[Illustration: 9087]
HERE was a sound of merriment on Farmer Bagley's place. It was “corn
shucking” night, and the young people from all sides had met to partake
of mirth and hospitality. After all had taken seats in the large sitting
room and parlor, the men were invited with a mysterious wink and grin
from the countenance of jovial Bagley to taste the contents of a large
brown jug which smiled on a shelf beside the water bucket out in the
entry. Its saturated corn-cob stopper, lying whiskey colored in the
moonlight by the side of the jug, gave a most tempting aroma to the
crisp, invigorating November air and rendered Bagley's signs and hints
all the more comprehensible.
They were mostly young men who, with clattering boots, filed out to the
shelf and turned, with smacking lips wiped on their hands, back to the
clusters of shy, tittering maidens round the blazing log fires. They
wore new jean trousers neatly folded round muscular calves and stowed
away, without a visible wrinkle, into high, colored-topped boots with
sharp, brightly-polished heels, upon which were strapped clanking spurs.
Their sack coats, worn without vests over low-necked woolen shirts,
fitted their strong bodies admirably.
Dick Martin, a tall, well-built young man with marked timidity in his
voice, considerably augmented by the brightness of Melissa Bagley's
eyes, drew near that young lady and said:
“Yore pap has certainly got some o' the best corn licker in this county,
Melissa; it liter'ly sets a feller on fire.”
“Be ashamed, Dick Martin!” she answered, with a cautious glance around
her as if she feared that someone would observe the flush that had
risen into her pretty face as he approached. “Be ashamed o' yorese'f fur
techin' licker; last log-rollin' you 'lowed you'd tuk yore last dram.
Paw ort to be churched fur settin' temptation 'fore so many young men.
Ef I had my way the' wouldn't be a still, wild cat nur licensed, in the
Co-hutta Mountains nowhar.”
“Shucks, Melissa!” exclaimed Dick. “Don't git yore dander up 'bout
nothin'. I'm that anxious to git yore pap on my side I'd drink slop,
mighty high, ef he 'uz to ax me. He don't like me, an' blame me ef I
know why, nuther. I ain't been here in the last three Sunday nights
'thout him a-callin' you to bed most 'fore dark. He didn't raise no
objections to Bill Miller a-stayin' tell 'leven o'clock last Tuesday
night. Oh, I ain't blind to hurt! Bill owns his own land and I havn't
a shovelful; thar's the difference. He's a-comin' now, but mind you I'm
agwine to set by you at shuckin'.”
The bright flush which had added such beauty to the girl's face vanished
as Bill Miller swaggered up and said with a loud voice, as he roughly
shook her hand:
“Meliss', kin I wait on you at shuckin'?”
“Dick's jest this minute axed me,” she stammered, beginning to blush
anew.
“Well, he ain't axed to set on both sides uv you, I reckon. You'd be a
uncommon quar pusson ef the' wuz jest one side to you. What's to keep me
frum settin' on tother side frum Dick?”
To this the farmer's daughter made no reply, and as the guests were now
starting to the barnyard she was escorted between the two rivals to the
great coneshaped heap of unhusked corn gleaming in the pale moonlight.
“All keep yore feet an' form a ring round the pile!” called out Bagley,
so as to be overheard above the sound of their voices. “The' ain't no
r'al fun 'thout everything is conducted fa'r and squar'. Now” (as all
the merrymakers stood hand in hand round the corn heap, Dick with one of
Melissa's hands in his tight clasp and his rival with the other)--“now,
all march round an' somebody start 'King William Wuz King James' Son,'
an' when I tell you to halt set down right whar' you are. I'm a-doin'
this 'kase at Wade's last week some fellers hid red yeers o' corn nigh
the'r places an' wuz etarnally a-kissin' o' the gals, which ain't fa'r
nur decent. The rule on this occasion shall be as common, in regard to
the fust feller that finds a red yeer o'corn bein' 'lowed to kiss any
gal he likes, but atter that one time--understand everybody--atter
that no bussin' kin take place, red yeer ur no red yeer. I advocate
moderation in all things, especially whar' a man an' woman's mouth is
con-sarned.”
While the musical tones of the familiar song were rising, and the straw
beneath the feet of the human chain was rustling, Bagley called aloud
the word: “Halt!” and all sat down immediately and went to work with
a will. Song after song was sung. The hard, pearly silk-tipped ears of
corn flew through the air and rained into the crib near at hand, and
billows of husks rolled up behind the eager workers and were raked away
by negroes who were not permitted to take part in the sport.
“Here's a red un, by hunky!” yelled out a sunburnt, downy-faced youth,
standing up and holding aloft a small ear of blood-red corn.
“Hold on thar!” shouted Bagley in commanding tones. “The rules must be
enforced to the letter. Jim Lash, ef yore yeer measures full six inches
ye're the lucky man, but ef it falls short o' that size its a nubbin an'
don't count.”
An eager group encircled the young man, but soon a loud laugh rose and
they all fell back into their places, for the ear had proved to be only
five inches in length.
“Not yit, Jimmy Lash; not yit,” grunted Dick Martin, as he raked an
armful of unhusked corn into his and Melissa's laps. Then to Melissa
in an undertone: “Ef wishin' 'u'd do any good, I'd be the fust to run
acrost one, fur, by jingo! the' ain't a livin' man, Melissa, that could
want it as bad as I do with you a-settin' so handy. By glory! [aloud]
here she is, as red as sumac an' as long as a rollin' pin. The Lord be
praised!” He had risen to his feet and stood holding up the trophy for
Bagley's inspection, fairly aglow with triumph and exercise.
The rustling in the corn husks ceased. All eyes were directed upon
the erect forms of Dick Martin and Farmer Bagley. The clear moonlight
revealed an unpleasant expression on the older man's face in vivid
contrast to the cast of the younger's. Bagley seemed rather slow to form
a decision; all present suspected the cause of his hesitation.
