CHAPTER III

Toward the end of April there came a great change in the Pup's

affairs. Primarily, the change was in Captain Ephraim's. Promoted to

the command of a smart schooner engaged in cod-fishing on the Grand

Banks, he sold his cottage at Eastport and removed his family to

Gloucester, Massachusetts. At the same time, recognizing with many a

pang that a city like Gloucester was no place for him to keep a seal

in, he sold the Pup, at a most consoling price indeed, to the agent of

an English animal trainer. With the prospect of shortly becoming the

cynosure of all eyes at Shepherd's Bush or Earl's Court, the Pup was

shipped on a freighter for Liverpool.

With his pervasive friendliness, and seeking solace for the absence of

Toby and Captain Ephraim, the Pup proved a most privileged and popular

passenger. All went well till the ship came off Cape Race,

Newfoundland. Then that treacherous and implacable promontory made

haste to justify its reputation; and in a blind sou'wester the ship

was driven on the ledges. While she was pounding to pieces, the crew

got away in their boats, and presently the Pup found himself reviving

half-forgotten memories amid the buffeting of the huge Atlantic

rollers.

He felt amazingly at home, but very lonely. Bobbing his head as high

as he could above the water, he stared about him in every direction,

dimly hoping to catch sight of Captain Ephraim or Toby--or even of the

unsociable yellow cat. They were nowhere to be seen. Well, company he

must have. After fish, of which there was no lack in those teeming

waters, company was his urgent demand. He headed impatiently for the

coast, which he could not see indeed, but which he felt clearly in the

distance.

The first land he encountered was a high hogback of rock which proved

to be an island. Swimming around under its lea, he ran into a little

herd of seals of his own kind, and hastened confidently to fraternize

with them.

The strangers, mostly females and young males, met his advances with a

good-natured indifference. One of the herd, however, a big dog-seal

who seemed to consider himself the chief, would have none of him, but

grumbled and showed his teeth in a most unpleasant manner. The Pup

avoided him politely, and crawled out upon the rocks, about twenty

feet away, beside two friendly females. He wanted to get acquainted,

that was all. But the old male, after grumbling for several minutes,

got himself worked up into a rage, and came floundering over the rocks

to do up the visitor. Roughly he pushed the two complaisant females

off into the water, and then, with a savage lunge, he fell upon the

Pup.

But in this last step the old male was ill-advised. Hitherto the Pup

had felt diffident in the face of such a reception, but now a sudden

red rage flared into his eyes. Young as he was, he was as big as his

antagonist, and, here on land, a dozen times more nimble. Here came in

the advantage of Captain Ephraim's training. When the old male lunged

upon him, he simply wasn't there. He had shot aside, and wheeled like

a flash, and secured a hold at the root of his assailant's flipper. Of

course in this position he too received some sharp punishment. But he

held on like a bulldog, worrying, worrying mercilessly, till all at

once the other squealed, and threw up his muzzle, and struggled to get

away. The Pup, satisfied with this sign of submission, let him go at

once, and he flounced off furiously into the water.

As a prompt result of this victory, the Pup found himself undisputed

leader of the little herd, his late antagonist, after a vain effort to

effect a division, having slipped indolently into a subordinate place.

This suited the Pup exactly, who was happy himself, and wanted

everybody else to be so likewise.

As spring advanced, the herd worked their way northward along the

Newfoundland coast, sometimes journeying hurriedly, sometimes

lingering for days in the uninhabited inlets and creek mouths. The Pup

was in a kind of ecstasy over his return to the water world, and

indulged in antics that seemed perhaps frivolous in the head of so

important a family. But once in a while a qualm of homesickness would

come over him, for Toby, and the Captain, and a big tin basin of warm

milk. And in one of these moods he was suddenly confronted by men.

The herd was loitering off a point which marked the entrance to a

shallow cove, when round the jutting rocks slid a row-boat, with two

fishermen coming out to set lines. They had no guns with them,

fortunately. They saw the seals dive and vanish at the first glimpse

of them, as was natural. But to their amazement, one seal--the

biggest, to their astonished eyes, in the whole North Atlantic--did

not vanish with the rest. Instead of that, after eying them

fearlessly at a distance of some fifty feet, he swam deliberately

straight toward them.

Now there is nothing very terrifying, except to a fish, in the aspect

of even the biggest harbor seal; but to these fishermen, who knew the

shyness of the seals, it was terrifying to the last degree that one

should conduct himself in this unheard-of way. They stopped rowing,

and stared with superstitious eyes.

"Howly Mother!" gasped one, "that b'ain't no seal, Mike!"

"What d'ye s'pose he wants wid us, Barney, annyhow?" demanded Mike, in

an awed voice.

"Sure, an' it's a _sign_ for the one or t'other of us. It's gittin'

back to shore we'd better be," suggested Barney, pulling round hard on

the bow oar.

As the mysterious visitor was still advancing, this counsel highly

commended itself to Mike, who would have faced a polar bear with no

weapon but his oar, but had no stomach for a parley with the

supernatural. In another moment the boat was rushing back up the cove

with all the speed their practised muscles could impart. But still,

swimming leisurely in their wake, with what seemed to them a dreadful

deliberation, the Pup came after them.

"Don't ye be comin' nigh _me_!" cried Mike, somewhat hysterically, "or

I'll bash yer face wid the oar, mind!"

"Whisht!" said Barney, "don't ye be after talkin' that way to a

sperrit, or maybe he'll blast ye!"

"I'm thinkin', now," said Mike, presently, in a hushed voice, "as

maybe it be Dan Sheedy's sperrit, comin' back to ha'nt me coz I didn't

give up them boots o' his to his b'y, accordin' to me promise."

"Shure an' why not that?" agreed Barney, cheered by the hope that the

visitation was not meant for him.

A moment more and the boat reached the beach with an abruptness that

hurled both rowers from their seats. Scrambling out upon the shingle,

they tugged wildly at the boat to draw her up. But the Pup, his eyes

beaming affection, was almost on their heels. With a yell of dismay

Mike dashed up the shore toward their shack; but Barney, having less

on his conscience, delayed to snatch out of the bow the precious tin

pail in which they carried their bait. Then he followed Mike. But

looking back over his shoulder, he saw his mysterious pursuer ascend

from the water and come flopping up the shore at a pace which

assuredly no _mortal_ seal could ever accomplish on dry land. At that

he fell over a boulder, dropped the pail of bait, picked himself up

with a startled yell, and made a dash for the shack as if all the

fiends were chasing him.

Slamming the door behind them, the two stared fearfully out of the

window. Their guns, loaded with slugs, leaned against the wall, but

they would never be guilty of such perilous impiety as to use them.

When he came to the tin pail and the spilled bait the Pup was pleased.

He knew very well what the pail was for, and what the men expected of

him. He had no objection to being paid in advance, so he gobbled the

bait at once. It was not much, but he had great hopes that, if he

acquitted himself well, he might get a pan of warm milk. Cheerfully he

hoisted his massive chest upon the pail, and then, pounding jerkily

with his flippers as hard as he could, he lifted his muzzle heavenward

and delivered himself of a series of prolonged and anguished groans.

This was too much for his audience.

"Howly Mother, save us!" sobbed Barney, dropping upon his knees, and

scrabbling desperately in his untidy memory for some fragments of his

childhood's prayers.

"Don't, Dan, don't!" pleaded Mike, gazing out with wild eyes at the

Pup's mystical performance. "I'll give back them boots to the b'y.

I'll give 'em back, Dan! Let me be now, won't 'ee, old mate?"

Thus adjured, the Pup presently stopped, and stared expectantly at the

shack, awaiting the pan of warm milk. When it did not come, he was

disgusted. He had never been kept waiting this way before. These men

were not like Captain Ephraim. In a minute or two he rolled off the

pail, flopped heavily down the beach, and plunged back indignantly

into the sea. As his dark head grew smaller and smaller in the

distance, the men in the shack threw open the door, and came out as if

they needed fresh air.

"I always _said_ as how Dan had a good heart," muttered Mike, in a

shaken voice. "An' shure, now, ye see, Barney, he ain't after bearin'

no grudge."

"But ye'll be takin' back them boots to young Dan, this very day of

our lives," urged Barney. "An' ye'll be after makin' it all right wid

the Widdy Sheedy, afore ye're a day older, now."

"Shure, an' to wanst ain't none too quick for me, an' me receavin' a

hint loike that!" agreed Mike.

