A NIGHT ON THE SANDS
There was a sprinkle of snow upon the ground, and the boys were working
in Mr. Oliver's slashing one afternoon a week after their visit to Mr.
Webster's ranch when Harry, who had just hauled up a log, stopped his
oxen and addressed his father.
"It looks as if it would be a fine night," he remarked.
"Yes," said Mr. Oliver. "I've no fault to find with the weather. We'll
get most of the logs piled for burning if it lasts."
Harry smiled at Frank. "Dad's slow to take a hint. I wasn't thinking of
the logs."
"I can believe it," Mr. Oliver retorted. "Anyway, they have to be hauled
out, and it's easier to do it now than when the soil's soft and boggy."
Frank, who had been heaving the sawed trunks on top of one another with
Jake, agreed with the rancher. The big masses of timber slid easily over
the snow and they were clean to handle, which was something to be
thankful for after the difficulty they had had in moving them when they
were foul with clotted mire. The frost, as he had discovered, seldom
lasted long in that country, but it was very cold and the firs towered
flecked with snow against a clear blue sky.
"I was wondering if there was any reason why we shouldn't try to get a
duck to-night," said Harry. "We won't go near the island where the cache
is. There's a flat behind the other one to the southward."
"I can think of one reason," his father answered. "You won't feel like
working to-morrow, and there's a good deal of log-hauling to be done."
"We'll be ready to start as usual," persisted Harry.
"Then you can go on that condition, but you'll have to stick to it. I
don't mind your getting a few hours' shooting now and then, but I expect
you to be ranchers first of all when there's work on hand."
Harry repeated his assurance and Mr. Oliver made no more objections.
When they had heaved up the next log Jake turned to the boys.
"There'll be a moon and I guess you're not going to do much on the
flats," he said. "You want to cut two very short paddles and put some
spruce brush that you can lie on in the canoe. Then if you keep quite
flat you might creep up on a flock of ducks in one of the channels. You
can't do it if you use the ordinary paddle kneeling."
He split them two flat slabs off the butt of a cedar, but Mr. Oliver,
who was chopping nearby, looked around when Harry began to hack them
into shape.
"What are those for?" he asked.
"Paddles," Harry answered with some hesitation.
"You're logging just now," said his father dryly. "I want another tier
put up before it's dark."
Harry laid down the half-finished paddles and grinned at Frank.
"I guess dad's quite right, but his way of staying with it gets riling
now and then."
Frank laughed. One day when Harry had hurt his knee and there was no
work of any consequence on hand, Mr. Oliver had taken him out into the
bush, and the boy had a painful recollection of the journey they had
made together. No thicket was too dense or thorny for the rancher to
scramble through, and he prowled about the steepest slopes and amongst
the thickest tangles of fallen logs with the same unflagging persistency
until at the first shot he killed a deer. Mr. Oliver was, as his son
and Jake sometimes said, a stayer, one who invariably put through what
he took in hand. He was the kind of person Frank aspired to become,
though he was discovering that he was not likely to accomplish it by
taking things easily. Success, it seemed, could only be attained by
ceaseless effort and constant carefulness.
He went on with the logging, though the work was remarkably heavy, and
it was an occupation he had no liking for, but he helped Harry to finish
the paddles after supper. Then they carried a bundle of spruce twigs
down to the canoe, and, though there was not much wind, tied a reef in
the sloop's mainsail, which Mr. Oliver had insisted on before they
loosed the moorings.
An hour later and shortly before low water they let go the anchor in a
lane of water which wound into a stretch of sloppy sand. It was just
deep enough for the sloop to creep into with her centerboard up, and the
flats ran back from it into a thin mist on either side. It was very cold
and the deck glittered in the pale moonlight white with frost. Frank
stood up looking about him while Harry arranged the twigs in the canoe,
but there was very little to see. The sky was hazy, the moon was
encircled by a halo, and wet sand and winding water glimmered faintly.
At one point he could dimly make out the dark loom of an island, but
there was no sign of the beach in front of him. Though he could feel a
light wind on his face, it was very still, except for the ripple of
water and the occasional splash of undermined sand falling into the
channel, which seemed startlingly distinct. Once he heard a distant
calling of wildfowl, but it died away again.