“Fair's fair, Bagley!” called out an old farmer outside of the circle.
“Don't belittle yorese'f by 'lowin' anything o' a personal natur' to
come in an' influence you ag'in right. Dick Martin's the fust an' is
entitled to the prize.”
“Yore right, Wilson,” admitted Bagley, with his eyes downcast. “Dick
Martin is the winner an' kin proceed; howsomever, thar's some things
that----”
Salute yore bride an' kiss her sweet,
Now you may rise upon yore feet!
sang the leader of the singers, completely drowning the remainder of
Bagley's sentence. As quick as a flash of lightning Dick had thrown his
arm round struggling Melissa and imprinted a warm kiss on her lips. Then
the workers applauded vociferously, and Melissa sat, suffused with
crimson, between sullen Bill Miller and beaming Dick Martin. Bagley
showed plainly that Dick's action and the applause of all had roused his
dislike for Dick even deeper than ever.
“I'm knowed to be a man o' my word,” he fumed, white in the face and
glancing round the ring of upturned faces. “I'm firm as firm kin be,
I mought say as the rock o' Bralty, when I take a notion. I've heerd a
leetle o' the talk in this settlement 'mongst some o' the meddlin' sort,
an' fur fear this leetle accident mought add to the'r tattle I'd jest
like to remark that ef thar's a man on the top side o' the earth that
knows what's to be done with his own flesh an' blood it ort to be me.
What's been the talk ain't so, not a speck of it. I've got somethin' to
say to----”
“Paw!” expostulated Melissa, almost crying.
“Mr. Bagley--I say, Abrum Bagley, don't make a born fool o' yorese'f,”
broke in Mrs. Bagley, as she waddled into the circle and laid her hand
heavily upon her husband's arm. “Now, folks, it's about time you wuz
gittin' somethin' warm into you. You kin finish the pile atter you've
eat. Come on, all hands, to the house!”
A shadow of mortification fell athwart Dick's honest face as soon as
Bagley had spoken. His sensitive being was wounded to the core. As he
and Melissa walked back to the farm house together, Bill Miller having
dropped behind to gossip with someone over Bagley's remarks, he was
silent, and timid Melissa was too shy to break the silence, although it
was very painful to her.
Reaching the entrance to the farm house, Dick held back and refused to
enter with the others.
“Ain't you gwine to come in an' have some supper?” Melissa asked,
pleadingly.
“I ain't a-goin' narry nuther step. Anything cooked in this house would
stick in my throat atter what's been said. He struck me a underhanded
lick. I won't force myse'f on 'im nur to his table.”
“I think you mought, bein' as I axed you,” said she tremblingly, as she
shrank into the honeysuckle vines that clung to the latticework of the
entry.
“No, blame me ef I do!” he answered firmly. “I'm of as good stock as
anybody in this county; nobody cayn't run no bull yearlin' dry shod over
me.”
All Melissa could do could not induce him to join the others in the
dining room, and when he walked angrily away she ran into her own room,
and sitting down in the darkness alone she burst into a flood of tears.
After supper the guests repaired again to the corn heap, but Melissa was
not among them, and the spirits of all seemed somewhat dampened.
After that night Dick Martin and Melissa Bagley did not meet each other
for several days. However, on the Sunday following the corn shucking, as
Melissa was returning from meeting through the woods alone, the very one
who was uppermost in her troubled mind joined her. He emerged from the
thick-growing bushes which skirted her path, with a very pale face and
unhappy mien.
“I jest couldn't wait another minute, Melissa,” he said, standing
awkwardly before her, “not ef I had to be shot fur it.”
“Paw's mighty stubborn an' contrary when he takes a notion,” she said,
with hanging head and an embarrassed kick of her foot at a tuft of
grass. “I think he mought let me alone. You ain't the only one he hates.
Thar's ol' man Lawson; law, he hates him wuss'n canker! I heerd 'im say
tother day ef somebody 'u'd jest beat Lawson shootin' next match he'd be
his friend till death. He ain't never got over his lawsuit with Lawson
over the sheep our dog killed. Paw fit it in court through three terms,
an' then had to give in an' settle the claim an' all the costs besides.
It mighty nigh broke im. Fur the last five years Lawson has driv home
the prize beef from the fall match, an' every time paw jest fairly
shakes with madness over it.”
When Dick left Melissa at the bars in sight of her house and turned
toward his home a warm idea was tingling in his brain, and by the time
he had reached his father's cottage he was fairly afire with it. The
shooting match was to take place in a month--what was to prevent him
from taking part in it? He had an excellent rifle, and had done some
good shooting at squirrels. Perhaps if he would practice a good deal
he might win. Lawson was deemed the best marksman in all the Cohutta
valleys, and frequently it had been hard to get anyone to enter a match
against him. Dick at last decided to enter the forthcoming match at
all events. He went into his cottage and took down his rifle from its
deer-horn rack over the door. While he was eyeing the long, rusty barrel
critically his old mother entered.
“Fixin' fur a hunt, Dick? Thar's a power o' pa'tridges in the sage
field down the hollar. A rifle ain't as good fur that sort o' game as a
shotgun; suppose you step over an' ax Hanson to loan you his'n?”
“I jest 'lowed I'd shine this un up a bit bein' as it's Sunday an' I
hate to be idle,” he answered, evasively, as he seated himself at the
wide fireplace with a pan of grease and a piece of cloth and rubbed his
gun barrel until it fairly shone in the firelight. The next morning he
threw it over his shoulder and, taking an axe in his hand, he started
toward the woods.
“Didn't know but I mought find a bee tree somers,” he said sheepishly,
as he saw his mother looking wonderingly at the axe. “Not likely, but
I mought, thar's no tellin', though the darn little varmints do keep
powerful close hid this time o' year.”
