taters, hot coffee, 'n' an appetite

that'll make ye lick yer fingers 'n' holler fer more. If only the

sun shines, we kin hev a heap o' fun."

It was all a boyish diversion as planned by Old Cy, and the sole object

was to tide Ray over a day that might add to his homesickness. The

weather favored this kindly interest.

Christmas morn opened warm, and but for the deep snow it might have

been an October day. Old Cy's romantic plan also materialized to the

fullest, and when his green bough shed, with carpet of the same, was

completed, the fire in front blazing cheerfully and dinner cooking, it

was all a picture well worth a study.

Then as if to prove that good luck trots in double harness, about this

time the trout began to bite, and the line of tip-ups across the cove

were flagging exciting signals that kept Ray and the old hermit on the

jump. Even when their picturesque Christmas dinner was spread upon an

improvised table in front of the bough shelter, Ray could hardly leave

the sport to eat, and Old Cy had to interfere.

"We ain't ketchin' fish to sell," he said to Ray, "but jist fer fun.

You've got more'n we kin eat in two weeks, so give 'em a rest."

When dinner was over there came a lazy lounging hour on the fir boughs in

the warm sun, while Old Cy smoked his pipe of content.

Ray, however, could not resist the signal flags any longer, and as soon

as the meal was eaten he was out tending them again.

When the sun was halfway down, again the happy trio broke camp and

returned to the cabin, carrying fish enough to feed a multitude. That

evening Old Cy told stories as usual, Ray picked his banjo and sang

lively songs, and so ended Christmas in the wilderness.

Our lives are but a succession of moods, varying ever as our surroundings

change; and so it was with Ray, isolated as he was with two old men for

companions. With work or sport to interest him, he was cheerful and

content. But when, as now happened, another long and heavy snowfall

succeeded that mellow Christmas Day, he grew morose. It was selfish,

perhaps, and thoughtless, as youth ever is, and yet not surprising; for

when the sun shone again, they were practically buried under snow. It

took an entire day, with all three working, to shovel paths to the lake

and ice-house, and when that was done there was naught else except to

cook and keep the fire going. A few days of this bore heavily on

Ray's spirits, and he became so glum that Old Cy took him to task.

"You've got to brace up, my boy," he said one evening, "an' likewise

count yer blessin's. We are shut up fer a spell, but think how much

worse off ye might be. We've got plenty to eat 'n' keep warm with,

thar's a good three hundred pounds o' gum we got, an' it's worth over

four hundred dollars, say nothin' o' the furs, 'n' all yourn. Then,

'nother thing, ye mustn't keep broodin' over yer own lonesomeness

so much. I'll 'low ye're kind o' anxious to see the little gal

ag'in, as is nat'ral; but s'pose it was two years ye hed to look

forrard to, a-waitin', an' then on top o' that, arter waitin' so

long, ye hed to face three more, with never a chance to larn whether

she was dead or alive!"

And now Old Cy paused, and watched the low-burning fire as if living once