In a few weeks the king’s healthy flesh, assiduously licked by his
mother, healed perfectly, leaving long, hairless scars upon his hide,
which turned, in course of time, from livid to a leaden whitish hue. But
while his flesh healed perfectly, his spirit was in a different case.
Thenceforward, one great fear lurked in his heart, ready to leap forth at
any instant—the fear of the bear. It was the only fear he knew, but it
was a terrible one; and when, two months later, he again caught that
pungent scent in passing a thicket, he ran madly for an hour before he
recovered his wits and stole back, humiliated and exhausted, to his
mother’s pasture-grounds.
In the main, however, he was soon his old, bold, investigating self, his
bulk and his sagacity growing vastly together. Ere the first frosts had
crimsoned the maples and touched the birches to a shimmer of pale gold,
he could almost hold his own by sheer strength against his yearling
brother’s weight, and sometimes, for a minute or two, worst him by feint
and strategy. When he came, by chance, in the crisp, free-roving weather
of the fall, upon other moose-calves of that year’s birth, they seemed
pygmies beside him, and gave way to him respectfully as to a yearling.
About this time he experienced certain qualms of loneliness, which
bewildered him and took much of the interest out of life. His mother
began to betray an unexpected indifference, and his childish heart missed
her caresses. He was not driven away, but he was left to himself; while
she would stride up and down the open, gravelly meadows by the water,
sniffing the air, and at times uttering a short, harsh roar which made
him eye her uneasily. One crisp night, when the round October moon
wrought magic in the wilderness, he heard his mother’s call answered by a
terrific, roaring bellow, which made his heart leap. Then there was a
crashing through the underbrush; and a tall bull strode forth into the
light, his antlers spreading like oak branches from either side of his
forehead. Prudence, or deference, or a mixture of the two, led the young
king to lay aside his wonted inquisitiveness and withdraw into the
thickets without attracting the notice of this splendid and formidable
visitor. During the next few days he saw the big bull very frequently,
and found himself calmly ignored. Prudence and deference continued their
good offices, however, and he was careful not to trespass on the big
stranger’s tolerance during those wild, mad, magical autumn days.
One night, about the middle of October, the king saw from his thicket a
scene which filled him with excitement and awe, swelled his veins almost
to bursting, and made his brows ache, as if the antlers were already
pushing to birth beneath the skin. It all came about in this fashion. His
mother, standing out in the moonlight by the water, had twice with
outstretched muzzle uttered her call, when it was answered not only by
her mate, the tall bull, approaching along the shore, but by another
great voice from up the hillside. Instantly the tall bull was in a rage.
He rushed up to the cow, touched her with his nose, and then, after a
succession of roars which were answered promptly from the hillside, he
moved over to the edge of the open and began thrashing the bushes with
his antlers. A great crashing of underbrush arose some distance away, and
drew near swiftly; and in a few minutes another bull burst forth
violently into the open. He was young and impetuous, or he would have
halted a moment before leaving cover, and stealthily surveyed the
situation. But not yet had years and overthrows taught him the ripe moose
wisdom; and with a reckless heart he committed himself to the combat.
The newcomer had barely the chance to see where he was, before the tall
bull was upon him. He wheeled in time, however, and got his guard down;
but was borne back upon his haunches by the terrific shock of the charge.
In a moment or two he recovered the lost ground, for youth had given him
strength, if not wisdom; and the tall bull, his eyes flame-red with
wrath, found himself fairly matched by this shorter, stockier antagonist.
The night forthwith became tempestuous with gruntings, bellowings, the
hard clashing of antlers, the stamping of swift and heavy feet. The thin
turf was torn up. The earthy gravel was sent flying from the furious
hoofs. From his covert the young king strained eager eyes upon the fight,
his sympathies all with the tall bull whom he had regarded reverently
from the first moment he saw him. But as for the cow, she moved up from
the waterside and looked on with a fine impartiality. What concerned her
was chiefly that none but the bravest and strongest should be her mate,—a
question which only fighting could determine. Her favour would go with
victory.
