STALKED BY WOLVES
Amesbury filled his pipe, lighted it from the stove with one of the
shavings he had whittled, and sat silently contemplating the streak of
light which flashed through the stove vent. He seemed to Paul to have
suddenly grown very old. His normally open, genial countenance was
drawn and haggard, and Paul noted the streaks of gray in his brown
hair and beard.
“It may do you good to hear the story,” Amesbury presently said. “I’ve
never told it to any one, but it’s a pretty good warning to young
fellows like you. I like you, and I hope you’ll not make the mistakes
that I did.” He lapsed into silence again for a few moments, and then
began:
“As I told you, my father was a minister--the gentlest, most
affectionate, sympathetic man I ever knew. If there ever was a true
servant of God he was one. There was never a sweeter or more devoted
woman ever lived than my mother. I believe her spirit comes now of
nights to kiss my forehead as I fall asleep, just as she did in those
long ago days when I was a boy at home.
“She was tireless. Nothing seemed ever too great a task for her. The
women of my father’s church looked upon her in a way as their
counselor, and they used to come to her with their troubles, as the
men came to my father; and men and women were always certain of both
sympathetic and practical assistance.
“I had one sister, three years my senior, and we were chums and
constant companions. We were both born with a passionate love of
music, and when she was twelve and I nine years of age my father, with
much stinting and scraping, purchased her a piano and me a violin.
“My violin instructor was an old German, who was to come to the Manse
once a week to give me a lesson. He was a very impatient old fellow,
but a good teacher, and with my interest in music I made good
progress. The pleasantest memories of my life are of evenings when my
mother sat sewing, and my father relaxed in his easy chair, while
Helen played the piano and I accompanied her on the violin.
“My father designed me, I believe, from my birth, for the ministry. I
was a good student, and at sixteen entered college. Here a new world
opened to me. I had always lived in an atmosphere of religion. Perhaps
I had become satiated with it. At any rate I took only too kindly to
the wild life of the crowd I fell in with at college.
“For the most part the students were industrious, but there were a
few, as there always are, who indulged themselves in dissipation
because they thought it smart, and it was my misfortune to be drawn
among these at the beginning. Perhaps the novelty, in strong contrast
with my home life, attracted me. I do not know.
“At first our dissipations were of a rather mild sort, and I did
pretty well during the freshman year. But during my sophomore year I
got in with a still wilder crowd, and took part in several
discreditable escapades. Some of my companions drank, and early in the
year I for the first time in my life tasted spirituous liquors. Before
college closed for the summer vacation I had twice been mildly
intoxicated. Of course my parents knew nothing of this, but they did
know that I had neglected my studies and was conditioned in Greek,
barely passing the test in other subjects.
“The escapades of the sophomore year became orgies in the junior. I
drank hard at these times, and the liquor made me wild. I’ll not tell
you of the carousings I took part in, nor the reprimands I received
for class and other delinquencies. It came to a climax in early spring
when I entered a class one day in an intoxicated condition, insulted
the professor, and did some damage to the furniture.
“This ended in my dismissal from college. A full report of what had
occurred preceded me home, and for the first time my parents learned
of my debauchery. It was a terrible shock to them. I shall never
forget their grief. If they had scolded or meted punishment it would
have been different, but they did not. My mother threw her arms around
my neck and cried as though her heart would break. My father, tears
streaming down his cheeks, placed his hand upon my shoulder and called
me his poor erring son. I promised them that I would reform. Helen
talked with me and cried with me in private.
“My father’s life hope that I should follow his footsteps in the
ministry was crushed, and he had forever lost his former habitual
cheerfulness. The change in him--I always felt it when in his
presence--hurt me terribly. I resolved to atone, so far as possible,
for the past.
“I took up my old home life again. I attended meetings regularly, as
my father wished, and devoted myself to my violin. My old German
instructor was re-engaged, and I made such good progress that in the
summer when I was twenty years of age he suggested that I go to
Germany for a year, to continue my musical studies there.
“The prospect of a trip abroad filled me with enthusiasm. At first my
parents objected, and particularly my mother, who was now in ill
health, the result, I shall always believe, of the shock she received
at the time of my expulsion from college. I plead so strongly,
however, to be permitted to go, that at length both Father and Mother
consented, and late in the summer I sailed.
“It was a mistake. There is much drinking among German students, and
almost immediately I was drawn among the wildest drinkers and
roysterers.
“During the winter my sister married a prosperous and wealthy young
business man. They decided upon a brief wedding trip abroad, and
planning a pleasant surprise for me said nothing of it in their
letters beyond the particulars of the wedding, for during my absence
it was the custom of Father and Helen to write me twice a week minute
details of the home life.
“I shall never forget the morning they came. I had been out all the
previous night with a party of drinking students and had returned to
my apartment in a state of such beastly intoxication that I had
thrown myself upon a couch, unable to undress and retire to my bed.
Here I was sleeping when a loud knocking aroused me. Blear-eyed,
unkempt, and smelling foul with liquor, I opened the door. There stood
Helen and her husband.
