In the Manacles of Winter
That night winter came and gripped the bush-world, and now as far as the
eye could span distance she held the Wild in her white embrace, and all
the life of nature’s wood, marsh, and water seemed chilled to deep
mysterious silence.
Between the scrag-line of Point Aux Pins forest and the hardwood of the
mainland, Rond Eau Bay lay patched with shingly ice-scale and frozen
snow-drifts. Here and there a strip of white-blue gleamed from her dead
bosom like a smear of slate on white, and sheets of powdery snow whirled
and scudded before the fierce winds that swept her. Along the forest
aisles the snow lay deep—deeper than any of the things of the Wild had
ever before seen it.
Winter had swept down almost without warning, gripping the waters in its
clutch and breathing into the very marrow of the trees, numbing them to
drowsy forgetfulness. They stood in the blue-cold winter morning with
still arms uplifted toward the chill skies, great, silent, unprotesting.
And with each shortening day the frost bit deeper and their sleep became
heavier. Sometimes a dream of golden summer came to bestir the soul of
giant beech or tall maple, and its heart, waking to life, would shiver
its icy manacles with a mighty crash, only to leave it wounded and
shivering, a maimed thing into which spring would breathe her healing
balm after a little while. From the dead face of the bay the creek
twisted, a blue vein betwixt gray lifeless rushes, and all of nature’s
great playground rested lonely and forsaken. On Totherside, Hallibut’s
mill squatted, a white mound upon white, and the schoolhouse against the
hill—its bell always silent now—seemed to sink toward the valley as
though longing to snuggle down and rest in the soft blanket that lay
below it.
Adown the cloaked vista of Bushwhackers’ Place drab smoke-spirals, like
inverted tree-shadows, twisted above the forest. But there were no
sounds—not even the chug of axes biting into the wood. The fiercest
winter this new country had ever experienced had been reigning for three
long months. The snows lay waist-deep throughout the forest, and through
the long nights the wolf-packs howled and protested hungrily to the
cold, low-hanging stars. In the log-stables of the woodmen the cattle
munched their fodder and rested. There was no work for them with the
snows choking the trails and the frost menacing life, neither was there
necessity for the easygoing Bushwhackers to risk life in the wintry
frost. They had plenty of fuel at their command; also meat in plenty.
There was not even an occasion for them to kill the animals and
game-birds that had sought the protection of man when Nature seemed to
have forgotten them in sleep. Food for the Wild in the deep swales and
low-timbers was scarce and growing scarcer. The deer, accustomed to
brouse on the low-hanging branches, found it difficult to secure
sufficient sustenance to keep their blood warm, and they crept nearer
and nearer to the little settlement of man. One morning a Bushwhacker
surprised two of them, a buck and a doe, ravenously devouring the dry
cornstalks that had been cast from the cattle-stalls into the yard.
Broods of quail crept from the thickets across to the fodder-stacks.
Hunger-fearless and defiant, they took up their homes about the
out-buildings, mingling with the tame fowl and roosting in huddling
bunches beneath the warm, protecting stacks at night. Nor were they
molested. The Bushwhackers scattered corn among the straw so that the
birds might understand that a truce was established, and not until the
amber fall dawned again would they have cause for alarm. But the gray
timber-wolves neither asked nor sought favors from man. They held aloof
from him, hating him and suspicious of him. Born to starve, their
vitality outlasted that of the other forest wild things, and they
trailed, tore down, and devoured. For three months of unprecedented
winter no trapping had been done; no more loggin’-bees had been
arranged. But the Bushwhackers had managed to get together by chiseling
paths through the drifts between their homes. However, of their more
remote neighbors, such as the Broadcrooks, who lived some miles west of
Lee Creek, the French trapper, and the Indians on Point Aux Pins, they
had seen or heard nothing for many weeks. It was a risk to go even a
short distance in the benumbing frost. No man could hope to break his
way through the frozen drifts of snow piled mountain-high.
Oftentimes the Bushwhackers met together at the home of a neighbor, and
perhaps Big McTavish would have his old fiddle along, and there would be
long talks over the cracking of hickory-nuts and walnuts, and as the
evening progressed “Mac” would strike up some of the old jig-tunes, and
if the party was a particularly jovial one, there would be a clog-dance
or two.