As it appeared, the rivals were fairly matched in vigour and valour. But
among moose, as among men, brains count in the end. When the tall bull
saw that, in a matter of sheer brawn, the sturdy stranger might hold him,
he grew disgusted at the idea of settling such a vital question by mere
butting and shoving. The red rage faded in his eyes, and a colder light
took its place. On a sudden, when his foe had given a mighty thrust, he
yielded, slipped his horns from the lock, and jumped nimbly aside. The
stranger lunged forward, almost stumbling to his knees.
This was the tall bull’s opportunity. In a whirlwind of fury he thrust
upon the enemy’s flank, goring him, and bearing him down. The latter,
being short and quick-moving, recovered his feet in a second, and wheeled
to present his guard. But the tall bull was quick to maintain the
advantage. He, too, had shifted ground; and now he caught his antagonist
in the rear. There was no resisting such an attack. With hind legs weakly
doubling under him, with the weight of doom descending upon his
defenceless rump, the rash stranger was thrust forward, bellowing madly,
and striving in vain to brace himself. His humiliation was complete. With
staring eyes and distended nostrils he was hustled across the meadow and
over the edge of the bank. With a huge splash, and carrying with him a
shower of turf and gravel, he fell into the stream. Once in the water,
and his courage well cooled, he did not wait for a glance at his snorting
and stamping conqueror on the bank above, but waded desperately across,
dripping, bleeding, crushed in spirit,—and vanished into the woods. In
the thicket, the king’s heart swelled as if the victory had been his own.
By and by, when the last of the leaves had fluttered down with crisp
whisperings from the birch and ash, maple and poplar, and the first
enduring snows were beginning to change the face of the world, the tall
bull seemed to lay aside his haughtiness. He grew carelessly good-natured
toward the young king and the yearling, and frankly took command of the
little herd. As the snow deepened, he led the way northward toward the
Nictau Lake and chose winter quarters on the wooded southward slopes of
Bald Mountain, where there were hemlock groves for shelter and an
abundance of young hardwood growth for browsing.
This leisurely migration was in the main uneventful, and left but one
sharp impression on the young king’s memory. On a wintry morning, when
the sunrise was reaching long pink-saffron fingers across the thin snow,
a puff of wind brought with it from a tangle of stumps and rocks a breath
of that pungent scent so hateful to a moose’s nostrils. The whole herd
stopped; and the young king, his knees quaking under him and his eyes
staring with panic, crowded close against his mother’s flank. The tall
bull stamped and bellowed his defiance to the enemy,—but the enemy, being
discreet, made no reply whatever. It is probable, indeed, that he was
preparing his winter quarters, and getting too drowsy to hear or heed the
angry challenge; but if he did hear it no doubt he noiselessly withdrew
himself till the dangerous travellers had gone by. In a few minutes the
herd resumed its march,—the king keeping close to his mother’s side,
instead of in his proper place in the line.
The big-antlered bull now chose his site for the “yard,” with “verge and
room enough” for all contingencies. The “yard” was an ample acreage of
innumerable winding paths, trodden ever deeper as the snows accumulated.
These paths led to every spot of browse, every nook of shelter, at the
same time twisting and crossing in a maze of intricacies. Thick piled the
snows about the little herd, and the northern gales roared over the
hemlocks, and the frost sealed the white world down into silence. But it
was such a winter as the moose kin loved. No wolves or hunters came to
trouble them, and the months passed pleasantly. When the days were
lengthening and the hearts of all the wild folk beginning to dream of the
yet unsignalled spring, the young king was astonished to see the great
antlers of his leader fall off. Seeing that their owner left them lying
unregarded on the snow, he went up and sniffed at them wonderingly, and
pondered the incident long and vainly in his heart.
[Illustration: “THICK PILED THE SNOWS ABOUT THE LITTLE HERD.”]