He went over the hills and through the tangled woods until he came to
a secluded old field. He singled out a walnut tree near its centre, and
going to it he cut a square white spot in the bark with his axe. It is
needless to detail all that took place there that day, or on other days
following it. For the first week the earnest fellow would return from
this spot each afternoon with a very despondent look upon him. As time
passed, however, and his visits to the riddled tree grew more frequent
his face began to grow brighter.
Once his mother came suddenly upon him as he stood in the cottage before
the open door with his rifle placed in position for firing. He lowered
his gun with a deep blush.
“I 'us jest a tryin' to see how long I could keep the sight on that shiny
spot out thar in the field without flinchin'. Blame me, ef you hadn't
come in I believe I could a helt her thar tell it thundered.”
“Dick,” said the old woman, with a deep breath, “what on earth has got
in you here lately? Are you gwine plump stark crazy 'bout that old gun?
You never tuk on that way before.”
“I've jest found out I'm purty good on a shot, that's all,” he replied,
evasively.
“Well,” said she, “as fur as that's concerned, in old times our stock
was reckoned to be the best marksmen in our section. You ort to be; yore
narrer 'twixt the eyes, an' that's a shore sign.”
Dick caught a glimpse of Melissa now and then, and managed to exchange
a few words with her occasionally, the nature of which we will not
disclose. It may be said, however, that she was always in good spirits,
which puzzled her father considerably, for he was at a loss to see why
she should be so when Dick had not visited her since the night of the
corn shucking. Moreover, she continually roused her father's anger by
speaking frequently of the great honor that belonged to Farmer Lawson
for so often Winning the prizes in the shooting matches.
“Dang it, Melissa, dry up!” he exclaimed, boiling with anger, “you know
I hate that daddrated man. I'd fling my hat as high as the moon ef some
o' these young bucks 'u'd beat him this fall; he's as full o' brag as a
lazy calf is with fleas.”
“No use a hopin' fur anything o' that sort, paw; Lawson's too old a
han'. He ain't got his equal at shootin' ur lawin.' The whole country
couldn't rake up a better one.” After speaking in this manner she would
stifle a giggle by holding her hand over her mouth until she was livid
in the face, and escape from her mystified parent, leaving him to vent
his spleen on the empty air.
The day of the annual shooting match drew near. It was not known who
were to be the participants aside from Lawson, for the others usually
waited till the time arrived to announce their intentions. No better
day could have been chosen. The sky was blue and sprinkled with frothy
clouds, and the weather was not unpleasantly cold. Women and men, boys,
girls and children from all directions were assembled to witness the
sport and were seated in chairs and wagons all over the wide, open
space.
Melissa was there in a cluster of girls, and her father was near by in
a group of men, all of whom--like himself--disliked the blustering,
boasting Lawson and fondly hoped that someone would beat him on this
occasion. Lawson stood by himself, with a confident smile on his face.
His rifle butt rested on the grass and his hands were folded across each
other on the end of his gun barrel.
“Wilks,” said he to the clerk of the county court, who had been chosen
as referee for the occasion, “git up yore list o' fellers that are bold
enough to shoot agin the champion. I reckon my nerves are 'bout as they
wuz six yeer ago when I fust took my stan' here to larn this settlement
how to shoot.”
Just before the list of aspirants was read aloud Dick managed to reach
Melissa's side unobserved by her father.
“Did you keep yore promise 'bout cut-tin' my patchin' fur me?” he asked
in a whisper.
With trembling fingers she drew from her pocket several little pieces
of white cotton cloth about the size of a silver quarter of a dollar and
gave them to him.
“They're jest right to a gnat's heel,” he said, warmly. “A ball packed
in one o' them'll go straight ur I'm no judge.”
“Dick,” whispered she, looking him directly in the eyes, “you ain't a
bit flustered. I believe you'll win.”
With a smile Dick turned away and joined the crowd round the referee's
chair, and when his name was called a moment later among the names of
four others he brought his rifle from a wagon and stood in view of
the crowd. The first applause given that day was accorded him, for in
addition to its being his first appearance in a shooting match he was
universally popular.
“Bully fur you, Dick; here's my han' wishing you luck!” said a
cheery-voiced farmer, shaking Dick's hand.
“It's the way with all these young strips,” said Lawson in a loud,
boastful tone. “Gwine to conquer the whole round world. He'll grin on
tother side o' his mouth when Bettie, the lead queen, barks and spits in
the very centre o' that spot out yander.”
A feeble murmur of admiration greeted this vaunting remark, but it
quickly subsided as the crowd noted that Dick Martin did not reply even
by so much as to raise his eyes from the inspection of his gun. The
referee called for order.
“Jim Baker,” said he, “be so kind as to drive round yore stall-fed
heifer. Ladies an' gentlemen [as a man emerged from a group of wagons
and drove a fine-looking young cow into the open space], here's a heifer
in fine enough order to make any man's eyes sore to look. Fifteen round
dollars has been paid in, by the five men who are to burn powder
to-day, $3 apiece, an' the man whose shootin' iron can fling lead
the straightest on this occasion is entitled to the beef and the
championship o' this valley till next fall. Now, Mr. Baker, lead out
yore cow, an' the shooters will please form in a line.”
When the aspirants stood in front of him the referee continued:
“Here is five pieces o' straw, all different lengths. The man who gets
the shortest one shoots fust, the next longest next, an' so on till
you've all had yore crack.”
Passing the straws to the riflemen, and af ter they had drawn one each
from his tightly closed hands, he ordered a man to set up the target--a
planed plank, about one foot in width and six in length, with a round
marked spot about three inches in diameter, near the top.
“I'd willin'ly give my chance o' oats to have some o' them boys knock
the stuffin' clean out'n Lawson; he's that stuck up he cayn't hardly
walk,” said Bagley, his anger intensified by observing the sneering
smile on Lawson's face.
“I'm mighty afeard,” said the man to whom Bagley was speaking, “that
Dick Martin 'll lose his $3. I never heerd o' him bein' any han' with a
gun.”
To this Bagley offered no reply. In his hatred for Lawson, and at such a
time he had no thought to give to Dick.
