A BATTLE WITH WOLVES.
The remainder of the journey up the Tananah was uneventful, but so long
that the new year was well begun ere the sledge party left it and turned
up the Gheesah branch, which flows in from the east. An Indian guide,
procured at the last village by the promise of a pound of tobacco for
his services, accompanied them on their four days' journey up this
river, and to the summit of the bleak wind-swept divide, five hundred
feet above timberline. This gave the dogs a hard pull, though Jalap
Coombs insisted upon lightening their load by walking; nor from this
time on would he again consent to be treated as an invalid.
The summit once passed, they plunged rapidly down its farther side
and into the welcome shelter of timber fringing a tiny stream,
whose course they were now to follow. Their guide called it the
Tukh-loo-ga-ne-lukh-nough, which, after vain attempts to remember, Phil
shortened to "Tough Enough." Jalap Coombs, however, declared that this
was not a "sarcumstance" to the names of certain down-East streams among
which he was born, and to prove his assertion began to talk glibly of
the Misquabenish, the Keejimkoopic, the Kashagawigamog, the
Kahwcambejewagamog, and others of like brevity, until Phil begged him to
take a rest.
That night, while the camp was buried in the profound slumber that
followed a day of unusually hard work, and the fire had burned to a bed
of coals, the single long-drawn howl of a wolf was borne to it with
startling distinctness by the night wind. As though it were a signal, it
was answered from a dozen different directions at once. The alert dogs
sprang from their snowy beds with bristling crests and hurled back a
challenge of fierce barkings; but this, being an incident of nightly
occurrence, failed to arouse the tired sleepers.
Within a few minutes the dread howlings had so increased in volume that
they seemed to issue from scores of savage throats and to completely
encircle the little camp. If was as if all the wolves of the forest,
rendered desperate by famine, had combined for a raid on the supper of
provisions so kindly placed within their reach. Nearer and nearer they
came, until their dark forms could be seen like shadows of evil omen
flitting among the trees and across the open moonlit spaces.
The dogs, at first eager to meet their mortal foes, now huddled
together, terrified by overwhelming numbers. Still the occupants of the
camp slept, unconscious of their danger. Suddenly there came a rush, an
unearthly clamor of savage outcry, and the sleepers were roused to a
fearful wakening by a confused struggle within the very limits of the
camp and over their recumbent forms. They sprang up with yells of
terror, and at the sound of human voices the invaders drew back,
snapping and snarling with rage.
"Timber wolves!" shouted Serge. "Your rifle, Phil! Quick!"
Emboldened by this re-enforcement, the dogs advanced to the edge of the
camp space, but with low growls in place of their former defiant
barkings.
Phil was trembling with excitement; but Serge, steady as a rock, was
throwing the No. 4's from the double-barrel and reloading with buckshot,
at the same time calling to Chitsah to pile wood on the fire, and to the
other Indians not to fire until all were ready. Jalap Coombs seized an
axe, and forgetful of the bitter cold, was rolling up his sleeves, as
though he proposed to fight the wolves single-handed. At the same time
he denounced them as pirates and bloody land-sharks, and dared them to
come within his reach.
"Are you ready?" cried Serge. "Then fire!" And with a roar that woke
the forest echoes for miles, the four guns poured their contents into
the dense black mass, that seemed just ready to hurl itself for a second
time upon the camp.
With frightful howlings the pack scattered, and began to gallop swiftly
in a wide circle about the fire-lit space. One huge brute, frenzied with
rage, leaped directly toward the camp, with gleaming eyes and frothing
mouth. Ere a gun could be levelled, Jalap Coombs stepped forward to meet
him, and with a mighty swinging blow his heavy axe crushed the skull of
the on-coming beast as though it had been an egg-shell. Instantly the
dogs were upon him, and tearing fiercely at their fallen enemy.
With the first shot Phil's nervousness vanished, and as coolly as Serge
himself, he followed with levelled rifle the movements of the yelling
pack in their swift circling. At each patch of moonlit space one or more
of the fierce brutes fell before his unerring fire, until every shot of
his magazine was exhausted.
[Illustration: "NOW," CRIED SERGE, "ALL MAKE A DASH TOGETHER!"]
"Now," cried Serge, "we must scatter them. Every man take a firebrand in
each hand, and all make a dash together."
"Yelling," added Jalap Coombs.
"Yes, yelling louder than the wolves themselves."
