him, fer he ain't skeered of nothin' that goes on legs!"
An hour later, when the boy was getting very drowsy from watching the
ceaseless procession of dark fir-trees, his father nudged him, and
whispered, "Look!" The boy, wide awake on the instant, peered into the
gloom, and presently his trained young eyes made out a shadowy,
slouching form, that flitted without a sound from tree to tree.
"Lucivee?" he asked, breathless with interest, laying his mittened
hand on his little rifle under the blankets.
"Yes, lucivee! lynx!" answered the father.
"Let me take a shot at him," said the boy, removing the mitten from
his right hand, and bringing out his weapon.
"Oh, what's the good o' killin' the beast Christmas times!" protested
the father, gently. And the boy laid down the gun.
"What does he think he's follerin' us fer?" he inquired, a moment
later.
"The moose-meat, maybe!" replied the man. "He smells it likely, an'
thinks we're goin' to give it to him for a Christmas present!"
At this suggestion the boy laughed out loud. His clear young voice
rang through the frosty shadows; and the lynx, surprised and
offended, shrank back, and slunk away in another direction.
"Bloodthirsty varmints, them lucivees!" said the boy, who wanted a
lynx-skin as a trophy. "Ain't it better to shoot 'em whenever one gits
the chance?"
"Well," said the father, dubiously, "maybe so! But there's better
times fer killin' than Christmas times!"
A little farther ahead, the road to Brine's Brook turned off. Here the
going was very heavy. The road was little travelled, and in places
almost choked up by drifts. Most of the time the horses had to walk;
and sometimes the man and boy had to get out and tramp a path ahead of
the discouraged team.
"At this rate, dad, we ain't a-goin' to git home in time fer
breakfast!" exclaimed the boy, despondently. To which the man replied,
"Don't you fret, son! It'll be better goin' when we git over the rise.
You git into the pung now an' take the reins, an' let me do the
trampin'."
The boy, who was tired out, obeyed gladly. He gathered up the
reins,--and in two minutes was sound asleep. The man smiled, tucked
the blankets snugly around the sleeping form, and trudged on
tirelessly for a couple of hours, the horses floundering at his
heels. Then the drifts ceased. The man kicked the snow from his
trousers and shoe-packs, and climbed into the pung again. "We'll make
it in time fer breakfast yet!" he murmured to himself, confidently, as
the horses once more broke into a trot.
They were traversing now a high table-land, rather sparsely wooded,
and dotted here and there with towering rampikes. Suddenly from far
behind came a long, wavering cry, high-pitched and peculiarly
daunting. The horses, though they had probably never heard such a
sound before, started apprehensively, and quickened their pace. The
man reined them in firmly; but as he did so he frowned.
"I've hearn say the wolves was comin' back to these here parts," he
muttered, "now that the deer's gittin' so plenty agin! But I didn't
more'n half-believe it afore!"
Presently the grim sound came again. Then the man once more awoke the
boy.
"Here's somethin' to interest you, lad," said he, as the latter put a
mittened fist to sleepy eyes. "Hark to that there noise! Did you ever
hear the like?"
The boy listened, paled slightly, and was instantly wide awake.
"Why, that's like what I've read about!" he exclaimed. "It must be
wolves!"
"Nary a doubt of it!" assented his father, again reining the uneasy
horses down to a steady gait. "They've followed the deer back, and
now, seems like their a-follerin' us!"
The boy looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, carelessly:
"Oh, well, I reckon there's deer a-plenty for 'em, an' they're not
likely to come too nigh us, lookin' fer trouble. I reckon they ain't
much like them Roosian wolves we read about, eh, dad?"
"I reckon," agreed the father. At the same time, it was with a certain
satisfaction that he set his foot on his trusty axe, amid the straw in
the bottom of the pung.
As the high, quavering voices drew nearer, the horses grew more and
more alarmed; but the man soothed them with his voice, and sternly
held them in, husbanding their strength lest there should be more
heavy going farther ahead. At length, some three hundred yards behind
them, they caught a glimpse of their pursuers, four swiftly running
shapes.
"Only four!" cried the boy, scornfully, as he patted his little
rifle. "I thought there was always more'n that in a pack!"
"You needn't grumble," said the man, with a grin. "It's gittin' home
fer breakfast we're after, not fightin' wolves, son!"
The road was so much better now that the man gave the horses their
head a little, and the pung flew over the singing snow. But in a few
minutes the four wolves, though keeping a distance of a couple of
hundred yards, were running abreast of them. The animals were
evidently unacquainted with horses or men, and shy about a close
investigation. The sled-bells, too, were to them a very suspicious
phenomenon. Deer, assuredly, were safer hunting; but they would, at
least, keep this strange, new kind of quarry in sight for awhile, to
see what might turn up.
For the next half-hour there was no change in the situation. From time
to time, where the woods thickened, the wolves would draw nearer to
the pung; and the boy, with shining eyes, would lift his rifle. But
presently they would sheer off again; and the boy grew more and more
scornful. Then came the winter dawn, a creeping, bitter gray, and for
a few minutes the forest was an unreal place, full of ghosts, and cold
with a cold to pierce the soul. Then, a growing, spreading, pervading
glory of pink and lilac and transparent gold. As the light streamed
through the trees, the wolves got a clearer view of their quarry; and
perceiving in it a something distinctly dangerous, they dropped the
chase and faded back into the thickets. The man looked at the boy's
disappointed face, and said, smilingly:
"I reckon they was extry-ordinary civil, seein' us home that way
through the woods!"
A few moments later the woods were left behind, and the travellers
came out among the snowy stump-fields. There below them, half-way down
the hill, was home, bathed in the sparkling sun. Smoke was pouring
cheerfully from the chimney; and there in the yard was grandfather,
bringing in a pail of milk from the barn.
"Mother'll have breakfast jest about ready!" cried the man, his rough
face tender and aglow.
"But I wisht I could've brought her a nice wolf-skin for Christmas!"
exclaimed the boy, sighing softly as he laid down the little rifle.
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Watchers of the Trails, by Charles G. D. Roberts