As for the Pup, after this shock to his faith in man, he began to

forget the days of his comfortable captivity. His own kind proved

vastly interesting to him, and in a few weeks his reversion was

complete. By that time his journeyings had led him, with his little

herd, far up the coast of Labrador. At last he came to a chain of

rocky islands, lying off a black and desolate coast. The islands were

full of caves, and clamorous with sea-birds, and trodden forever by a

white and shuddering surf. Here old memories stirred dimly but sweetly

within him--and here he brought his wanderers to rest.

LONE WOLF

LONE WOLF

CHAPTER I

Not, like his grim ancestors for a thousand generations, in some dark

cave of the hills was he whelped, but in a narrow iron cage littered

with straw. Two brothers and a sister made at the same time a like

inauspicious entrance upon an alien and fettered existence. And

because their silent, untamable mother loved too savagely the

hereditary freedom of her race to endure the thought of bearing her

young into a life of bondage, she would have killed them mercifully,

even while their blind baby mouths were groping for her breasts. But

the watchful keeper forestalled her. Whelps of the great gray timber

wolf, born in captivity, and therefore likely to be docile, were rare

and precious. The four little sprawlers, helpless and hungrily

whimpering, were given into the care of a foster-mother, a sorrowing

brown spaniel bitch who had just been robbed of her own puppies.

When old enough to be weaned, the two brothers and the sister, sturdy

and sleek as any wolf cubs of the hills, were sold to a dealer in wild

animals, who carried them off to Hamburg. But "Lone Wolf," as Toomey,

the trainer, had already named him, stayed with the circus. He was the

biggest, the most intelligent, and the most teachable cub of the whole

litter, and Toomey, who had an unerring eye for quality in a beast,

expected to make of him a star performer among wolves.

Job Toomey had been a hunter and a trapper in the backwoods of New

Brunswick, where his instinctive knowledge of the wild kindreds had

won him a success which presently sickened him. His heart revolted

against the slaughter of the creatures which he found so interesting,

and for a time, his occupation gone, he had drifted aimlessly about

the settlements. Then, at the performance of a travelling circus,

which boasted two trained bears and a little trick elephant, he had

got his cue. It was borne in upon him that he was meant to be an

animal trainer. Then and there he joined the circus at a nominal wage,

and within six months found himself an acknowledged indispensable. In

less than a year he had become a well-known trainer, employed in one

of the biggest menageries of America. Not only for his wonderful

comprehension and command of animals was he noted, but also for his

pose, to which he clung obstinately, of giving his performances always

in the homespun garb of a backwoodsman, instead of in the conventional

evening dress.

"Lone Wolf!" It seemed a somewhat imaginative name for the prison-born

whelp, but as he grew out of cub-hood his character and his stature

alike seemed to justify it. Influenced by the example of his gentle

foster-mother, he was docility itself toward his tamer, whom he came

to love well after the reticent fashion of his race. But toward all

others, man and beast alike, his reserve was cold and dangerous.

Toomey, apparently, absorbed all the affection which his lonely nature

had to spare. In return for this singleness of regard, Toomey trained

him with a firm patience which never forgot to be kind, and made him,

by the time he was three years old, quite the cleverest and most

distinguished performing wolf who had ever adorned a show.

He was now as tall as the very tallest Great Dane, but with a depth of

shoulder and chest, a punishing length and strength of jaw, that no

dog ever could boast. When he looked at Toomey, his eyes wore the

expression of a faithful and understanding follower; but when he

answered the stares of the crowd through the bars of his cage, the

greenish fire that flamed in their inscrutable depths was ominous and

untamed. In all save his willing subjection to Toomey's mastery, he

was a true wolf, of the savage and gigantic breed of the Northwestern

timber. To the spectators this was aggressively obvious; and therefore

the marvel of seeing this sinister gray beast, with the murderous

fangs, so submissive to Toomey's gentlest bidding, never grew stale.

In every audience there were always some spectators hopefully

pessimistic, who vowed that the great wolf would some day turn upon

his master and tear his throat. To be sure, Lone Wolf was not by any

means the only beast whom the backwoodsman had performing for the

delectation of his audiences. But all the others--the lions, the

leopards, the tiger, the elephant, the two zebras, and the white

bear--seemed really subdued, as it were hypnotized into harmlessness.

It was Lone Wolf only who kept the air of having never yielded up his

spirit, of being always, in some way, not the slave but the free

collaborator.

Ordinarily, in spite of the wild fire smouldering in his veins, Lone

Wolf was well enough content. The show was so big and so important

that it was accustomed to visit only the great centres, and to make

long stops at each place. At such times his life contained some

measure of freedom. He would be given a frequent chance of exercise,

in some secure enclosure where he could run, and jump, and stretch his

mighty muscles, and breathe deep. And not infrequently--after dark as

a rule--his master would snap a massive chain upon his collar, and

lead him out, on leash like a dog, into the verdurous freshness of

park or country lane. But when the show was on tour, then it was very

different. Lone Wolf hated fiercely the narrow cage in which he had to

travel. He hated the harsh, incessant noise of the grinding rails, the

swaying and lurching of the trucks, the dizzying procession of the

landscape past the barred slits which served as windows to his car.

Moreover, sometimes the unwieldy length of the circus train would be

halted for an hour or two on some forest siding, to let the regular

traffic of the line go by. Then, as his wondering eyes caught glimpses

of shadowed glades, and mysterious wooded aisles, and far-off hills

and horizons, or wild, pungent smells of fir thicket and cedar swamp

drew in upon the wind to his uplifted nostrils, his veins would run

hot with an uncomprehended but savage longing for delights which he

had never known, for a freedom of which he had never learned or

guessed. At such times his muscles would ache and quiver, till he felt

like dashing himself blindly against his bars. And if the halt

happened to take place at night, with perhaps a white moon staring in

upon him from over a naked hill-top, he would lift his lean muzzle

straight up toward the roof of his cage and give utterance to a

terrible sound of which he knew not the meaning, the long, shrill

gathering cry of the pack. This would rouse all the other beasts to a

frenzy of wails and screeches and growls and roars; till Toomey would

have to come and stop his performance by darkening the cage with a

tarpaulin. At the sound of Toomey's voice, soothing yet overmastering,

the great wolf would lie down quietly, and the ghostly summons of his

far-ravaging fathers would haunt his spirit no more.

After one of these long journeys, the show was halted at an inland

city for a stop of many weeks; and to house the show a cluster of

wooden shanties was run up on the outskirts of the city, forming a

sort of mushroom village flanked by the great white exhibition tents.

In one of these shanties, near the centre of the cluster, Lone Wolf's

cage was sheltered, along with the cages of the puma, the leopard,

and the little black Himalayan bear. Immediately adjoining this shanty

was the spacious open shed where the elephants were tethered.

That same night, a little before dawn, when the wearied attendants

were sleeping heavily, Lone Wolf's nostrils caught a strange smell

which made him spring to his feet and sniff anxiously at the suddenly

acrid air. A strange reddish glow was dispersing the dark outside his

window. From the other cages came uneasy mutterings and movements, and

the little black bear, who was very wise, began to whine. The dull

glow leaped into a glare and then the elephants trumpeted the alarm.

Instantly the night was loud with shoutings, and tramplings, and

howlings, and rushings to and fro. A cloud of choking smoke blew into

Lone Wolf's cage, making him cough and wonder anxiously why Toomey

didn't come. The next moment Toomey came, with one of the keepers, and

an elephant. Frantically they began pushing and dragging out the

cages. But there was a wind; and before the first cage, that of the

puma, was more than clear of the door, the flames were on top of them

like a leaping tiger. Panic-stricken, the elephant screamed and

bolted. The keeper, shouting, "We can't save any more in this house.

Let's git the lions out!" made off with one arm over his eyes,

doggedly dragging the heavy cage of the puma. The keeper was right. He

had his work cut out for him, as it was, to save the screeching puma.

As for Toomey, his escape was already almost cut off. But he could not

endure to save himself without giving the imprisoned beasts a chance

for their lives. Dashing at the three remaining cages, he tore them

open; and then, with a summons to Lone Wolf to follow him, he threw

his arms over his face and dashed through the flames.

The three animals sprang out at once into the middle of the floor, but

their position seemed already hopeless. The leopard, thoroughly cowed,

leaped back into his cage and curled up in the farthest corner,

spitting insanely. Lone Wolf dashed at the door by which Toomey had

fled, but a whirl of flame in his face drove him back to the middle of

the floor, where the little bear stood whimpering. Just at this moment

a massive torrent of water from a fire engine crashed through the

window, drenching Lone Wolf, and knocking the bear clean over. The

beneficent stream was whisked away again in an instant, having work to

do elsewhere than on this already doomed and hopeless shed. But to the

wise little bear it had shown a way of escape. Out through the window

he scurried, and Lone Wolf went after him in one tremendous leap just

as the flames swooped in and licked the floor clean, and slew the

huddled leopard in its cage.

