THE FANGS OF THE WOLF SLAYER
When Trowley recovered consciousness, he was lying in his berth, with a
bandage around his head. Kingswell looked in at him, smiling in a way
that the old mariner was beginning to fear as well as hate.
"I hope you are feeling more amiable since your sleep," said Kingswell.
Trowley muttered a word or two of apology, damned the rum, and asked the
time of day. His recollections of the argument in the cabin were hazy
and fragmentary.
In reply to his question the gentleman told him that the sun was well
up, the fog cleared, and that he was having his boat provisioned for the
coastwise exploration trip.
"And mind you," he added, grimly, "that the eighty beaver skins which
are now being stowed away in my berth are my property."
"Certainly, sir," replied Trowley. "An' may I ask how ye come by such a
power o' trade in a night-time?"
"Yes, you may ask," replied Kingswell. He grinned at the wounded skipper
for fully a minute, leaning on the edge of the bunk. Then he said: "I'll
now bid you farewell until October. Don't sail without me, good Master
Trowley, and look not upon the rum of the Indies when that same is red.
A knife-thrust given in drunkenness might lead to the gallows."
He turned and nimbly scaled the companion-ladder, leaving the shipmaster
speechless with rage.
Half an hour later the staunch little craft _Pelican_ spread her square
sail and slid away from the _Heart of the West_. She was manned by old
Tom Bent, young Peter Harding, and Richard Clotworthy. Master Bernard
Kingswell sat at the tiller, with Ouenwa beside him. Their provisions,
extra clothing, arms, and ammunition were stowed amidships and covered
with sail-cloth. The sun was bright, and the sky blue. The wind bowled
them along at a clipping pace. From a mound above the harbour Black
Feather gazed after them under a level hand. In the little harbour
Trowley's ship alone swung in her anchorage. The others had run out to
the fishing-grounds,--for in those days the fishing was done over the
sides of the ships, and not from small boats. On either side the brown
shores fell back, and the dancing waters widened and widened. White
gulls screamed above and around them, flashing silvery wings, snowy
breasts, and inquisitive eyes.
Ouenwa looked back, and then ahead, and felt a great misgiving. But
Kingswell patted him on the shoulder, and the sailors nodded their heads
at him and grinned.
Soon they were among the fleet. The ungainly, high-sterned vessels
rocked and bobbed under naked spars. The great business that had brought
them so far was going forward. Along both sides of every ship were hung
barrels, and in each barrel was stationed a man with two or more
fishing-lines. Splashing desperately, the great fish were hauled up,
unhooked, and tossed to the deck behind. As the little _Pelican_ slid
by, the fishers paused in their work to cheer her, and wave their caps.
The masters shouted "God speed" from their narrow quarter-decks, and
doffed their hats. Kingswell waved them gracious farewells; Ouenwa gazed
spellbound toward the widening outlook; and Tom Bent trimmed the sail to
a nicety.
They passed headland after headland, rocky island after rocky island,
cove after cove. The shores behind them turned from brown to purple,
and from purple to azure. The waves ran higher and the wind freshened.
Kingswell shaped the boat's course a few points to the northward. The
stout little craft skipped like a lamb and plunged like some less
playful creature. Spray flew over her blunt bows, and the sailors
laughed like children, and called her a brave lass, and many other
endearing names, as if she were human.
"A smart wench, sir," said Tom Bent to Master Kingswell. The commander
nodded, and shifted the tiller knowingly. His blue eyes were flashing
with the excitement of the speed and motion. His bright, pale hair
streamed in the wind. He leaned forward, to pick out the course through
a group of small islands that cluttered the bay ahead of them. He gave
an order, and the seamen hauled on the wet sheet. But Ouenwa did not
share the high spirits of his companions. A terrible, unknown feeling
got hold of him. His dark cheeks lost their bloom. Kingswell glanced at
him.
"Let it go, lad," he said. "A sailor is made in this way. Tom, pass me
along a blanket."
With his unemployed hand he fixed a comfortable rest for the boy, and
helped him to a drink of water. For an hour or more he maintained a hold
on the young Beothic's belt, for, by this time, the soaring and sinking
of the _Pelican_ were enough to unsteady even a seasoned mariner. As
for Ouenwa!--the poor lad simply clung to the gunwale with the grip of
despair, and entertained regretful, beautiful visions of level shores
and unshaken hills. Tom Bent eyed him kindly.
"The young un has it wicked, sir," he said. "Maybe, like as not, a swig
o' rum ud sweeten his bilge, sir."
Kingswell acted on the old tar's advice. The rank liquor completed the
boy's breakdown. In so doing it served the purpose which Bent had
intended. The sufferer was soon sleeping soundly, already half a sailor.
