“Where from? Whither bound?” It is not often that a man or boy burns to
put these questions—which ships signal to each other when they pass
upon the ocean—to some individual who hurries by him on a crowded
thoroughfare, whose name perhaps he knows, but whose hand he has never
clasped, of whose thoughts, feelings, and capabilities he is ignorant.
But just let him meet that same fellow during a holiday trip to some
wild sea-beach or lonely mountain, let an acquaintance spring up, let
him observe the habits of the other traveller, discovering a few of his
weak points and some of his good ones, and then he wishes
to ask, “Where do you hail from? Whither are you bound?”
Therefore, having encountered three fairly good-looking, jovial,
well-disposed young fellows amid the solitudes of a Maine forest,
having spent some eventful hours in their company, learning how they
behaved in certain emergencies, it is but natural that the reader
should wish to know their ordinary occupations, with their reasons for
venturing into these wilds, and the goal they wish to reach, before he
journeys with them farther.
Just at present, being fast asleep, dreaming, and—if I must say
it—snoring like troopers, upon their mattresses of pine boughs, they
are unable to give any information about themselves. But the friend who
has been authorized to record their travels will be happy to satisfy
all reasonable curiosity.
To begin, then, with the “boss” of the party, Cyrus Garst, the writer
would say that he is a student of Harvard University, and a brainy,
energetic, robust son of America. Among his college classmates he is
regarded as a bit of a hero; for, in spite of his comparative youth, he
is an enterprising traveller and a veteran camper, whose camp-fire has
blazed in some of the wildest solitudes of his native
land. For his hobby is natural history, and his playground the “forest
primeval,” where he studies American animals amid the lonely passes
which they choose for their lairs and beats.
Every year when Harvard’s learned halls are closed for the long summer
vacation,—sometimes at other seasons too,—he starts off on a trip to a
wilderness region, with his knapsack on his back, his rifle on his
shoulder, and often carrying his camera as well.
Once in a while he has been accompanied by a bosom friend or two. More
frequently he has gone alone, hiring the services of a professional
guide accustomed to the locality he visits. Now, such a guide is the
indispensable figure in every woodland trip. He is expected to supply
the main part of his employer’s camp “kit”; namely, a tent or some
shelter to sleep under, cooking utensils, axes, etc., as well as a boat
or canoe if such be required. And this son of the forest, whose foot
can make a bee-line to its destination through the densest wooded maze,
is not only leader, but cook and general-utility man in camp as well.
The guide must be equally grand-master of paddle, rifle, and
frying-pan.
For these tireless woodland heroes Cyrus Garst has a general
admiration. He has always agreed with them famously—save on one point;
and he has never had to shorten his wanderings for fear of lengthening
their fees. For Cyrus has a millionnaire father in the Back Bay of
Boston, who is disposed to indulge his whims.
The one point of variance is this: while all guides admire young Garst
as a crack shot with a rifle, he frequently dumfounds them by letting
slip stunning chances at game, big and little. They call him “a queer
specimen sportsman,”—understanding little his love for the wild
offspring of the woods,—because he never uses his gun save when the
bareness of his larder or the peril of his own life or his chum’s
demands it.
Nevertheless, feeling the need of fresh meat, the naturalist was for
the moment hotly exasperated because his English comrade, Neal Farrar,
missed even a poor chance at a buck during the midnight excursion on
Squaw Pond.
His friends are proud of stating that up to the present Cyrus had
proceeded well in his friendly acquaintance with wild creatures, his
desire being to study their habits when alive rather than to pore over
their anatomy when dead. And he has always reaped a plentiful harvest
of fun during his trips, declaring that he has “the pull over fellows
who go into the woods for killing,” seeing that he can thoroughly enjoy
the escape of a game animal if he can only catch a sight of it, and
perceive how its pluck or cunning enables it to baffle pursuing man.
There are those who call Cyrus a sportsman of the best type. Perhaps
they are right.