Outside, in the awful heat, the alternations of dazzling glare and

blinding smoke, the tumult of the shouting and the engines, the roar

of the flames, the ripping crash of the streams, and the cries of the

beasts, Lone Wolf found himself utterly confused. But he trusted, for

some reason, to the sagacity of the bear, and followed his shaggy

form, bearing diagonally up and across the wind. Presently a cyclone

of suffocating smoke enveloped him, and he lost his guide. But

straight ahead he darted, stretched out at top speed, belly to the

ground, and in another moment he emerged into the clear air. His eyes

smarting savagely, his nose and lips scorched, his wet fur singed, he

hardly realized at first his escape, but raced straight on across the

fields for several hundred yards. Then, at the edge of a wood, he

stopped and looked back. The little bear was nowhere to be seen. The

night wind here blew deliciously cool upon his face. But there was the

mad red monster, roaring and raging still as if it would eat up the

world. The terror of it was in his veins. He sprang into the covert

of the wood, and ran wildly, with the one impulse to get as far away

as possible.

Before he had gone two miles, he came out upon an open country of

fields, and pastures, and farmyards, and little thickets. Straight on

he galloped, through the gardens and the farmyards as well as the open

fields. In the pastures the cattle, roused by the glare in the sky,

stamped and snorted at him as he passed, and now and then a man's

voice yelled at him angrily as his long form tore through flowerbeds

or trellised vines. He had no idea of avoiding the farmhouses, for he

had at first no fear of men; but at length an alert farmer got a long

shot at him with a fowling-piece, and two or three small leaden

pellets caught him in the hind quarters. They did not go deep enough

to do him serious harm, but they hurt enough to teach him that men

were dangerous. Thereupon he swerved from the uncompromising straight

line of his flight, and made for the waste places. When the light of

the fire had quite died out behind him, the first of the dawn was

creeping up the sky; and by this time he had come to a barren region

of low thickets, ragged woods, and rocks thrusting up through a

meagre, whitish soil.

Till the sun was some hours high Lone Wolf pressed on, his terror of

the fire now lost in a sense of delighted freedom. By this time he was

growing hungry, and for an instant the impulse seized him to turn back

and seek his master. But no, that way lay the scorching of the flames.

Instead of turning, he ran on all the faster. Suddenly a rabbit

bounded up, almost beneath his nose. Hitherto he had never tasted

living prey, but with a sure instinct he sprang after the rabbit. To

his fierce disappointment, however, the nimble little beast was so

inconsiderate as to take refuge in a dense bramble thicket which he

could not penetrate. His muzzle, smarting and tender from the fire,

could not endure the harsh prickles, so after prowling about the

thicket for a half-hour in the wistful hope that the rabbit might come

out, he resumed his journey. He had no idea, of course, where he

wanted to go, but he felt that there must be a place somewhere where

there were plenty of rabbits and no bramble thickets.

Late in the afternoon he came upon the fringes of a settlement, which

he skirted with caution. In a remote pasture field, among rough

hillocks and gnarled, fire-scarred stumps, he ran suddenly into a

flock of sheep. For a moment he was puzzled at the sight, but the

prompt flight of the startled animals suggested pursuit. In a moment

he had borne down the hindermost. To reach for its throat was a sure

instinct, and he feasted, with a growing zest of savagery, upon the

hot flesh. Before he realized it, he was dragging the substantial

remnant of his meal to a place of hiding under an overhanging rock.

Then, well content with himself, he crept into a dark thicket and

slept for several hours.

When he awoke, a new-risen moon was shining, with something in her

light which half bewildered him, half stung him to uncomprehended

desires. Skulking to the crest of a naked knoll, he saw the landscape

spread out all around him, with the few twinkling lights of the

straggling village below the slopes of the pasture. But not for

lights, or for villages, or for men was his concern. Sitting up very

straight on his gaunt haunches, he stretched his muzzle toward the

taunting moon, and began to sound that long, dreadful gathering cry of

his race.

It was an unknown or a long-forgotten voice in those neighborhoods,

but none who heard it needed to have it explained. In half a minute

every dog in the settlement was howling, barking, or yelping, in rage

or fear. To Lone Wolf all this clamor was as nothing. He paid no more

attention to it than as if it had been the twittering of sparrows.

Then doors opened, and lights flashed as men came out to see what was

the matter. Clearly visible, silhouetted against the low moon, Lone

Wolf kept up his sinister chant to the unseen. But presently, out of

the corner of his eye, he noted half a dozen men approaching up the

pasture, with the noisy dogs at their heels. Men! That was different!

Could it be that they wanted him? All at once he experienced a qualm

of conscience, so to speak, about the sheep he had killed. It occurred

to him that if sheep belonged to men, there might be trouble ahead.

Abruptly he stopped his serenading of the moon, slipped over the crest

of the knoll, and made off at a long, tireless gallop which before

morning had put leagues between himself and the angry villagers.

After this he gave a wide berth to settlements; and having made his

first kill, he suddenly found himself an accomplished hunter. It was

as if long-buried memories had sprung all at once to life,--memories,

indeed, not of his own but of his ancestors',--and he knew, all at

once, how to stalk the shy wild rabbits, to run down and kill the red

deer. The country through which he journeyed was well stocked with

game, and he fed abundantly as he went, with no more effort than just

enough to give zest to his freedom. In this fashion he kept on for

many days, working ever northward just because the wild lands

stretched in that direction; and at last he came upon the skirts of a

cone-shaped mountain, ragged with ancient forest, rising solitary and

supreme out of a measureless expanse of wooded plain. From a jutting

shoulder of rock his keen eyes noted but one straggling settlement,

groups of scattered clearings, wide apart on the skirts of the great

hill. They were too far off to mar the vast seclusion of the height;

and Lone Wolf, finding a cave in the rocks that seemed exactly

designed for his retreat, went no farther. He felt that he had come

into his own domain.

CHAPTER II

The settlers around the skirts of Lost Mountain were puzzled and

indignant. For six weeks their indignation had been growing, and the

mystery seemed no nearer a solution. Something was slaughtering their

sheep--something that knew its business and slaughtered with dreadful

efficiency. Several honest dogs fell under suspicion, not because

there was anything whatever against their reputations, but simply

because they had the misfortune to be big enough and strong enough to

kill a sheep if they wanted to, and the brooding backwoods mind, when

troubled, will go far on the flimsiest evidence.

Of all the wrathful settlers the most furious was Brace Timmins. Not

only had he lost in those six weeks six sheep, but now his dog, a

splendid animal, half deerhound and half collie, had been shot on

suspicion by a neighbor, on no better grounds, apparently, than his

long legs and long killing jaws. Still the slaughtering of the flocks

went on with undiminished vigor. And a few days later Brace Timmins

avenged his favorite by publicly thrashing his too hasty neighbor in

front of the cross-roads store. The neighbor, pounded into exemplary

penitence, apologized, and as far as the murdered dog was concerned,

the score was wiped clean. But the problem of the sheep killing was no

nearer solution. If not Brace Timmins' dog, as every one made prudent

haste to acknowledge, then whose dog was it? The life of every dog in

the settlement, if bigger than a wood-chuck, hung by a thread, which

might, it seemed, at any moment turn into a halter. Brace Timmins

loved dogs; and not wishing that others should suffer the unjust fate

which had overtaken his own, he set his whole woodcraft to the

discovery of the true culprit.

Before he had made any great progress, however, on this trail, a new

thing happened, and suspicion was lifted from the heads of all the

dogs. Joe Anderson's dog, a powerful beast, part sheep-dog and part

Newfoundland, with a far-off streak of bull, and the champion fighter

of the settlements, was found dead in the middle of Anderson's sheep

pasture, his whole throat fairly ripped out. He had died in defence of

his charges, and it was plainly no dog's jaws that had done such

mangling. What dog indeed could have mastered Anderson's "Dan"?

"It's a bear, gone mad on mutton," pronounced certain of the wise

ones, idling at the cross-roads store. "Ye see as how he hain't _et_

the dawg, noways, but jest bit him to teach him not to go interferin'

as regards sheep."