“All ready!” rang out the voice of the referee. “Bob Ransom gits the
first pull at trigger to-day.”
Silence fell on the crowd as the tall, slender young man stepped forth
and stood with his left foot on a line cut in the grass exactly 100
yards from the tree against which the yellow board with its single eye
leaned in the sunbeams. Not a whisper escaped the motionless assembly as
the young man slowly brought his weapon into position. “Crack!” sounded
the rifle out of a balloon-shaped cloud of blue smoke.
“Missed centre, board, tree an' all!” cried out Bagley, in a tone of
deep regret.
“I seed yore lead plough up the dirt away out tother side; it's powerful
hard to hold a steady han' when you are fust called on.”
“Next is Taylor Banks!” announced the referee; and as a middle-aged man
advanced and toed the mark, Lawson was heard to say, with a loud laugh;
“Fust one missed the tree; you folks on the left out thar 'u'd better
set back fur-der; no tellin' who Banks 'll hit, fur he's a-tremblin'
like so much jelly.”
“Hit about three inches due north o' the spot,” called out the referee,
as the smoke rose from the peering marksman. “I'm afraid, Tayl', that
somebody 'll come nigher than that when the pinch comes. Joe Burk is the
next, an' I'll take occasion to say here that I know of no man in all
this mountain country that is more prompt to pay his taxes.”
“Crack!” A universal bending of necks to get the target in better view
and a rolling billow of voices in the crowd.
“A inch an' a half below the spot!” proclaimed the referee. “Why,
friends, what ails you all? This ain't nigh such shootin' as we had last
fall. Too many women present, I reckon. Ladies, if you'll cover up yore
faces maybe the next two will do better. The straws say that Abraham
Lawson has the next whack. Lawson, make yore bow.”
The champion of the settlement stepped into view with a haughty strut,
dragging his rifle butt on the ground and swinging his broad-brimmed
hat carelessly in his hand. Turning to a negro behind him as he took his
place, he said so that all could hear:
“Tobe, git yore rope ready an' stan' over thar nigh the beef. When you
git 'er home turn 'er in the pastur'. Ef this thing goes on year atter
year I'll start a cattle ranch an' quit farmin'.”
“Dang his hide!” exclaimed Bagley to Melissa, who was very pale and
quite speechless. “Dang it, I'd lay this here right arm on any man's
meat block an' give 'im leave to chop it off ef he'd jest git beat. He's
that spiled flies is on 'im.”
Lawson's hat was now on the grass at his feet and he had deliberately
raised his brightly-polished weapon to his broad shoulder. The sun
glittered on the long steel tube. The silence for an instant was so
profound that the birds could be heard singing in the woods and the
cawing of the crows in the corn fields near by sounded harsh to the ear.
For an instant the sturdy champion stood as if molded in metal, his
long hair falling over his gun stock, against which his tanned cheek was
closely pressed. Not a sound passed the lips of the assembly, and when
the rifle report came it sent a twinge to many a heart.
“Dang it!” ejaculated Lawson, as he lowered his gun and peered through
the rising smoke toward the target. “I felt a unsteady quiver tech me
jest as I pulled the trigger.”
“About half an inch from the very centre o' the mark. Yore ahead. Nobody
is likely to come up to you, Lawson,” said the referee. “The' ain't but
one more.”
“I don't keer,” replied Lawson. “I know the cow's mine; but I did want
to come up to my record. I walked too fast over here an' it made me
unsteady.”
“The next an' last candidate for glory,” said the referee, “is Dick
Martin. No cheerin', friends, it ain't been give to the others and you
oughtn't to show partiality. Besides, it might excite him, an' he needs
all the nerve he's got.”
Bagley was still at Melissa's side. He had his eyes too intently fixed
on the stalwart form of Dick Martin and the young man's pale, determined
visage to note that his daughter had covered her pale face with her
cold, trembling hands and bowed her head.
“By Jinks! he's the coolest cucumber that's lifted shootin' iron
to-day,” said Bagley under his breath. “Ef he beats Lawson dagg me if I
don't give him a dance in my barn an' invite every man, woman an' child
in the whole valley.” With his left foot on the mark and his right
thrown back easily, as if he were taking a step forward, and his
well-formed body bent slightly toward the target, Dick stood motionless,
sighting along his gun barrel at the target. Then, to the surprise of
all, he raised his gun until it pointed to the top of the tree against
which the target leaned. Here a gentle sigh, born from the union of half
surprise and half disappointment, swept over the crowd as low as the
whisper of a breeze through a dry foliaged tree. The sigh died away and
intense silence claimed the moment, for the gun's point was sweeping
rapidly downward. Hardly a second did it pause in a line with the
target's centre before the report came, putting every breast in sudden
motion. The marker's eyes saw a clean splinter fly from the very centre
of the round.
“The beef is won by Dick Martin!” loudly proclaimed the referee.
“Whoopee! Glory! Glory!” The shout was from the lips of Bagley, and
in an instant he had stridden across to Dick with outstretched hand.
“Glory, Glory! Dick!” he exclaimed; “le'me have a hold o' yore fist.
Tell judgment day I'm yore friend. I've said some sneakin' underhand
things about you that's hurt yore feelin's an' I want to ax yore pardon.
Dang it! I cayn't harbor no ill will agin a feller that's beat Abrum
Lawson a-shootin'. Thank goodness you've fetched his kingdom to a end!”
When down-fallen Lawson had slunk away unnoticed from the enthusiastic
crowd who were eager to congratulate Dick, Bagley came up to him and
said:
“Dick, le'me have the honor o' drivin' the prize home fur you. Fur some
reason ur other you didn't stay to supper with us corn-shuckin' night;
Melissa's a waitin' fur you out thar in the bresh to ax you to come
home with us to-night. By glory, Tobe,” turning to Lawson's negro, “this
yer's the same identical beef Lawson ordered you to drive home an' put
in his pastur', ain't it? Well, you jest tell 'im his friend Bagley tuk
the job off'n yore han's.”
