That night they heard the timber wolves for the first time, howling
mournfully a little way back in the woods. No doubt they had scented
the fresh carcass of the deer, and probably there would have been no
venison in the morning if they had not had the wisdom to carry the
carcass into the cabin. Peter opened the door quietly and slipped out
with a cocked rifle, but the wolves were too wary for him. Not one was
in sight, and the howling receded and grew fainter. But they heard it
at intervals again during the night--a dismal and savage note, that
made them feel like making the fire burn brighter.
"They must have followed the trail where we dragged the buck home,"
said Maurice. "Good thing they didn't happen to strike it before we
got back."
"Oh, they'd hardly venture to attack three of us," replied Peter. "I
almost wish they would. We could mow them down with our repeaters, and
you know there's a Government bounty of ten dollars a head on dead
timber wolves. We might make quite a pile, and besides the skins must
be worth something."
"Might set some traps," Fred suggested.
"No use. The timber wolf is far too wise to get into any steel trap.
That's why so few of them are killed. But say, boys, why couldn't we
manage to ambush 'em?"
"How?" Maurice demanded.
"Well, suppose I shot a couple of rabbits to-morrow night and went
through the woods dragging them after me, so as to make a blood trail.
Any wolves that happened to cross it would certainly follow, and I'd
lead them past a spot where you fellows would be ambushed, ready to
pump lead into them."
"Sounds all right," said Fred, "but suppose they overtook you before
you got to the ambush?"
"Oh, they wouldn't dare to attack me. They'd keep me in sight, stop if
I stopped, and turn if I turned, waiting for a chance to take me at a
disadvantage. A shot would scatter them, anyway. The only trouble
would be that they'd scatter so quick when you opened fire that you
wouldn't be able to bag more than one or two. And I don't suppose the
same trick could be worked twice."
They discussed the matter all that evening and grew so enthusiastic
over it that they determined to try it the next night. There was no
hope now of diamonds, and the expedition had cost them nearly two
hundred dollars. A few wolf bounties and pelts, together with the furs
found in the cabin, would cover this and perhaps leave a little profit.
It was cold and cloudy the next day, and they waited impatiently for
evening. The moon would not rise till nearly midnight, and it was
necessary to wait in order to have light enough for the proposed
ambush. They sallied out toward eleven o'clock, and shot three
rabbits, which Peter attached to a deerskin thong. Selecting an open
glade, Maurice and Fred established themselves in ambush under the
thickets, while Peter started on a wide circle through the woods,
trailing his bait, in the hope of attracting the wolves.
Fred and Maurice waited for more than two hours, nearly frozen,
stamping and beating their arms, listening for the hunting cry of the
wolf pack. At the end of that time Peter reappeared, tired and
disgusted. The wolves had failed to do their part, and had not picked
up the trail.
Still he was not discouraged, and insisted on trying it again the next
evening. This time Fred and Maurice stayed in the cabin to keep warm,
listening intently. At the first, distant howl they were to rush out
and ensconce themselves in a prearranged spot, a quarter of a mile up
the river, which Peter was to pass. They kept the two repeating
rifles, while Mac carried the double-barreled gun, loaded with
buckshot, which they had found in the cabin.
Half a mile from the shanty Peter shot a swamp hare that was nibbling a
spruce trunk, and a little way farther he secured another. These
carcasses he tied together with a deerskin thong as before, and trailed
them in the wake of his snowshoes. This time he intended to make a
longer circuit than on the preceding night.
He dragged this bait across a hardwood ridge and down into a great
cedar swamp on the other side. In hard weather all the wild life of
the woods resorts to such places for shelter, and here the wolves would
be hunting if there was a pack in the neighborhood. But he found few
tracks and no sign at all of wolves.
After traveling slowly for two or three miles, Mac sat down on a log to
rest, and as the warmth of exercise died out, the cold nipped him to
the bone through the "four-point" blanket coat. He got up and moved
on, intending to return in a long curve toward the cabin. He did not
much care, after all, whether he started any wolves. It was too cold
for hunting that night.
The dry snow swished round his ankles at the fall of the long racquets.
He still dragged the dead hares, which were now frozen almost as hard
as wood, but not too hard to leave a scent.