"Ye're all off," contradicted Timmins, with authority. "A bear'd hev'

tore him an' batted him an' mauled him more'n he'd hev' bit him. A

bear thinks more o' usin' his fore paws than what he does his jaws, if

he gits into any kind of an onpleasantness. No, boys, our unknown

friend up yonder's a _wolf_, take my word for it."

Joe Anderson snorted, and spat accurately out through the door.

"A _wolf_!" he sneered. "Go chase yerself, Brace Timmins. I'd like to

see any wolf as could 'a' done up my Dan that way!"

"Well, keep yer hair on, Joe," retorted Timmins, easily. "I'm a-goin'

after him, an' I'll show him to you in a day or two, as like as not!"

"I reckon, Joe," interposed the storekeeper, leaning forward across

the counter, "as how there be other breeds of wolf besides the

sneakin' little gray varmint of the East here, what's been cleaned out

of these parts fifty year ago. If Brace is right,--an' I reckon he

be,--then it must sure be one of them big timber wolves we read about,

what the Lord's took it into His head to plank down here in our safe

old woods to make us set up an' take notice. You better watch out,

Brace. If ye don't git the brute first lick, he'll git you!"

"_I'll_ watch out!" drawled Timmins, confidently; and selecting a

strong, steel trap-chain from a box beside the counter, he sauntered

off to put his plans in execution.

These plans were simple enough. He knew that he had a wide-ranging

adversary to deal with. But he himself was a wide ranger, and

acquainted with every cleft and crevice of Lost Mountain. He would

find the great wolf's lair, and set his traps accordingly, one in the

runway, to be avoided if the wolf was as clever as he ought to be, and

a couple of others a little aside to really do the work. Of course, he

would carry his rifle, in case of need, but he wanted to take his

enemy alive.

For several arduous but exciting days Timmins searched in vain alike

the dark cedar swamps and the high, broken spurs of the mountain.

Then, one windless afternoon, when the forest scents came rising to

him on the clear air, far up the steep he found a climbing trail

between gray, shelving ledges. Stealthy as a lynx he followed,

expecting at the next turn to come upon the lair of the enemy. It was

a just expectation, but as luck would have it, that next turn, which

would have led him straight to his goal, lay around a shoulder of rock

whose foundations had been loosened by the rains. With a kind of long

growl, rending and sickening, the rock gave way, and sank beneath

Timmins' feet.

Moved by the alert and unerring instinct of the woodsman, Timmins

leaped into the air. Both high and wide he sprang, and so escaped

being engulfed in the mass which he had dislodged. On the top of the

ruin he fell, but he fell far and hard; and for some fifteen or twenty

minutes after that fall he lay very still, while the dust and débris

settled into silence under the quiet flooding of the sun.

At last he opened his eyes. For a moment he made no effort to move,

but lay wondering where he was. A weight was on his legs, and glancing

downward, he saw that he was half covered with earth and rubbish. Then

he remembered. Was he badly hurt? He was half afraid, now, to make

the effort to move, lest he should find himself incapable of it.

Still, he felt no serious pain. His head ached, to be sure; and he saw

that his left hand was bleeding from a gash at the base of the thumb.

That hand still clutched one of the heavy traps which he had been

carrying, and it was plainly the trap that had cut him, as if in a

frantic effort to escape. But where was his rifle? Cautiously turning

his head, he peered around for it, but in vain, for during the fall it

had flown far aside into the thickets. As he stared solicitously, all

at once his dazed and sluggish senses sprang to life again with a

scorching throb, which left a chill behind it. There, not ten paces

away, sitting up on its haunches and eying him contemplatively, was a

gigantic wolf, much bigger, it seemed to him, than any wolf had any

right to be.

Timmins' first instinct was to spring to his feet, with a yell that

would give the dreadful stranger to understand that he was a fellow it

would not be well to tamper with. But his woodcraft stayed him. He was

not by any means sure that he _could_ spring to his feet. Still less

was he sure that such an action would properly impress the great wolf,

who, for the moment at least, seemed not actively hostile. Stillness,

absolute immobility, was the trump-card to be always played in the

wilderness when in doubt. So Timmins kept quite still, looking

inquiringly at Lone Wolf. And Lone Wolf looked inquiringly at him.

For several minutes this waiting game went on. Then, with easy

nonchalance, Lone Wolf lifted one huge hind paw and vigorously

scratched his ear. This very simple action was a profound relief to

Timmins.

"Sartain," he thought, "the crittur must be in an easy mood, or he'd

never think to scratch his ear like that. Or mebbe he thinks I'm so

well buried I kin wait, like an old bone!"

Just then Lone Wolf got up, stretched himself, yawned prodigiously,

came a couple of steps nearer, and sat down again, with his head

cocked to one side, and a polite air of asking, "Do I intrude?"

"Sartain sure, I'll never ketch him in a better humor!" thought

Timmins. "I'll try the human voice on him."

"Git to H---- out of that!" he commanded in a sharp voice.

Lone Wolf cocked his head to the other side interrogatively. He had

been spoken to by Toomey in that voice of authority, but the words

were new to him. He felt that he was expected to do something, but he

knew not what. He liked the voice--it was something like Toomey's. He

liked the smell of Timmins' homespun shirt--it, too, was something

like Toomey's. He became suddenly anxious to please this stranger. But

what was wanted of him? He half arose to his feet, and glanced around

to see if, perchance, the inexplicable order had been addressed to

some one else. As he turned, Timmins saw, half hidden in the heavy fur

of the neck, a stout leather collar.

"I swear!" he muttered, "if tain't a _tame_ wolf what's got away!"

With that he sat up; and pulling his legs, without any very serious

hurt, from their covering of earth and sticks he got stiffly to his

feet. For a moment the bright landscape reeled and swam before him,

and he had a vague sense of having been hammered all over his body.

Then he steadied himself. He saw that the wolf was watching him with

the expression of a diffident but friendly dog who would like to make

acquaintance. As he stood puzzling his wits, he remembered having read

about the great fire which had recently done such damage to Sillaby

and Hopkins' Circus, and he concluded that the stranger was one of the

fugitives from that disaster.

"Come here, sir! Come here, big wolf!" said he, holding out a

confident hand.

"Wolf"--that was a familiar sound to Lone Wolf's ears! it was at least

a part of his name! And the command was one he well understood.

Wagging his tail gravely, he came at once, and thrust his great head

under Timmins' hand for a caress. He had enjoyed his liberty, to be

sure, but he was beginning to find it lonely.

Timmins understood animals. His voice, as he talked to the redoubtable

brute beside him, was full of kindness, but at the same time vibrant

with authority. His touch was gentle, but very firm and unhesitating.

Both touch and voice conveyed very clearly to Lone Wolf's disciplined

instinct the impression that this man, like Toomey, was a being who

had to be obeyed, whose mastery was inevitable and beyond the reach of

question. When Timmins told him to lie down, he did so at once, and

stayed there obediently while Timmins gathered himself together, shook

the dirt out of his hair and boots, recovered his cap, wiped his

bleeding hand with leaves, and hunted up his scattered traps and

rifle. At last Timmins took two bedraggled but massive pork

sandwiches, wrapped in newspaper, from his pocket, and offered one to

his strange associate. Lone Wolf was not hungry, being full of

perfectly good mutton, but being too polite to refuse, he gulped down

the sandwich. Timmins took out the steel chain, snapped it on to Lone

Wolf's collar, said, "Come on!" and started homeward. And Lone Wolf,

trained to a short leash, followed close at his heels.

Timmins' breast swelled with exultation. What was the loss of one dog

and half a dozen no-account sheep to the possession of this

magnificent captive and the prestige of such a naked-handed capture?

He easily inferred, of course, that his triumph must be due, in part

at least, to some resemblance to the wolf's former master, whose

dominance had plainly been supreme. His only anxiety was as to how the

great wolf might conduct himself toward Settlement Society in general.

Assuredly nothing could be more lamb-like than the animal's present

demeanor, but Timmins remembered the fate of Joe Anderson's powerful

dog, and had his doubts. He examined Lone Wolf's collar, and

congratulated himself that both collar and chain were strong.

It was getting well along in the afternoon when Timmins and Lone Wolf

emerged from the thick woods into the stumpy pastures and rough burnt

lands that spread back irregularly from the outlying farms. And here,

while crossing a wide pasture known as Smith's Lots, an amazing thing

befell. Of course Timmins was not particularly surprised, because his

backwoods philosophizing had long ago led him to the conclusion that

when things get started happening, they have a way of keeping it up.