[Illustration: 0105]
MOERAN'S MOOSE--A HUNTING STORY, By Ed. W. Sandys.
|ONE of the best fellows among the hardy lot who have ran the trails
and paddled the lonely tributaries of the tipper Ottawa was Moeran.
No bolder sportsman ever went into the woods, and few, or none of the
guides or professional hunters could rival his skill with rifle or
paddle. The tough old “Leatherstockings” fairly idolized him, for he
got his game as they did, by straight shooting, perfect woodcraft, and
honest hard work; and most of them, while they usually charged a heavy
price for their services, would have gladly thrown in their lots with
him for an outing of a month or more, and asked nothing save what he
considered a fair division of the spoils. He was also a keen observer
and a close student of the ways of bird and beast. The real pleasure of
sport seemed to him to lie in the fact that it brought him very near to
nature, and permitted him to pore at will over that marvelous open page
which all might read if they chose, yet which few pause to study. His
genial disposition and long experience made him ever a welcome and
valuable companion afield or afloat, and the comrades he shot with
season after season would have as soon gone into the woods without their
rifles as without Moeran. Physically, he was an excellent type of the
genuine sportsman. Straight and tall, and strongly made, his powerful
arms could make a paddle spring, if need be, or his broad shoulders bear
a canoe or pack over a portage that taxed even the rugged guides; and
his long limbs could cover ground in a fashion that made the miles seem
many and long to whoever tramped a day with him.
And this was the kind of man that planned a trip for a party of four
after the lordly moose. Moeran had, until that year, never seen a wild
moose free in his own forest domain, and needless to say he was
keenly anxious to pay his respects to the great king of the Canadian
wilderness. He had been in the moose country many times while fishing
or shooting in the provinces of New Brunswick, Quebec, Ontario and
Manitoba; he had seen the slots of the huge deer about pool and stream,
on beaver meadow and brule; he had spent more than one September night
“calling,” with a crafty Indian to simulate the plaintive appeals of
a love-lorn cow; he had heard the great bulls answer from the distant
hills--had heard even the low, grunting inquiry a bull moose generally
makes ere emerging from the last few yards of shadowy cover, and
revealing himself in all his mighty strength and pride in the moonlit
open. More than once he had lain quivering with excitement and hardly
daring to breathe, close-hidden in a little clump of scrub, about which
stretched full forty yards of level grass on every side--lain so for an
hour with every nerve strained to the ready, with ears striving to catch
the faintest sound on the stillness of the night, and with eyes sweeping
warily over the expanse of moonlit grass and striving vainly to pierce
the black borders of forest, somewhere behind which his royal quarry was
hidden. Upon such occasions he had lain and listened and watched until
he fancied he could see the moose standing silently alert among the
saplings, with ears shifting to and fro and with keen nose searching the
air ceaselessly for trace of his mortal enemy. The occasional distant
rattle of broad antlers against the trees as the big brute shook himself
or plunged about in lusty strength had sounded on his ears, followed
by the faint sounds of cautiously advancing footsteps seemingly bent
straight toward the ambush. Then would follow a long agonizing pause,
and then a snap of a twig or a faint rustling told that the crafty bull
was stealing in a circle through the cover around the open space before
venturing upon such dangerous ground.
[Illustration: 0108]
At last a deathlike silence for many minutes, and then a faint, far snap
of twigs and “wish” of straightening branches as the great bull stole
away to his forested hills, having read in breeze or on ground a
warning of the foe concealed in the harmless scrub. All these were
disappointments, but not necessarily bitter ones. The long night-vigils
were after all rarely spent entirely in vain, for each brought to him
some new ideas, or let him a little further into the dark mysteries of
the great wild world's nightly moods and methods. The skilled craft of
his Indian “caller;” the strange voices of the night that came to his
ears, telling of the movements of creatures but seldom seen or heard by
day, were full of interest to a genuine woodsman. And then the fierce
though subdued excitement of the weird watch for the huge beast that
never came, and yet might come at any moment full into the silvery
moonlight from out the black belt of silent wood--these were each
fascinating to such a nature as his. But still he had never once seen
his long-looked-for game, though several seasons had slipped away and
the month of July, 18----, had come and half passed by. Then Moeran
got ready his fishing tackle and camping gear and vowed to find a good
district for the party to shoot over the coming season, even if he had
to remain in the woods an entire month. Right well he knew some of the
likeliest points in New Brunswick, Quebec and Manitoba, the eastern
portion of the latter province being the best moose country now
available, but none of them met the requirements of the party, and so he
decided to go into northern Ontario and prospect until he found what he
sought.
In the region of the upper Ottawa River, and in the wild lands about the
Mattawa River and about the lakes forming its headwaters, is a country
beloved of moose. Thither went Moe-ran, satisfied that his quest would
not be in vain. Early in the third week of July he and his Peterboro
canoe and outfit reached the railway station of North Bay, on the shore
of noble Lake Nipissing. While awaiting the arrival of the guide and
team for the next stage of his journey, he put rod together and strolled
out on the long pier which extends for a considerable distance into the
lake. Reaching the farther end and looking down into the clear, green
depths below, he saw watchful black bass skulking in the shadows, and
lazy pickerel drifting hither and thither, in and out, among the great
piles which supported the pier. To tempt a few of these to their doom
was an easy task, and soon the lithe rod was arching over a game black
gladiator and a master hand was meeting every desperate struggle of a
fighting fish, or slowly raising a varlet pickerel to his inglorious
death. In time a hail announced the arrival of the team, and after
presenting his captives to the few loungers on the pier, he busied
himself stowing canoe and outfit upon the wagon.