“Their wedding trip was spoiled, of course. They decided to return
home at once and take me with them. Helen made the excuse to our
parents that I was in no physical condition to remain abroad longer. I
think my father suspected something of the true cause, but he gave no
hint of it, and I resumed my old life, but not with the same chastened
feeling that I had experienced on the former occasion. I was becoming
hardened.
“My father’s church and the manse where we lived were in upper New
York, and to satisfy my desire for excitement I used frequently to
take a run down town. It was on one of these occasions, a month after
my return from abroad, that I met one of my former college companions.
He asked me to drink with him and I accepted. One drink led to
another, and when the liquor went to our heads we became hilarious
and decided to make a night of it.
“In the small hours of morning we were sitting at a table in a low
cafe and dance hall. Some others were at the table--people I had never
met--and one of them made a remark at which I took offense. What it
was I do not know. I only know that before my companion or the others
at the table knew what I was about, I was on my feet and smashing a
chair over the offender’s head.
“I was arrested and locked up, and the following day committed to the
Tombs without bail to await the result of the injuries upon the man
whom I had attacked. Then came remorse--awful, sincere remorse--for
the life I had led and the hearts I had broken.
“My father, ever loving, ever sympathetic, came to console me. Again
he called me his poor, erring boy, as he placed his arm around my
shoulders, and tears, in spite of his effort to conceal them, wet his
cheeks.
“I’ll not go into detail, or describe the agonizing weeks that
followed. The man recovered. I was tried for my offense, and in view
of the fact that I had never before been called before a court of
justice, was sentenced to but one year in the penitentiary.
“On the day sentence was pronounced my mother died; killed, of course,
by her boy’s disgrace. When my father returned from the funeral he
resigned his pastorate. He could no longer stand before his
congregation, and the congregation did not wish to retain the services
of a minister whose son was a jail bird. Six months later he followed
my mother. All that he had loved and lived for had been taken from
him.
“Well, I served my sentence, and when I was released I came here. I
had but one thought--to hide myself from the world. I could not stay
in New York and disgrace my sister and her husband with my presence. I
was truly penitent, but I realized that the world would not believe
that. My presence would ever bring up the past.
“Here in the open I have been drawn closer and closer to the God my
father and mother loved and worshiped. Since that awful night I have
never tasted liquor. I have tried to live in rectitude, and so far as
I can to atone for the past.
“I have never written my sister, for I wished her to forget the
disgrace. She never knew what became of me when I left prison. She
probably thinks me dead, and I have had no means of hearing from her.
“My violin has been my constant companion. Every evening when I am
here I play to Father and Mother and Helen. I always see them when I
play. I always see the dear old living room at home, Father in his
easy chair, Mother sewing, and Helen at her piano playing a soft
accompaniment.”
No one spoke for a long time. Then Ahmik rose and refilled the stove.
Amesbury drew his ungainly frame together, strode to the door and
stepped out. Presently he returned singing:
“‘Come, let’s to bed,
Says Sleepy-head.’
“It’s bedtime, fellows, and I know you’re tired. I’d take one of you
in with me, but my bed is pretty narrow, and I’m afraid you wouldn’t
be comfortable. Sleeping bags are pretty good, though. Paul, you have
one already. Here’s one for you, Dan,” and Amesbury drew a warm
sleeping bag from a chest. He was his whimsical, good-natured, normal
self again.
The following day was Sunday. Amesbury held religious services
directly after breakfast. Then he played the violin for an hour, and
they all sang some hymns, after which they chatted, cozily gathered
around the stove, Paul and Dan luxuriating in the homelike atmosphere
that was a part of the cabin.
“Tomorrow,” said Amesbury after dinner, “Ahmik takes to his trapping
trail, and we won’t see him again in a month. He goes westward. I’ll
be going, too, for awhile. My trail takes me south, along one side of
a chain of lakes, and swings back along the other side. I’ll be back
in a week if the weather holds good. Takes me that long to make the
rounds. You chaps make yourselves at home.”
“Can’t we go along and help you?” asked Paul. “It must be mighty
tedious all alone.”
“No, not this trip. Perhaps I’ll take one of you at a time on later
trips. I’ll tell you what! You and Dan do a little trapping on your
own account. There are a lot of traps out here in the woodroom. Dan
knows how to set them. Put them anywhere it looks good to you. I
expect you to earn your board and something more, you know. I told you
that before you came. I’ll give you a chance to work on shares. You
can use my traps and I’ll board you for half your hunt. How does that
suit you?”
“O, aye, ’twill be fine,” said Dan. “I were thinkin’, now, I’d like t’
do a bit o’ trappin’.”
“You might get a silver fox, and go home rich. Now think of that!” and
Amesbury’s eyes twinkled.
“An’ is they silvers here?” asked Dan.
“Sometimes. Silvers, reds, cross, whites and blues. You’ll find
martens in the timber. There are plenty of wolves, too--the big gray
kind. You’ll hear them howling nights.”
“An’ is they wolves, now? I’d like wonderful well t’ kill some
wolves.” Dan’s eyes sparkled.
“Not afraid of ’em, eh?” Amesbury laughed.