He had reached the other side of the swamp when his ears caught
suddenly a high-pitched, mournful howl, ending in a sort of yelp,
sounding indefinitely far away, yet clearly heard through the tense
air. He knew well what it was. The pack had struck a trail--possibly
his own, possibly that of a deer. He would very soon learn which.
Thrilling with excitement, he walked on slowly, turning his head to
listen. Again and again he caught the hunting chorus of the wolf pack,
far away, but still perceptibly nearer. He was just then in the midst
of a tangled stretch of second-growth timber, and he hurried on to
reach more open ground. As soon as he felt convinced that the pack was
following him he intended to turn back toward the river.
He kept moving on, however, and at last came to the river before he
expected it. He was still more than a mile above the point where the
ambush was to be set, and he paused on the shore and hearkened. Far
away through the moonlit woods he heard the savage, triumphant yell,
much nearer now--so much so that he felt that he might as well make for
the ambush at once. He felt suddenly alone and in peril; he longed
earnestly to see his companions.
He started down the river at a swinging trot, still listening over his
shoulder, when the ice suddenly gave way under his feet, and he went
down with so swift a plunge that he had time for only a shuddering gasp.
He had stepped on an airhole lightly crusted over with snow. He went
down to his neck without touching bottom, and the black water surged up
to his face. It was the gun that saved him; it caught across the hole,
and he clung to it fiercely. As the current fortunately was not rapid,
he was able to draw himself up and out upon the ice.
But he found himself unable to extricate his feet. The long-tailed
snowshoes had gone down point foremost, and now were crossed under the
ice, and refused to come up. He dared not cut them loose, for in the
deep snow he would have been helpless. Growing fainter at every
moment, he struggled in the deadly chill of the water for four or five
minutes before at last he succeeded in bringing them up end first, as
they had gone down.
When he staggered back stiffly upon the snow the very life seemed
withdrawn from his bones. His heavy clothing had frozen into a coat of
mail almost as hard as iron plate. There was no sensation left in his
limbs, and he trembled with a numb shuddering.
Long forest training told him what must be done. He must have a fire
at once. He would have to find a dry birch tree, or a splintered pine
that would light easily.
His benumbed brain clung to this idea, and he began to stumble toward
shore, his snowshoes sheets of ice, and his clothes rattling as he
went. But with a hunter's instinct he stuck to his gun, tucking it
under his icy arm.
He could see no birch tree, and the bank was bordered with an
impenetrable growth of alders. He dragged himself up the river, and
each step seemed to require a more and more intolerable exertion.
He could not feel his feet as he lifted and put them down; when he saw
them moving they looked like things independent of himself. He had
ceased to feel cold. He no longer felt anything, except a deadly
weariness that was crushing him into the snow.
He went on, however, driven by the fighting instinct, till of a sudden
he saw it--the birch tree he was seeking, shining spectrally among the
black spruces by the river.
It was an old, half-dead tree, covered with great curls of bark that
would flare up at the touch of a match. He had matches in a
water-proof box, and he contrived to get them out of his frozen pocket.
He dropped the box half a dozen times in trying to open it, opened it
at last with his teeth, and dropped it again, spilling the matches into
the snow.
Snow is as dry as sand at that temperature, however, and he scraped
them up, and tried to strike one on the gun barrel. But he was unable
to hold the bit of wood in his numbed fingers; there was absolutely no
feeling in his hands, and the match fell from his grasp at every
attempt. This is a familiar peril in the North Woods, where dozens of
men have frozen to death with firewood and matches beside them, from
sheer inability to strike a light.
Mac beat his hands together without effect. He began to grow
indifferent; and as he fumbled again for the dropped match he fell at
full length into the snow.
A sense of pleasant relief overcame him, and he decided to rest there
for a few minutes. The snow was soft, and he had never before realized
how warm it was. His shoulders were propped against the roots of the
birch, and with a hazy consciousness that game might be expected, he
dragged his gun across his knees and cocked it. Then, with a
comfortable sense of duty done, he closed his eyes.
Curious and delightful fancies began at once to flood his brain,
fancies so vivid that he seemed not to lose consciousness at all. How
long he lay there he never knew. But he grew alive at last to a
vise-like pressure on his left arm that seemed to have lasted for
years, and which was growing to excruciating pain.
He opened his eyes with a great effort. There were savage, hairy faces
close to his own, pouring out clouds of steaming breath into the frosty
air. Something had him by the arm with such force that he almost felt
the bones cracking, and something was tugging at his leg.