The deadly winter had put a stop to further encroachment of their
enemies, but of course the one general query among the bushmen was: “How
long before they will come again?” There was something pathetic in the
question these simple-hearted men asked among themselves, as, in their
evening talks together, they discussed how best to meet the big man with
the great power. Directly they connected Colonel Hallibut with the
attempt to kidnap Gloss from her home, and they debated how best to act
when the man capable of planning such a dastardly deed should come
again.
So the Bushwhackers talked and waited, and the long, cold weeks dragged
onward, and it began to look as though the fierce cold would never
moderate. After half the winter had passed without a single thaw they
knew that the impregnable barriers of snow would hold their enemy in
leash until spring had cleared the trail.
But by and by the deadly cold relaxed its grip and for the first time
during Winter’s reign her orange sun dipped through the frost-mist and,
touching the drooping snow-clad trees, painted a picture of a still
bush-world sleeping beneath a blanket of blue-white diamond dust.
“The cold snap’s over,” said Declute, late one night as he sat with Jim
Peeler, Boy McTavish, and Bill Paisley before the great fireplace in the
McTavish home. “Never see it fail yet but when we’ve had three days sun
and no snow the mild weather stays.”
“Purty near time we was havin’ moderate weather,” replied Peeler. “Never
saw such a winter as this one’s been. Think o’ poor Injun Noah bein’
holed up for six weeks like he’s been. No wonder Gloss is some lonesome
for the old man; he’s never had to stay away from the little girl so
long before. And the old man has never seen her in that silver-fox coat
you and him made her, Bill. I’ll bet he’d like to be here.”
“It sure is a beautiful coat,” said Boy, “and Gloss is mighty proud of
it. She speaks about Noah every day. ‘Wonder if he’s warm and has enough
to eat,’ she’ll say, and, ‘Do you think Noah’ll be very lonesome over on
the Point?’ My, but she does think a lot o’ him, boys.”
“Sure she does,” cried Declute. “Bless her, she couldn’t think more of
him if he was her own grandaddy, could she now?”
“Bein’ Gloss, she naturally loves everythin’,” nodded Paisley,
“—everythin’ that moves and flies and crawls; everythin’ that’s alive,
she loves.”
“When she’s sayin’ good-night to me,” said Boy softly, “she always says
good-night to all of us, you know——”
“Same’s she does her prayers,” murmured Paisley; “yes?”
“She spoke about the Broadcrooks. Wondered if they were wantin’ for
anythin’, and said she wished she knew.”
“Ain’t that like her?” laughed Declute, “—worryin’ about them no-count
Broadcrooks? Ain’t that like our Gloss, though?”
“Asked me if I’d seen anythin’ of Amos,” continued Boy, “and that made
me think I hadn’t seen him or any of ’em since the first blizzard came.”
“Of course they’re all right,” said Paisley. “I know they had plenty
wood up an’ lots o’ meat strung. Still it does seem funny that old Amos
hasn’t burrowed his way through the drifts somehow. It ain’t very
comfortable for him at home, I guess.”
“It ain’t likely he’s forgiven you fellers for catchin’ him in the
turkey-trap,” said Peeler; “at least, not yet. He’ll dig his way out
now, though, since the weather’s eased up.—See if he don’t.”
There was a crunching outside on the frozen snow and somebody knocked on
the door.
“Hick’ry and hemlock,” whispered Paisley, “visitors at this time of
night. Will I open the door, Boy?”
Boy glanced at the rifle leaning against the wall, and nodded. Paisley
threw open the door and a tall figure, muffled in furs from tip to toe,
staggered in and sank on a stool.
“I’m nigh played out,” gasped the visitor.
“Why, it’s Hank Broadcrook,” cried Declute. “Get the jug, Boy, he’s just
about tuckered.”
“I’ve been since mornin’ beatin’ my way over,” panted the man. “I’ve
tried to get here afore, but couldn’t.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Peeler. “Anythin’ wrong at home?”
Broadcrook took the mug of whiskey Boy handed him and gulped it down.
“Amos,” he answered, “is he here?”
The friends exchanged glances.
“I see he isn’t,” groaned the man.
“How long has he been missin’?” questioned Paisley.