Days, weeks, months, glide by without event enough to ripple the most

sensitive memory. Then the whimsical Fates do something different,

find it interesting, and proceed to do something else. So, though

Timmins had been accustomed all his life to managing bulls,

good-tempered and bad-tempered alike, and had never had the ugliest of

them presume to turn upon him, he was not astonished now by the

apparition of Smith's bull, a wide-horned, carrot-red, white-faced

Hereford, charging down upon him in thunderous fury from behind a

poplar thicket. In a flash he remembered that the bull, which was

notoriously murderous in temper, had been turned out into that pasture

to act as guardian to Smith's flocks. There was not a tree near big

enough for refuge. There was not a stick big enough for a weapon. And

he could not bring himself to shoot so valuable a beast as this fine

thoroughbred. "Shucks!" he muttered in deep disgust. "I might 'a'

knowed it!" Dropping Lone Wolf's chain, he ran forward, waving his

arms and shouting angrily. But that red onrushing bulk was quite too

dull-witted to understand that it ought to obey. It was in the mood to

charge an avalanche. Deeply humiliated, Timmins hopped aside, and

reluctantly ran for the woods, trusting to elude his pursuer by timely

dodging.

Hitherto Lone Wolf had left all cattle severely alone, having got it

somehow into his head that they were more peculiarly under man's

protection than the sheep. Now, however, he saw his duty, and duty is

often a very well-developed concept in the brain of dog and wolf. His

ears flattened, his eyes narrowed to flaming green slits, his lips

wrinkled back till his long white fangs were clean bared, and without

a sound he hurled himself upon the red bull's flank. Looking back over

his shoulder, Timmins saw it all. It was as if all his life Lone Wolf

had been killing bulls, so unerring was that terrible chopping snap at

the great beast's throat. Far forward, just behind the bull's jaws,

the slashing fangs caught. And Timmins was astounded to see the bull,

checked in mid-rush, plunge staggering forward upon his knees. From

this position he abruptly rolled over upon his side, thrown by his

own impetus combined with a dexterous twist of his opponent's body.

Then Lone Wolf bounded backward, and stood expectant, ready to repeat

the attack if necessary. But it was not necessary. Slowly the great

red bull arose to his feet, and stared about him stupidly, the blood

gushing from his throat. Then he swayed and collapsed. And Lone Wolf,

wagging his tail like a dog, went back to Timmins' side for

congratulations.

The woodsman gazed ruefully at his slain foe. Then he patted his

defender's head, recovered the chain with a secure grip, and said

slowly:--

"I reckon, partner, ye did yer dooty as ye seen it, an' mebbe I'm

beholden to ye fer a hul' skin, fer that there crittur was sartinly

amazin' ugly an' spry on his pins. But ye're goin' to be a

responsibility some. Ye ain't no suckin' lamb to hev aroun' the house,

I'm thinkin'."

To these remarks, which he judged from their tone to be approving,

Lone Wolf wagged assent, and the homeward journey was continued.

Timmins went with his head down, buried in thought. All at once,

coming to a convenient log, he seated himself, and made Lone Wolf lie

down at his feet. Then he took out the remaining sandwich,--which he

himself, still shaken from his fall, had no desire to eat,--and

contemplatively, in small fragments, he fed it to the wolf's great

blood-stained jaws. At last he spoke, with the finality of one whose

mind is quite made up.

"Partner," said he, "there ain't no help for it. Bill Smith's a-goin'

to hold _me_ responsible for the killin' o' that there crittur o'

his'n, an' that means a pretty penny, it bein' a thoroughbred, an'

imported at that. He ain't never a-goin' to believe but what I let you

loose on to him a purpose, jest to save _my_ hide! Shucks! Moreover,

ye may's well realize y'ain't _popular_ 'round these parts; an' first

thing, when I wasn't lookin', somebody'd be a-puttin' somethin'

onhealthy into yer vittles, partner! We've kind o' took to each other,

you an' me; an' I reckon _we'd_ git on together _fine_, me always

havin' me own way, of course. But there ain't no help fer it. Ye're

too hefty a proposition, by long odds, fer a community like Lost

Mountain Settlement. I'm a-goin' to write right off to Sillaby an'

Hopkins, an' let them have ye back, partner. An' I reckon the price

they'll pay'll be enough to let me square myself with Bill Smith."

And thus it came about that, within a couple of weeks, Lone Wolf and

Toomey were once more entertaining delighted audiences, while the

settlement of Lost Mountain, with Timmins' prestige established beyond

assault, relapsed into its uneventful quiet.

THE BEAR'S FACE

THE BEAR'S FACE

CHAPTER I

"There ain't no denying but what you give us a great show, Job," said

the barkeeper, with that air of patronage which befits the man who

presides over and autocratically controls the varied activities of a

saloon in a Canadian lumber town.

"It _is_ a good show!" assented Job Toomey, modestly. He leaned up

against the bar in orthodox fashion, just as if his order had been

"whiskey fer mine!" but being a really great animal trainer, whose eye

must be always clear and his nerve always steady as a rock, his glass

contained nothing stronger than milk and Vichy.

Fifteen years before, Job Toomey had gone away with a little

travelling menagerie because he loved wild animals. He had come back

famous, and the town of Grantham Mills, metropolis of his native

county, was proud of him. He was head of the menagerie of the Sillaby

and Hopkins' Circus, and trainer of one of the finest troupes of

performing beasts in all America. It was a great thing for Grantham

Mills to have had a visit from the Sillaby and Hopkins' Circus on its

way from one important centre to another. There had been two great

performances, afternoon and evening. And now, after the last

performance, some of Toomey's old-time acquaintances were making

things pleasant for him in the bar of the Continental.

"I don't see how ye do it, Job!" said Sanderson, an old river-man who

had formerly trapped and hunted with Toomey. "I mind ye was always

kind o' slick an' understandin' with the wild critters; but the way

them lions an' painters an' bears an' wolves jest folly yer eye an'

yer nod, willin' as so many poodle dogs, beats me. They seem to like

it, too."

"They _do_," said Toomey. "Secret of it is, _I_ like _them_; so by an'

by they learn to like me well enough, an' try to please me. I make it

worth their while, too. Also, they know I'll stand no fooling. Fear

an' love, rightly mixed, boys--plenty of love, an' jest enough fear to

keep it from spilin'--that's a mixture'll carry a man far--leastways

with animals!"

The barkeeper smiled, and was about to say the obvious thing, but he

was interrupted by a long, lean-jawed, leather-faced man, captain of

one of the river tugs, whose eyes had grown sharp as gimlets with

looking out for snags and sandbanks.

"The finest beast in the whole menagerie, that big grizzly," said he,

spitting accurately into a spacious box of sawdust, "I noticed as how

ye didn't have _him_ in your performance, Mr. Toomey. Now, I kind o'

thought as how I'd like to see you put _him_ through his stunts."

Toomey was silent for a moment. Then, with a certain reserve in his

voice, he answered--

"Oh, he ain't exactly strong on stunts."

The leather-faced captain grinned quizzically.

"Which does he go shy on, Mr. Toomey, the love or the fear?" he

asked.

"Both," said Toomey, shortly. Then his stern face relaxed, and he

laughed good-humoredly. "Fact is, I think we'll have to be sellin'

that there grizzly to some zoölogical park. He's kind of bad fer my

prestige."

"How's that, Job?" asked Sanderson, expectant of a story.

"Well," replied Toomey, "to tell you the truth, boys,--an' I only say

it because I'm here at home, among friends,--it's _me_ that's afraid

of _him_! An' he knows it. He's the only beast that's ever been able

to make me feel fear--the real, deep-down fear. An' I've never been

able to git quit of that ugly notion. I go an' stand in front o' his

cage; an' he jest puts that great face of his up agin the bars an'

stares at me. An' I look straight into his eyes, an' remember what has

passed between us, an' I feel afraid still. Yes, it wouldn't be much

use me tryin' to train _that_ bear, boys, an' I'm free to acknowledge

it to you all."

"Tell us about it, Job!" suggested the barkeeper, settling his large

frame precariously on the top of a small, high stool.

An urgent chorus of approval came from all about the bar. Toomey took

out his watch and considered.

"We start away at 5.40 A.M.," said he. "An' I must make out to get a

wink o' sleep. But I reckon I've got time enough. As you'll see,

however, before I git through, the drinks are on me, so name yer

pison, boys. Meanwhile, you'll excuse me if I don't join you this

time. A man kin hold jest about so much Vichy an' milk, an' I've got

my load aboard.