Dropping into the canoe when his companion was ready he took up one of
the longer paddles. The water was quite smooth and they made good
progress, but Harry did not seem satisfied.
"If I'd had any sense I'd have brought a pole to shove her with," he
complained. "It's handier in shallow water and the ducks seem to be a
long way up. A creek that runs out on the beach makes this channel."
Frank paddled on, watching the sloppy banks slide by and the palely
gleaming strip of water run back into the haze in front of him until at
last it forked off into two branches.
"We'll try this one," said Harry. "I believe it works right around
behind the island. The flood should come up that end first, and it ought
to drive the feeding birds back over the sands to us."
The water got deeper as they proceeded, for Frank could feel no bottom
when he sank his blade, but there was no sign of any duck until at last
they heard a faint quacking in the mist. Soon afterward there was a
shrill scream as a flock of some of the smaller waders wheeled above
their heads.
"Now," said Harry, "we'll try Jake's idea. If the ducks aren't on the
water they'll be along the edge of it where the bank's soft. You don't
often find them feeding where the sand's dry and hard."
They placed the guns handy, and lying down upon the spruce brush dipped
the short blades. Frank found the position a very uncomfortable one to
paddle in, and he could not keep his hands from getting wet, though the
water was icy cold. They were fast becoming swollen and tingled
painfully in the stinging frost. Still, the boys made some progress, and
at last looking up at a whisper from Harry, Frank saw a dark patch upon
the water some distance in front of him. Harry edged the canoe closer in
with the bank, which had a slope of two or three feet on that side.
After that they crept on slowly, because they dared not use much force
for fear of splashing, and Frank's wet fingers were rapidly growing
useless. The ducks became a little more distinct and he could see other
birds moving about in the faint gleam on the opposite bank. Some of
them, standing out against the wet surface, looked extraordinarily
large, though he could not tell what they were.
At last a sudden eerie screaming broke out close ahead and Frank started
and almost dropped his paddle as a second flock of waders rose from the
gloom of the bank. They flashed white in the moonlight as they turned
and wheeled on simultaneously slanted wings. Then they vanished for a
moment as their dusky upper plumage was turned toward the boys, gleamed
again more dimly, and the haze swallowed them. They had, however, given
the alarm, and the air was filled with the harsh clamor of startled
wildfowl.
"Now!" cried Harry. "Before the ducks get up!"
Frank flung in his paddle and pitched his gun to his shoulder, with the
barrel resting on the side of the canoe. It sparkled in the moonlight,
distracting his sight, and stung his wet hand, but he could see dark
bodies rising from the water ahead. As he pressed the trigger Harry's
gun blazed across the bows, and following the double crash there was an
outbreak of confused sound, the sharp splash of webbed feet that trailed
through water, a discordant screaming, and the beat of many wings.
Indistinct objects whirled across the moonlight and as Frank with
stiffened fingers snapped open the breach Harry's gun once more flung
out a train of yellow sparks. Then the smoke hung about them smelling
curiously acrid in the frosty air and they seized the paddles to drive
the canoe clear of it. When they had left it behind them the lane of
water was empty except for one small dark patch upon it, and the clamor
of the wildfowl was dying away. They had paddled a few yards when Frank
made out that something was stumbling away from them along the shadowy
bank, but they were almost abreast of it before he could get another
shell into the chamber. The bird lay still when he fired, and Harry
picked up the duck on the water, after which he ran the canoe ashore.
"So far as I could see, the rest of them headed across the flat toward
the other channel," he said. "It looks soft here, but, as you'll have to
get out to pick up the duck yonder, it might be a good idea if you
followed them over the sand. I'll work along the creek and it's likely
that any birds I put up will fly over you."
This seemed possible to Frank, who realized that the walk would warm
him, and he stepped out of the canoe into several inches of slushy sand.
Floundering through it, he picked up the duck and threw it to Harry, who
shoved the canoe out.
"I won't go far and you had better head back toward the forks in half an
hour or so," he said. "I'll probably be waiting."
The canoe slid away, and Frank felt sorry that he had left her when he
reached the harder top of the bank. The level flat which stretched away
before him into the mist looked very desolate, and the deep stillness
had a depressing effect on him. He also remembered that in another hour
or less the flood tide would come creeping back across the dreary waste.