When Ouenwa next took interest in his surroundings, the _Pelican_ had
the surf of a sheer coast close aboard on her port side. She was heading
due north. The sun was half-way down his western slope. Behind the
_Pelican's_ bubbling wake, hills and headlands and high, naked barrens
lay brown and purple and smoky blue. In front, and on the right hand,
loomed surf-rimmed islands and flashed the innumerable, ever-altering
yet unchanged hills and valleys of the deep. Tom Bent was now at the
tiller, and Kingswell was in the bows, gazing intently at the austere
coast. Ouenwa crawled over the thwarts and cargo of provisions, under
the straining sail, and crouched beside him. His head felt light and
his stomach painfully empty, but again life seemed worth living and the
adventure worth while.
About an hour before sunset the _Pelican_ ran into a little cove, and
her two grappling anchors were heaved overboard. She lay within five
yards of the land-wash, swinging on an easy tide. Ouenwa sprang into the
water and waded ashore. It was a dismal anchorage, with only a strip of
shingle, and grim cliffs rising in front and on either hand. But at the
base of the cliffs, in fissures of the rock, grew stunted spruce-trees
and birches. Ouenwa soon found a little stream dribbling a zigzag course
from the levels above. It gathered, clear and cold, in a shallow basin
at the foot of the rock, and from there spilled over into the
obliterating sand.
By this time the others were ashore. Clotworthy hacked down a couple of
armfuls of the spruce and birch shrubs with his cutlass, and started a
fire. Then he filled a pot from the little well and commenced
preparations for a meal. The other seamen erected a shelter, composed of
a sail and three oars, against the cliff. Kingswell and Ouenwa sat on a
convenient boulder, and the commander filled a long pipe with tobacco
and lit it at a brand from the fire. He seemed in high spirits, and in a
mood to further his young companion's education. Pointing to the roll
of Virginian leaf, from which he had cut the charge for his pipe, he
said, "Tobacco." Ouenwa repeated it many times, and nodded his
comprehension. Then Kingswell pointed to old Tom Bent, who was watching
Clotworthy drop lumps of dried venison into the pot of water.
"Boatswain," he said.
Ouenwa mastered the word, as well as the term "able seamen," applied to
Clotworthy and Peter Harding. By that time the stew was ready for them.
They were all sound asleep, under their frail shelter, before the last
glimmer of twilight was gone from the sky.
It was very early when Ouenwa awoke. A pale flood of dawn illumined the
tent and the recumbent forms of Master Kingswell and Clotworthy. Tom
Bent and Harding were not in their places. The boy wondered at that, but
was about to close his eyes again, when he was startled to his feet by a
shrill cry that went ringing overhead and echoing along the cliffs. He
darted from the tent, with Kingswell and Clotworthy hot on his heels.
Bent and Harding were on the extreme edge of the beach, with their backs
to the sea, staring upward. Ouenwa and the others turned their faces in
the same direction. They were amazed to see about a dozen native
warriors on the cliff above them, fully armed, and evidently deeply
interested in what was going on in the little cove. One of them was
pointing to the _Pelican_, and talking vehemently to the brave beside
him. In two of them Ouenwa recognized young Wolf Slayer, and his father,
the chief of the village on the River of Three Fires. He called up to
them, and asked what brought them so far from their village.
"We are at the salt water to take the fish," replied Wolf Slayer, "and
we saw the smoke of your fire before the last darkness. But what do you
with the great strangers, little Dreamer?"
"They are my friends," replied Ouenwa, "and I am voyaging with them to
learn wisdom."
"What are you talking about?" asked Kingswell.
The lad tried to explain. He pointed to the tent and provisions and then
to the boat. "Put in," he said.
At a word from Kingswell the three sailors quickly dismantled their
night's shelter and carried the sail, the oars, and such food and
blankets as they had brought ashore, out to the _Pelican_. At that the
shrill cry rang out again, and echoed along the cliffs.
"What does that mean?" inquired Kingswell.
"Bad," replied Ouenwa, shortly.
"What is in your fine canoe, little Dreamer?" called Wolf Slayer.
"Our food and our clothing, little Fox Stabber," Ouenwa cried back, with
indignation in his voice.
"Your dreams must have unsettled your wits, my friend," replied Wolf
Slayer, "or you would not talk so loud before a chief of the tribe."
Just then, in answer to the cry that had sounded so dismally across the
dawn a few moments before, five more warriors, armed with bows, appeared
on the top of the cliff--for the cry was the hunting-call of the tribe.
"Do you fish with war-bows?" shouted Ouenwa. "And why do you summon to
trade with the cry of the hunt?"
"You ask too many questions, even for a seeker of wisdom," replied the
other youth, mockingly.
"Does Soft Hand, the great bear, slumber, that the foxes bark with such
assurance?" retorted Ouenwa.
