In the Fire Circle
White splashes of foam clipped and swayed on the slate-blue waters. A
hundred yards out from the rushes a clay-hued slash across the turmoiled
face of the bay marked the yellow sand-bar beneath. Between the sand-bar
and the rushes lay the wild celery bed. Here, shoots succulent and
tender, sweetest of morsels to the man-hunted, fear-haunted fowl of the
Wild, gripped the oozy muck below. With the lowering of the late
afternoon skies a pair of canvasbacks came skimming on strong, swift
wings high over the sunken bog and tangled marshland toward the white
beaten water of the open. Weary from the flight of leagues, nervous with
the dread of hidden dangers, and hungry from long fasting, their
glistening wings beat the buffeting west wind a little more quickly at
sight of the long dark streak of their kind far in the center of the
bay. There, at last, was rest; food, too, perhaps. So, curving high over
the marsh, the noble pair flashed, now gray against the snowy
cloud-crest, now white against a crumpled sky of slate, wedging the wind
with a new strength, necks outstretched, the drake leading and muttering
now and again to his mate a low croak of cheer.
The wind awoke to greater force, throwing the foam and spray high in
air. Shoreward it bore an empty bottle that had been thrown from the
schooner anchored half a mile eastward, and which had drifted out into
the open water. There it bobbed and glittered, a black dot on the
slate-blue, drifting finally across the yellow shallow of the bar into
the calmer waters in lee of the long point. The rough waves had
overturned it and it rested bottom up in the wild celery bed.
The same winds that had wafted it hither had carried to those frantic
sky-voyagers beating bayward the scent of the wild water-plant they
loved, and with drooping wings and joyful, low-voiced quacks they curved
downward. Inward they sped so as to skirt the shore and alight in the
haven against the wind. But just outside of what they had learned was
the danger-line, the drake’s sharp eye caught the gleam of the glass
bottle, and at his shrill command the pair swerved outward once more on
whistling white-crested wings. To live, the water-wild must learn. The
early night-shadows had crept down and across the waters before the
weary pair settled for rest in the center of the bay. Round and round
the flock they flew, now lost in the darkness, now, gleaming white
against it, swooping ever lower, with bright eyes alert for danger
signals such as a compact bunch of reeds or a tangled spot in the
rush-beds. And, by and by, just as day faded, they sank against the
dying wind among an animated company of their kind.
Not until then did a tall figure arise from the reeds on the shore of
the wild celery bed, and with an imprecation, glance toward the schooner
at anchor, and lower the hammer of his muzzle-loading fowling-piece. It
was Amos Broadcrook. He stood looking across the water until darkness
shut out the tossing schooner from his vision. Then he turned and sought
the wood.
He skirted the open and passed along the thicket toward the lower
ridges. With the coming of night the wind had died away and the
bush-world was very still. It was snowing now; the man could feel the
cold, clinging flakes on his face and hands. As he slunk unerringly
through the heavy darkness there came to his ears a low, wailing cry. He
stopped short and the hand carrying the gun crept to its hammer.
“If it’s a lynx, let it come; if it’s a man, let him come. But if it’s
that old witch Betsy on a ha’nt——”
He stood trembling and listening until the long hair across his forehead
was wet with the sweat of fear. Then he crept forward again. The cry was
not repeated. The man advanced by short steps, his great form crouched,
his head thrust forward. By and by he crept from the heavy timber of the
swale and sought the ridge. After following it for half a mile he paused
abruptly, and, reaching out into the darkness, felt through it with his
hand. Instinct had guided the bushman aright. He had found a pile of
logs—Paisley’s turkey-trap number one. He moved about the trap until he
found the ground floor. Taking the ramrod from his gun he inserted it
through the door and moved it about.
“Empty,” he growled. “Jest your luck, Amos.”
He got up and moved forward cautiously. Lower down was trap number two,
and as he approached it his sharp, ear caught the unmistakable sound of
a turkey in distress. It was a wild, penetrating note which he and all
the Bushwhackers had learned to imitate by sucking wind through a straw.
The man chuckled with delight and drew a sack from under his coat.
Arrived at the trap, he walked around it until he found the door. It was
not necessary for him to feel inside for the game he was sure was there.