Yet in the year of our story, when he had just attained his majority,
this student of forest life is still unsatisfied, because he has not
been able to obtain a good view of the behemoth of American woods, the
_ignis fatuus_ of hunters,—the mighty moose.
Once only, when paddling on a still pond with his experienced guide for
company, the latter suddenly closed the slide of the jack-lamp, hiding
its light. At the same moment a dark, splendid monster, tall as a horse
and swinging a pair of antlers five feet broad, suddenly appeared upon
the bank, near to which the canoe lay in black shadow. The hunters
dared not breathe. It was at a season of year when the Maine law exacts
a heavy fine for the killing of a moose; and even the guide had no
desire to send his bullets through the law, though he might have
riddled the game without compunction.
For a minute or two the creature halted at the pond’s brink, magnified
in the mirror of moonlit water into a gigantic, wavering shape. Then
with slow, solemn tread he walked along the bank ahead, gave a loud
snort something like the snort of a war-horse, made a crunching,
chopping noise with his jaws, resembling the sound of a dull axe
striking against wood, plunged into the lake, and swam across to the
opposite shore.
“If we had fired, he might have come for us full tilt,” whispered the
guide so softly that his words were like a gliding breath. “And then I
tell you we’d have had a narrow squeak. He’d have kicked the canoe into
splinters and us out o’ time in short order.”
“But a moose won’t charge unless he’s attacked, will he?” asked Cyrus,
later in the night, when a couple of quacking black ducks which had
received a dose of lead were lying silent at his feet, and the hunters
were returning to camp with food.
“Not often,” was the reply. “Only at this time o’ year, if they’ve got
a mate to defend, you can’t say for sure what they’ll do. They won’t
always fight either, even if they’re
wounded, when they can get a chance to bolt. But a moose, if he has to
die, will be sure to die game, with his face to his enemy; and so will
every wild animal that I know. I’ve even seen a shot partridge flutter
up its feathers like a game-cock at the fellow who dropped it.”
Well, this memorable glimpse of his mooseship was obtained in the year
before our story. And now, in the beginning of October, young Garst was
off into Maine wilds again, having arranged to “do” the forest
thoroughly after his usual fashion, seeing all he could of its
countless phases of life, and finally to meet this same guide—a
dare-devil fellow who was reported to have had adventures in
moose-hunting such as other woodsmen did not dream of—at a log camp far
in the wilderness. Thence they could proceed to solitudes where the
voice of man seldom echoed, where the foot of man rarely trod, and
where moose signs were pretty sure to be found.
But there was one very unusual feature in his present expedition. The
student of nature, who generally started forth alone, was this year,
owing to a freak of fate and to his natural good-nature, accompanied by
two English lads.
Early in the summer of this same year, Francis Farrar, a wealthy
cotton-merchant of Manchester, England, visited America on a
business-trip, and became the guest of Cyrus’s father. He brought with
him his two sons, Neal, aged sixteen and a half, and Adolphus,
familiarly called Dol, who was more than a year younger.
Both boys had been at a large public school, and physically, as well as
mentally, were well developed. They were accustomed to spending long
vacations with their father at wild spots on the seashore, or amid
mountains in England and Scotland. They could tirelessly do a
sixty-mile spin on their “wheels,” were good football players,
excellent rowers, formed part of the crew of their father’s yacht,
could skilfully handle gun and fishing-rod, but they had never camped
out.
They knew none of the delights of sleeping in woodland quarters, with
only a canvas or bark roof, or perhaps a few spruce boughs, between
them and the sky—
“While a music wild and solemn
From the pine-tree’s height
Rolls its vast and sea-like volume
On the wind of night.”
Small wonder, then, that when they heard Cyrus Garst tell of his
camping excursions, of his jolly times, long tramps, and hairbreadth
escapes, their hearts swelled with a tremendous longing to accompany
him on the trip into northern Maine which he was then projecting for
the following October.
