A CRY IN THE NIGHT.
In the flickering of the camp-fire the glooming wall of firs advanced
and receded like the sea upon the shore, whispering, too, like the sea,
of mysteries within its depths; for this is true: the wind in the
forest and the wave upon the beach make the same music and tell the
same strange tales. Through a rift in the darkening wall the last
afterglow on the snow-cap of Mount Hood made a rosy point against the
western sky, a "goodnight" flashed from the setting sun to the man by
the camp-fire.
Out from the enfolding night that fell as a mantle when the light died
on Mount Hood, came a shape, followed by a shadow that seemed to be
with but not of the shape. Like a menacing enemy the shadow dogged the
steps of the man who came out of the night, now towering over him in
monstrous height against a tree trunk, now suddenly falling backward
and darting swiftly down a forest aisle in panic fear, only to spring
forth with gigantic leaps and grotesque waxings and wanings and inane
caperings at his heels as the firelight rose and fell.
A cheery "Howdy, stranger!" drew the attention of the man by the
fire--known to his Indian guide by the generic name of "Boston," which
is Chinook for white man--and he returned the greeting to the tall,
gray-bearded man who strode toward him, glad to have company in the
absence of the Indian, Doctor Tom, who had gone down to the Columbia
for supplies. A haunch of venison confirmed the stranger's brief
explanation that he was hunting and made his arrival doubly welcome.
When the pipes were lighted, Boston drew the old fellow out, found that
he hunted for a living and soon had a hunt for the next day all
arranged. They were telling camp-fire yarns, and the stranger was
speaking in an animated way of some adventure, when Boston noticed a
sudden change in his expression and an abrupt halt in his speech.
Turning in the direction toward which the stranger's apprehensive gaze
was directed, Boston saw a dark figure standing motionless in the
shadow of a fir, and he laid his hand upon his rifle. The figure
advanced into the firelight and Boston recognized Doctor Tom. The
Indian said nothing, but placed his pack upon the ground in silence,
and Boston saw him cast one swift, glowering look at the stranger, who
was apparently trying to conceal his uneasiness under an assumption of
indifference.
Doctor Tom had travelled all day and must have been hungry, but he did
not take any food out of the pack or even go to the fire for a cup of
tea, and he shook his head when Boston offered him a piece of broiled
venison. Not a bite would he touch, but sat, silent and motionless as
a statue, upon a log away from the fire and with his back turned to the
stranger.
Boston tried to resume the camp-fire stories, but the grizzled hunter
was thinking of something else and replied with monosyllables. Soon he
arose, made up his pack, threw his rolled blanket over his shoulder and
picked up his rifle. Boston, in some surprise, urged him to remain,
and reminded him of the arrangement for the next day's hunt. There was
a slight movement of Doctor Tom's head, and he seemed about to arise,
but the almost imperceptible tension of his limbs instantly relaxed,
and he remained apparently indifferent and unheeding.
"Fact is," said the stranger, "I forgot that I'd got to be up to Hood
River to-morrow, and I reckon I'll just mosey along to-night so as to
make it. I know the trail with my eyes shut." He was about to stride
out of camp, when his eye caught Doctor Tom's old musket leaning
against the tree. "You don't shoot with this?" he asked with a little,
uneasy laugh, as he picked up the ancient piece and toyed with the
lock. Boston laughingly replied, "Well, hardly," and the stranger
replaced the gun, said "So long," and was lost in the gloom.
It was ten minutes before Doctor Tom moved, and then he got his musket
and brought it to the fire. He lifted the hammer, removed the cap, and
taking a pin from his waist band worked at the nipple until he
extracted a splinter of wood. Then he drew the charge, blew down the
barrel to see that it was clear and reloaded the musket. Doctor Tom
took some smoked salmon from his pouch, made a cup of coffee and
silently ate his supper, and Boston began to comprehend that there was
a reason for his refusal to eat while the stranger was in camp. But it
was useless to try to make Doctor Tom talk until he had smoked, and
Boston waited patiently.
At last Doctor Tom said, abruptly, "You know um?" Boston replied that
he did not know the stranger, told briefly how he came into camp, and
by adroit questioning drew, in laconic sentences, a story from the
taciturn Indian.
The man was a hunter, who had been a famous bear-killer many years ago.
