The following day was spent by our trio in exploring the woods near
Millinokett Lake, in listening to more moose-talk, and in attempting
the trick of calling. Herb gave them many persistent lessons, making
the sounds which he had made on the preceding night, with and without
the horn, and patiently explaining the varied language of grunts,
groans, sighs, and roars in which the cow-moose indulges.
Perhaps the woodsman expended extra pains on the teaching of his
youngest pupil, whom he had championed. And certainly Dol’s own talent
for mimicry came to his aid. No matter to what cause the success was
due, each one allowed that Dol made a brilliant attempt to get hold of
“the moose-hunter’s secret,” and give a natural call.
The boy had been a genius at imitating the voices of English birds and
animals; many a trick had he played on his schoolfellows with his
carols and howls. And his proficiency in this line was a good
foundation on which to work.
“You’ll get there, boy,” said Herb, surveying him with approval, as he
stood outside the camp-door with the moose-horn to his lips. “Make
believe that there’s a moose on the opposite shore of the lake now, and
give the whole call, from start to finish.”
Whereupon Dol slowly carried his head to left and right, as he had seen
the guide do on the previous night, raising and lowering the horn until
it had described an enormous figure of eight in the air, while he
groaned, sighed, rasped, and bellowed with a plaintive intensity of
expression, which caused his brother and his friend to shriek with
laughter.
“You’ll get there, Kid,” repeated the woodsman, with a great triumphant
guffaw. “You’ll be able to give a fetching call sooner than either of
the others. But be careful how you use the trick, or you’ll be having
the breath kicked out of you some day by a moose’s forefeet.”
For days afterwards, the birch-bark horn was rarely out of Dol Farrar’s
hands. The boy was so entranced with the new musical art he was
mastering, which would be a means of communication between him and the
behemoth of the woods, that he haunted the edges of the forest about
the clearing, keeping aloof from his brother and friend, practising
unceasingly, sometimes under Herb’s supervision, sometimes alone. He
learned to imitate every sound which the guide made, working in
touching quavers and inflections that must tug at the heart-strings of
any listening moose. He learned to give the call, squatting Indian
fashion, in a very uncomfortable position, behind a screen of bushes.
He learned to copy, not the cow’s summons alone, but the bull’s short
challenge too; and to rasp his horn against a tree, in imitation of a
moose polishing its antlers for battle.
And now, for the first time, Dol Farrar of Manchester regarded his
education as complete. He was prouder of this forest accomplishment,
picked up in the wilds, than of all triumphs over problems and ’ologies
at his English school. He had not been a laggard in study, either.
But the finishing of Dol’s education had one bad result. If there
happened to be another moose travelling through the adjacent forests,
he evidently thought that all this random calling was too much of a
good thing, had his suspicions aroused, and took himself oft to wilder
solitudes. Though the guide tried his powers in persuasive summons
every night at various calling-places, he could not again succeed in
getting an answer.
At last, on a certain evening, after supper, a solemn camp-council was
held around an inspiring fire, and Herb Heal suggested that if his
party were really bent on seeing a moose again, before they turned
their faces homeward, they had better rise early the following morning,
shoulder their knapsacks, and set out to do a few days’ hunting amid
the dense woods near the base of Katahdin.
“I killed the biggest bull-moose I ever saw, on Togue Ponds, in that
region,” said the guide meditatively; “and I got him in a queer way. I
b’lieve I promised to tell you that yarn.”
“Of course you did!”
“Let’s have it!”
“Go ahead, Herb! Don’t shorten it!”
Thus encouraged by the eager three, the woodsman began:—
“It is five years now, boys, since I spent a fall and winter trapping
in them woods we were speaking of—I and another fellow. We had two
home-camps, which were our headquarters, snug log shelters, one on
Togue Ponds, the other on the side of Katahdin. As sure as ever the sun
went down on a Saturday night, we two trappers met at one or other of
these home-camps; though during the week we were mostly apart. For we
had several lines of traps, which covered big distances in various
directions; and on Monday morning I used to start one way, and my chum
another, to visit these. Generally it took us five or six days to make
the rounds of them. While we were on our travels we’d sleep with a
blanket round us, under any shelter we could rig up,—a few
spruce-boughs or a bark hut. When the snow came, we were forced to
shorten our trips, so as to reach one of the home-camps each night.