The nervous shock aroused him as nothing else on earth could have done.
A tingle of horrified animation rushed through his body. He was on the
point of being torn to pieces by the wolf pack that had trailed him,
and the powerful stimulus of the new peril called out the last reserves
of strength.
He made a convulsive start. His frozen hand was on the trigger of the
shotgun, and both barrels went off. At the sudden flash and report the
half-dozen wolves bolted incontinently--all but one gray monster that
got the full force of the buckshot and dropped in its tracks.
Macgregor staggered to his feet, full of terrible cramps and pains in
every muscle. But his head had cleared somewhat. He saw the dry birch
tree and again tried to fumble for a match. Almost by sheer luck he
succeeded in striking it. The birch bark caught fire and flamed
crackling up the trunk. The dry trunk itself caught and burned like a
torch.
Macgregor rubbed his face and hands savagely with snow. They hurt
intensely, but he welcomed the pain, for it showed that they were not
frozen. He was beginning to feel a little more life when he heard the
creak and flap of snowshoes, and saw Fred and Maurice hurrying up the
river toward him.
"What's the matter?" they shouted, as soon as within hearing distance.
"We heard the shot. See any wolves?"
Mac tried to shout something in answer, but found that he could not
speak distinctly.
"I see you've bagged one," cried Fred, rushing up. "Why, man, you're
covered with ice! What's happened to you?"
"Been in the river," Peter managed to ejaculate. "Get my moccasins
off, boys--rub feet with snow. Afraid--I'm going--to lose toes!"
With exclamations of sympathy the boys got his frozen outer clothing
off,--broke it off, in fact, from the caked ice,--removed his moccasins
and socks, and rubbed his feet with snow. Several of the toes had
whitened, but they regained color after some minutes' rubbing, and
began to hurt excruciatingly. Peter squirmed with the pain.
"But I don't mind it," he said. "Rub away, boys. I certainly thought
I was going to lose part of my feet."
Perhaps the solid cake of ice that had instantly formed over his heavy
socks and moccasins had actually protected them from freezing. At any
rate, he got off much more easily than he would have thought possible.
The attack of the wolves had left little mark on him, either. He had a
few light lacerations on his hands and face, but for the most part the
beasts seemed to have laid hold on him where the thick, ice-caked cloth
was almost like armor plate. And no doubt the arrival of the pack had
saved him from death by freezing.
Fred dragged up the carcass of the fallen wolf and skinned its head and
ears for the Government bounty. The rest of the pelt was so terribly
torn with buckshot as to be worthless.
"Your scheme didn't work, Mac," he remarked.
"It did work. It worked only too well," Macgregor protested. "It's
the best scheme for catching wolves I ever heard of."
"You don't want to try it again, do you?"
"Well--that's a different thing!" he admitted. "No, I don't know that
I do. But if I hadn't gone through the ice we would probably have
bagged nearly the whole pack."
After thorough snow friction Mac considered it safe to approach the
fire by degrees. The ice thawed off his clothing, but left him wet to
the skin. It was certain that he ought to get back to the cabin and
dry clothing as soon as possible, and he thought he would be able now
to travel. It was less than two miles.
It proved a painful two miles, but he reached the cabin at last, where
his companions put him to bed in one of the bunks, covered him warmly,
and dosed him with boiling tea. It was then growing close to three
o'clock in the morning.
Naturally they did not get up as early as usual for breakfast.
Macgregor's feet were sore and somewhat swollen, but there was no
longer any danger of serious trouble. He had to remain in the cabin
that day and was unable to put on his moccasins, but he was much elated
at his luck in getting off so lightly. It was snowing and stormy,
besides; none of the boys went out much, except for the endless task of
cutting firewood. They lounged about the cabin and discussed the
problems that perplexed them so much--whether Horace had really
discovered any diamonds, and what had become of him, and how and
why--until the subject was utterly worn out. Maurice then made a
checkerboard, and they played matches till they wearied of this
amusement also.
The next day they had to fall back on it again, however, for the
weather was still stormy. During the afternoon it snowed heavily.
Mac's feet were much better, and he wore his moccasins, but judged it
unsafe to go out into the snow for another day. In the midst of the
storm Fred and Maurice cut down a couple of dead hemlocks, and chopped
part of them up for fuel. It was amazing to see what a quantity of
wood the rough fireplace consumed.