In the days of muzzle-loaders he had two rifles, one of which was
always carried for him by an Indian whom he hired for that service. If
his first shot failed to kill, he handed the empty rifle to the Indian
to exchange for the second weapon, and usually brought down his bear
while the Indian was reloading. A member of Doctor Tom's tribe,
probably a relative, was gun-bearer for the hunter on one of his
expeditions. They ran across a she-bear with cubs and the hunter shot
her, but the wound only stung her, and she rushed fiercely upon him.
The second shot did not stop her, and the hunter and the Indian had to
turn and run for their lives.
But a Grizzly in a rage can outrun any man in a long race, and the
angry she-bear rapidly overhauled her foes. The white man and the
Indian ran side by side, although the Indian could have outstripped
him. The red man had his knife in hand ready for the moment when the
bear should seize one of them. The white man glanced over his
shoulder, saw the bear lurching along within one jump of them, seized
the Indian by the shoulders and hurled him backward into the very jaws
of the furious brute. The white man escaped with his life, and the
Indian lived just long enough to tell those who found him, a torn and
bloody mass of flesh and broken bones, how he had been sacrificed to a
coward's love of life.
Doctor Tom told this in his uncouth jargon of English and Chinook,
without a tremor, but his black eyes glowed with a gleam of light not
reflected from the dying embers of the campfire, and Boston was glad
that the stranger had gone. Then he knew why Doctor Tom sat silently
apart and would taste no food while the stranger was in camp. The
stranger might accept Boston's hospitality and eat salt with him, but
the Indian would not acknowledge by any act that he, Doctor Tom, had
any interest in that camp, or bind himself by Indian custom to treat
the stranger as his guest.
Boston awoke in the still dark hours before dawn and lay thinking over
Doctor Tom's story and the demeanor of the man who had wandered into
camp. A cry clove through the silence of the night like a lightning
flash through a black cloud, and as the gloom becomes deeper after the
flash, so the silence seemed more intense and oppressive after that
cry. It came from across the canyon, clear and far, a cry of mortal
terror.
It is a panther, thought Boston, and he listened for its repetition or
an answer from the mate, but the stillness was unbroken. He turned
over to see if Doctor Tom had heard or noticed it, and thought the dark
bundle by the side of the log seemed rather small for the sleeping
Indian. Boston got up and walked over to the log. Doctor Tom's
blanket only was there. Boston looked for the musket; it was in its
old place against the tree. His own rifle was undisturbed. Boston
concluded that Doctor Tom had gone for water or was off on some
incomprehensible Indian freak, the reason of which was not worth a
white man's time to puzzle out, rolled up in his blanket again and
became oblivious to the realities around him.
It was daylight when Boston awoke again. Doctor Tom had not returned.
Boston made a fire, and while cooking breakfast he noticed that the
Indian's long knife was gone from the log where he had left it sticking
after supper. He halloed to Tom, but received no answer save the echo.
Calmly confident of Doctor Tom's ability to look out for himself,
Boston went about his business without more ado, ate his breakfast and
was taking a second cup of coffee when Doctor Tom came into camp,
silent and grave as usual, but rather paler. He came from the
direction of the canyon.
The Indian drank some coffee and then carefully took his left arm with
his right hand from the bosom of his shirt, where it had been resting,
and said, "Broke um." Boston examined the arm and found that it was
badly bruised and broken above the elbow. He heated some water and
bathed the arm and then told Tom to brace his breast against a tree and
hold on with his right arm. Boston took hold of the left arm on the
opposite side of the tree, braced his feet and pulled. Rough splints
were soon made and applied, and a big horn of whiskey made Doctor Tom
feel more comfortable. While making the splints Boston asked Tom for
his knife, having carefully mislaid his own. "Lose um," said Doctor
Tom, but he offered no more explanation. When asked how he broke his
arm, he replied, "Fall down." Evidently he had fallen down, but there
were five odd-looking marks on his throat, and Boston thought of that
cry in the night and wondered if the whispering firs could tell of
another mystery hidden in the forest; of a menacing shadow dogging the
footsteps of a man and grappling with him in the dark.
Boston and Doctor Tom broke camp and started back over the mountain on
the Hood River trail. Boston was in the lead, and as he walked along
he looked closely for the tracks of the stranger's boots, as he had
said he was going to Hood River. There were no tracks. The stranger
had not gone over that trail.