“Well, it was early in the season, one fine fall evening, that I was
crossing Togue Ponds in a canoe. I had been away on the tramp for
a’most a week; and though I had a rifle and axe with me, I had nary an
ounce of ammunition left. All of a sudden I caught sight of a moose,
feeding on some lily-roots in deep water. Jest at first I was a bit
doubtful whether it was a moose or not; for the creature’s head was
under, and I could only see his shoulders. I stopped paddling. I tried
to stop breathing. Next, I felt like jumping out of my skin; for, with
a big splash, up come a pair of antlers a good five feet across,
dripping with water, and a’most covered with green roots and stems,
which dangled from ’em.
“Good land! ’twas a queer sight. ‘Herb Heal,’ thinks I, ‘now’s your
chance! If you can only manage to nab that moose-head, you’ll get two
hundred dollars for it at Greenville, sure!’ And mighty few cents I had
jest then.
“I could a’most have cried over my tough luck in not having one dose of
lead left. But the bull’s back was towards me. The water filled his
ears and nose, so that he couldn’t hear or smell. And he was having a
splendid tuck-in. It was big sport to hear him crunch those
lily-roots.”
“I should think it was!” burst out Cyrus enviously. “But did you have
the heart to kill him in cold blood, in the middle of his meal?”
“I did. I guess I wouldn’t do it now; anyhow, not unless I was very
badly off for food. But I had an old mother living at Greenville that
time,”—here there was the least possible tremble in the woodsman’s
voice,—“and while I paddled alongside the moose, without making a
sound, I was thinking that the price I’d be sure to get from some city
swell for the head would come in handy to make her comfortable. The
creature never suspicioned danger till I was close to him, and had my
axe lifted, ready to strike. Then up came his head. Out went his
forefeet. Over spun the canoe. There was as big a commotion as if a
whale was there.
“I managed to keep behind the brute so as to dodge his kicks; and
gripping the axe in one hand, I dug the other into his long hair. He
was mad scared. He started to swim for the opposite shore, which was
about half a mile distant, with me in tow, snorting like a locomotive.
As his feet touched ground near the bank, I jumped upon his back. With
one blow of the axe I split his spine. Perhaps you’ll think that was
awful cruel, but it wasn’t done for the glory of killing.”
“And what became of the head? Did you sell it?” asked Dol, who was, as
usual, the first to break a breathless silence.
There was no reply. Herb feigned not to hear.
“Did you get two hundred dollars for the head?” questioned the
impetuous youngster again, in a higher key, his curiosity swelling.
“I didn’t. It was stole.”
The answer was a growl, like the growl of a hurt animal whose sore has
been touched. The tone of it was so different from the woodsman’s
generally strong, happy-go-lucky manner of speech, that Dol blenched as
if he had been struck.
“Who stole it?” he gasped, after a minute, scarcely knowing that he
spoke aloud.
Unnoticed in the firelight, Cyrus clapped a strong hand over the boy’s
mouth, to stifle further questions.
“Keep still!” he whispered.
But Herb, who was, as usual, perched upon the “deacon’s seat,” leaned
forward, with a laugh which was more than half a snarl.
“Who stole it?” he echoed. “Why, the other fellow—my chum; the man whom
I carried for a mile on my back, through a snow-heaped forest, the
first time I saw him,
when I had lugged him out of a heavy drift. _He_ stole it, Kid, and
a’most everything I owned with it.”
Illustration: The Camp On Millinokett Lake.