"It was kind of this way," he continued, when the barkeeper had

performed his functions. "You see, for nigh ten years after I left

Grantham Mills, I'd stuck closer'n a burr to my business, till I began

to feel I knew 'most all there was to know about trainin' animals.

Men do git that kind of a fool feelin' sometimes about lots of things

harder than animal-trainin'. Well, nothin' would do me but I should go

back to my old business of _trappin'_ the beasts, only with one big

difference. I wanted to go in fer takin' them alive, so as to sell

them to menageries an' all that sort of thing. An' it was no pipe

dream, fer I done well at it from the first. But that's not here nor

there. I was gittin' tired of it, after a lot o' travellin' an' some

lively kind of scrapes; so I made up my mind to finish up with a

grizzly, an' then git back to trainin', which was what I was cut out

fer, after all.

"Well, I wanted a grizzly; an' it wasn't long before I found one. We

were campin' among the foothills of the upper end of the Sierra Nevada

range, in northern California. It was a good prospectin' ground fer

grizzly, an' we found lots o' signs. I wanted one not too big fer

convenience, an' not so old as to be too set in his ways an' too proud

to larn. I had three good men with me, an' we scattered ourselves over

a big bit o' ground, lookin' fer a likely trail. When I stumbled on to

that chap in the cage yonder, what Captain Bird admires so, I knew

right off _he_ wasn't what I was after. But the queer thing was that

_he_ didn't seem to feel that way about _me_. He was after me before I

had time to think of anything jest suitable to the occasion."

"Where in thunder was yer gun?" demanded the river-man.

"That was jest the trouble!" answered Toomey. "Ye see, I'd stood the

gun agin a tree, in a dry place, while I stepped over a bit o' boggy

ground, intendin' to lay down an' drink out of a leetle spring. Well,

the bear was handier to that gun than I was. When he come fer me, I

tell ye I didn't go back fer the gun. I ran straight up the hill, an'

him too close at my heels fer convenience. Then I remembered that a

grizzly don't run his best when he goes up hill on a slant, so on the

slant I went. It worked, I reckon, fer though I couldn't say I gained

on him much, it was soothin' to observe that he didn't seem to gain on

me.

"Fer maybe well on to three hundred yards it was a fine race, and I

was beginnin' to wonder if the bear was gittin' as near winded as I

was, when slap, I come right out on the crest of the ridge, which jest

ahead o' me jutted out in a sort of elbow. What there was on the other

side I couldn't see, and couldn't take time to inquire. I jest had to

chance it, hopin' it might be somethin' less than a thousand foot

drop. I ran straight to the edge, and jest managed to throw myself

flat on my face an' clutch at the grasses like mad to keep from

pitchin' clean out into space. It _was_ a drop, all right,--two

hundred foot or more o' sheer cliff.

"An' the bear was not thirty yards behind me.

"I looked at the bear, as I laid there clutchin' the grass-roots. Then

I looked down over the edge. I didn't feel frightened exactly, so fur;

didn't _know_ enough, maybe, to be _frightened_ of _any_ animal. But

jest at this point I was mighty anxious. You'll believe, then, it was

kind o' good to me to see, right below, maybe twenty foot down, a

little pocket of a ledge full o' grass an' blossomin' weeds. There was

no time to calculate. I could let myself drop, an' maybe, if I had

luck, I could stop where I fell, in the pocket, instead of bouncin'

out an' down, to be smashed into flinders. Or, on the other hand, I

could stay where I was, an' be ripped into leetle frayed ravellin's by

the bear; an' that would be in about three seconds, at the rate he was

comin'. Well, I let myself over the edge till I jest hung by the

fingers, an' then dropped, smooth as I could, down the rock face, kind

of clutchin' at every leetle knob as I went to check the fall. I lit

true in the pocket, an' I lit pretty hard, as ye might know, but not

hard enough to knock the wits out o' me, the grass an' weeds bein'

fairly soft. An' clawin' out desperate with both hands, I caught, an'

stayed put. Some dirt an' stones come down, kind o' smart, on my head,

an' when they'd stopped I looked up. There was the bear, his big head

stuck down, with one ugly paw hangin' over beside it, starin' at me. I

was so tickled at havin' fooled him, I didn't think o' the hole I was

in, but sez to him, saucy as you please, 'Thou art so near, an' yet so

far.' At this he give a grunt, which might have meant anything, an'

disappeared.

"'Ye know enough to know when you're euchred,' says I. An' then I

turned to considerin' the place I was in, an' how I was to git out of

it.

"To git out of it, indeed! The more I considered, the more I wondered

how I'd ever managed to stay in it. It wasn't bigger than three foot

by two, or two an' a half, maybe, in width, out from the cliff-face.

On my left, as I sat with my back agin the cliff, a wall o' rock ran

out straight, closin' off the pocket to that side clean an' sharp,

though with a leetle kind of a roughness, so to speak--nothin' more

than a roughness--which I calculated _might_ do, on a pinch, fer me

to hang on to if I wanted to try to climb round to the other side. I

_didn't_ want to jest yet, bein' still shaky from the drop, which, as

things turned out, was just as well for me.

"To my right a bit of a ledge, maybe six or eight inches wide, ran off

along the cliff-face for a matter of ten or a dozen feet, then slanted

up, an' widened out agin to another little pocket, or shelf like, of

bare rock, about level with the top o' my head. From this shelf a

narrow crack, not more than two or three inches wide, kind o'

zigzagged away till it reached the top o' the cliff, perhaps forty

foot off. It wasn't much, but it looked like somethin' I could git a

good finger-hold into, if only I could work my way along to that

leetle shelf. I was figurin' hard on this, an' had about made up my

mind to try it, an' was reachin' out, in fact, to start, when I

stopped sudden.

"A good, healthy-lookin' rattler, his diamond-pattern back bright in

the sun, come out of the crevice an' stopped on the shelf to take a

look at the weather.

"It struck me right off that he was on his way down to this pocket o'

mine, which was maybe his favorite country residence. I didn't like

one bit the idee o' his comin' an' findin' me there, when I'd never

been invited. I felt right bad about it, you bet; and I'd have got

away if I could. But not bein' able to, there was nothin' fer me to do

but try an' make myself onpleasant. I grabbed up a handful o' dirt an'

threw it at the rattler. It scattered all 'round him, of course, an'

some of it hit him. Whereupon he coiled himself like a flash, with

head an' tail both lifted, an' rattled indignantly. There was nothin'

big enough to do him any damage with, an' I was mighty oneasy lest he

might insist on comin' home to see who his impident caller was. But I

kept on flingin' dirt as long as there was any handy, while he kept on

rattlin', madder an' madder. Then I stopped, to think what I'd better

do next. I was jest startin' to take off my boot, to hit him with as

he come along the narrow ledge, when suddenly he uncoiled an' slipped

back into the crevice.

"Either it was very hot, or I'd been a bit more anxious than I'd

realized, for I felt my forehead wet with sweat; I drew my sleeve

across it, all the time keeping my eyes glued on the spot where the

rattler'd disappeared. Jest then, seemed to me, I felt a breath on the

back o' my neck. A kind o' cold chill crinkled down my backbone, an' I

turned my face 'round sharp.

"Will you believe it, boys? I was nigh jumpin' straight off that there

ledge, right into the landscape an' eternity! There, starin' 'round

the wall o' rock, not one inch more than a foot away from mine, was

the face o' the bear.

"Well, I was scared. There's no gittin' round that fact. There was

something so onnatural about that big, wicked face hangin' there over

that awful height, an' starin' so close into mine. I jest naturally

scrooged away as fur as I could git, an' hung on tight to the rock

so's not to go over. An' _then_ my face wasn't more'n two feet away,

do the best I could; an' that was the time I found what it felt like

to be right down scared. I believe if that face had come much closer,

I'd have _bit_ at it, that minute, like a rat in a hole.

"For maybe thirty seconds we jest stared. Then, I kind o' got a holt

of myself, an' cursed myself good fer bein' such a fool; an' my blood

got to runnin' agin. I fell to studyin' how the bear could have got

there; an' pretty soon I reckoned it out as how there must be a big

ledge runnin' down the cliff face, jest the other side o' the wall o'

the pocket. An' I hugged myself to think I hadn't managed to climb

'round on to that ledge jest before the bear arrived. I got this all

figgered out, an' it took some time. But still that face, hangin' out

there over the height, kept starin' at me; an' I never saw a wickeder

look than it had on to it, steady an' unwinkin' as a nightmare. It is

curious how long a beast _kin_ look at one without winkin'. At last,

it got on to my nerves so I jest couldn't stand it; an' snatching a

bunch of weeds (I'd already flung away all the loose dirt, flingin' it

at the rattler), I whipped 'em across them devilish leetle eyes as

hard as I could. It was a kind of a child's trick, or a woman's, but

it worked all right, fer it made the eyes blink. That proved they were

real eyes, an' I felt easier. After all, it _was_ only a bear; an' he

couldn't git any closer than he was. But that was a mite too close,

an' I wished he'd move. An' jest then, not to be gittin' _too_ easy in

my mind, I remembered the rattler.