“They mostly keeps too far away. They’s cowards, wolves is.”
“Sometimes, but look out for packs.”
“Are there any bears?” asked Paul.
“Bears? Yes, there are bears, but you won’t see any. They’re all in
their dens and won’t come out till spring.”
Long before dawn on Monday morning the boys were awakened from sound
slumber by Amesbury singing, in full, melodious tones:
“‘Awake, arise, pull out your eyes,
And hear what time of day;
And when you have done,
Pull out your tongue,
And see what you can say.’”
Amesbury was cooking breakfast by candlelight, and the room was filled
with the odor of coffee and frying venison steak. Ahmik was getting
his things ready, preparatory to leaving. The boys crawled drowsily
from their sleeping bags.
“Good morning, fellows,” called Amesbury cheerily. “Too bad to get you
out so early, but Ahmik and I’ll have to be going. Wash up;
breakfast’s ready.”
“We’ll miss you terribly,” said Paul. “It’s going to be pretty lonely
when you’re gone.”
“It’ll be good to know I’m missed,” Amesbury laughed. Then more
soberly: “I tell you it’s good to have you chaps here. I’ll look
forward every day I’m gone to getting back. When I’m alone I never
care much whether I’m here or somewhere else. But now I’ve the
pleasant anticipation before me of coming home to a jolly good day or
two each week with you fellows. Your coming here means a lot to me.”
“You’re mighty good to say so. It was so splendid of you to bring us
from the post!” declared Paul.
“You’ve got to earn your way, you know, and if you work hard you’ll
earn a little money besides.”
With the first hint of gray dawn Amesbury and Ahmik donned their
snowshoes, said adieu, and, each hauling his flat-sled, were quickly
swallowed by the black shadows of the forest.
It was a marvelously beautiful day. The rising sun set the frost-clad
trees and snow sparkling and scintillating, the atmosphere was clear
and transparent, and it was altogether too entrancing out of doors for
the lads to forego an excursion. They had become well inured to the
severe cold, growing more intense with the lengthening January days,
and shrank from it not at all.
“Let’s begin our trapping today,” Paul suggested. “It’s just too great
to stick inside.”
“Now I were thinkin’ that,” said Dan. “We might be settin’ some traps,
an’ get our trails begun.”
“All right; that’s bully!” Paul exclaimed enthusiastically. “I never
did any trapping, and I’d like to learn how.”
They selected a dozen traps each, and cut some bits of venison to bait
them with. Dan carried one of Amesbury’s axes and Paul’s shotgun,
explaining: “We might be seein’ some birds, now,” but Paul, with his
own light axe and his share of traps, decided his rifle would be too
heavy to carry.
Half a mile from the cabin, in a creek valley, Dan stopped, and
pointing to tracks in the snow, explained:
“Them’s marten tracks, an’ I’m thinkin’ we’ll set a trap here.”
He accordingly selected a spruce tree about four inches in diameter,
cut it off four feet above the snow, and in the top of the stump made
a V-shaped notch. He then trimmed all the branches, except the brush
at the top, from the tree, and with the brush end lying in the snow,
laid the butt end firmly in the notch cut in the top of the stump,
with the butt projecting, probably, four feet beyond the stump. With
his axe he now split the butt of the tree, and prying it open inserted
a piece of the venison they had brought for bait. Just back of the
bait, and on top of the tree trunk, he fastened and set a trap.
“There,” remarked Dan, “I finds that a rare easy way t’ set marten
traps, an’ a good un, too. Th’ marten walks up th’ tree t’ get th’
bait, an’ right in th’ trap.”
“I can do that all right,” said Paul.
“Oh, yes, you can do un. ’Tis easy, now you knows how. I’m thinkin’
you might be workin’ up this brook, an’ set th’ traps you has, an’ I
cuts over t’ th’ west’ard an’ finds another place t’ set mine.”
“All right,” assented Paul, “and then we’ll each have our own traps to
look after. It’s going to be great sport, Dan.”
“’T will be fine t’ blaze trees high up where you sets traps, t’ mark
th’ traps,” cautioned Dan. “When you gets through now, don’t be
waitin’ for me. I’ll make back t’ th’ cabin.”
Accordingly they parted. Dan, turning to the right, disappeared, and
Paul, passing up the valley, was presently deeply engrossed in his
work. Once he fancied he heard something behind him, but there was
nothing to be seen when he turned to look, and concluding he had
imagined it he dismissed it from his mind and continued his work.
His last trap was set late in the afternoon, and, very hungry, he
turned toward the cabin. A little way down the trail he again had the
sensation that some creature was stealthily following him, but still
there was nothing visible. This feeling clung to him now, and
presently made him so nervous that he increased his pace to a trot.
He was still a full mile from the cabin when, again glancing behind,
he discovered two great, skulking animals a hundred yards in his rear.
“Husky dogs!” he said aloud, and felt momentary relief from his
anxiety. Then like a flash he realized that they were not dogs at all,
but big, savage gray wolves. A cold chill ran up Paul’s back. He had
no arms save his axe. The wolves had stopped. They were sitting upon
their haunches, eyeing him hungrily.