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The hunt was nearly over, for the season's end was nigh. The
moose-birds had picked the last of the saskatoons, all the
spruce-cones were scaled, and the hunger-moon was at hand. But a
hopeful chickadee sang '_See soon_' as Yan set off one frosty day for
the great Spruce Woods. On the road he overtook a woodcutter, who told
him that at such a place he had seen two deer last night, a doe and a
monstrous stag with "a rocking-chair on his head."
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Straight to the very place went Yan, and found the tracks--one like
those he had seen in the mud long ago, another a large unmistakable
print, the mark of the Sandhill Stag.
How the wild beast in his heart did ramp--he wanted to howl like a
wolf on a hot scent; and away they went through woods and hills, the
trail and Yan and the inner wolf.
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All day he followed and, grown crafty himself, remarked each sign, and
rejoiced to find that nowhere had the deer been bounding. And when the
sun was low the sign was warm, so laying aside unneeded things, Yan
crawled along like a snake on the track of a hare. All day the animals
had zigzagged as they fed; their drink was snow, and now at length
away across a lawn in a bank of brush Yan spied a _something_ flash. A
bird perhaps; he lay still and watched. Then gray among the gray
brush, he made out a great log, and from one end of it rose two
gnarled oaken boughs. Again the flash--the move of a restless ear,
then the oak boughs moved and Yan trembled, for he knew that the log
in the brush was the form of the Sandhill Stag. So grand, so charged
with _life_. He seemed a precious, sacred thing--a king, fur-robed and
duly crowned. To think of shooting now as he lay unconscious,
resting, seemed an awful crime. But Yan for weeks and months had pined
for this. His chance had come, and shoot he must. The long, long
strain grew tighter yet--grew taut--broke down, as up the rifle went.
But the wretched thing kept wabbling and pointing all about the little
glade. His breath came hot and fast and choking--so much, so very
much, so clearly all, hung on a single touch. He laid the rifle down,
revulsed--and trembled in the snow. But he soon regained the mastery,
his hand was steady now, the sights in line--'twas but a deer out
yonder. But at that moment the Stag turned full Yan's way, with those
regardful eyes and ears, and nostrils too, and gazed.
"Darest thou slay me?" said an uncrowned, unarmed king once, as his
eyes fell on the assassin's knife, and in that clear, calm gaze the
murderer quailed and cowed.
So trembled Yan; but he knew it was only stag-fever, and he despised
it then as he came in time to honor it; and the beast that dwelt
within him fired the gun.
The ball splashed short. The buck sprang up and the doe appeared.
Another shot; then, as they fled, another and another. But away the
deer went, lightly drifting across the low round hills.
V
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He followed their trail for some time, but gnashed his teeth to find
no sign of blood, and he burned with a raging animal sense that was
neither love nor hate. Within a mile there was a new sign that joined
on and filled him with another rage and shed light on many a bloody
page of frontier history--a moccasin-track, a straight-set,
broad-toed, moosehide track, the track of a Cree brave. He followed in
savage humor, and as he careered up a slope a tall form rose from a
log, raising one hand in peaceable gesture. Although Yan was behind,
the Indian had seen him first.
"Who are you?" said Yan, roughly.
"Chaska."
"What are you doing in my country?"
"It was my country first," he replied gravely.
"Those are my deer," Yan said, and thought.
"No man owns wild deer till he kills them," said Chaska.
"You better keep off any trail I'm following."
"Not afraid," said he, and made a gesture to include the whole
settlement, then added gently, "No good to fight; the best man will
get the most deer anyhow."
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And the end of it was that Yan stayed for several days with Chaska,
and got, not an antlered buck indeed, but, better far, an insight into
the ways of a man who could hunt. The Indian taught him _not_ to
follow the trail over the hills, for deer watch their back track, and
cross the hills to make this more easy. He taught him to tell by touch
and smell of sign just how far ahead they are, as well as the size and
condition of the deer, and not to trail closely when the game is near.
He taught him to study the wind by raising his moistened finger in the
air, and Yan thought, "Now I know why a deer's nose is always moist,
for he must always watch the wind." He showed Yan how much may be
gained at times by patient waiting, and that it is better to tread
like an Indian with foot set straight, for thereby one gains an inch
or two at each stride and can come back in one's own track through
deep snow. And he also unwittingly taught him that an Indian _cannot_
shoot with a rifle, and Natty Bumpo's adage came to mind, "A white man
can shoot with a gun, but it ain't accordin' to an Injun's gifts."
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Sometimes they went out together and sometimes singly. One day, while
out alone, Yan had followed a deer-track into a thicket by what is
now called Chaska Lake. The sign was fresh, and as he sneaked around
there was a rustle in the brush. Then he saw the kinnikinnick boughs
shaking. His gun flew up and covered the spot. As soon as he was sure
of the place he meant to fire. But when he saw the creature as a dusky
moving form through the twigs, he awaited a better view, which came,
and he had almost pulled the trigger when his hand was stayed by a
glimpse of red, and a moment later out stepped--Chaska.
"Chaska," Yan gasped, "I nearly did for you."
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For reply the Indian drew his finger across the red handkerchief on
his brow. Yan knew then one reason why a hunting Indian always wears
it; after that he wore one himself.
One day a flock of prairie-chickens flew high overhead toward the
thick Spruce Woods. Others followed, and it seemed to be a general
move. Chaska looked toward them and said, "Chickens go hide in bush.
Blizzard to-night."
It surely came, and the hunters stayed all day by the fire. Next day
it was as fierce as ever. On the third day it ceased somewhat, and
they hunted again. But Chaska returned with his gun broken by a fall,
and after a long silent smoke he said:
"Yan hunt in Moose Mountain?"
"No!"
"Good hunting. Go?"
Yan shook his head.
Presently the Indian, glancing to the eastward, said, "Sioux tracks
there to-day. All bad medicine here." And Yan knew that his mind was
made up. He went away and they never met again, and all that is left
of him now is his name, borne by the lonely lake that lies in the
Carberry Hills.
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