Their objective point was on the shore of Trout Lake, a lovely sheet
of water distant from Nipissing about four miles. The road was in many
places extremely bad and the team made slow progress, but there was
plenty of time to spare and about noon they reached the lake. The guide,
as guides are given to do, lied cheerfully and insistently every yard
of the way, about the beauty of the lake, the countless deer and grouse
upon its shores, the gigantic fish within its ice-cold depths, the game
he, and parties he had guided, had killed, and the fish they had caught.
He did well with these minor subjects, but when he touched upon moose
and bear he rose to the sublime, and lied with a wild abandon which made
Moeran seriously consider the advantage of upsetting the canoe later
on and quietly drowning him. But he was not so far astray in his
description of the lake. It formed a superb picture, stretching its
narrow length for a dozen miles between huge, rolling, magnificently
wooded hills, while here and there lovely islands spangled its silver
breast. After a hurried lunch they launched the good canoe, the guide
insisting upon taking his rifle, as, according to his story, they were
almost certain to see one or more bear. The guide proved that he could
paddle almost as well as he could lie, and the two of them drove the
light craft along like a scared thing, the paddles rising and falling,
flashing and disappearing, with that beautiful, smooth, regular sweep
that only experts can give. For mile after mile they sped along, until
at last they neared the farther end of the lake, where the huge hills
dwindled to mere scattered mounds, between which spread broad beaver
meadows, the nearest of them having a pond covering many acres near its
center. All about this pond was a dense growth of tall water-grasses,
and in many places these grasses extended far into the water which was
almost covered, save a few open leads, with the round, crowding leaves
of the water-lily. A channel, broad and deep enough to float the canoe,
connected this pond with the lake, and, as the locality was an ideal
summer haunt for moose, Moeran decided to investigate it thoroughly
and read such “sign” as might be found. Landing noiselessly, he and the
guide changed places, Moeran kneeling, forward, with the rifle on the
bottom of the canoe in front of him, where he alone could reach it.
“Now,” he whispered, “you know the route and how to paddle; work her up
as if a sound would cost your life. I'll do the watching.”
[Illustration: 0112]
Slowly, silently, foot by foot, and sometimes inch by inch, the canoe
stole up the currentless channel, the guide never raising his paddle,
but pushing with it cautiously against the soft bottom and lily-roots.
It was a good piece of canoe work, worthy even of Moeran's noted skill,
and he thoroughly appreciated it. By motions of his hand he indicated
when to halt and advance, while his eyes scanned sharply every yard of
marsh revealed by the windings of the channel. Not the slightest sound
marked their progress until they had almost entered the open water in
the center of the pond, and were creeping past the last fringe of tall
grass. Suddenly Moeran's hand signaled a halt, and the canoe lost its
slow, forward motion. He looked and looked, staring fixedly at a point
some twenty yards distant, where the growth of grass was thin and short
and the lily-pads denser than usual, and as he gazed with a strange
concentration, a wild light flashed in his eyes until they fairly blazed
with exultant triumph. Straight before him among the faded greens and
bewildering browns of the lily-pads was a motionless, elongated brown
object very like the curved back of a beaver, and a foot or more from
it, in the shadow of a clump of grass, something shone with a peculiar
liquid gleam. It was an eye--a great, round, wild eye--staring full into
his own--the eye of a moose--and the curving object like the back of
a beaver was naught else than the enormous nose, or muffle, of a
full-grown bull. Something like a sigh came from it, and then it slowly
rose higher and higher until the head and neck were exposed. The big
ears pointed stiffly forward, and the nose twitched and trembled for an
instant as it caught the dreaded taint; then with a mighty floundering
and splashing the great brute struggled to his feet. It was a grewsome
spectacle to see this uncouth creature uprise from a place where it
seemed a muskrat could hardly have hidden. For a few seconds he stood
still.
[Illustration: 0116]
“Shoot! Shoot!”
Moeran simply picked up the rifle and brought it level.
“Load! 'Tain't loaded--the lever--quick!”
He made no response, merely covered, first the point of the shoulder and
then the ear, and then, as the bull plunged for the shore, he covered
the shoulder twice more, then lowered the rifle, while a horribly
excited guide cursed and raved and implored by turns in vain. And just
how great was the temptation was never known, but it certainly would
have proved irresistible to most men who call themselves sportsmen. In
speaking about it afterward Moeran said: “It would have been a crime
to have murdered the beast under such conditions, and out of season. I
covered him fair four times, and could have dropped him dead where he
stood--but we'll attend to them later on.” For there were, in all, four
moose in the pond, and, shortly after the big bull commenced his noisy
retreat, a tremendous splashing and plunging from the other side of the
pond attracted their attention. They turned just in time to see a grand
old cow and two younger moose struggle through the last few yards of
mud and water, and then crash their way into the cover at the rapid,
pounding trot peculiar to the species.
Moeran's mission had been accomplished much easier than was expected,
and he certainly had discovered a most promising locality for the trip
with his friends. After a day spent fishing, he departed homeward,
leaving his canoe and camp outfit in charge of the guide, whom he also
bound by most solemn pledge neither to betray the secret of the beaver
meadow, nor to molest the moose himself, before Moeran and his friends
returned in time for the first lawful day.
The last day of the close season saw the party and the guide snugly
encamped at a point half-way down the lake. His three friends had
unanimously agreed that Moeran should have the honor of visiting the
beaver meadow first, and alone if he desired. He was the surest shot and
by far the best hand at this sort of business, and he had discovered the
moose, while all hands knew how keen he was to secure a head to his own
rifle. So at earliest dawn Moeran put lunch and rifle into his
shapely Peterboro and sped noiselessly away through the ghostly vapors
curtaining the sleeping lake, and they saw him no more for many hours.
The guide had questioned the others about their comrade's shooting (of
his ability at the paddle he had somewhat sorrowful remembrance), and
then, strange to say, had advised Moeran to go alone.
“So much more glory for you,” he said, “and I'll look after these other
gentlemen and give them a day's fishing.” But his manner was shifty, and
Moeran mistrusted him.
