Even their first marten had not given the boys the degree of
satisfaction they derived from the capture of the wolf pelts. They had
experienced an adventure, too, that had impressed upon them the need
of constant watchfulness, and it was agreed that in future each should
carry his rifle, and be assured that it was always in serviceable
condition.
“I’m thinkin’, now,” observed Andy, as he and David scraped the pelts,
“that these must be th’ same wolves we heard the day we comes t’ Seal
Lake. They’ve been ’bidin’ close by ever since, like as not.”
“It’s like as not they’re th’ same,” agreed David, “but they were
never ’bidin’ so close all this while without showin’ themselves. They
makes their hunt where there’s deer, and I’m thinkin’ there’s deer not
far away.”
“Some deer’s meat would go fine,” suggested Andy.
“’Twould, now,” said David. “’Tis strange we’ve seen no deer footin’
anywhere th’ whole winter.”
“Maybe th’ deer are comin’ handy, and that’s what brings th’ wolves
back,” said Andy.
“They’re like t’ be on th’ open meshes,” said David. “We may see signs
of un tomorrow.”
“And if we does, we’ll have a deer hunt!” exclaimed Andy, expectantly.
“We will that!” declared David, “even if we are a day late gettin’
back t’ th’ Narrows tilt.”
The adventure of the evening occupied their conversation until the
wolf pelts were scraped and hung to dry. Then David filled the stove
with wood, and blowing out the candle they slipped into their sleeping
bags.
“I’m wonderin’, now,” mused Andy, after they had lain a little while
in silence, “what Pop will say when we tells him about th’ wolves.”
“He’ll say we did fine gettin’ three good skins,” said David proudly.
“They’re all prime, and worth four dollars each, _what_ever.”
“’Tis a fine day’s hunt!” enthused Andy, adding: “But I wouldn’t want
t’ be chased by un again!”
“Aye, ’twere a close call,” admitted David. “After this we’ll both
carry our rifles, and we’ll be sure they’re workin’ all right.”
“And I’m thinkin’,” said Andy, “th’ Lard was on th’ lookout for us,
and He made your rifle go off, Davy, just th’ right time.”
“Aye,” said David, “just th’ right time.”
“When I said my prayer,” continued Andy reverently, “I thanked th’
Lard for standin’ by us.”
“So did I,” admitted David, “and I thanked He for th’ three wolf skins
and th’ two martens. They’re a big help toward payin’ for Jamie’s
cure, and we gets un all in _one_ day.”
“I wonders,” and Andy’s voice was filled with awe, “if Mother knows
about un, and if she’s glad?”
“And I wonders, too!” said David, in subdued and reverential voice.
“If she knows about un, she’s wonderful glad, Andy--and--I’m always
thinkin, she does see us, Andy, and everything we does. She were
tellin’ me once, Andy, before she dies, that when th’ Lard takes she
away to be an angel, she’ll always keep close to us in spirit. She
were sayin’ she always wants us to know she’s close by watchin’ us and
helpin’ us, even if we can’t see her.”
“I’m thinkin’ then,” breathed Andy, looking about him in the darkness
as though half expecting to see his mother’s form, “she might be right
close to us now, and--maybe--she’s touchin’ us. Do you--do you think
she _is_, Davy?”
“They’s--no knowin’,” said David in a half whisper, no less awed by
the thought than was Andy. “I’m thinkin’ if th’ Lard lets th’ angels
do what they wants t’ do, Mother’s right here now. Th’ Lard would
never be denyin’ His angels, for He wants th’ angels t’ be happy, and
Mother never’d be happy if she couldn’t be with us.”
The lads lay silent for a little, pondering upon the mystery of life
beyond the grave. Before their fancy’s vision there arose a picture of
the gentle mother who had been taken from them so long ago, and who
had loved them so well.
“Davy,” whispered Andy presently, “you awake?”
“Yes,” answered David, “I’m wonderful wakeful.”
“I wish,” said Andy wistfully, “Mother’d come and put her hand on my
forehead and kiss me good night, like she used to, so I’d feel her.
I’m--wantin’ her wonderful bad--I’m lonesome for she--Davy.”
“Maybe she’s doin’ it, Andy,” said David. “Maybe she’s kissin’ us
both, and touchin’ us and lovin’ us like she used to do. Maybe she is,
Andy, and we don’t know it, because th’ touch of angels is so light we
never could feel un.”
Perhaps she was. Who knows? Who can tell when loved ones beyond the
grave come to caress us and minister to us, and to rejoice and sorrow
with us? Our ears are not attuned to hear their dear voices, our eyes
have not the power to see their glorious presence.
