That same night, in a cabin of unutterable loneliness some miles to the
west of the trail from the moose-yard, a sallow-faced, lean backwoodsman
was awakened by the moonlight streaming into his face through the small
square window. He glanced at the embers on the open hearth, and knew that
for the white maple logs to have so burned down he must have been
sleeping a good six hours. And he had turned in soon after the early
winter sunset. Rising on his elbow, he threw down the gaudy patchwork
quilt of red, yellow, blue, and mottled squares, which draped the bunk in
its corner against the rough log walls. He looked long at the thin face
of his wife, whose pale brown hair lay over the bare arm crooked beneath
her cheek. Her lips looked pathetically white in the decolourising rays
which streamed through the window. His mouth, stubbled with a week’s
growth of dark beard, twitched curiously as he looked. Then he got up,
very noiselessly. Stepping across the bare, hard room, whose austerity
the moon made more austere, he gazed into a trundle-bed where a
yellow-haired, round-faced boy slept, with the chubby sprawling legs and
arms of perfect security. The lad’s face looked pale to his troubled
eyes.
“It’s fresh meat they want, the both of ’em,” he muttered to himself.
“They can’t live and thrive on pork an’ molasses, nohow!”
His big fingers, clumsily gentle, played for a moment with the child’s
yellow curls. Then he pulled a thick, gray homespun hunting-shirt over
his head, hitched his heavy trousers up under his belt, clothed his feet
in three pairs of home-knit socks and heavy cowhide moccasins, took down
his rifle, cartridge-pouch, and snowshoes from their nails on the
moss-chinked wall, cast one tender look on the sleepers’ faces, and
slipped out of the cabin door as silently as a shadow.
“I’ll have fresh meat for them before next sundown,” he vowed to himself.
Outside, amid the chips of his chopping, with a rough well-sweep on one
hand and a rougher barn on the other, he knelt to put on his snowshoes.
The cabin stood, a desolate, silver-gray dot in the waste of snow, naked
to the steely skies of winter. With the curious improvidence of the
backwoodsman, he had cut down every tree in the neighbourhood of the
cabin, and the thick woods which might so well have sheltered him stood
acres distant on every side. When he had settled the thongs of his
snowshoes over his moccasins quite to his satisfaction, he straightened
himself with a deep breath, pulled his cap well down over his ears, slung
his rifle over his shoulder, and started out with the white moon in his
face.
In the ancient forest, among the silent wilderness folk, things happen
with the slow inexorableness of time. For days, for weeks, nothing may
befall. Hour may tread noiselessly on hour, apparently working no change;
yet all the time the forces are assembling, and at last doom strikes. The
violence is swift, and soon done. And then the great, still world looks
inscrutable, unhurried, changeless as before.
So, after long tranquillity, the forces of fate were assembling about
that high plateau in the wilderness. The backwoodsman could no longer
endure to see the woman and boy pining for the tonic, vitalising juices
of fresh meat. He was not a professional hunter. Absorbed in the clearing
and securing of a farm in the free forest, he cared not to kill for the
killing’s sake. For his own part, he was well content with his salt pork,
beans and molasses, and corn-meal mush; but when occasion called, he
could handle a rifle as backwoodsmen should. On this night, he was all
hunter, and his quiet, wide-open eye, alert for every woodland sign, had
a fire in it that would have looked strange to the wife and child.
His long strides carried him swiftly through the glimmering glades.
Journeying to the north of east, as the gray wolf had to the north of
west, he too, before long, struck the trail of the moose, but at a point
far beyond that at which the wolf had come upon it. So trampled and
confused a trail it was, however, that for a time he took no note of the
light wolf track among the heavy footprints of the moose. Suddenly it
caught his eye—one print on a smooth spread of snow, emphasised in a pour
of unobstructed radiance. He stopped, scrutinised the trail minutely to
assure himself he had but a single wolf to deal with, then resumed his
march with new zest and springier pace. Hunting was not without its
relish for him when it admitted some savour of the combat.
The cabin stood in the valley lands just back of the high plateau, and so
it chanced that the backwoodsman had not far to travel that night. Where
the trail broke into the open, he stopped, and reconnoitred cautiously
through a screen of hemlock boughs. He saw the big gray wolf sitting
straight up on his haunches, his tongue hanging out, contemplating
securely his intended prey. He saw the dark shape of the cow-moose,
obstinately confronting her foe, her hindquarters backed close up to the
edge of the gully. He caught the fierce and anxious gleam of her eyes, as
she rolled them backward for an instant’s reassuring glance at her young
one. And, though he could not see the calf in its prisoning pit, he
understood the whole situation.
Well, there was a bounty on wolf-snouts, and this fellow’s pelt was worth
considering. As for the moose, he knew that not a broadside of cannon
would scare her away from that hole in the rocks so long as the calf was
in it. He took careful aim from his covert. At the report the wolf shot
into the air, straightened out, and fell upon the snow, kicking dumbly, a
bullet through his neck. As the light faded from his fierce eyes, with it
faded out a vision of the cave in the painted rocks. In half a minute he
lay still; and the cow-moose, startled by his convulsive leaps more than
by the rifle-shot, blew and snorted, eyeing him with new suspicion. Her
spacious flank was toward the hunter. He, with cool but hasty fingers,
slipped a fresh cartridge into the breech, and aimed with care at a spot
low down behind the fore-shoulder.
Again rang out the thin, vicious report, slapping the great silences in
the face. The woodsman’s aim was true. With a cough the moose fell
forward on her knees. Then, with a mighty, shuddering effort, she got up,
turned about, and fell again with her head over the edge of the crevice.
Her awkward muzzle touched and twitched against the neck of the
frightened calf, and with a heavy sigh she lay still.
The settler stepped out from his hiding-place, and examined with deep
satisfaction the results of his night’s hunting. Already he saw the
colour coming back into the pale cheeks of the woman and the child. The
wolf’s pelt and snout, too, he thought to himself, would get them both
some little things they’d like, from the cross-roads store, next time he
went in for corn-meal. Then, there was the calf—no meat like moose-veal,
after all. He drew his knife from its sheath. But, no; he hated
butchering. He slipped the knife back, reloaded his rifle, stepped to the
side of the pit, and stood looking down at the baby captive, where it
leaned nosing in piteous bewilderment at the head of its dead mother.
Again the woodsman changed his mind. He bit off a chew of black tobacco,
and for some moments stood deliberating, stubbly chin in hand. “I’ll save
him for the boy to play with and bring up,” he at last decided.
[Illustration: THE HOMESICKNESS OF KEHONKA]