He could, however, think of no reasonable excuse for rejoining his
companion, and turning his back on the channel he set out across the
sand. Nothing moved upon it as he plodded on, the silence seemed to be
growing deeper, and he had an idea that the haze was denser than it had
been. Still, he determined to make the round Harry had suggested and
quickened his pace.
It was some time later when he heard a double report that sounded a long
way off and he stopped to listen, when the clamor of the wildfowl broke
out again. It died away, but he fancied that a faint, rhythmic sound
stole out of the silence that followed it. A minute later he was sure
that a flight of ducks was crossing the flat and, what was more, that
the birds were heading toward him. As yet he could see nothing of them,
for there was now no doubt that the mist was thicker. He crouched down
as the sound increased, as it occurred to him that he would be too
plainly visible standing up in the moonlight on the level flat.
The sound drew nearer, growing in a steady crescendo until he wondered
that a duck's wing could make so much noise, and at last a number of
shadowy objects broke out of the mist, flying low and swiftly in regular
formation. The gun flashed, and the ducks swept on and vanished, all but
one which came slowly fluttering down out of the mist.
Frank spent nearly a minute fumbling with stiffened fingers while he
crammed in another shell, and then saw that the duck was running across
the sand some way off. Closing the breach he set off after it, and had
got a little nearer when it rose, fluttered awkwardly, and fell again,
though it was able to make good progress on its feet. Twice he got
within sixty yards of it, but on one occasion it flew a little way, and
on the second it swam across a long pool which he had to run around.
Indeed, it led him a considerable distance before he brought it down.
Picking it up he stopped and looked about him. It was pleasant to feel a
little warmer, but there was nothing to guide him toward the other fork
of the channel except the drift of the mist and the chill of the wind
upon one side of his face, and he could not be sure that the wounded
bird had led him straight. The flat was level and bare except for little
pools of water on which were glistening filaments of ice. It was,
however, too cold to stand still with wet feet and consider, and
deciding that the sooner he got down to the forks the sooner he would be
back on board the sloop, he set off briskly. He had had enough of
wandering about that desolate waste.
At last, to his relief, he saw a faint silvery glimmer ahead in the
mist, and turning off he struck the channel a little lower down. There
was no sign of a duck or anything else, but he was by no means sorry
for this, for his one idea was to get back to the forks as soon as
possible, and the surest way of doing it was to follow the creek. It
appeared to be a considerable distance, though he walked as fast as he
could, splashing straight through shallow pools and slipping in
half-frozen mud, and when at last he reached the spot where the channels
branched off he could see nothing of Harry or the canoe. What troubled
him almost as much was the fact that the stream was now flowing inland,
and after a quick glance at it he shouted with all his might. His voice
rang along the water and level sand, but though he called again no
answer came out of the drifting mist. Then he slipped his hand into his
pocket to get a cartridge and drew it out again with an exclamation of
disgust, recollecting that he had only picked up three or four loose
shells in the canoe.
For a moment he stood still considering, and it occurred to him that the
situation was not a pleasant one. The flood tide was making and he did
not know how far off the beach was, while he had no desire to spend the
night in the woods. He could not see the island, and in order to reach
it he would have to cross the main channel, which, as he remembered, was
moderately deep. On the whole it seemed wiser to wade through the
smaller fork and, if Harry did not overtake him in the meanwhile, try to
get on board the sloop. She would float in very shallow water with her
centerboard up, and he had touched bottom with the canoe paddle a few
yards away from her.
When he had arrived at this decision he plunged into the water, which
immediately rose above the top of his long boots. It was horribly cold,
but this caused him less concern than the fact that it rippled strongly
against his legs, which made it clear that he must get down to the sloop
as fast as possible. He was over his knees before he got across, and
then he ran his hardest along the edge of the channel, which seemed to
be growing wider at every moment. The palely gleaming water was
perfectly smooth, but it was moving with an ominous speed.
He grew breathless, but he did not slacken the pace. He went straight,
splashing through trickling water and into pools, while he strained his
eyes for the first glimpse of the sloop, but he could only see the mist
which hid the sand thirty or forty yards in front of him. At last he
made out a strip of something solid low down ahead and then what seemed
to be a mast, and a few moments later he stopped at the water's edge.