Never since coming into the wilderness had the isolation of the great
solitudes impressed David and Andy so deeply as now. Their imagination
was awake. In fancy they could see, reaching away into unmeasured
miles on every side of the little tilt which sheltered them, the
silent, white, unpeopled wilderness. There was no one to turn to for
companionship. Even Indian Jake, sleeping soundly, doubtless, in some
far distant camp, seemed no part of their world. The crackling fire in
the stove accentuated the silence that surrounded them. An ill-fitting
stove cover permitted flickering rays of light to escape from the
stove, and dance in ghostly manner upon the ceiling. Weird shadows
rose and fell in dark corners. There was small wonder that the two
lads should be lonely, and heart hungry. It was quite natural that at
such a time they should long for a mother’s gentle caress and loving
sympathy.
All of us are Davids and Andys sometimes. God pity the man that
forgets the tender love and ministry and willing sacrifice of his
mother. God pity the man who grows too old to wish sometimes for his
mother’s love and sympathy and steadfast faith in him when others lose
their faith. What courage it would give him to fight the battles of
life! So long as his mother’s memory lives green in a man’s heart, and
he feels her dear spirit near him, he cannot stray far from the paths
of rectitude.
But the day’s work had been hard, and David and Andy were weary.
Presently their eyes closed, and they were lost in the sound and
dreamless sleep of robust youth.
There is no dawdling in bed of mornings for the trapper. His day’s
work must be done, and the hours of light in this far northern land
are all too short. And so, as was their custom, David and Andy, in
spite of their previous day’s excitement and hard work, were up and
had a roaring fire in the stove a full hour before daybreak.
“I’m wonderful glad,” remarked David, as he came in with a kettle of
water and placed it on the stove, “that we don’t have to haul the
flat sled with us around th’ mesh today. Maybe we’ll have a chance t’
look for deer.”
“We’ll hurry over th’ trail, and get through settin’ up th’ traps
early,” said Andy. “’Tis wonderful cozy here in th’ tilt, and if we
don’t find deer signs ’twill be fine t’ get back early.”
“I’ll tell you, now, what we’ll do,” suggested David. “I’ll take th’
n’uth’ard side, and you th’ s’uth’ard side, and we’ll each go over
half th’ trail instead of both travelin’ together over all of un, and
we’ll get through in half th’ time. We’ll meet in th’ clump of spruce
on th’ easterly side of th’ mesh, where we always stops t’ boil th’
kettle.”
“That’s a fine plan!” exclaimed Andy. “When we gets there t’ boil th’
kettle we’ll have all th’ traps set up, and if neither of us sees any
deer footin’ we’ll know there’s none about. If there’s no deer about,
we can come right back t’ th’ tilt.”
“I’m thinkin’, now, you hopes we’ll see no deer footin’,” grinned
David, adding understandingly: “’Tis hard gettin’ started o’ mornings
sometimes for me, too, and I’m thinkin’ how fine th’ tilt’ll be to get
back to. But I never minds un after I gets started.”
“I don’t mind after it gets fair daylight,” asserted Andy.
As they talked Andy sliced some fat pork into the frying pan, while
David stirred baking powder and salt into some flour, poured water
into the mixture and proceeded to mix dough. When the pork was fried
to their taste, which was far from crisp, Andy removed the slices one
by one on the end of his sheath knife and placed them on a tin plate.
A quantity of hot grease remained in the frying pan, and into this
David laid a cake of dough which he had moulded as thin as possible,
and just large enough to fit nicely into the pan.
Presently the cake, swollen to many times its original thickness, and
deliciously browned, was removed. Another took its place to fry, while
the boys turned to their simple, but satisfying, breakfast with
amazing appetites.
When they had finished their meal David fried two additional cakes,
which utilized the remaining dough. These, with some tea, a tin tea
pail, two cups and a small tin box containing sugar, he dropped into a
ruck sack, and the preliminaries for their day’s work were completed.
Then the two lads drew on their kersey and moleskin adikys, David
slung the ruck sack upon his back, and, each bearing his rifle and a
light ax, they passed out into the leaden-gray light of the winter
morning.
Dawn was fading the stars, which glimmered faintly overhead. The
crunch of their snowshoes was the only sound to break the silence.
Rime hung in the air like a feathery veil, and the bushes,
thick-coated with frost flakes, rose like white-clad ghosts along the
trail.
The air was bitter cold. The boys caught their breath in short gasps
as the first mouthfuls entered their lungs. David in the lead, and
Andy following, neither spoke until at the end of five minutes’ brisk
walking they emerged from the cover of the forest upon the edge of a
wide, treeless marsh, where they were to part.