"If we had acres of diamond beds we couldn't afford such fires in
town," Maurice remarked.
The next day the weather cleared, but turned bitterly cold. In the
afternoon Maurice ventured out to look for game, and came back about
four o'clock with three spruce grouse and a frost-bitten nose. The
boys were all standing outside the cabin door, when Fred suddenly
started.
Round the bend a sledge had just appeared on the river. It was drawn
by six dogs, coming at a flagging trot through the deep snow; four men
on snowshoes ran behind and beside it. For a moment the men seemed to
hesitate as they caught sight of the hut. But they came on, turned up
the shore, and drove straight to the cabin at a gallop.
Three of the _voyageurs_ were plainly French Canadians, or possibly
French half-breeds, wiry, weather-beaten men, dark almost as Indians;
the fourth was big and heavily built, and wore a red beard that was now
a mass of ice. All of them wore cartridge belts, and four rifles lay
on the packed sledge.
"_Bo' jou'_!" cried the dark-faced men, as they came within hailing
distance.
"_Bon jour_!" Maurice shouted back. He was the only one who knew any
French, and he knew but little. He was searching his memory for a few
more words, when the red-bearded man came forward and nodded.
"Didn't know any one was living here this winter," he said. "Trapping?"
"Hunting a little," said Macgregor. "Unharness your dogs and come
inside. It's a cold day for the trail."
"You bet!" said one of the French, and they made no difficulty about
accepting the invitation. They rapidly unhitched the dogs, which had
sat down, snarling and snapping in their traces; then they unpacked the
sledge and carried the dunnage inside the cabin.
They were a wild-looking set. The French Canadians were probably
woodsmen, shanty-men or hunters, apparently good-natured and jovial,
but rough and uncivilized. The Anglo-Saxon, who seemed to be their
leader, was more repellent, and when he took off his _capote_, he
revealed a countenance of savage brutality, with small eyes, a cruel
mouth, and a protuberant jaw, framed in masses of bricky red hair and
beard.
"I don't much like the looks of this crowd!" Maurice whispered in
Macgregor's ear.
"Rough lot, but they'll be away in the morning," answered Peter.
In the North it is obligatory to be hospitable, and the boys prepared
to feed and entertain the party as if they were the most welcome
guests. At the usual time they prepared supper. The four newcomers
ate enormously. During the meal the red-bearded man explained that his
name was Mitchell, that he was "going north with these breeds," as he
rather vaguely put it, and that they had run somewhat short of
provisions.
Luckily, they had food for the dogs; one of the "breeds" presently
produced six frozen whitefish and carried them outside, where he gave
one to each dog with much dexterity. The fish were bolted in a
twinkling, and the unhappy brutes began to look for a sheltered spot
where they could sleep through the sub-Arctic night.
After supper the French, stuffed to repletion, lay back and engaged in
an animated conversation in a dialect that seemed to be a mixture of
French, English, and Ojibwa. They laughed uproariously, and seemed
thoroughly happy. But Mitchell said little, and continually examined
the interior of the hut with keen, restless eyes.
The next morning the visitors showed no anxiety to be off. They fed
the dogs, lounged about, smoked, and stayed until dinner time. After
dinner Mitchell announced that the dogs were tired, and would have to
rest that day.
It is very unusual to take a day off the trail for the sake of the
dogs, but the boys made no objection, although secretly much annoyed.
The presence of the strangers inspired them all with uneasiness.
Besides, they could not continue their search or speak freely of it.
The next morning the strangers said nothing about moving on. They sat
about the fire, and evading a suggestion that they help to cut wood,
played cards nearly all day.
"What's the matter with them? Are they going to stay here all winter?"
said Fred, in great irritation.
Certainly the dogs needed no more rest. They pervaded the place,
trying to bolt into the warm cabin whenever the door was opened, and
spending much time in leaping vainly but hopefully at the frozen
carcass of the deer, swung high on a bough in the open air.
The prodigious appetites of the newcomers had not diminished in the
least, and the carcass was rapidly growing less. The boys thought that
at the least their guests might help replenish the larder, and the next
morning Macgregor proposed that they all go after deer.
"No good to-day," said Mitchell gruffly. "Snow's coming. You boys go
if you want to. We'll mind camp."