"Another cold chill down my backbone! I looked 'round right smart. But

the rattler wasn't anywhere in sight. That, however, put me in mind of

what I'd been goin' to do to _him_. A boot wasn't much of a weapon

agin a bear, but it was the only thing handy, so I reckoned I'd have

to make it do. I yanked it off, took it by the toe, an' let that

wicked face have the heel of it as hard as I could. I hadn't any room

to swing, so I couldn't hit very hard. But a bear's nose is tender,

on the tip; an' it was jest there, of course, I took care to land.

There was a big snort, kind o' surprised like, an' the face

disappeared.

"I felt a sight better.

"Fer maybe five minutes nothin' else happened. I sat there figgerin'

how I was goin' to git out o' that hole; an' my figgerin' wasn't

anyways satisfactory. I knew the bear was a stayer, all right. There'd

be no such a thing as tryin' to crawl 'round that shoulder o' rock

till I was blame sure _he_ wasn't on t'other side; an' how I was goin'

to find _that_ out was more than I could git at. There was no such a

thing as climbin' _up_. There was no such a thing as climbin' _down_.

An' as fer that leetle ledge an' crevice leadin' off to the

right,--well, boys, when there's a rattler layin' low fer ye in a

crevice, ye're goin' to keep clear o' that crevice. It wanted a good

three hours of sundown, an' I knew my chaps wouldn't be missin' me

before night. When I didn't turn up for dinner, of course they'd begin

to suspicion somethin', because they knew I was takin' things rather

easy an' not followin' up any long trails. It looked like I was there

fer the night; an' I didn't like it, I tell you. There wasn't room to

lay down, and if I fell asleep settin' up, like as not I'd roll off

the ledge. There was nothing fer it but to set up a whoop an' a yell

every once in a while, in hopes that one or other of the boys _might_

be cruisin' 'round near enough to hear me. So I yelled some half a

dozen times, stoppin' between each yell to listen. Gittin' no answer,

at last I decided to save my throat a bit an try agin after a spell o'

restin' an' worryin'. Jest then I turned my head; an' I forgot, right

off, to worry about fallin' off the ledge. There, pokin' his ugly head

out o' the crevice, was the rattler. I chucked a bunch o' weeds at

him, an' he drew back in agin. But the thing that jarred me now was,

how would I keep him off when it got too dark fer me to see him. He'd

be slippin' home quiet like, thinkin' maybe I was gone, an' mad when

he found I wasn't, fer, ye see, _he_ hadn't no means of knowin' that I

couldn't go _up_ the rock jest as easy as I come down. I feared there

was goin' to be trouble after dark. An' while I was figgerin' on that

till the sweat come out on my forehead, I turned agin, an' there agin

was the bear's face starin' round the rock not more'n a foot away.

"You'll understand how my nerves was on the jumps, when I tell you,

boys, that I was scared an' startled all over again, like the first

time I'd seen it. With a yell, I fetched a swipe at it with my boot;

but it was gone, like a shadow, before I hit it; an' the boot flew out

o' my hand an' went over the cliff, an' me pretty nigh after it. I

jest caught myself, an' hung on, kind o' shaky, fer a minute. Next

thing, I heard a great scratchin' at the other side o' the rock, as if

the brute was tryin' to git a better toehold an' work some new dodge

on me. Then the face appeared agin, an' maybe, though perhaps that was

jest my excited imagination, it was some two or three inches closer

this time.

"I lit out at it with my fist, not havin' my other boot handy. But

Lord, a bear kin dodge the sharpest boxer. That face jest wasn't

there, before I could hit it. Then, five seconds more, an' it was back

agin starin' at me. I wouldn't give it the satisfaction o' tryin' to

swipe it agin, so I jest kept still, pretendin' to ignore it; an' in a

minute or two it disappeared. But then, a minute or two more an' it

was back agin. An' so it went on, disappearin', comin' back, goin'

away, comin' back, an' always jest when I _wasn't_ expectin' it, an'

always sudden an' quick as a shadow, till _that_ kind o' got on to my

nerves too, an' I wished he'd stay one way or t'other, so as I could

know what I was up against. At last, settlin' down as small as I

could, I made up my mind I jest wouldn't look that way at all, face or

no face, but give all my attention to watchin' for the rattler, an'

yellin' fer the boys. Judgin' by the sun,--which went mighty slow that

day,--I kept that game up for an hour or more; an' then, as the

rattler didn't come any more than the boys, I got tired of it, an'

looked 'round for the bear's face. Well, that time it wasn't there.

But in place of it was a big brown paw, reachin' round the edge of the

rock all by itself, an' clawin' quietly within about a foot o' my ear.

That was all the farthest it would reach, however, so I tried jest to

keep my mind off it. In a minute or two it disappeared; an' then back

come the face.

"I didn't like it. I preferred the paw. But then, it kept the

situation from gittin' monotonous.

"I suppose it was about this time the bear remembered somethin' that

wanted seein' to down the valley. The face disappeared once more, and

this time it didn't come back. After I hadn't seen it fer a half-hour,

I began to think maybe it had _really_ gone away; but I knew how foxy

a bear could be, an' thought jest as like as not he was waitin',

patient as a cat, on the other side o' the rock fer me to look round

so's he could git a swipe at me that would jest wipe my face clean

off. I didn't try to look round. But I kept yellin' every little

while; an' all at once a voice answered right over my head. I tell you

it sounded good, if _'twasn't_ much of a voice. It was Steevens, my

packer, lookin' down at me.

"'Hello, what in h---- are ye doin' down there, Job?' he demanded.

"'Waiting fer you to git a rope an' hoist me up!' says I. 'But look

out fer the bear!'

"'Bear nothin'!' says he.

"'Chuck an eye down the other side,' says I.

"He disappeared, but came right back. 'Bear nothin',' says he agin,

havin' no originality.

"'Well, he _was_ there, 'an' he stayed all the afternoon,' says I.

"'Reckon he must 'a' heard ye was an animal trainer, an' got skeered!'

says Steevens. But I wasn't jokin' jest then.

"'You cut fer camp, an' bring a rope, an' git me out o' this, _quick_,

d'ye hear?' says I. 'There's a rattler lives here, an' he's comin'

back presently, an' I don't want to meet him. Slide!'

"Well, boys, that's all. That bear _wasn't_ jest what I'd wanted; but

feelin' ugly about him, I decided to take him an' break him in. We

trailed him, an' after a lot o' trouble we trapped him. He was a sight

more trouble after we'd got him, I tell you. But afterwards, when I

set myself to tryin' to train him, why, I might jest as well have

tried to train an earthquake. Do you suppose that grizzly was goin' to

be afraid o' _me?_ He'd seen me afraid o' _him_, all right. He'd seen

it in my eyes! An' what's more, _I_ couldn't forgit it; but when I'd

look at him I'd _feel_, every time, the nightmare o' that great wicked

face hangin' there over the cliff, close to mine. So, he don't

perform. What'll ye take, boys? It's hot milk, this time, fer mine."

THE DUEL ON THE TRAIL

THE DUEL ON THE TRAIL

White and soft over the wide, sloping upland lay the snow, marked

across with the zigzag gray lines of the fences, and spotted here and

there with little clumps of woods or patches of bushy pasture. The sky

above was white as the earth below, being mantled with snow-laden

cloud not yet ready to spill its feathery burden on the world. One

little farm-house, far down the valley, served but to emphasize the

spacious emptiness of the silent winter landscape.

Out from one of the snow-streaked thickets jumped a white rabbit, its

long ears waving nervously, and paused for a second to look back with

a frightened air. It had realized that some enemy was on its trail,

but what that enemy was, it did not know. After this moment of

perilous hesitation, it went leaping forward across the open, leaving

a vivid track in the soft surface snow. The little animal's discreet

alarm, however, was dangerously corrupted by its curiosity; and at the

lower edge of the field, before going through a snake fence and

entering another thicket, it stopped, stood up as erect as possible on

its strong hind quarters, and again looked back. As it did so, the

unknown enemy again revealed himself, just emerging, a slender and

sinister black shape, from the upper thicket. A quiver of fear passed

over the rabbit's nerves. Its curiosity all effaced, it went through

the fence with an elongated leap and plunged into the bushes in a

panic. Here it doubled upon itself twice in a short circle, trusting

by this well-worn device to confuse the unswerving pursuer. Then,

breaking out upon the lower side of the thicket, it resumed its

headlong flight across the fields.