“Two days afore this awful winter sot in he left hum,” replied the
brother, “an’ none of us has seen him since. He’s allars been a lot o’
worry to us. It’s like him to hole up and freeze like a silly rabbit,
and I guess he’s done it.”
“Maybe he’s on the Point,” suggested Declute hopefully. “Maybe he’s
winterin’ with the Injuns, Hank.”
Hank turned his heavy eyes on the speaker.
“He’s made even the Injuns hate him,” he murmured. “No, he’s not there.”
He arose, threw off his furs, and sat down to the bread and cold meat
Boy had placed on the table. After he had eaten he sat back, lit his
pipe, and gazed into the fire.
“Boys,” he said, clenching his hands, “flesh is flesh an’ blood is blood
when it comes to—to a time like this. Amos has allars been a lot o’
trouble to us, an’ I—I’ve quarreled with him and fought with him an’
thort I hated him; but, boys, I guess I was wrong. I’m huntin’ for him
now. Dad an’ th’ other boys is huntin’ for him too. Why? I’ll tell you
why—it’s ’cause flesh is flesh an’ blood is blood when it comes to a
time like this.”
“Oh, he’s likely all safe and sound somewheres,” encouraged Declute.
“Old Amos knows the weather too well to be caught in a blizzard.”
The brother shook his head.
“Amos was gettin’ whiskey somewheres,” he said. “It’s likely the sleep
come on him—he’s out thar, I tell you,” pointing out at the cold,
moon-kissed wood, “unless the wolves——”
He broke off with a shudder and, springing up, reached for his furs.
“You’re not goin’ out again to-night,” insisted Boy. “See here, Hank,
you mus’n’t. Stay with me, like a good feller, and I’ll help you look
for Amos to-morrow.”
Broadcrook turned and looked at Boy. His face was twitching and his
voice was not quite steady when he said:
“You and Big Mac and all have been mighty good to us all clean through
everythin’, an’ when I guess we didn’t deserve it. It’s like you to
wanter help us now, but you can’t do nuthin’, Boy; you can’t do nuthin’
any more than I kin. But I’ve gotter keep huntin’, huntin’. It’s hell t’
be like this, but blood’s blood, an’ Amos is out thar somewheres——”
He shook off Boy’s hand and passed out. Paisley snatched his coat and
rifle from the hooks.
“He mus’n’t strike the back trail fagged like he is,” he said. “Come on,
Jim and Ander; we’ll coax him over to my place and put him to bed.”
“Yes, make him stay with you, Bill,” said Boy. “I guess there’s
somethin’ in what he said about flesh bein’ flesh at a time like this.”
He stood in the open doorway until he saw Paisley, Declute, and Peeler
overtake Broadcrook far down the snow-packed path. Then he turned into
the house, blew out the candle, and sat down before the fire. By and by
dreams came to him: they always came to him when the night was late and
he was alone by the dying fire. Sweet and restful dreams they were, too,
at times, when they were of the wide wood playground of used-to-be; and
he roamed its forest aisles with Gloss, and they were just “boy and
girl,” and the world was theirs. But there were other dreams—dreams
that brought a shadow to his eyes as unreadable and ununderstandable as
the shadow that sometimes dipped across the ridges, whose spirit he had
caught and held.
To-night the shadow was there, and the dream was not of the water,
marsh, or woodland, nor of the wild things, nor of Davie. But the girl
was there—she was always there, growing up out of the dead used-to-be
in spite of bitter thoughts and gnawing pain. And Boy saw her face
to-night, gloriously glad and strong and beautiful.
His love was a bound prisoner, and only the spirit of worship, sublime
and beautiful, enshrined his world, and the girl’s, with its sanctity.
He did not realize what he was holding bound; he realized only that he
was but a thing of the Wild, whose heart had caught aflame at a low
word; whose soul had surged at the touch of a warm breath. He did not
know that Gloss loved him. He did not realize his power. He was one of
God’s strong men.
Then the dream became of the marsh and water, and there was not a single
cloud in the world of the Wild, and in the deep quiet of his peace Boy
slept before the whitening coals.
When he awoke the gray dawn was peering into the room and he was alone
beside the dying embers. But he saw her face in the coals, and it was
his nature to be content with little. After all, there would always be
something left of which no earthly power could deprive him.