With a savage kick of his moccasined foot, the woodsman suddenly
assaulted a blazing log. It sent a shower of sparks aloft, and caused a
bright flame to shoot, rocket-like, from the heart of the fire, which
showed the guide’s face. His fine eyes reminded Cyrus of Millinokett
Lake when a thunder-storm broke over it. Their gray was dark and
troubled; the black pupils seemed to shrink, as if a tempest beat on
them; fierce flashes of light played through them.
Muttering a half-smothered oath, Herb flung himself off his bench,
stamped across the cabin to the open camp-door, and passed into the
darkness outside.
The boys, who had been stretched out in comfortable positions, drew
themselves bolt upright, and sat aghast. They stared towards the
camp-door, murmuring disjointedly. Into the mind of each flashed a
remembrance of some story which Doctor Phil had told about a thieving
partner who once robbed Herb Heal.
“You’ve stirred up more than you bargained for, Dol,” said Cyrus. “I
wish to goodness you hadn’t been so smart with your questions.”
But the words were scarcely spoken when the guide was again in their
midst, with a smile on his lips.
“It’s best to let sleeping dogs lie, young one,” he said, looking down
reassuringly on Dol, who was feeling dumfounded. “I guess you all think
I’m an awful bearish fellow. But if you had lived the lonely life of a
trapper, tramping each day through the dark woods till you were
leg-weary, visiting your steel traps and deadfalls, all to get a few
furs and make a few dollars; and turned up at camp one evening to find
that your partner had skipped with every skin you had procured, I
reckon ’twould take you a plaguy long time to get over it.”
“I’m pretty sure it would, old man,” said Cyrus.
“And I minded the loss of the furs a sight less than I minded losing
that moose-head,” continued Herb, taking his perch again upon the
“deacon’s seat.” “The hound took ’em all. Every woodsman in Maine was
riled about it at the time, and turned out to ketch him; but he gave
’em the slip. Now, boys, I’ve got to feeling pretty chummy with you.
Cyrus is an old friend; and, to speak plain, I like you Britishers. I
don’t want you to think that I bust up your fun to-night for nothing.
I’ll tell you the whole yarn if you want to hear it.”
The looks of the trio were sufficient assent.
“All right, boys. Here goes! Since I was a kid in Maine woods I’ve
worked at a’most everything that a woodsman can do. Six year ago I was
a ‘barker’ in a lumber-camp on the Kennebec River. A ‘barker’ is a man
who jumps onto a big tree after a chopper has felled it, and strips the
bark off with his axe, so that the trunk can be easily hauled over the
snow. Well, it’s pretty hard labor, is lumbering. But our camp always
got Sunday for rest.
“Well, I was prowling about in the woods by myself one Sunday
afternoon, when an awful snow-storm come on, a big blizzard which
staggered the stripped trees like as if ’twould tumble ’em all down,
and end our work for us. I was bolting for camp as fast as I was able,
when I tripped over something which was a’most covered over in a heavy
drift. ‘Great Scott!’ says I, ‘it’s a man!’ And ’twas too. He was near
dead. I hauled him out, and set him on his legs; but he couldn’t walk.
So I threw him across my shoulders, same way as I carry a deer. He
didn’t weigh near as much as a good buck, for he was little more’n a
kid and awful lean. But ’twas dreadful travelling, with the snow half
blinding and burying you. I was plumb blowed when I struck the camp,
and pitched in head foremost.
“For an hour we worked over that stranger to bring him round, and we
succeeded. We saw at once that he was a half-breed. When he could use
his tongue, he told us that his father was a settler, and his mother a
Penobscot Indian. He was sick for a spell and wild-like, then he talked
a lot of Indian jargon; but when he got back his senses, he spoke
English fust-rate. Chris Kemp he said was his name. And from the start
the lumbermen nicknamed him ‘Cross-eyed Chris; for his eyes, which were
black as blackberries, had a queer squint in ’em.
“Well, in spite of the squint, I took to Chris, and he to me. And the
following year, when I decided to give up lumbering, and take to
trapping fur-bearing animals in the woods near Katahdin, he joined me.
We swore to be chums, to stick to each other through thick and thin, to
share all we got;
and he made one of his outlandish Indian signs to strengthen the oath.