The plan was no sooner proposed than adopted. Musky, Luvtuk, big Amook,
and the rest, inspired by their master's courage, joined in the assault,
and before that fire-bearing, yelling, on-rushing line of humanity and
dogs the gaunt forest raiders gave way and fled in all directions.
The whole battle had not lasted more than five minutes, but it resulted
in the death of nineteen wolves, six of which were despatched by the
sailor-man's terrible axe after the fight was over, and they, more or
less wounded, were slinking away toward places of hiding. But the dogs
found them out, and they met a swift fate at the hands of Jalap Coombs.
As he finally re-entered the camp, dragging the last one behind him, he
remarked, with a chuckle: "Waal, boys, I ruther guess our boat's 'high
line' this time, and I'm free to admit that this here wolf racket beats
most kinds of fishing, for genuine entertainment, onless it's fishing
for sharks, which is exciting at times. I'm pleased to have met up with
this school, though, for it's allers comforting to run across fresh
proofs of my friend old Kite Roberson's knowingness. He useter say
consarning the critters, Kite did, that wolves was sharks and sharks was
wolves, and that neither of 'em warn't no fit playthings for children,
which it now seems to me he were correct, as usual."
"He certainly was," replied Phil, who, leaning on his rifle, was
thoughtfully regarding the shaggy beast that Kite Robinson's friend had
just dragged into camp. "But aren't these uncommonly big wolves? I never
knew they grew so large."
"They don't generally," answered Serge; "but these are of the same breed
as the great Siberian wolves, which, you know, are noted as being the
largest and fiercest in the world."
"I don't wonder now that the dogs were frightened," continued Phil, "for
this fellow looks twice as big as Amook--and he's no puppy. But, I say,
Serge, you're an awfully plucky chap. As for myself, I must confess I
was so badly rattled that I don't believe I should have even thought of
a gun before they were on us a second time."
"If they had made a second rush, not one of us would be alive to talk
about it now," remarked Serge, soberly; "and it was only the promptness
of our attack that upset their plans. In dealing with wolves it is
always safest to force the fighting; for while they are awful bullies,
they are cowards at heart, like all bullies I ever heard of."
"Captain Duff, for instance," said Phil, with a reminiscent smile. Then
he added, "Anyhow, old man, you got us out of a bad scrape, for it isn't
every fellow who would know just how to deal with a pack of wolves,
especially when awakened from a sound sleep to find them piling on top
of him."
"I don't believe it was quite as bad as that," objected Serge. "I expect
only the dogs piled on top of us when they were driven in. By-the-way,
did you know that four of them were killed and several others badly
hurt?"
"No, I didn't," cried Phil, in dismay. "What ones are killed?"
"Two from my team, one from yours, and one from Chitsah's."
"Oh, the villains!" exclaimed the young leader. "Another victory like
that would cripple us. Do you think there is any danger of them coming
back?"
"Not just now; but I shouldn't be surprised to hear from them again
to-morrow night."
"All right. I'm glad you mentioned it. Now we'll see if we can't have an
interesting reception prepared for them."
"Pizen?" queried Jalap Coombs, who had lighted his pipe, and was now
complacently watching the skinning of the dead wolves, which had been
undertaken by the three Indians.
"Worse than that," answered Phil, significantly.
By the time the Indians had finished their task and breakfast had been
eaten the usual starting-hour had arrived. Two of the wolf-skins were
allotted to the guide, who was to leave them at this point, and he set
forth on his return journey with them on his back. Rolled in them were
the single dried salmon, which would form his sole sustenance on the
journey, and the cherished pound of tobacco, for which he had been
willing to work so hard. In his hand he bore an old flintlock musket,
that was the pride of his heart, not so much on account of its shooting
qualities, which were very uncertain, as by reason of its great length.
It was the longest gun known to the dwellers of the Tananah Valley, and
consequently the most valuable, for the Hudson Bay Company's method of
selling such guns was to exchange one for as many marten, fox, or beaver
skins as could be piled from stock to muzzle when it stood upright.
"I hope the wolves won't attack his camps," remarked Phil, as they
watched the lonely figure pass out of sight on the back trail.
"Him no camp," declared Kurilla.
"But he must. Why, it's a four days' journey to his home."
"No. One day, one night. Him no stop. Wolf no catch um. Yaas."
And Kurilla was right, for the Indian would push on over mile after mile
of that frozen solitude without a pause, save for an occasional bite
from his dried salmon and a handful of snow to wash it down, until he
reached his own far-away home.