In due time he reached the little channel leading to the beaver meadow,
and, as the sun lifted clear of the distant hills, he began working his
way to the pond. He hardly expected to find the moose there then, but he
had made up his mind to steal into the high grass and hide and watch all
day, if necessary, and, at all events, study the thing out thoroughly.
As the sun rose higher a brisk breeze sprang up, but as it came from the
woods toward his station he did not mind, although it would have been
fatal to his chance, probably, had it come from any other point of
the compass. Presently his nose detected a strong, sickening odor of
carrion, which, in time, as the breeze gained force, became almost
overpowering, and he started to investigate. Paddling straight up-wind
he came at last to a small pool, and the trouble was explained. The
half-decomposed body of a full-grown cow moose lay in the pool and
Moeran muttered savagely his opinion of all such butchery when he saw
that not even the feet had been taken for trophies. Then he poled his
canoe to the edge of the meadow and scouted carefully entirely round the
open, seeking for any possible sign of the remainder of the quartet.
To his utter disgust he found the remains of another moose, one of the
younger animals, lying just within the borders of the cover, and, as in
the other case, the butcher had not troubled himself to take away any
portion of his victim. Moeran understood, of course, that the guide
had played him false, and if that worthy had been present he might have
seriously regretted his wrong-doing, for he it was who had guided a
learned and honorable (?) American judge to the sanctuary of the moose
a month previously, and, for a consideration of twenty-five dollars,
enabled his patron to gratify his taste for the shambles.
Moeran's careful search discovered no fresh sign, and he made up his
mind that the two survivors, the old bull and the yearling, had fled the
scene and had probably sought another expanse of beaver meadow and ponds
the guide had mentioned as being about ten miles from Trout Lake. Moeran
knew that some sort of a trail led thither, and he resolved to find it
and follow it to the end and endeavor to locate the moose.
Of the ensuing long, hard day's work it will be unnecessary to speak in
detail.
At nine o'clock that night his three friends sat near their roaring
camp-fire on the lake shore, wondering at his protracted absence. The
guide had turned in an hour previous, but the three were anxious, so
they sat and smoked, and discussed the question, piling great drift-logs
on their fire till it roared and cracked in fierce exultation and leaped
high in air to guide the wanderer home. Its long, crimson reflection
stretched like a pathway of flame far over the black waters of the lake,
and the three sat and waited, now glancing along this glowing path, anon
conversing in subdued tones. The lake was as still and dark as a lake
of pitch, and some way the three felt ill at ease, as though some evil
impended. At last the veteran of the trio broke a longer silence than
usual:
“Boys, I don't like this. It's ten o'clock and he should have been back
long ago. I hope to Heaven----”
A touch on his arm from the man at his right caused him to glance
quickly lakeward.
Forty feet from them, drifting noiselessly into the firelight, was the
Peterboro, with Moeran kneeling as usual and sending the light craft
forward in some mysterious manner which required no perceptible movement
of the arms nor lifting of the paddle. It was a fine exhibition of his
skill to thus approach unheard three anxious, listening men on such a
night, for he had heard their voices good two miles away. His appearance
was so sudden, so ghostlike, that for a few seconds the party stared in
mute surprise at the forms of man and craft standing out in sharp relief
against the blackness of the night; then a whoop of delight welcomed
him.
He came ashore, swiftly picked up the canoe and turned it bottom upward
on the sand for the night, carried his rifle into camp, then approached
the fire and looked sharply round.
“The guide's asleep.”
“Oh, he is; -------- him!” Then he flung himself down on the sand.
Something in his tone and manner warned his friends not to talk, and
they eyed him curiously. His face was white as death and drawn with an
expression of utter exhaustion, and marked with grimy lines, showing
where rivulets of sweat had trickled downward. As they looked, his eyes
closed; he was going to sleep as he lay.
Quietly the veteran busied himself getting food ready, and presently
roused the slumberer.
“Here, old chap, have a nip and eat a bite. Why, you're dead beat. Where
on earth have you been?”
A strangely hollow voice answered:
“To the back lakes.”
His listeners whistled a combined long-drawn “whew” of amazement, for
right well they knew the leagues of toilsome travel this statement
implied.
“See anything?”
“Wounded the old bull badly, and trailed him from the lakes to within
five miles of here. That cur sleeping yonder sold us; but you hear me!”
he exclaimed with sudden fierce energy, “_I'll get that moose if I have
to stay in the woods forever!_”
The three looked at him in admiring silence, for they guessed that,
in spite of his terrible day's work, he intended starting again at
daylight. In a few moments he finished his meal and staggered to the
tent, and fell asleep as soon as he touched his blanket.
When the party turned out next morning the canoe was gone, though the
sun was not yet clear, of the hills. After breakfast they started in
quest of grouse, working through the woods in the direction of the
beaver meadows, and finding plenty of birds. About ten o'clock they
heard the distant report of a rifle, followed in a few minutes by a
second, and the veteran exclaimed, “That's him, for an even hundred, and
he's got his moose, or something strange has happened.”
At noon they returned to camp laden with grouse. No sign of the canoe
as yet, so they had dinner, and lounged about and fished during the
afternoon, casting many expectant glances down the lake for the laggard
canoe. Night fell, with still no sound or sign of the wanderer, and
again the camp-fire roared and flamed and sent its glowing reflection
streaming far over the black waste of water. And again the three
sat waiting. At ten o'clock the veteran rose and said, “Keep a sharp
lookout, boys, and don't let him fool you again, and I'll get up a royal
feed. He'll have moose-meat in the canoe this time, for he said _he'd
get that moose if he had to stay in the woods forever_. He'll be dead
beat, sure, for he's probably dragged the head out with him.” So they
waited, piling the fire high, and staring out over the lake for the
first glimpse of the canoe. Eleven o'clock and midnight came and went,
and still no sign. Then they piled the fire high for the last time and
sought the tent. At the door the veteran halted, and laying a hand on
the shoulder of his chum, drew him aside.