A fine way he kept it too!
“Now, if I’m too long-winded, boys, say so; and I’ll hurry up.”
“No, no! Tell us everything.”
“Spin it out as long as you can.”
“We don’t mind listening half the night. Go ahead!”
At this gust of protest Herb smiled, though rather soberly, and went
ahead as he was bidden.
“We made camp together—him and me. We had two home-camps where I told
you, and met at the end of each week, bringing the skins we had taken,
which we stored in one of ’em. We got along together swimmingly for a
bit. But Chris had a weakness which I had found out long before. I
guess he took it from his mother’s people. Give him one drink of
whiskey, and it stirred up all the mud that was in him. There’s mud in
every man, I s’pose; and there’s nothing like liquor for bringing it to
the surface. A gulp of fire-water changed Chris from an honest,
right-hearted fellow to a crazy devil. This had set the lumbermen
against him. But I hoped that in the lonely woods where we trapped he
wouldn’t get a chance to see the stuff. He did, though, and when I
wasn’t there to make a fight against his swallowing it.
“It happened that one week he got back to our camp on Togue
Ponds,—where most of our stuff was stored, and where I kept that
moose-head, waiting for a chance to take it down to Greenville,—a day
or two sooner’n me. And the worst luck that ever attended either of us
brought a stranger to the camp at the same time, to shelter for a
night. He was an explorer, a city swell; and I guess he didn’t know
much about Injuns or half-breeds, for he gave Chris a little bottle of
fiery whiskey as a parting present. The man told me about it
afterwards, and that he was kind o’ scared when the boy—for he wasn’t
much more—swallowed it with two gulps, and then followed him into the
woods, howling, capering, and offering to sell him my grand moose-head,
and all the furs we had, for another drink of the burning stuff. I
guess that stranger felt pretty sick over the mischief he had done. He
refused to buy ’em. But when I got back to camp next day, to find the
skins gone, antlers gone, Chris gone; when I ran across the traveller
and ferreted out his story,—I knew, as well as if I seen it, that my
partner had skipped with all my belongings, to sell ’em or trade ’em at
some settlement for more liquor. We had a couple of big birch
canoes,—one of ’em was missing too,—and a river being near, the thing
could be easy managed.
“I’ll allow that I raged tremendous. The losses were bad; but to be
robbed by your own chum, the man you had saved and stuck to, the only
being you had said a word to for months, was sickening. I swore I’d
shoot the hound if I found him. I spread the news at every camp and
farm-settlement through the forest country, and we had a rousing hunt
after the fellow; but he gave us the slip, though I heard of him
afterwards at a distant town, where he sold the furs.”
“I suppose he left the State,” said Cyrus.
“I guess he did. But for a big while I used to think he’d come back to
our camp some day, and let me have it out with him; for he wasn’t a
coward, and we had been fast chums.”
“And he didn’t?”
“Not as I know of. The next year I gave up trapping, which was an awful
cruel as well as a lonely business, and took to moose-hunting
and guiding. I haven’t been anear the old camps for ages.”
“Perhaps you will come across him again some day,” suggested Dol, with
unusual timidity.
“P’raps so, Kid. And, faith, when I think of that, it seems as if there
were two creatures inside o’ me fighting tooth and claw. One is all for
hammering him to a jelly. The other is sort o’ pitiful, and says,
‘Mebbe ’twasn’t out-an’-out his fault.’ Which of them two’ll get the
best of it, if ever I’m face to face with Cross-eyed Chris, I dunno.”
Cyrus Garst rose suddenly. He kicked the camp-fire to make a blaze,
then looked the woodsman fair in the eyes.
“I know, Herb,” he said; “the spirit of mercy will conquer.”
“Glad you think so!” answered Herb. “But I ain’t so sure. Sho! boys,
I’ve kept you up till near midnight with my yarns. We must go to roost
quick, or you’ll never be fit to light out for Katahdin to-morrow.”
[Illustration]