Now, Cyrus at the first start-off conceived a liking for these English
fellows, to whom, for his father’s sake, he played the part of genial
host. With a lordly recognition of his superior years he pronounced
them “first-rate youngsters, with lots of snap in them.” And as the
acquaintance progressed, Neal Farrar, with his erect figure, broad
chest, musical voice, and wide-apart gray eyes,—so clear and honest
that their glance was a beam,—proved a personage so likable that the
student adopted him as “chum,” forgetting those five years which had
been a gulf between them.
Dol, whose eyes were of a more steely hue than his brother’s, striking
fire readily and showing all manner of flinty lights, who had a
downright talent for mimicry, and a small share of juvenile
self-importance, came in for regard of a more indulgent and less equal
nature.
Directly he got an inkling of the desire for a forest trip which
stirred in the boys’ breasts, making them yearn all day and toss all
night, Cyrus gave them both a cordial invitation to accompany him into
Maine. Mr. Farrar did not purpose returning to Europe till midwinter.
His consent was easily obtained. He presented each of his sons with a
new Winchester repeating rifle, with which they practised diligently at
a target ere the eventful day of the start dawned, though their leader
emphatically insisted that the prime pleasures of the trip were not to
be looked for in the slaughter done by their hands.
Wearing the camper’s favorite dress of stout gray tweed, the trio left
Boston on a lovely September evening towards the close of the month,
taking a fast night train for Maine, brimful of enthusiasm about the
wild woods and free camp-life. The hue of their clothes was chosen with
a view to making their figures resemble the forest trunks, so that they
would be less likely to attract the notice of animals, and might get a
chance to creep upon them undetected.
About their waists were their ammunition belts, with pouches well
stocked. Their large
knapsacks contained blankets, moccasins, and various other necessaries
of a camper’s outfit, including heavy knitted jerseys for chill days
and nights, and rubber boots reaching high on the legs for wear in
wading and traversing swampy tracts.
About twenty-four hours later they dropped off the rattling, jingling
stage-coach which bore them over the latter part of their journey, at
the flourishing village of Greenville, on the borders of the Maine
wilds.
Here they were greeted by a view, the loveliness of which made the
English boys, who had never looked on it before, experience strange
heart-leaps.
A magnificent sheet of water nearly forty miles long and fourteen broad
lay before them, studded with islands, girt with evergreen forests and
wooded peaks. Under the rays of the setting sun its bosom was shot with
arrows of pale, quivering gold. Banners of gold and flame-color floated
over the crests of the hills, flinging streamers of light down their
emerald sides.
“Fellows, there is Moosehead Lake; and I guess you’ll find few lakes in
America or elsewhere that can beat it for beauty,” said Cyrus, with a
patriotic thrill in his voice, for
he had a feeling that he was doing the honors of his country.
His English comrades were warm with admiration, and here, in view of
the forest-land which was their El Dorado, tingled with anticipation of
the unknown.
The three rested that night at Greenville, and began their tramping on
the following morning. They trudged a distance of seven miles or so to
the camp of Ebenezer Grout, which, as Garst knew, was situated between
Squaw Pond and Old Squaw Mountain, the latter being one of the finest
peaks near Moosehead Lake.
“Uncle Eb” was an old acquaintance of Cyrus’s, a dusky, lively
woodsman, who spent a great part of the year in his lone bark hut, with
his dog Tiger for company. He subsisted chiefly on what he brought down
with his rifle, and sometimes earned three dollars a day for guiding
tourists up Old Squaw or through the adjacent forests.
Illustration: There Is Moosehead Lake.
He was not an ambitious hunter, and rarely pushed far into the
solitudes of the wilderness in search of moose or other big game. A
coon hunt was to him the climax of all fun. It was chiefly with a hope
that his comrades might enjoy some novel entertainment of this kind
that Cyrus made his first stoppage at Uncle Eb’s camp, purposing to
sojourn there for a few days.