“Why, whatever's the matter with you?”
The old man's face wore a piteous expression, and his voice trembled as
he whispered:
“Hush! Don't let _him_ hear you--but there's something wrong. Something
horrible has happened--I feel it in my heart.”
“Nonsense, man! You're sleepy and nervous. He's all right. Why, he's
just cut himself a moose steak, and had a feed and laid down----”
The sentence was never completed. A sound that caused both men to start
convulsively tore through the black stillness of the night. A horrible,
gurgling, demoniacal laugh came over the lake, and died away in fading
echoes among the hills. “Woll-oll-all-ollow-wall-all-ollow!” as though
some hideous fiend was laughing with his lips touching the water. They
knew what it was, for the loon's weird cry was perfectly familiar to
them, and they laughed too, but there was no mirth in their voices. Then
one sought the tent, but the veteran paced up and down upon the cold
beach, halting sometimes to replenish the fire or to stare out over the
water, until a pale light spread through the eastern sky. Then he too
turned in for a couple of hours of troubled, unrefreshing slumber.
The bright sunshine of an Indian summer's day brought a reaction and
their spirits rose wonderfully; but still the canoe tarried, and as the
hours wore away, the veteran grew moody again and the midday meal was a
melancholy affair. Early in the afternoon he exclaimed:
“Boys, I tell you what it is: I can stand this no longer--something's
wrong, and we're going to paddle those two skiffs down to the beaver
meadow and find out what we can do, and we're going to start right now.
God forgive us if we have been idling here while we should have been
yonder!”
Two in a boat they went, and the paddles never halted until the channel
to the beaver meadow was gained. Dividing forces, they circled in
opposite directions round the open, but only the taint of the long-dead
moose marked the spot. Then they fired three rifles in rapid succession
and listened anxiously, but only the rolling, bursting echoes of the
woods answered them.
“Guide, where would he probably have gone?”
“Wa'al, he told you he'd run the old bull this way from the back
lakes--thar's another leetle mash a mile north of us; it's an awful
mud-hole, and the bull might possibly hev lit out fur thar. Enyhow, we'd
best hunt the closest spots first.”
The picture of that marsh will haunt the memories of those three men
until their deaths. A few acres of muskeg, with broad reaches of sullen,
black, slimy water, its borders bottomless mud, covered with a loathsome
green scum, and a few pale-green, sickly-looking larches dotting the
open--the whole forming a repulsive blemish, like an ulcer, on the face
of the earth. All round rose a silent wall of noble evergreens, rising
in massive tiers upon the hills, with here and there a flame of gorgeous
color where the frost had touched perishable foliage. Overhead a
hazy dome of dreamy blue, with the sun smiling down through the gauzy
curtains of the Indian summer. Swinging in easy circles, high in air,
were two ravens, challenging each other in hollow tones, their orbits
crossing and recrossing as they narrowed in slow-descending spirals.
“Look, look at him!”
[Illustration: 0124]
One bird had stooped like a falling plummet, and now hung about fifty
yards above the farther bounds of the muskeg, beating the air with
heavy, sable pinions and croaking loudly to his mate above. Closing her
wings, she stooped with a whizzing rush to his level, and there the two
hung flapping side by side, their broad wings sometimes striking sharply
against each other, their hoarse, guttural notes sounding at intervals.
A nameless horror seized the men as they looked. Their hunter's instinct
told them that death lay below those flapping birds, and with one
impulse they hurried round on the firmer ground to the ill-omened spot.
The veteran, white-faced but active as a lad, tore his way through the
bordering cover first, halted and stared for an instant, then dropped
his rifle in the mud, threw up his hands and exclaimed in an agonized
voice:
“Oh, my God, my God!”
One by one they crashed through the brush and joined him, and stood
staring. No need for questions. Ten square yards of deep-trodden,
reeking mud and crushed grass, a trampled cap, and here and there a rag
of brown duck; a silver-mounted flask shining in a little pool of bloody
water; a stockless rifle-barrel, bent and soiled, sticking upright;
beyond all a huge, hairy body, and below it a suggestion of another body
and a blood-stained face, that even through its terrible disfigurement
seemed to scowl with grim determination. Throwing off their coats, they
dragged the dead moose aside and strove to raise Moeran's body, but in
vain. Something held it; the right leg was broken and they found the
foot fast fixed in a forked root the treacherous slime had concealed. In
the right hand was firmly clutched the haft of his hunting knife, and
in the moose's throat was the broken blade. The veteran almost smiled
through his tears as they worked to loosen the prisoned foot, and
muttered, “Caught like a bear in a trap; he'd have held his own with
a fair chance.” Carrying the poor, stamped, crushed body to the shade,
they laid it upon the moss and returned to read the story of the fearful
battle. To their hunter's eyes it read as plainly as printed page. The
great bull, sore from his previous wound, had sought the swamp. Moeran
had trailed him to the edge and knocked him down the first shot, and
after reloading had run forward to bleed his prize. Just as he got
within reach the bull had struggled up and charged, and Moeran had shot
him through the second time. Then he had apparently dodged about in the
sticky mud and struck the bull terrific blows with the clubbed rifle,
breaking the stock and bending the barrel, and getting struck himself
repeatedly by the terrible forefeet of the enraged brute. To and fro,
with ragged clothes and torn flesh, he had dodged, the deadly muskeg
behind and on either side, the furious bull holding the only path to the
saving woods. At last he had entrapped his foot in the forked root, and
the bull had rushed in and beaten him down, and as he fell he struck
with his knife ere the tremendous weight crushed out his life. The
veteran picked up the rifle-barrel, swept it through a pool and examined
the action, and found a shell jammed fast.
In despairing voice he said, “Oh, boys, boys, if that shell had but come
into place our friend had won the day, but he died like the noble fellow
he was!”
With rifles and coats they made a stretcher and carried him sadly out to
the lake.
“_He would get that moose, or stay in the woods forever!_”