“I’ll be like t’ travel faster than you do, Andy,” said David,
pausing, “and when I gets to th’ clump o’ spruce I’ll put a fire on
and boil th’ kettle, and wait, and there’ll be a good fire when you
gets there.”
“And if I gets there first, I’ll put a fire on,” said Andy, by way of
a challenge.
“You’ll never beat me there,” laughed David. “Your legs are too
short.”
“You’ll see, now,” and Andy swung off at a trot along the southerly
side of the marsh, while David turned to the northerly course.
That portion of the trail which Andy was to follow skirted the edge of
the marsh for a distance of nearly two miles. Then in a circuitous
course it wound for some three miles through a scant forest of
gnarled, stunted black spruce. Beyond this, and a mile across another
marsh, was the thick spruce grove which had been designated as their
meeting point, and where they were accustomed to halt to boil their
kettle and eat a hasty luncheon on their weekly tour.
The other end of the trail, which David had chosen, was longer by a
mile. Its entire distance, from the place where the boys separated, to
the clump of spruce trees, lay over exposed marshes. On windy days,
with no intervening shelter, this open stretch was always cold and
disagreeable, and there was never a time when they were not glad to
reach the friendly shelter of the trees. It was usual, in traveling
together, as they always had heretofore, to attend the traps on this
end of the trail in the forenoon, and those on the end which Andy was
now following, in the afternoon.
Though Andy’s legs were short, they were hard and sinewy and he swung
along at a remarkably good pace. Now and again he stopped to examine a
trap; then, breaking into a trot to make up the time lost, he hastened
to the next trap. Thus the two miles to the edge of the timber were
quickly laid behind him, and he entered the forest just as the sun,
rising timidly in the Southeast, cast its first slanting rays upon the
frozen world.
Andy stood for a little in the edge of the trees to get his breath and
to watch the glorious lighting of the wilderness. The bushes,
thick-coated with tiny frost prisms flashing and scintillating in the
light as though encrusted with marvelously brilliant gems, were afire
with sparkling color. Even the rime in the air caught the fire, and
the marsh became a great, transparent opal, of wonderfully dazzling
beauty.
“’Tis a fine world t’ live in,” said Andy to himself. “’Twould be
terrible t’ be blind and never see all th’ pretty sights. Th’ great
doctor’ll cure Jamie, and then he’ll see un all again, too. We’ll
work wonderful hard t’ get th’ money t’ pay for th’ cure. We’ll _have_
t’ get un, _what_ever.”
Neither the fox traps on the marsh nor the marten traps in the woods
yielded Andy any fur, but as he passed from the woods to the last
stretch of marsh he comforted himself with the reflection:
“We can’t expect fur _every_ day. Two martens and three wolves
yesterday made a fine hunt for th’ week, even if we gets no more this
trip. But Davy’s like t’ get something, and we’re like t’ get more
before we reaches th’ Narrows tilt Friday.”
Then he hurried on, for he must needs make good his boast that he
would reach the spruce grove before David. No smoke could he see
rising above the trees as he approached. David at least had not yet
lighted the fire. Andy was jubilant and in high spirits to find that
David was not there ahead of him, and had not been there since their
visit the previous week.
It was a matter of a few minutes’ work to light a fire, and presently
Andy had a cozy blaze. Then he broke an armful of spruce boughs, for a
seat, and kicking off his snowshoes, settled himself comfortably
before the fire to await David’s appearance.
“If I had th’ kettle, now, I’d put un over,” said Andy. “But Davy’ll
soon be here.”
An hour passed, and David did not appear. Andy had traveled at such
good speed that he had reached the rendezvous a half hour before
midday, but David should not have been long behind him. Another hour
passed. A northeast breeze had sprung up, and the sky had become
overcast. Andy observed uneasily that a storm was brewing. He donned
his snowshoes, replenished the fire, and walked out a little way in
the direction from which David should come, and to the outer edge of
the trees. He stood very still, and listened, but there was no sound,
and David was nowhere to be seen.
Andy reluctantly returned to the fire to wait. He was growing anxious
and concerned. Surely David should have appeared before this
unless--and Andy grew frightened at the thought--unless some accident
had happened to him.
During the next half hour Andy’s concern became almost panic. He began
to picture David attacked and destroyed by a pack of wolves! Or
perhaps his rifle had been accidentally discharged, and injured or
killed him! Andy had heard of such accidents more than once. Whatever
the reason for David’s delay, it was serious. No ordinary thing would
have prevented him from keeping his appointment.
Andy could stand the suspense no longer. He arose, slipped his feet
into his snowshoes, and at a half run set out upon the trail in the
direction from which David should have come.