When the snows shrank away, departing with a sound of many waters, and
spring returned to the Tobique country, the herd broke up. First the
dis-antlered bull drifted off on his own affairs. Then the two-year-old
went, with no word of reason or excuse. Though a well-grown young bull,
he was now little larger or heavier than the king; and the king was now a
yearling, with the stature and presence of a two-year-old. In a playful
butting contest, excited by the joy of life which April put into their
veins, he worsted his elder brother; and this, perhaps, though taken in
good part, hastened the latter’s going.
A few days later the old cow grew restless. She and the king turned their
steps backward toward the Mamozekel, feeding as they went. Soon they
found themselves in their old haunts, which the king remembered very
well. Then one day, while the king slept without suspicion of evil, the
old cow slipped away stealthily, and sought her secret refuge in the
heart of the cedar swamp. When the king awoke, he found himself alone in
the thicket.
All that day he was most unhappy. For some hours he could not eat, but
strayed hither and thither, questing and wondering. Then, when hunger
drove him to browse on the tender birch-twigs, he would stop every minute
or two to call in his big, gruff, pathetic bleat, and look around eagerly
for an answer. No answer came from the deserting mother, by this time far
away in the swamp.
But there were ears in the wilderness that heard and heeded the call of
the desolate yearling. A pair of hunting lynxes paused at the sound,
licked their chops, and crept forward with a green light in their wide,
round eyes.
Their approach was noiseless as thought,—but the king, on a sudden, felt
a monition of their coming. Whirling sharply about, he saw them lurking
in the underbrush. He recognised the breed. This was the same kind of
creature which he had been ready to challenge in his first calfhood. No
doubt, it would have been more prudent for him to withdraw; but he was in
no mood for concession. His sore heart made him ill-tempered. His lonely
bleat became a bellow of wrath. He stamped the earth, shook his head as
if thrashing the underbrush with imaginary antlers, and then charged
madly upon the astonished cats. This was no ordinary moose-calf, they
promptly decided; and in a second they were speeding away with great
bounds, gray shadows down the gray vistas of the wood. The king glared
after them for a moment, and then went back to his feeding, greatly
comforted.
It was four days before his mother came back, bringing a lank calf at her
heels. He was glad to see her, and contentedly renewed the companionship;
but in those four days he had learned full self-reliance, and his
attitude was no longer that of the yearling calf. It had become that of
the equal. As for the lank little newcomer, he viewed it with careless
complaisance, and no more dreamed of playing with it than if it had been
a frog or a chipmunk.
The summer passed with little more event for the king than his swift
increase in stature. One lesson then learned, however, though but vaguely
comprehended at the time, was to prove of incalculable value in after
years. He learned to shun man,—not with fear, indeed, for he never
learned to fear anything except bears,—but with aversion, and a certain
half-disdainful prudence. It was as if he came to recognise in man the
presence of powers which he was not anxious to put to trial, lest he
should be forced to doubt his own supremacy.
It was but a slight incident that gave him the beginning of this valuable
wisdom. As he lay ruminating one day beside his mother and the gaunt
calf, in a spruce covert near the water, a strange scent was wafted in to
his nostrils. It carried with it a subtle warning. His mother touched him
with her nose, conveying a silent yet eloquent monition, and got upon her
feet with no more sound than if she had been compact of thistle-down.
From their thicket shelter the three stared forth, moveless and
unwinking, ears forward, nostrils wide. Then a canoe with two men came
into view, paddling lazily, and turning to land. To the king, they looked
not dangerous; but every detail of them—their shape, motion, colour, and,
above all, their ominous scent—stamped itself in his memory. Then, to his
great surprise, his mother silently signalled the gravest and most
instant menace, and forthwith faded back through the thicket with
inconceivably stealthy motion. The king and the calf followed with like
care,—the king, though perplexed, having faith in his mother’s wise
woodcraft. Not until they had put good miles between themselves and
strange-smelling newcomers did the old moose call a halt; and from all
this precaution the king realised that the mysterious strangers were
something to be avoided by moose.