After listening intently Amos stood his gun up against a tree and,
dropping on all fours, crawled into the trap. As he drew his feet in
from the doorway a heavy log dropped from without and closed it
effectually. With a growl like a trapped beast the man sprang erect and
dashed his heavy form against the logs of his prison. But his efforts to
throw down those walls were vain. They were too strongly built to
topple, even before his prodigious strength. Then he poured forth a
torrent of incoherent profanity, cursing his trappers. Without, all was
silent as the grave. Suddenly the turkey-thief began to tremble.
“Outside thar,” he called, “for God’s sake, if you be human, speak to
me.”
A low wail came from the heavy timber and grew into a shrill scream,
drawing nearer to the man crouching now on the inside of his prison.
“Witches!” he gasped, and groveled among the leaves.
“Amos Broadcrook,” spoke a voice, seemingly close beside him, “your hour
has come—prepare.”
“Let me out,” begged Amos, “oh, let me out o’ here.”
“Amos,” again came the voice, “we see it’s useless to give you time to
repent. The devil has sent us for you. We must hurry away. Which will
you have, Amos, rifle-ball or fire? Speak quick.”
“Gimme time,” groaned the distracted Broadcrook, “only gimme time.”
Something like a laugh came from the darkness outside, but it was so
closely followed by another long-drawn wail that Amos hid his face among
the leaves again.
“You have been stealin’ turkeys out of these traps,” accused the voice.
“Answer, haven’t you, Amos?”
“Yes, I have.”
“When was you here last?”
“Thursday night.”
“Then it was you fired on Boy McTavish when he surprised you?”
“No, I swear I didn’t.”
“You’re lyin’. Mates, get the fire ready.”
“Hol’ on, devils. I’m speakin’ the truth. I didn’t fire on Boy. I was
scared and my rifle went off by accident. It wasn’t p’inted his way at
all—I swar it.”
The yellow glow of fire came flickering through the chinks in the logs.
“What air you doin’?” cried the wretch in the trap in agonizing voice.
“We’re goin’ to apply the fire. You are goin’ to be rewarded for
stealin’, Amos.”
“Oh, don’t—don’t,” pleaded Amos. “I won’t steal any more if you’ll only
let me off this time, good witches.”
Slowly the log fell away from the opening and a voice said:
“Come out here, Broadcrook.”
The man needed no second invitation. He scrambled out and made a dash
for the heavy timber. But Boy McTavish tripped him up and Paisley
gripped his windpipe. He was dragged back into the light of the fire and
Boy picked up his gun.
“Get up,” commanded Bill. “Now, you thief, what have you got to say for
yourself?”
Broadcrook commended Paisley to the lower regions.
“I’m not goin’ to say a word,” he snarled, “an’ you can’t make me,
either.”
He struggled and Paisley’s knee gripped more deeply into his neck.
“Think you’re a mighty strong ’un, don’t you?” growled Amos. “Think
you’ve done somethin’, I suppose, in trippin’ me up an’ hold-in’ me
down. Any boy could do as much as that. You was scart t’ give me half a
chance, you was.”
“What do you mean by chance, Amos?” asked Paisley, the corners of his
mouth twitching. “You don’t mean to say that you’d fight, do you? Why,
man alive, you can’t fight—you’re too big a coward.”
“If I was on my feet I’d make you eat them words,” spat Broadcrook.
“If I really thought there was any spunk in you I’d let you try,”
grinned Paisley. “By gosh, I’ll do it, but listen, Amos, if you make any
break for the woods, Boy there will sure plug you.”
“Don’t let him go, Bill,” warned Boy. “If he gets away now there’s no
tellin’ what he’ll do. He’s just wantin’ to get a chance to get in the
timber. You know, and I know, he won’t fight. He’s too much of a
sneakin’ coward.”
Broadcrook turned his malignant face toward Boy. In the yellow light it
looked fearful. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could frame
the words he would say a small disheveled form came bounding and panting
into their midst.
It was Daft Davie, his face gnashed and bleeding from scratches of
low-lying twigs. He sank on his knees before the fire and poured forth
some words in his strange gibberish. Boy, quick to understand the daft
child, gave a low cry. Paisley spoke sharply.
“What is he sayin’, Boy?” he asked.
“He says that there are five men tryin’ to get into our house,” gasped
Boy. “Bill, I don’t understand this, but there’s no time to lose. Let
Broadcrook alone till another time. I’ll take his gun. For gawd sake,
let’s hurry.”
Broadcrook crept toward the thicket and Paisley’s heavy boot hurried his
movements materially.
“Nurse that, you skunk, till we meet again,” he cried.
Then he turned quickly and followed Boy. Daft Davie had already vanished
in the darkness.