By this time the _Pelican_ was ready to put out of the cove. Both
anchors were up, and Harding and Clotworthy held her off with the oars.
Old Tom Bent was also in the boat, busy with something beside the mast.
Suddenly a bow-string twanged, and an arrow buried its flint head in the
sand at Kingswell's feet. Another struck a stone and, glancing out,
rattled against Harding's oar. Kingswell and Ouenwa backed hastily into
the water. Above them, silhouetted against the lightening sky, they saw
bending bows and downward thrust arms. Then, with a clap and a roar, and
a gust of smoke, old Tom Bent replied to the warriors on the cliff. The
echoes of the discharge bellowed around and around the rock-girt
harbour. Ouenwa and Kingswell sprang through the smoke and climbed
aboard, and the seamen pushed into deep water and then bent to their
oars. But the _Pelican_ proved a heavy boat to row, with her blunt bows
and comfortable beam. She surged slowly beyond the cloud of bitter smoke
that the musket had hung in the windless air. Clear of that, the
voyagers looked for their treacherous assailants--and, behold, the great
warriors were not to be seen. Kingswell and the three seamen laughed, as
if the incident were a fine joke; but Ouenwa was hot with shame and
anger. He stood erect and shouted abuse to the deserted cliff-top. He
called upon Wolf Slayer and Panounia to show their cowardly faces. He
threatened them with the displeasure of Soft Hand and with the anger of
the English. A figure appeared on the sky-line.
"You speak of Soft Hand," it cried. "Know you, then, that Soft Hand set
out on the Long Trail four suns ago, when he marched into my village to
dispute my power. I, Panounia, am now the great chief of the people. So
carry yourself accordingly, O whelp without teeth and without a den to
crawl into. Whose hand has overthrown the lodge of the totem of the
Black Bear? Mine! Panounia's! Soft Hand has fallen under it as his son,
your father, succumbed to it when you were a squalling babe." He paused
for a moment, and held out a gleaming knife, with its point toward the
_Pelican_. "The totem of the Wolf now hangs from the great lodge," he
cried.
Quick and noiseless as a breath, the edge of the cliff was lined with
warriors. Like a sudden flight of birds their arrows flashed outward and
downward.
"Lie down!" cried Kingswell. With a strong hand he snatched Ouenwa to
the bottom of the boat. Harding and Clotworthy sprawled forward between
the thwarts. Only Tom Bent, crouched beside the naked mast, did not
move. The arrows thumped against plank and gunwale. They pierced the
cargo. They glanced from tiller and sweep and mast. One, turning from
the rail, struck Bent on the shoulder. He cursed angrily, but did not
look for the wound. His match was burning with a thread of blue smoke
and a spark of red fire. His clumsy gun was geared to the rail by an
impromptu swivel of cords. He lay flat and elevated the muzzle.
"Steady her," he said, softly. "She's driftin' in."
Kingswell sprang forward to one of the oars, thrust it to the bottom,
and held the boat as steady as might be. Arrows whispered around him. He
shouted a challenge to the befeathered warriors above him. Tom touched
the slow-match to the quick fuse. Something hissed and sizzled. A plume
of smoke darted up. Then, with a rebound that shook the boat from stem
to stern, the gun hurled forth its lead, and fire, and black breath of
hate.
"Double charge, sir," gasped Tom Bent, from where he sagged against the
mast. The kick of his musket had hurt him more than the blow from the
arrow.
Again the _Pelican_ fought her way toward the open waters, with Harding
and Clotworthy pulling lustily at the sweeps. Kingswell, flushed and
joyful, sat at the tiller and headed her for the channel, through which
the tide was running landward at a fair pace. Bent was busy reloading
his firearm. Ouenwa stood in the stern-sheets, with his bow in his left
hand and an arrow on the string. A breath of wind brushed the smoke
aside and cleared the view. Ouenwa pointed to the beach, and gave vent
to a shrill whoop of triumph. The others looked, and saw a huddled shape
of bronzed limbs and painted leather at the foot of the rock.
"One more red devil for hell," muttered the boatswain. "I learned mun to
shoot his pesky sticks at a Bristol gentleman."
As if in answer, an arrow bit a splinter from the mast, not six inches
from the old man's head. Ouenwa's bow bent, and sprang straight. The
shaft flew with all the skill that Montaw had taught the boy, and with
all the hate that was in his heart for the big murderer on the cliff.
Every man of the little company narrowed his eyes to follow the flight
of it. They saw it curve. They saw a warrior drop his bow from his
menacing hand and sink to his knees.
"The wolf falls," cried Ouenwa, in his own tongue. "The wolf bites the
moss. Who, now, is the wolf slayer?"
The Englishmen cheered again and again, and the good boat _Pelican_,
urged forward by triumphant sinews, won through the channel and swam
into the outer waters.