That was the last straw; there was no sign whatever of storm. Peter
went out of the cabin to consult with his friends.
"They think we're greenhorns from the city, and they're trying to
impose on us!" he said angrily. "If they don't make a move by
to-morrow morning, I'll give them a pretty strong hint."
All the same, fresh meat had to be procured, and after dinner Macgregor
and Maurice took the two rifles and went back to the deer yard to see
if the herd might not have returned. Fred stayed to watch, for the
boys disliked to leave their guests alone.
The quartette were playing cards as usual, and Fred presently began to
feel lonely. After hanging about the hut for a time, he went out to
pass the time in cutting wood.
It was very cold, but he much preferred the outer air to the smoky
atmosphere of the shack, and he soon grew warm in handling the axe. He
spent nearly the whole afternoon at this exercise, and it was after
four o'clock when he finally reëntered the cabin.
He opened the door rather quietly, and was astounded at what he saw.
The card game had been abandoned. The shanty was in a state of
confusion and disorder. Blankets and bedding were strewn pell-mell;
the contents of the dunnage sacks were tossed upon the floor.
Everything movable in the place seemed to have been moved, and a great
part of the moss chinking had been torn from one of the walls, as if a
hurried and desperate search had been made for something.
And the object of the search had been found. The four men were bent
together over the table, watching intently, while Mitchell took
something from a small leather sack. They were all so feverishly
intent that Fred tiptoed up close behind them unobserved.
Mitchell was shaking out little lumps from the sack; each was wrapped
in paper, and each, when he unwrapped it, was a small pebble that
flashed fire.
Fred's heart jumped, and he gasped. The diamonds! Horace had really
found them, then! The sack seemed to contain a large handful--it was
appalling to think what they might be worth! And then it flashed upon
the boy with increased certainty that his brother must be dead, for
otherwise he would never have left them there.
Mitchell looked up and round at that instant. At his explosive oath,
the Frenchmen wheeled like a flash. For a moment there was a deathly
silence, while the four men glared at the boy with scowling faces.
Fred realized that not only the possession of the stones, but probably
his life, hung on his presence of mind.
"Those things are my brother's, Mr. Mitchell," he said, with an outward
coolness that astonished himself. "He hid them in this cabin. I don't
know how you came to find them, but I'll ask you to hand them back."
His voice broke the spell of silence. One of the French said something
in the ear of another, and then dropped quietly back toward the corner
where the men's four rifles stood together.
But Mitchell swept the pebbles together back into the bag. "Your
brother's?" he said. "Why, I bought 'em myself from a gang of Ojibwas
down on Timagami. Rock crystals they call 'em, and I reckon to get ten
or twelve dollars for 'em at Cochrane."
He spoke with such assurance that Fred was taken aback, and did not
know what to say. Then his eye fell on one of the scraps of paper in
which a stone had been wrapped. He leaned forward and picked it up.
"Did you put this on it?" he exclaimed indignantly. "Look! It's my
brother's handwriting. 'October second, Nottaway River, near Burnt
Lake,' it says. That's where he found it. And look at that!" He
swept his hand round the devastated cabin. "What did you tear the
place to pieces for if you weren't hunting for something?"
"They're mine, anyway," retorted the woodsman, slipping the precious
bag into his pocket. "Them papers was wrapped round 'em when I got
'em."
"Impossible!" said Fred. "I tell you--"
"Shut up!" said Mitchell suddenly, with a snarl.
A sense of his peril cooled Fred's anger like an icy douche, and he was
silent. There was death in the four grim faces that regarded him. He
had no doubt that the men would murder for a far less sum than the
value of that sackful of precious stones.
For an instant he thought hard. He was entirely unarmed, and the men's
rifles stood just behind them. He would have to wait for
reinforcements. It was surely almost time for Maurice and Peter to be
back, and they must be warned of the danger before they entered the
cabin.
"All right," he said, with sudden mildness. "If you can prove that the
stones are really yours, I'm satisfied. The sack looked like my
brother's, that's all."
Mitchell gave a contemptuous grin. The Canadians lighted their pipes
again.
Fred felt that they watched him closely, however. He lounged about the
cabin with assumed nonchalance for a quarter of an hour, and then
ventured to go out on the pretext of bringing in a fresh log for the
fire. But once outdoors, he put on his snowshoes and rushed down the
trail to intercept his friends.