That summer the king saw nothing more of the man-creatures,—and he
crossed the scent of no more bears. His great heart, therefore, found no
check to its growing arrogance and courage. When the month of the falling
leaves and the whirring partridge-coveys again came round, he felt a new
pugnacity swelling in his veins, and found himself uttering challenges,
he knew not why, with his yet half infantile bellow. When, at length, his
mother began to pace the open meadow by the Mamozekel, and startle the
moonlit silences with her mating call, he was filled with strange anger.
But this was nothing to his rage when the calls were answered by a
wide-antlered bull. This time the king refused to slink obsequiously to
cover. He waited in the open; and he eyed the new wooer in a fashion so
truculent that at length he attracted notice.
For his dignity, if not for his experience, this was most unfortunate.
The antlered stranger noted his size, his attitude of insolence, and
promptly charged upon him. He met the charge, in his insane audacity, but
was instantly borne down. As he staggered to his feet he realised his
folly, and turned to withdraw,—not in terror, but in acknowledgment of
superior strength. Such a dignified retreat, however, was not to be
allowed him. The big bull fell upon him again, prodding him cruelly. He
was hustled ignominiously across the meadow, and into the bushes. Thence
he fled, bleating with impotent wrath and shame.
In his humiliation he fled far down along the river, through alder swamps
which he had never traversed, by pools in which he had never pulled the
lilies. Onward he pressed, intent on placing irrevocably behind him the
scene of his chagrin.
At length he came out upon the fair river basin where the Mamozekel, the
Serpentine, and the Nictau, tameless streams, unite to form the main
Tobique. Here he heard the call of a young cow,—a voice thinner and
higher than his mother’s deep-chested notes. With an impulse which he did
not understand, he pushed forward to answer the summons, no longer
furtive, but noisily trampling the brush. Just then, however, a pungent
smell stung his nostrils. There, not ten paces distant, was a massive
black shape standing out in the moonlight. Panic laid grip upon his
heart, chilling every vein. He wheeled, splashed across the shallow
waters of the Nictau, and fled away northward on tireless feet.
That winter the king yarded alone, like a morose old bull, far from his
domain of the Mamozekel. In the spring he came back, but restricted his
range to the neighbourhood of the Forks. And he saw his mother no more.
That summer he grew his first antlers. As antlers, indeed, they were no
great thing; but they started out bravely, a massive cylindrical bar
thrusting forth laterally, unlike the pointing horns of deer and caribou,
from either side of his forehead. For all this sturdy start, their
spiking and palmation did not amount to much; but he was inordinately
proud of them, rubbing off the velvet with care when it began to itch,
and polishing assiduously at the hardened horn. By the time the October
moon had come round again to the Tobique country, he counted these first
antlers a weapon for any encounter; and, indeed, with his bulk and craft
behind them, they were formidable.
It was not long before they were put to the test. One night, as he stood
roaring and thrashing the bushes on the bluff overlooking the Forks, he
heard the call of a young cow a little way down the shore. Gladly he
answered. Gladly he sped to the tryst. Strange ecstasies, the madness of
the night spell, and the white light’s sorcery made his heart beat and
his veins run sweet fire. But suddenly all this changed; for another
roar, a taunting challenge, answered him; and another bull broke from
covert on the other side of the sandy level where stood the young cow
coquettishly eyeing both wooers.
The new arrival was much older than the king, and nobly antlered; but in
matter of inches the young king was already his peer. In craft,
arrogance, and self-confident courage the king had an advantage that
outweighed the deficiency in antlers. The fury of his charge spelled
victory from the first; and though the battle was prolonged, the issue
was decided at the outset, as the interested young cow soon perceived. In
about a half-hour it was all over. The wise white moon of the wilderness
looked down understandingly upon the furrowed sandspit, the pleased young
cow, and the king making diffident progress with his first wooing. Some
distance down the river-bank, she caught glimpses of the other bull,
whose antlers had not saved him, fleeing in shame, with bleeding flanks
and neck, through the light-patched shadows of the forest.