Meanwhile the enemy, a large mink, was following on the trail with the

dogged persistence of a sleuth-hound. Sure of his methods, he did not

pause to see what the quarry was doing, but kept his eyes and nose

occupied with the fresh tracks. His speed was not less than that of

the rabbit, and his endurance was vastly greater. Being very long in

the body, and extremely short in the legs, he ran in a most peculiar

fashion, arching his lithe back almost like a measuring-worm and

straightening out like a steel spring suddenly released. These sinuous

bounds were grotesque enough in appearance, but singularly effective.

The trail they made, overlapping that of the rabbit, but quite

distinct from it, varied according to the depth of the surface snow.

Where the snow lay thin, just deep enough to receive an imprint, the

mink's small feet left a series of delicate, innocent-looking marks,

much less formidable in appearance than those of the pad-footed

fugitive. But where the loose snow had gathered deeper the mink's long

body and sinewy tail from time to time stamped themselves

unmistakably.

When the mink reached the second thicket, his keen and experienced

craft penetrated at once the poor ruses of the fugitive. Cutting

across the circlings of the trail, he picked it up again with

implacable precision, making almost a straight line through the

underbrush. When he emerged again into the open, the rabbit was in

full view ahead.

The next strip of woodland in the fugitive's path was narrow and

dense. Below it, in a patch of hillocky pasture ground, sloping to a

pond of steel-bright ice, a red fox was diligently hunting. He ran

hither and thither, furtive, but seemingly erratic, poking his nose

into half-covered moss-tufts and under the roots of dead stumps,

looking for mice or shrews. He found a couple of the latter, but

these were small satisfaction to his vigorous winter appetite.

Presently he paused, lifted his narrow, cunning nose toward the woods,

and appeared to ponder the advisability of going on a rabbit hunt. His

fine, tawny, ample brush of a tail gently swept the light snow behind

him as he stood undecided.

All at once he crouched flat upon the snow, quivering with excitement,

like a puppy about to jump at a wind-blown leaf. He had seen the

rabbit emerging from the woods. Absolutely motionless he lay, so still

that, in spite of his warm coloring, he might have been taken for a

fragment of dead wood. And as he watched, tense with anticipation, he

saw the rabbit run into a long, hollow log, which lay half-veiled in a

cluster of dead weeds. Instantly he darted forward, ran at top speed,

and crouched before the lower end of the log, where he knew the rabbit

must come out.

Within a dozen seconds the mink arrived, and followed the fugitive

straight into his ineffectual retreat. Such narrow quarters were just

what the mink loved. The next instant the rabbit shot forth--to be

caught in mid-air by the waiting fox, and die before it had time to

realize in what shape doom had come upon it.

All unconscious that he was trespassing upon another's hunt, the fox,

with a skilful jerk of his head, flung the limp and sprawling victim

across his shoulder, holding it by one leg, and started away down the

slope toward his lair on the other side of the pond.

As the mink's long body darted out from the hollow log he stopped

short, crouched flat upon the snow with twitching tail, and stared at

the triumphant intruder with eyes that suddenly blazed red. The

trespass was no less an insult than an injury; and many of the wild

kindreds show themselves possessed of a nice sensitiveness on the

point of their personal dignity. For an animal of the mink's size the

fox was an overwhelmingly powerful antagonist, to be avoided with care

under all ordinary circumstances. But to the disappointed hunter, his

blood hot from the long, exciting chase, this present circumstance

seemed by no means ordinary. Noiseless as a shadow, and swift and

stealthy as a snake, he sped after the leisurely fox, and with one

snap bit through the great tendon of his right hind leg, permanently

laming him.

As the pang went through him, and the maimed leg gave way beneath his

weight, the fox dropped his burden and turned savagely upon his

unexpected assailant. The mink, however, had sprung away, and lay

crouched in readiness on the snow, eying his enemy malignantly. With a

fierce snap of his long, punishing jaws the fox rushed upon him.

But--the mink was not there. With a movement so quick as fairly to

elude the sight, he was now crouching several yards away, watchful,

vindictive, menacing. The fox made two more short rushes, in vain;

then he, too, crouched, considering the situation, and glaring at his

slender black antagonist. The mink's small eyes were lit with a

smouldering, ruddy glow, sinister and implacable; while rage and pain

had cast over the eyes of the fox a peculiar green opalescence.

For perhaps half a minute the two lay motionless, though quivering

with the intensity of restraint and expectation. Then, with lightning

suddenness, the fox repeated his dangerous rush. But again the mink

was not there. As composed as if he had never moved a hair, he was

lying about three yards to one side, glaring with that same immutable

hate.

At this the fox seemed to realize that it was no use trying to catch

so elusive a foe. The realization came to him slowly--and slowly,

sullenly, he arose and turned away, ignoring the prize which he could

not carry off. With an awkward limp, he started across the ice,

seeming to scorn his small but troublesome antagonist.

Having thus recovered the spoils, and succeeded in scoring his point

over so mighty an adversary, the mink might have been expected to let

the matter rest and quietly reap the profit of his triumph. But all

the vindictiveness of his ferocious and implacable tribe was now

aroused. Vengeance, not victory, was his craving. When the fox had

gone about a dozen feet, all at once the place where the mink had been

crouching was empty. Almost in the same instant, as it seemed, the fox

was again, and mercilessly, bitten through the leg.

This time, although the fox had seemed to be ignoring the foe, he

turned like a flash to meet the assault. Again, however, he was just

too late. His mad rush, the snapping of his long jaws, availed him

nothing. The mink crouched, eying him, ever just beyond his reach. A

gleam of something very close to fear came into his furious eyes as he

turned again to continue his reluctant retreat.

Again, and again, and yet again, the mink repeated his elusive attack,

each time inflicting a deep and disastrous wound, and each time

successfully escaping the counter-assault. The trail of the fox was

now streaked and flecked with scarlet, and both his hind legs dragged

heavily. He reached the edge of the smooth ice and turned at bay. The

mink drew back, cautious for all his hate. Then the fox started across

the steel-gray glair, picking his steps that he might have a firm

foothold.

A few seconds later the mink once more delivered his thrust. Feinting

towards the enemy's right, he swerved with that snake-like celerity of

his, and bit deep into the tender upper edge of the fox's thigh, where

it plays over the groin.

It was a cunning and deadly stroke. But in recovering from it, to dart

away again to safe distance, his feet slipped, ever so little, on the

shining surface of the ice. The delay was only for the minutest

fraction of a second. But in that minutest fraction lay the fox's

opportunity. His wheel and spring were this time not too late. His

jaws closed about the mink's slim backbone and crunched it to

fragments. The lean, black shape straightened out with a sharp

convulsion and lay still on the ice.

Though fully aware of the efficacy and finality of that bite, the fox

set his teeth, again and again, with curious deliberation of movement,

into the limp and unresisting form. Then, with his tongue hanging a

little from his bloody jaws, he lifted his head and stared, with a

curious, wavering, anxiously doubtful look, over the white familiar

fields. The world, somehow, looked strange and blurry to him. He

turned, leaving the dead mink on the ice, and painfully retraced his

deeply crimsoned trail. Just ahead was the opening in the log, the way

to that privacy which he desperately craved. The code of all the

aristocrats of the wild kindred, subtly binding even in that supreme

hour, forbade that he should consent to yield himself to death in the

garish publicity of the open. With the last of his strength he crawled

into the log, till just the bushy tip of his tail protruded to betray

him. There he lay down with one paw over his nose, and sank into the

long sleep. For an hour the frost bit hard upon the fields, stiffening

to stone the bodies but now so hot with eager life. Then the snow came

thick and silent, filling the emptiness with a moving blur, and buried

away all witness of the fight.

* * * * * *

Charles G. D. Roberts'

THE BACKWOODSMEN

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"'The Backwoodsmen' shows that the writer knows the backwoods as

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Photography for the Sportsman Naturalist is in

THE AMERICAN SPORTSMAN LIBRARY SERIES

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LIFE OF ANIMALS: THE MAMMALS

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