There was nothing but water in front of him and it was no longer quite
smooth. Little ripples ran along the sand, and one broke about his feet
while he gazed at them. It did not recede but splashed on, and when he
looked around there was at least a yard of water behind him. Then he
struggled with a paralyzing sense of dismay, and strove to keep his
head. It was necessary to think and think very hard.
He could not wait where he was with the water deepening about him;
while, if he went back and did not find Harry before he reached it, the
creek, which he would no longer be able to cross, would head him off. If
he followed it up on the near side it would take him away from the
canoe, and he did not know how far off the beach was. There was
evidently only one thing to be done and that was to get on board the
sloop even if he had to swim.
She seemed a horribly long way out, but he splashed in hurriedly, afraid
to wait a moment lest his resolution should melt away, and he was soon
waist-deep with a strong stream swirling around him. It was almost
impossible to keep his feet, the gun hampered him, and the coldness of
the water seemed to check his breathing and take the power out of his
limbs. He could not go back, however, and face a journey through the
mist across the waste of sand, and setting his lips he struggled on.
Twice he was almost swept away, but at last making a savage effort he
clutched the stern of the craft and scrambled up on to her deck.
The first thing he did was to light the stove, and when a pleasant
warmth began to fill the cabin he was conscious of a strong desire to
sit still and dry his clothes. That, unfortunately, was out of the
question, and he reluctantly crawled out and stood up on deck. There was
nothing but water around him now. It stretched back on every side into
the mist, and the only sounds were the soft lap of the tide and the
ripple it made flowing over thinly covered sand. Then having already
decided that Harry would have some difficulty in paddling against the
stream, he set about getting sail upon the craft to go in search of the
canoe.
The mainsail looked remarkably big and heavy, and he was thankful that
there was a reef in it, which made the task a little easier before he
got it up. Then he spent several minutes in very hard work heaving the
boat up to her anchor, and bruised his swollen hands in the determined
effort it cost him to break it out. After that he set the jib and the
sloop slid gently away with the wind abeam of her. He did not know
exactly where she was going, but he shouted as loudly as he could every
now and then, and at last there was a faint answering cry.
He called again and the cry rose more clearly, after which he hauled the
sheet and changed his course, and by and by the canoe appeared out of
the haze close ahead. A few moments later Harry paddled alongside, and
handing up the ducks and his gun made the canoe fast before he turned to
Frank.
"Do you know where you're heading for?" he asked.
"No," Frank confessed. "I've only a notion that it's in toward the
land."
"Then we'll drop the jib and pitch the anchor over. We'll have to wait
until the stream slackens before we get out again."
They followed his suggestion and Frank was glad indeed to creep back
into the cozy cabin.
"This is uncommonly nice," drawled Harry, sitting down with a smile of
content. "It was horribly cramping in the canoe and my hands were 'most
too cold to paddle."
"What kept you?" inquired Frank.
"I must have gone farther than I intended and when I turned back the
tide was running up so strong I could hardly make head against it. I was
getting scared about you when I reached the forks and saw how the water
was spreading on the sand. After that I didn't spare myself, but I was
mighty glad to hear your shout."
"Did you get any more ducks?"
"No," said Harry, "I had only one shot--a long one."
Frank, who told him to make some coffee, stripped off part of his
clothes and dressed himself in an old blanket, after which they sat
beside the stove for an hour or so, until Harry crawled out and said
that there was a little more wind and the mist was thinning.
Shortly after this they heaved the anchor and started again, but once
more the wind fell light and a couple of hours had passed and they were
almost frozen when they reached the cove below the ranch. The house was
dark when they crept into it and went straight to bed, while it cost
Frank a determined effort to get up before daylight next morning. His
clothes were still damp and he felt sore and aching, but he took his
place with the others when they sat down to breakfast.
Logging seemed a particularly unpleasant task that day, but he had to go
on with it, and he fancied that Mr. Oliver, with whom it was necessary
to keep pace, worked harder than he usually did. Frank was completely
exhausted when as darkness fell they went back to the ranch.
"Are you going out again after ducks to-night?" Mr. Oliver asked him.
"No," said Frank ruefully, "I feel as if it would take me a week to get
over the last trip."
"I'm not very much astonished," Mr. Oliver answered with a soft laugh.
"Still, I don't mind admitting that you stood up to your work to-day."