He was not disappointed.
The stupidly tired trio had slept for about two hours, while the reader
has been receiving information second-hand about their past and future,
when a scratching, scraping, boring noise on the outside of their bark
roof temporarily disturbed their slumbers. Dol called out noisily, and,
as was the way of that youngster on sundry occasions, talked some
gibberish in his sleep. The scraping instantly ceased.
A renewed and blissful season of snoring. Another awakening. More music
on the roof, evidently caused by the claws of some wild animal, while
each of the campers was startled by a loud “Cluck!”
“Lie still, fellows! Don’t budge. Let’s see what the thing is,”
breathed Cyrus in a peculiarly still whisper which he had learned from
his moose-hunting guide of whom mention has been made.
Dead silence in the hut. Redoubled scraping and rattling above, with a
scattering of bark chips.
Then light appeared through a jagged hole
just over a string which was stretched across one corner of the cabin,
and from which dangled sundry articles of camp bric-a-brac, mostly of a
tinny nature, with Uncle Eb’s last morsel of “pork.
“By all that’s glorious! it’s a coon,” breathed Cyrus, but so softly
that his companions did not hear.
As for the two Farrars, they were working up to such a heat of
excitement that they felt as if life were now only beginning. They had
heard of the thievish raids made by the black bear on unprotected
camps, and of his special fondness for pork. Not knowing that there was
no chance of an encounter with Bruin so near to civilization as this,
they peered at that hole in the roof, expecting every moment to see a
huge, black, snarling snout thrust through it.
It was a pointed gray muzzle which warily appeared instead—appeared and
disappeared on the instant. For at this crisis Tiger’s shrill
bugle-call resounded without, giving warning of an attack on the camp.
The thing, whatever it was, scrambled from the roof, and with a
strange, shrill cry of one note made towards the woods. The dog
followed it, barking for all he was worth.
Now, too, Uncle Eb’s booming “Whoop-ee!” was heard.
The hardy old woodsman, after his visitors had gone to roost, instead
of stretching himself as usual upon his pine mattress, had started off,
accompanied by Tiger, to visit some traps which he had set in the
forest, hoping to catch a marten or two. He took the precaution of
closing the door of the hut when he saw that its inmates were soundly
sleeping, thinking meanwhile, that, as day was dawning, there was
little chance of any wild “critter” coming round the camp during his
absence.
But a greedy raccoon, which had been prowling near in the woods during
the night, and had been tantalized to desperation by the smell of the
late meal, especially by the odor of flapjacks frying in pork fat, had
stolen from cover after the departure of his natural enemy, the dog.
Finding the coast clear and the camp unguarded, he made himself quietly
at home, rooted among some potato parings which the guide had thrown
aside a day or two before, devoured a cold flapjack, and cleaned the
camp frying-pan as it had never been cleaned before, with his tongue.
But his
appetite was whetted, not glutted. Scent or instinct told him that
pork, molasses, and other eatables were hidden in the bark hut. Here
was a golden opportunity for Mr. Coon. No one molested him. Meditating
a feast, he climbed to the roof, and began cautiously to scrape off
portions of the bark. The rising sun ought to have warned him back to
forest depths; but he persisted in his scratching, repeating now and
again a satisfied cluck.
His hole was made. His keen nose told him that pork was almost within
reach, when the bugle-call of his enemy—Tiger’s challenging bark—smote
upon his ear. Guide and dog were opportunely returning to camp.
Of course, as soon as the marauder scrambled off the roof, Cyrus and
the boys sprang from their couch. Barefooted, and in night costume,
they were already at the door of the hut before Uncle Eb was heard
booming,—
“Boys! Boys! Tumble out—tumble out! Dere’s a reg’lar razzle-dazzle
fight goin’ on heah. Tiger’s nabbed de coon.”
[Illustration]